generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) the forward pass in football. by elmer berry, b.s., m.p.e. _head coach football and baseball, associate director physical department, professor physiology and physiology of exercise, international young men's christian association college, springfield, mass._ new york a. s. barnes and company 1921 copyright, 1921, by a. s. barnes and company this work is affectionately dedicated to dr. j. h. mccurdy former coach springfield y. m. c. a. college football teams, the man who earliest developed the forward pass, for twenty-five years a successful coach and a standard-bearer of clean sport contents page chapter i the coming of the forward pass 1 chapter ii legal restrictions relative to the forward pass 4 chapter iii the spiral pass from center 6 chapter iv the technique of forward passing 8 chapter v fundamentals of the successful forward passing game 11 chapter vi suggestive forward pass formations and plays 19 chapter vii defense for the forward pass 23 illustrations page fig. 1. punt formation pass 19 fig. 2. undesirable pass 20 fig. 3. springfield-carlisle indian pass 21 fig. 4. spread formation pass 21 fig. 5. open defense 24 the forward pass in football chapter i. the coming of the forward pass. introduction. the history of football has been a story of limiting the power of the offense. the defense has never been restricted, never curtailed, never hampered, always free to line up as it chose, to go when it pleased (barring offside), where it pleased and do practically as it pleased. always the offense has been too strong, too powerful, and there has been the necessity of legal restrictions directed toward equalizing the attack and defense. this was true in general up to the "revolution" when ten yards and the forward pass came and the "new" game was created. with the forward pass a great, new, unknown offensive weapon was provided. the history of the game since the granting of this new method of attack has again been chiefly a story of limiting the power and effectiveness of this new offense. to be sure minor changes in the rules have had other motives and objectives, but taking it by and large the statement is true to fact. a brief review of the conditions of the "old" game will recall to players and spectators of that period the situation, and perhaps help all of us to better appreciate and understand the changes that brought the "new" game. mass plays predominated. possession of the ball was vastly important. five yards were to be made in three downs. if a man six feet tall could fall forward his full length three times he would make six yards and first down. consequently "fall forward," "get your distance," were slogans of the old game. end runs, though they might occasionally succeed brilliantly, were apt to lose precious distance that could not be regained. if a team won the toss and took the ball there was practically nothing but a fumble between them and a touchdown, and games between evenly matched teams were often really decided by the luck of the toss at the beginning of the game. for with even weight and particularly with a slight advantage of weight in the line, a safe, conservative game, straight ahead, slow but sure, tackle to tackle, hammer the weak spot, was sure to bring the ultimate touchdown. all sorts of ingenious formations were devised for massing power on the weak spot. the famous "guards back" of pennsylvania, the "flying wedge" of deland of harvard, the "turtle back" wedge of others, the rolling mass on tackle and others of this type will bring a smile of reminiscence to "old-timers." men were pushed, dragged and hauled along by their team mates. often special straps were attached to the uniform to facilitate this work, and even to make possible throwing a man bodily, feet first, over the prostrate lines. doubtless many men were severely injured by the splendid co-operative efforts of their own team mates in such activity. such a game meant pounding--pure, unadulterated, gruelling pounding--until the selected spot, groggy and exhausted, gave way and the opponents swept through to victory or a substitute leaped in to fill the breach. men came out of such games in those days bruised and exhausted, no definite injury but "dead," "all in." they were worse the next day and still worse the next, dragging back ready for another gruelling pummelling by the following saturday. internal injuries often developed and an unwarranted large number of deaths occurred. the game was too rough; dangerously rough; unnecessarily rough. closely linked with this aspect of the "old" game was the moral problem. everything was hidden in the mass play. spectators could see little of the real game, nothing of the "dirty work." much of it could not be seen even by the officials. publicity is a great deferrent to unfairness. no man wants the spectators in the stands to see him "pull" any "raw stuff." close lines, petty irritations and difficulty of detection tempted many a man to foul play. we would like to think that the cleanness and high standard of sportsmanship of the new game is an indication of rising character and realization of ethical values of sport. doubtless it is, but at the same time no small part of it is due to the openness of the new game; the fact that not only officials but spectators can see most of what happens. the brutality of the old game, the deaths and injuries from it, its moral effect, and finally even its lack of interest to spectators, led to a general outcry against football. there was a wide demand that it be abolished as an intercollegiate sport. in 1906 a conference was called in new york for this purpose. representatives from approximately seventy colleges attended. fortunately for american youth there were in the conference men of vision who saw the real need of the hour. these men urged that the difficulty was not with football but with the _way_ in which it was allowed to be played; that the college faculties were themselves responsible for the condition in that they had given no adequate supervision to athletics; that the game should not be abolished but revised. they contended that a new game should and could be produced that would be more open, less dangerous and more interesting than the old game. their counsels ultimately prevailed and the conference that had met to _abolish_ football formed what has become the national collegiate athletic association, an organization that has done a wonderful work in raising the standards of sport in our american colleges. the conference appointed a football rules committee, which, amalgamating if possible with the old football rules committee, was to adopt rules that would revise the game of football--that would make it a _new game_. what should be done to produce a more open, less dangerous, more interesting game of football? remember that the old mass game had resulted from five yards in three downs. the first fundamental suggestion was the requirement of _ten_ yards to gain. this could never be made by mass attack. consequently the forward pass was given to the offense--practically the one great occasion of legislation favoring the offense. in 1912 a fourth down was added. with ten yards in four downs and the forward pass as the fundamentals the modern game of football has been developed. other changes, often important and far-reaching in influence, followed, but they followed naturally, logically, almost unavoidably, once the fundamentals, ten yards and the forward pass, had been accepted. chapter ii. legal restrictions relating to the forward pass. the first suggestion of a recognition by the football rules committee of any need of a more open game came in 1903. between the twenty-five yard lines seven players of the offense were required on the line of scrimmage and the first man receiving the ball from the snapper-back might run with it provided he crossed the scrimmage line five yards out from center (football guide for 1903, pp. 127 and 142). between the twenty-five-yard line and the goal, however, only five men were required on the line of scrimmage. in that case, however, restrictions were adopted requiring the men to be back five yards or outside the end men. in 1904 came the "checker board" field. with 1906 came the great revolution and the adoption of the new game; two lines of scrimmage, six men regularly on the line of scrimmage, center trio back five yards if not on the line of scrimmage, ten yards in three downs and the forward pass. it is with the last that we are concerned. (football guide for 1906, pp. 95 and 121.) at first one forward pass could be made by any player anywhere behind his line of scrimmage to any player on the end of the line or one yard back of it provided the pass crossed the line five yards out from center. it was completed if _touched_ by any eligible player before it touched the ground. any illegal pass went to the opponents at the spot from which the pass was made. a forward pass over the goal line became a touch back. naturally a period of intensive experimentation followed. in 1907 the loss of the ball on first and second down was changed to a loss of fifteen yards. (football guide for 1907, pp. 137 and 168.) in 1908 the recovery of the touched ball was restricted to the eligible man who had first touched it on penalty of going to the opponents at the spot. also the penalty for ineligible men touching the ball was increased to loss of the ball at spot where the pass was made (football guide for 1908, pp. 181 and 214). nineteen ten and twelve brought the legal changes that largely completed the new game. in 1910 the four periods were adopted, the longitudinal lines were omitted, and a pass and kick were both required to be made from five yards behind the line of scrimmage. a twenty-yard zone beyond which the pass could not go was instituted. this was dropped again in 1912, the end zone was added so that a team could score on a pass, the field shortened to three hundred yards and the fourth down added. by many this was regarded as a direct blow to the forward pass as it was supposed that it would mean an attempt at and a possibility of making the distance by the old line bucking methods. this was regarded as in line with the restrictive action of 1911, by which a pass touching the ground either before or after being legally touched was ruled as incompleted. whatever the intention of the originators may have been the fourth down has worked quite as advantageously to the new game as the old, in that it has given quarterbacks an additional down with which to experiment and to take chances. the changes relating to the forward pass since 1912 have been mostly of minor significance. the restriction requiring the kicker to be back five yards was removed in 1913, the forward passer was protected from being roughed up in 1914 and a ten-yard penalty for intentional grounding of a forward pass was imposed. the forward pass out of bounds was ruled incompleted in 1915. relatively little change occurred during the war period and there has been a feeling since that experimentation has gone far enough; that the game is very good as it is, and that coaches, players and the public generally should have a chance to thoroughly acquaint themselves with the present possibilities. the open game has come to stay, and attempts to further restrict it have met with strong opposition. chapter iii. the spiral pass from center. possibly many would not recognize the necessity for a discussion of the spiral pass from the snapper-back in a presentation of the forward pass. without this spiral pass, however, a successful forward passing game is greatly handicapped if not rendered absolutely ineffective. the reasons for this will be presented in a later chapter. suffice it here to say that the writer regards a good fast, accurate, true spiral pass from the snapper-back, that can be shot back speedily and accurately to a distance of at least fifteen yards, as absolutely indispensable to a successful forward passing game. ability to get such a pass is not possessed by every center, nor by every team even among the better colleges. this failure is due first to a lack of appreciation of its importance, and second to an inability to teach centers how to acquire this art. the following method of teaching this pass has been found effective: first: have the candidate make an ordinary underhand spiral pass forward. this is so simple and common that almost every player does it automatically. have him notice what he does. notice how the ball is held as it swings forward past the hip. the hand is bent inward almost at right angles to the forearm. now as the ball is shot forward from the hand a peculiar _pulling_, _lifting_ motion is made. this motion imparts the rotation to the ball and produces the spiral. this is the fundamental part of the action. essentially the same action must now be secured with a backward pass. second: have the candidate make an ordinary underhand spiral pass _backward_. to many players this will at first seem awkward and they may be unable to control either the direction or the rotation of the pass. it is not necessary to continue with this until it is mastered, but some practice on it is helpful. proceed soon to the third step. third: take position as a center, right leg back for a right hander, swing the ball freely between the legs with the right hand, and make a backward spiral pass between the legs. work on this until a regular spiral is secured. fourth: still swing the ball freely from the ground but place the left hand against the ball, pressing it more firmly against the forearm and guiding the direction of the ball. the right hand may now be a little farther forward on the ball. fifth: when the above has been mastered take position as in the fourth step, then bending a little more in the hips and knees place the ball, without changing position of the hands, so that it touches the ground well out in front. when ready pull the ball powerfully with the right hand, guiding with the left, and shoot it back at the chest of the catcher, at first about seven yards back. follow through with the right hand and as the ball leaves the hand give the pulling, lifting snap described above in number one which produces the real spiral. great care must be taken to see that the right hand is kept far enough _under_ and _around_ the ball. as soon as the player begins to lay it on the ground he almost invariably forgets to pass the hand far enough around it. consequently he loses his rotation and the pass becomes "wobbly" and inaccurate. taught in this way many men acquired the idea of the spiral pass from center with great ease. extended and constant practice, however, is necessary to insure a consistent and accurate performance that can be depended upon under fire--the accomplishment fundamental to the forward pass. some men master a very successful backward spiral pass from center with one hand. the principle of this pass is essentially the same as that of the closed grip overhand pass described later in the chapter on technique of passing. it requires a large hand and perhaps a certain amount of natural "knack." it is dangerous and less effective with a wet ball, but with a dry ball ability to pass in this way with one hand often adds greatly to the offensive strength of the center. chapter iv. technique of the forward pass. the execution of a good spiral forward pass is a thing of real beauty and art. it holds the eye of spectators and players alike. it is to football what the home run is to baseball. the soaring flight of a sixty-yard spiral is like the rushing swoop of the daring aviator in its charm and interest. to produce it the player must have a good arm, master the knack of it and give long and earnest practice. practically all passes of more than five yards are executed as spirals. these are of three types, the underhand, the overhand with closed grip and the overhand with open grip. the underhand spiral. this is valuable for short distances where a quick pass is desired. its execution is so easy and common that no further comment is needed beyond what has already been said in connection with the first part of teaching the spiral pass from center, (page 6). the overhand closed grip spiral. this pass is theoretically the correct and logical manner of executing a distance (over ten yards) pass. the ball is laid over into the palm of the right hand (for a right-hander) with the fingers along and somewhat behind the lacing of the ball, the thumb on the opposite side. the position of the hand depends largely on its size. the smaller the hand the nearer the end of the ball it must go and the more difficult it is to retain the ball in the grasp. this type of pass is therefore difficult for men with small hands and with a wet and muddy ball. in making the throw the arm should be drawn backward _over_ the shoulder, not down around as in a baseball throw. the nose, _i.e._, the forward point of the ball, should be well elevated and the ball is then shot forward past the ear at its objective. the motion is somewhat like that of a pitcher, when pitching from the shoulder without the "wind-up," with a runner on first. as the ball leaves the hand the rotation is given by a sharp pull _downward_ and _inward_. the most common fault and cause of failure with this pass is that the nose of the ball is not kept up during the forward motion of the arm. to do this the elbow must be kept fairly close to the body and the little finger side of the hand kept _up_. this gives a rather constricted position for throwing and most men at first feel unable to get the desired distance. this comes, however, as one acquires the knack of the snap and the follow through with the body. when developed and mastered this pass gives wonderful accuracy, great speed and can be shot directly to the receiver without much elevation. it is therefore less likely to be intercepted and is an ideal pass particularly for shorter distances up to thirty yards and for dry days. the overhand open spiral. this pass is made in general in the same way as the closed grip spiral, but the thumb lies alongside or near the fingers and the hand is open, the ball lying in the palm of the hand. it is held in position as the throw is made by the centrifugal force of the swing. in making this pass a bigger swing may be used, more comparable to a "wind-up" delivery, and consequently greater distance and greater height may be secured. the ball can be literally "heaved" out and passes of fifty to sixty yards are easily possible. the greatest difficulty in the execution of this as in the closed grip pass is to keep the nose of the ball up. this can be accomplished, however, without bringing the hand in so closely as in the other, thus allowing opportunity for more individual peculiarities. players therefore usually learn this pass easier than the other, and because of its greater usefulness with a wet and slippery ball is the pass now most commonly used. its chief disadvantage is the greater height which it usually requires. this tends to increase the danger of interception. receiving the forward pass. although a great deal of practice is usually given to receiving forward passes, often very little actual coaching is given on the correct form. every receiver should be notified by some method just _before_ a pass is made to him. at this signal the receiver should turn toward the point to which the pass is supposed to be made. this should be known on all forward pass plays. the receiver and ball should then meet at this point, the receiver on the dead run and somewhat sideward to the ball. it will occasionally happen, but should rarely be necessary, for the receiver to take a pass from directly behind or even very much over one shoulder. he should, however, be able to do it when necessary. the actual catching of the pass is not essentially different from catching a punt or any ordinary pass. one hand should be used to guide the ball into the body, one hand should be kept well under the ball, the elbows should be kept close and the ball always be brought in _against the body_ and held securely against any possible attack. chapter v. fundamentals of a successful forward passing game. the forward pass has now been a part of offensive football for fifteen years. in spite of that fact few teams have developed anything like a consistently successful ground gaining forward pass attack. apparently many regard the forward pass simply as a valuable threat, something for occasional use, something to take a chance with, something the possibility of which makes the _real_ game still workable. to a large degree this has been the attitude of the larger colleges. in general they have frowned on the forward pass; opposed it, sneered at it, called it basketball and done what they could to retard its adoption. it has taken away from them the advantage of numbers, weight and power, made the game one of brains, speed and strategy--even if you please like baseball, luck,--rendered the outcome of their _practice_ games with smaller colleges uncertain. why should they have hastened its development? rather it has been the smaller colleges that have found in the forward pass their opportunity, which have developed its possibilities until now the larger ones as well are turning to it as the final means of winning their big game. it is doubtless fair to say that the early development of the forward pass was largely due to two teams, springfield college of the y. m. c. a. and the carlisle indians. their game in 1912 at springfield is said by competent experts to have been probably the greatest exhibition of open football ever staged. it is doubtful if two such finished exponents of the open game have ever met before or since. to coach j. h. mccurdy of the springfield team goes the honor, in the writer's judgment, of the early recognition and development of the strategy of the forward pass, for in this respect at least, springfield excelled even the wonderful indian teams produced by glen warner. no one team can longer claim a leadership in this or any other department of the game, but it is fair to say that the springfield team has continuously demonstrated an unusual aptitude for the forward pass and a high degree of leadership at least among the eastern teams. it is not strange, in view of the fact that the great leaders of football have not taken more kindly to the forward pass, that its underlying principles have not been more thoroughly worked out and organized. it is the chief purpose of this work to state if possible some of these principles and fundamentals to the end that the open game of football, always in the past and still to some extent opposed by certain groups, may be better understood, more successfully coached and more firmly and thoroughly established. regular ground gaining play. the first fundamental of a successful forward passing game is that the forward pass should be used as a _regular ground gaining_ play and not simply, as so many teams seem still to do, as a sort of last desperate chance. with many teams the attack may be summarized practically in this manner: first and second down, runs; third down, forward pass; fourth down, kick. and then they wonder that the forward pass doesn't succeed and stigmatize it as a dangerous, treacherous and unsuccessful play! rather a team must have the confidence to use it often on first and second downs, and even on special, occasions on a fourth down. not only that, but it must be used frequently, persistently and continuously. nothing more disturbs the morale of defense than a series of forward passes, some of which succeed even though a considerable proportion of them are incompleted. there is always the danger that one may succeed and get away! what proportion of the running plays are successful in the modern game? no statistics exist. if the forward pass were tried anything like as persistently as the running game, unquestionably its percentage of success would greatly increase. on this basis the pass should be used for short as well as long gains. a running play that gains two and a half to three yards is regarded as successful. why should not the pass be used in the same way? passes that give little or no gain in themselves, but put the receiver in position for open field running, and at least a few yards gain, disorganize the defense, eventually make the long passes successful, spread the defense so bucking becomes possible, and contribute generally to making the forward pass a regular ground gaining play--a part of the regular attack. passer well back. the early successes of the forward pass were secured almost solely upon the principle of putting the passer a distance of fifteen yards back, then letting the opposing line come charging through absolutely without resistance. practically the whole offensive team was sent down to receive (apparently) the pass, thus confusing the defense as to who was eligible and furnishing interference as soon as the pass was completed. by actual experiment it was found that a distance of thirteen to fifteen yards was necessary. although lines are more wary and experienced today than formerly, this single piece of strategy is still very valuable. many teams are failing with their passes simply because their passer is not more than seven to ten yards back. the greater distance gives a short but _vital_ length of time for receivers to get free and for the passer to pick out the open man. it also gives a longer time for running sideward and forward, helping to confuse the defense as to whether a run or pass is really intended. add to this the fact that with the greater distance back little or no protection need be given the passer, it becomes clear that though many plays can and will be built with the passer up close and running back only the necessary legal distance, a big distance back is an important fundamental. this at once brings out the importance of the spiral pass back from center, and the ability to make, when desired, a long forward pass of from fifty to sixty yards. unless the snapper-back can make a consistent, accurate, speedy pass to a distance of fifteen or more yards and can accurately _lead_ his passer, no advantage is gained by this distance back. many teams have failed to put their passer the necessary distance back because, though they did not recognize the real difficulty, their center was not adequately getting the ball back to him. consequently the passer was instinctively creeping up closer and closer, being hurried in his passes and often failing. the spiral pass back from center is an absolutely fundamental requisite for a successful forward passing game. the ability also to make long passes is fundamental. with the secondary defense playing ten yards back and possibly covering twenty yards more, with the passer fifteen yards behind his own offensive line, the pass going outward at an angle must often travel fifty-five yards to clear the secondary defense. although such long passes need not often be used, the knowledge that the offense possesses the ability to make them is necessary to keep the secondary defense back so that short, sharp passes may succeed for the disconcerting gains of the regular ground gaining attack. kick, run or pass possible. the ideal forward pass formation is one from which a kick, pass or run is possible. as the play starts it should be difficult to diagnose whether a run or pass is intended. in fact, as a team becomes finished in its performance it may often switch in its intention, running out a play on the call of the passer that was intended for a pass, because the defense laid back and waited; and conversely, though not so often, a pass may be made to an open man on the call of the passer, though the signal called for a run. this represents high art in team work but it can be developed. much depends upon the alertness and head work of the passer in this connection. such changing of plan should not be allowed in the early season, but it may be encouraged later as the team becomes unified and comes to know itself. such a combination, operating with basketball intuition, becomes exceedingly difficult to stop. if in addition to this a kick is occasionally worked on something besides the fourth down, the game becomes a real test of wits. naturally not every forward pass will be "pulled" from an ideal formation. many splendid forward pass plays can be built up from ordinary close running, bucking formations. all eligible men open--"choice" vs. "mechanical" method. an occasional forward pass play is developed where only a single eligible man is open to receive the pass. such a play depends for success upon its speed of execution, its unexpectedness and its similarity to other regularly used running plays. a few such plays should of course be included in the team's attack, but they are the exception and when successful are so because of that fact. they the more strongly emphasize the fact that as a general principle a regular forward pass play should aim to get as many eligible men as possible open to receive the pass. these men should be so spread that they cannot all be covered by the defense. the passer then selects an open man or the _best_ open man to whom to pass. this method puts great responsibility upon the passer. it fits in with the idea of putting him well back and giving him as much time as possible to make his choice. it requires a passer of special mental type, and one of considerable basketball ability who can dodge and get his pass off accurately even when apparently covered. the ease of choice can be much facilitated by having an order for each play in which the passer is to look for possibilities. the first choice should always be the signal called. that play should always be made if it is at all possible; in early season and during practice it should be executed whether possible or not. but as the passer develops ability he should be allowed when the pass signalled is covered to select second, third and even fourth choices, and the order of looking for the choices should be so arranged that a quick sweep of the field in front of him will give the passer his open men. not all coaches agree to the principle outlined above. many have had difficulty in finding passers who could make the choice required. they have felt, therefore, that plays had to be designed to special men, calling these men to special zones, one time one place, next time another place, and then the play made as quickly as possible to this special man. if the defense was confused and the man got loose, the play succeeded (barring mechanical failure); if he did not it failed. this represents a purely mechanical method. it harks back to the "old" game where everything was as mechanical as possible and there was little need of brain power and little occasion to make quick decisions. the quarter made the decisions; the player did _what he was told to do_. the new open game is not played that way; it opens up a world of choice and possibility to the player. therein lies its greatly increased mental value. the big reason that many coaches have failed with the "choice" method of passing is that their plays have not been so designed as to give their passer the necessary time for making a choice. they have allowed the defense to "hurry" the passer. some of the methods of preventing this have already been indicated. occasionally it may happen that a team possesses a passer of great ability who cannot work the "choice" method. for such a player "mechanical" plays must be built. but the probabilities are that many men would develop this ability if they were given practice and the opportunity. call the receiver before passing. it seems a very simple matter to say that the receiver should be called _before_ the pass is made to him. it seems so simple that time is rarely spent in practicing it. it is assumed that it will be done, but in reality it is _not_ done. the usual thing is for the passer to hurl the ball into the air and yell "ball." let any coach actually insist once on his passer calling his man _before_ he passes to him and see what happens. and yet this is exactly the thing that will change the forward pass game from a happy-go-lucky chance into a mathematical probability. when the passer calls his man _before_ he passes he knows what he is trying to do, the team knows, the receiver is given more time to get into position, he is then given a better chance to catch the pass and the rest of the team are given a chance to form interference. it is a small thing to count as heavily as it does, but it is one of the small things that make success. know where the receiver is to go. have it clearly worked out on every pass play where each eligible man is to go. this is equally true in fact for every man on the team, for _every man on the team has something to do on a forward pass_. it is just as important on a forward pass play that each eligible man know where, when and how he is to go as it is on running plays for the interference to know whom they are to take. this is where the mechanical part of the "choice" method of passing comes in. to a surprising degree this can be almost the same on all plays. it will of course vary somewhat with the style of defense met, but again surprisingly little. the eligible man should seldom go directly to the spot where he will receive the pass if it comes to him. at the proper instant, which should be pretty definitely timed for everybody on each play, and always at the call of the passer, the receiver should turn and race to the spot where he knows the ball will be thrown. this spot should have been previously worked out so that the passer "leads" the receiver, the latter being in better position to catch the ball and on the dead run. this should also be so worked out and the preliminary run of the eligible man such, that the receiver will get the ball with his body between the ball and his covering opponent. receiver and opponent should never be crashing _together_ when struggling for a ball. it is not only dangerous but poor strategy. in working out the above possibilities some eligible men may often be used simply as decoys going perhaps almost straight toward the defensive halves and forcing them to cover them, making other eligible men more surely available for the pass. in case the defensive halves, however, refuse to cover these decoys, they should immediately be given the pass. between combinations of this sort and the problem of determining whether a pass or run is in process, the position of defensive half in modern football is one compared with which the "dizzy corner" in baseball is a bed of roses. the fact is that a team with anything like a mechanical perfection in the passing game, and any ability to select its men as above indicated, simply cannot be stopped in mid-field. the greatest single fault and the one thing that stops most teams, outside of mechanical failure, is the failure of eligible men to spread widely enough. too often two or three eligible men go to the same zone or area and a pass to any one of the three can be covered by a single defensive player. instinctively every man on the offense tries to be where he expects the ball to go. it must be drilled into the players that their "business" may be decidedly elsewhere. interference. finally, plan definitely for interference after the pass is completed. this is particularly true for the shorter passes. insist that every man is in every pass play. there is great temptation for linemen to "take a day off" when a long pass is called in which they are not likely to figure. but they should either be protecting the passer, making it possible for him to better choose his open man, or down with the eligible men in the shorter zones ready for immediate interference in case that pass should be elected. this should be definitely mapped out with each formation and the receiver should know where to find interference behind which he can dodge the instant he has received the pass. interception. the danger of interception, though much over-rated by many, should be carefully guarded. the interception of a long pass often means nothing worse than punting to the other team would have meant. possession of the ball does not count for as much as in the old game. it should never mean worse if the danger of interception is properly guarded. too often, however, it means a touchdown for the defense. in the first place when the receiver has been called every other man on the offense should instantly become alive as a possible interferer or possible protector in case of interception. it is a preparedness, mental and physical, that is desired that in itself would probably prevent half of the touchdowns now made by interception. a pass doesn't _finish_ a play, it simply starts it--and it may _start it either way_. in the second place all line men and eligible men in the shorter zones, who perhaps can be of no assistance on the longer pass, should the instant they find the long pass in process act as if they expected it to be intercepted. finally the passer himself and his immediate protectors should, the instant the pass is off, cover for possible interception. they are the last and possibly by far the most important "safety" in case of interception. chapter vi. suggestive forward pass formations and plays. the previous chapter attempted a general statement of the fundamental principles upon which a successful forward passing game may be built. it is the purpose here to illustrate these by definite formations and plays that have been successfully used. the kick formation has lent itself in many ways very admirably to forward passing. a slightly modified punt (fig. 1) formation, in which the left end is one yard back, one half on the line, full fifteen yards back, halves about three yards back, has proven effective for line bucking, end running right or left, punting and forward passing. the greatest difficulty lies in getting the left half to go out straight to the side and be content with a short gain. when this happens a few times someone from the defense is bound to try to cover him. when that is attempted the way is open for runs or passes to left end or tackle. this sideward threat, almost a pure lateral pass, is an important part of the strategy of the successful forward pass attack. note in the play the direction and turning of other eligible players, the position of line men for interference in case of a short pass over center or outward to the wide man and the general protection for possible interception. [illustration: fig 1.--punt formation pass.] [illustration: fig. 2.--undesirable pass.] a quick shift of left end to the line and right half one yard back (or even played as it is) gives an equally good formation for run or pass to the right, the corresponding players going to the corresponding positions and everybody swinging and turning toward the right. against this type of play contrast the above (fig. 2) which, though it has often proven surprisingly successful, seems to the writer to violate most of the principles above outlined. the ends coming in are at no advantage over the defense. the halves going outward have no interference and there is almost no defense for possible interception. [illustration: fig. 3.--springfield-carlisle indian pass.] [illustration: fig. 4.--spread formation pass.] one of the earliest successful forward pass formations was a widespread one devised and used by dr. j. h. mccurdy of the springfield team in the springfield-carlisle indian game of 1912 (fig. 3). in this the line was spread out practically across the whole field. it was used for kicking as well, and the whole line was sent down to stop the wonderful thorpe. the play was good enough to produce twenty-four points against the wonderful indian team of that year, although the game was won by the indians 30-24. the play is given here partly because of its historical value, but also because the principle is still good. spread formations somewhat modified from the above are still proving very successful, the following serving to again illustrate the principles of the preceding chapter (fig. 4). in this formation tackles are out seven to ten yards, halves about three yards back and full is back thirteen to fifteen yards. from this formation line bucks, end runs, double pass end runs, kicks and forward passes may be used. quick variations may also be made to make tackles eligible if desired. the formations outlined will doubtless sufficiently illustrate the principles discussed. there is no limit to the possibilities. the kick and spread formations here given alone possess sufficient possibilities for a team's entire season's repertoire of open plays. a common mistake is to attempt too large and varied an assortment of these plays. chapter vii. defense for the forward pass. there is no defense for the forward pass. in reality the pass cannot be prevented, particularly in the center of the field. yet from the unwillingness of some of the great football leaders to adopt this style of game one would infer that it is a worthless game, difficult to succeed with and easy of defense. this is the point of view of a number of teams. yet it is interesting to note that these are the very teams that have had no adequate forward pass defense. thus far most teams have trusted to luck against the forward passing game. the inefficiency and mechanical errors of its offense, aided by the restrictive legal measures adopted, have conspired to make this possible. signs are not lacking, however, to indicate a greatly increased use of the passing game, an improved understanding and appreciation of its fundamental principles and a much greater degree of success for it. the defense for the forward pass will need to be studied with great care in the immediate future. the writer does not pretend to have solved this problem. his interest has been rather on the other side. the following suggestions are offered simply as a beginning: first, "hurry the pass." some man or men, not the entire line, should go through and force the pass at the earliest possible moment, downing the passer, blocking the pass or forcing it to be made before the eligible men are ready or the passer has been able to locate them. this greatly increases the chance of mechanical failure. generally this should be done by the ends. some teams send the tackles in also. some send tackles in and have the ends wait. this frequently helps against the pass but makes end running very easy. second, block eligible men. this of course can only be done before the pass is made. but there is often an appreciable time before the pass is made when eligible men could be blocked on the line of scrimmage. this is the best work of the center trio rather than charging through. third, play a zone defense having each defensive back cover an area and play the ball coming into that area rather than attempt to follow individually eligible men. fourth, use the open defense (fig. 5); that is, play the center out of the line and with the full back about three yards behind tackle. this defense is supposed to make center bucking easy, but it does not if the defensive line is properly coached. this first line of secondary defense is in position to intercept short passes or to help stop eligible men on the scrimmage line. they are also in the best possible position to assist on outside tackle and end runs while still in position to block center bucks. in the judgment of the writer this is the best all-round defense yet devised for the modern open game of football. [illustration: fig. 5.--open defense.] the open defense should be played as follows: guards play to the center, low, hard and stalling, not knifing through. tackles fight their way into the play through opposing end. ends play as close as possible, often not over two yards outside their own tackle and tear into every play smashing the interference and hurrying passes. center and full play about three yards behind tackle, usually a trifle inside and wait until they diagnose the play, then meet it. these men must be the best tacklers on the team and fast, for if the tackles and ends accomplish their work these men have their opportunity. backs play from seven to ten yards back and nearly straight behind end. quarter or safety man should play as close as he dares to, considering the possibility of quick punts. this may be generally closer than most quarters play. the defense with spread formations and for special plays is still too much a matter of individual opinion to be discussed here. baseball notes for coaches and players by elmer berry football and baseball coach international y. m. c. a. college springfield, mass. _revised edition_ a practical handbook on the game of baseball, arranged in outline note form so that the book may become truly a useful repository of baseball knowledge and practice. contents batting bunting base running and stealing position play offensive team play defensive team play battery strategy training a college team organized baseball 8vo cloth, illustrated with cuts and diagrams of actual play. interleaved with blank pages for notes, etc. price $2.00 a. s. barnes & co., _publishers_ new york transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. the following misprints have been corrected: "standand" corrected to "standard" (dedication) "it" corrected to "is" (page 9) "springfifield" corrected to "springfield" (page 12) "diconcerting" corrected to "disconcerting" (page 14) "addidtion" corrected to "addition" (page 14) generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [illustration: hector cowan. princeton.] american football by walter camp with thirty-one portraits new york harper & brothers, franklin square 1891 copyright, 1891, by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ preface. the progress of the sport of football in this country, and a corresponding growth of inquiry as to the methods adopted by experienced teams, have prompted the publication of this book. should any of the suggestions herein contained conduce to the further popularity of the game, the object of the writer will be attained. contents. page english and american rugby 1 end rusher 23 the tackle 39 the guard 53 the centre, or snap-back 67 the quarter-back 79 the half-back and back 91 signals 115 training 131 a chapter for spectators 165 list of portraits. [p. stands for princeton, y. for yale, and h. for harvard.] hector cowan, p _frontispiece._ harry w. beecher, y _facing p._ 4 henry c. lamar, p " 8 d. s. dean, h " 12 e. l. richards, jr., y " 16 w. a. brooks, h " 20 r. s. channing, p " 28 l. k. hull, y " 32 e. a. poe, p " 36 everett j. lake, h " 44 wyllys terry, y " 48 b. w. trafford, h " 56 t. l. mcclung, y " 60 v. m. harding, h " 64 jesse riggs, p " 72 w. h. corbin, y " 76 alexander moffatt, p " 84 ralph warren, p " 88 john corbett, h " 96 w. bull, y " 100 knowlton l. ames, p " 104 w. c. rhodes, y " 112 p. d. trafford, h " 120 r. hodge, p " 124 h. h. knapp, y " 128 a. j. cumnock, h " 136 jeremiah s. black, p " 140 c. o. gill, y " 150 e. c. peace, p " 156 w. heffelfinger, y " 160 r. m. appleton, h " 168 english and american rugby american football. rugby football--for it is from the rugby union rules that our american intercollegiate game was derived--dates its present era of popularity from the formation in england, in 1871, of a union of some score of clubs. nearly ten years before this there had been an attempt made to unite the various diverging football factions under a common set of laws; but this proved a failure, and the styles of play became farther and farther apart. of the association game one can say but little as regards its american following. it is quite extensively played in this country, but more by those who have themselves played it in great britain than by native-born americans. its popularity is extending, and at some day it will very likely become as well understood in this country as the derived rugby is to-day. its essential characteristic is, that it is played with the feet, in distinction from the rugby, in which the ball may be carried in the hands. to revert to the rugby union. years before the formation of this association the game was played by sides almost unlimited in numbers. one of the favorite school matches was "sixth form against all the rest of the school." twenty on a side, however, became the ruling number; but this was, after a time, replaced by fifteens, as the days of twenties proved only shoving matches. with the reduction in numbers came increased running and an added interest. this change to fifteens was made in 1877, at the request of scotland. at once there followed a more open style of play, and before long short passing became common. in 1882 the oxford team instituted the long low pass to the open, and by the use of it remained undefeated for three seasons. [illustration: harry w. beecher. yale.] after the decrease to fifteen men the number of three-quarter-backs, who really represent our american half-backs, was increased from one to two, and two full-backs were played. a little later british captains put another full-back up into the three-quarter line, playing with only one full-back. the englishmen also play two men whom they call half-backs, but whose duties are like those of our quarter-back, for they seize the ball when it comes out of the scrimmage and pass it to a three-quarter for a run. nine men is the usual number for an english rush line, although a captain will sometimes take his ninth rusher back as a fourth three-quarter-back. there is much discussion as to when this should be done. the captain selects his men much as we do in america, and he is generally himself a player of some position behind the line, centre three-quarter being preferred. the opening play in an english rugby game is, as a rule, a high kick well followed up. if one will bear in mind that the half-backs are, like our quarter, the ones to seize the ball when it emerges from a scrimmage and pass it to the three-quarters, he will gain some idea of the character of the english method. he should understand, however, that the english half-back is obliged to look out sharply for the ball, because it comes out by chance and at random, and not directly as in our game, where the quarter can usually expect to receive the ball without trouble from the snap-back. the forwards in an english match endeavor, when a scrimmage occurs, by kicking and pushing to drive the ball in the direction of their opponents' goal line, and they become extremely expert in the use of their feet. there are two umpires, whose duty it is to make claims (which they do by raising their flags), and a referee, who allows or disallows these claims. the penalty for fouls, which was at first only a down, is now in many cases a free kick. the american game, it must be remembered, came from the rugby union in 1875, and not from the rugby union of to-day, although the changes in the english game have been by no manner of means commensurate with those made on this side the water. being bound by no traditions, and having seen no play, the american took the english rules for a starting-point, and almost immediately proceeded to add and subtract, according to what seemed his pressing needs. and they were many. a favored few, whose intercourse with canadian players had given them some of the english ideas, were able to explain the knotty points to a small degree, but not enough to really assist the mass of uninitiated players to an understanding. misinterpretations were so numerous as to render satisfactory rulings almost out of the question and explanatory legislation imperative. in the autumn of 1876 the first game under rugby rules between american colleges was played at new haven, and before another was attempted a convention had tried its hand at correcting the weak points, as they appeared to the minds of the legislators, in the rugby union rules. [illustration: henry c. lamar. princeton.] the feature of the american game in distinction from the english is, just as it was within a year from the time of the adoption of the sport, the _outlet of the scrimmage_. in this lies the backbone to which the entire body of american football is attached. the english half-backs stand outside the scrimmage, and when the ball pops out it is their duty to seize it and pass it out to a three-quarter, who runs with it. the american quarter-back stands behind the scrimmage and gives a signal, immediately after which he knows the ball will come directly into his hands to be passed for a run or a kick. what is, therefore, in the english game a matter of considerable chance is "cut-and-dried" in the american game; and the element of chance being eliminated, opportunity is given for the display in the latter game of far more skill in the development of brilliant plays and carefully planned manoeuvres. the americans started with the english scrimmage, kicked at the ball, and pushed and scrambled for a season, until it was discovered that a very clever manifestation of the play was to let the opponents do the kicking--in fact, to leave an opening at the proper moment through which the ball would come, and a man a few feet behind this opening could always get the ball and pass it while the men who kicked it were still entangled in the scrimmage. after a little of this, no one was anxious to kick the ball through, and the rushers began to roll the ball sidewise along between the lines. then almost immediately it was discovered that a man could snap the ball backwards with his toe, and the american outlet was installed. at first the play was crude in the extreme, but even in its earliest stages it proved distinctly more satisfactory to both player and spectator than the kicking and shoving which marked the english method. the same man did not always snap the ball back as he does now, but any one of the rushers would do it upon occasion. the men did not preserve their relative positions in the line, and any one of the men behind the line would act as a quarter-back. such a condition of affairs could not, however, last long where intercollegiate rivalry proved such an incentive to the perfection of play, and the positions of centre-rush or snap-back and quarter-back became the most distinctive of any upon the field. the centre-rush at that time was selected more for his agility, strange to say, than for his weight and strength; but in case he was a light man he was always flanked by two heavy guards. one season's play convinced all captains that the centre section of the forward line must be heavy, and if any light-weights were to be used among the rushers they should be near the wings. quarter-back has, from the very outset, been a position in which a small man can be used to great advantage. the half-backs and backs have usually been men of speed coupled with skill as kickers. the number originally adopted for matches in this country was eleven on a side. from some silly notion that it would increase the skill displayed, this number was changed to fifteen, although the englishmen were moving in the other direction by reducing their numbers from twenties to fifteens. a year or two of fifteen on a side drove the american players back to elevens, and there the number has rested. [illustration: d. s. dean. harvard.] in the early days of the sport, while the players individually were courageous, the team play was cowardly; that is, the tacticians were so taken up with a study of defence--how to protect the goal--that the attack was weak. the direct result of this was to place too few men in the forward line and too many behind it. if to-day we were to revert to fifteen on a side, there is little doubt that we should throw eleven of them up into the rush line, and upon occasion even twelve. we now realize that the best defence does not consist in planning how to stop a man after he has obtained a fair start towards the goal, but in throwing all available force up against him before he can get free of the forward line. the only way to effectively defeat this aggressive defence is by means of skilled kicking. it is possible with really good kickers to throw a team playing in this fashion into disorder by well-placed and long punting, followed up most sharply; but it requires nerve and an unfailing accuracy of aim and judgment. it is only a few years ago that it required considerable argument to convince a captain that he could with safety send one of his halves up into the forward line when his opponents had the ball; but it will take better kicking than is exhibited in most of the championship matches to frighten that half-back out of the line now. even the quarter was wont upon occasion to drop back among the halves and assist them rather than the rushers. all the tendency for the last two years has been towards diminishing the number of men held in reserve, as it were, behind the line, and increasing by this means the crushing force by which the forwards might check either runner or kicker before his play could be executed. should the english ever adopt an outlet for their scrimmage, making the play as direct as is ours, their men would gravitate to the forward line as rapidly as have our players. next to the difference in scrimmage outlet between our game and that of the british stands a much more recent development, which we call interference. this is the assistance given to a runner by a companion or companions who go before him and break a path for him or shoulder off would-be tacklers. this, to the englishman, would be the most detestable kind of off-side play, and not tolerated for an instant upon any field in the united kingdom. even into this the americans did not plunge suddenly, but rather little by little they stepped in, until it was necessary to do one of two things--either legalize what was being tacitly consented to, or penalize it heavily. the result was that it was legalized. with this concession, though, there went a certain condition which gained a measure of confidence for the new ruling. [illustration: e. l. richards. yale.] to understand just how this state of affairs above mentioned came about one should know that, in the attempt to block opponents when the quarter-back was receiving and passing the ball, the forwards fell into the habit of extending their arms horizontally from the shoulder, as by this method each man could cover more space. for a number of years this went on without detriment to the sport in any way, but after a time there was more or less complaint of holding in the line, and it was ruled that a man must not change his position after the ball was snapped, nor bend his arms about an opponent at such a time. unfortunately the referee (for at this stage of the game there was no umpire) could not watch the ball and the players with sufficient care to enforce this ruling, and the temper of the players suffered accordingly. it is always the case when a rule is not enforced unflinchingly, no matter from what cause, that both sides suffer, and the tendency always is towards devising additional infringements. the additional infringement in this instance was even worse than could have been foreseen; for, not content with simply blocking or even holding an opponent until the quarter should have passed the ball in safety, the players in the forward line saw an opportunity for going a step farther, and actually began the practice of seizing an opponent long after the ball had been played, and dragging him out of the way of the running half-back. in the thick of the rush line this was frequently possible without risk of discovery by the referee; and, emboldened by successes of this kind, men would reach out even in the open, and drag back a struggling tackler just as he was about to lay his hands upon the runner. it was this state of affairs which brought up the question, "how much should a comrade be allowed to aid the runner?" american football legislators answered this question satisfactorily, after long discussion, by determining that the runner might be assisted to any extent, provided the assistant did not use his hands or arms in performing this office. the first result of this was to lower the arms of the rushers when lined up, and, in spite of some forebodings, this proved really a benefit to the game. the second result has been to perfect a system of flanking a runner by companions who form almost an impassable barrier at times to the would-be tacklers. at the same time with mention of the solution of this problem, one should also call attention to a menace which threatened american football far more seriously than did this; and that, too, at a time when the sport was by no means so strong in years or popularity as when this later difficulty arose. i refer to the "block game." this method of play, which consisted in a succession of "downs" without advance and without allowing the opponents any chance of securing possession of the ball, proved a means by which a weak team could avoid defeat. the whole object of the match was thus frustrated, the game resulting in no score. to meet this difficulty a rule was introduced making it incumbent upon a side to advance the ball five yards or retreat with it ten in three "downs." if this advance or retreat were not accomplished, the ball went at once into the possession of the opponents. never did a rule in any sport work so immediate and satisfactory a reform as did this five-yard rule. [illustration: w. a. brooks. harvard.] within the last few years there has been no important change in the conduct of the american game, nor in the rules. outside of the above mentioned points of difference between it and the english game, there is only that of the methods of enforcing rules and determining differences. the english have a referee and two umpires, although the umpires are sometimes replaced by touch-judges. the umpires act, as did the judges in our game of ten years ago, as advocates for their respective sides, and it is this advocacy which is causing them to fall into disfavor there exactly as they did here. touch-judges merely watch the lines of the field, and decide when and where the ball goes into touch. in cases where they are employed, the referee renders all decisions upon claim of the captains. in our method there is a division of labor, but along different lines. our two officials, the umpire and referee, have their separate provinces, the former ruling upon the conduct of players as to off-side and other offences, while the latter determines questions of fact as to when the ball is held or goes into touch, also whether a goal is kicked or not. as the rule has it, the umpire is judge for the players, and the referee for the ball. end rusher the end rusher must get into condition early. unless he does, he cannot handle the work that must fall to his share, and the effect of a poor performance by the end is to produce disorder at once in the proportion of work as well as the quality of the work of the tackles and half-backs. this is not well understood by captains and coaches, but it is easy to see if one follows the play. a tired end rusher, even one who has experience and a good idea of his place, will lope down the field under a kick, and by his lack of speed will allow a return; and, against a running game, while he will, it is true, force his man in, he will do it so slowly that the runner is enabled to pass the tackle. the first will surely result in his own halves shortening their kicks, and the second in drawing his own tackle too widely from the guard. both these results seriously affect the value of the practice for halves and tackles; consequently, the end must be put in condition early. the finer points of his position can be worked up gradually, but his endurance must be good at the outset, in order that the others may become accustomed to rely upon him for regular work. but it sometimes happens that the captain or coach has no chance to make sure of this. his candidates may be raw, and only appear upon the first day of fall practice. in that case there is a method which he can adopt to advantage, and which answers the purpose. it is to play his candidates for that position one after the other in rotation, insisting upon hard playing even if it be for only five minutes at a time. in this way not only will the tackle receive the proper support, but the ends themselves will improve far more rapidly than under the usual method. every player upon a team has to labor under two distinctly different sets of circumstances: one set arising from the possession of the ball by his opponents, and the other from the possession of the ball by his own side. many an error in instruction or coaching arises from terming the tactics adopted under these two conditions defensive and offensive. it is no uncommon thing to see an end rusher, who has been told that such and such is his defensive play, so affected by the word _defensive_, as applied to his action, as to fail entirely to perform any aggressive work when his opponents have the ball. and a similarly undesirable state of affairs is brought about by the term _offensive_ when his own side have the ball. in this latter case, he seems inspired to become aggressive in his conduct towards his opponent from the moment the men are lined up, and this very often leads him to make any interference of his so premature as to render it useless towards favoring his runner. one of the first things, therefore, for a coach to tell an end rusher is that the terms offensive and defensive, as applied to team work, have nothing to do with the aggressiveness of any individual. then, as a matter of still better policy, let him avoid using these terms in individual coaching. [illustration: r. s. channing. princeton.] when the opponents have the ball, the end rusher must, in the case of a kick, do his utmost to prevent his _vis-ã -vis_ from getting down the field early under the ball. that is the cardinal point, and it is not necessary for him to do much thinking regarding anything else when he is facing a kicking game. when his opponents are about to make a run, the situation is much more involved. he must then consider himself as the sole guardian of that space of ground extending from his tackle to the edge of the field, and he must begin at the touch line and work in. that is, he must remember that, while on one side of him there is the tackle, who will do his utmost to help him out, there is on the other side--that is, towards touch--no one to assist him, and a run around the end means a free run for many yards. "force the man in" is always a good motto for an end, and one he will do well to follow conscientiously. to force the man in does not mean, however, to stand with one foot on the touch line, and then reach in as far as possible and watch the man go by, as nine out of every ten ends have been doing for two years. it means, go at the runner with the determination of getting him any way, but taking him always from the outside. an end cannot tackle as occasionally does a half-back or back, slowly and even waiting for his man, then meeting him low and strong. an end always has to face interference, and good interference will bowl over a waiting end with ease. an end must go up as far and fast as he dares to meet the runner, and when his moment comes--which must be a selected moment--he must shoot in at his man, reaching him, if possible, with his shoulder, and at the same time extending his arms as far around him as possible. many times this reaching enables an end to grasp his man even though a clever interferer break the force of his tackle. and when his fingers touch the runner, he must grip with the tenacity of the bull-dog, and never let go. it seems almost unnecessary to say that a high tackler has no chance whatever as an end rusher. he may play guard or centre, but before a man ever essays the end he must have passed through all the rudimentary schooling in tackling, and be such an adept that to pass him without the assistance of the most clever interference is an impossibility. an end should be a good follower; that is, if the runner make in towards the tackle, the end should run him down from behind when interference cuts off the tackle. this is one of the best points for cultivation, because it effectually prevents any dodging by the runner. if he fail to take his opening cleanly, a following end is sure of him. this is not a safe point, however, to teach until the player has fairly mastered the ordinary end-work; for the tendency is to leave his own position too soon, giving the runner an opportunity to turn out behind him, and thus elude the tackle without difficulty. [illustration: l. k. hull. yale]. a few years ago there was quite a fashion for the man putting the ball in from touch to run with it along the edge of the field. for some unknown reason this play seems to have been abandoned, but it is likely at any time to be revived, and the end rusher should therefore be posted upon the _modus operandi_ of it, as well as the best method of preventing its success. the most popular execution of this manoeuvre was the simplest; that is, the man merely touched the ball to the ground and plunged ahead as far as he could until brought to earth or thrown out into touch. this was accompanied by more or less helpful interferences upon the part of his own end and tackle. there were more intricate methods, however; and surely, with the amount of interference allowed in these days, it is odd that the side line has not been more fancied by those who have generalled the great games. there was one team a few years ago whose captain used to deliberately place the ball just inside the line on the ground, as though only thoughtlessly leaving it there, and then spring in, crowding the end rusher three or four feet from the touch line, while a running half, who was well started, came tearing up the field, seized the ball, and usually made a long run before he was stopped by the astonished halves. many also were the combination passes in which the ball was handed to the end rusher, who, turning suddenly with his back to the foes, would pass to his quarter or running half. of these close double passes at the edge of the field the most effective were those wherein the runner darted by just inside the touch line, and the weakest the ones wherein the attempt was made to advance out into the field. for this reason there ought to be no particular necessity for coaching any but the end rusher and the tackle upon means to prevent advances of this nature. to the players in the centre of the line there is no apparent difference whether the ball be played from touch in any of these ways above mentioned, or through the more customary channel of the quarter-back. to the end and tackle, however, the difference is marked, because the runner comes so much sooner and the play is so greatly condensed and focussed, as it were, directly upon them. the instructions to the end are to handle the ball as much as possible while the opponent is endeavoring to get it in, and thus make the work of that individual as difficult as possible; and, secondly, to plant one foot close to the touch line and the other as far out into the field as is consistent with stability, and to maintain that position until the play is over. he must neither try to go forward nor around, but, braced well forward, hold his ground. if he does this, no runner can pass within three feet of the touch line, and outside of that the tackle can take care of him. this player, like the end, should, when the ball is played from a fair, be very loath to plunge forward until the play is located, because in the present stage of development of the game one can be quite sure that the opponents will not play the ball from touch unless they have some definite and usually deceptive line of action. without such it is by far the better policy to walk out the fifteen paces and have it down. the quarter-back also has work to do upon side-line plays, in assisting at the edge as much as possible. but to return to the end. when his own side have possession of the ball, his play, like that of any other man, must be governed by the character of the intended move, and the knowledge of what this move will be is conveyed to him by the signal. the nearer the play is to his end, the greater is the assistance he can render. there is little need of coaching him to do his work when the run is along his line, nor, in fact, when it is upon his side of the centre. the knowledge of the proximity of the runner stirs him up sufficiently, if he have any football blood in him. the point towards which coaching should be directed and where it is needed is in starting instantly to render assistance when the play is upon the other side of the line. there is no limit to the amount of work an end may perform in this direction. a good end can toss his man back so that he cannot interfere with the play, and then cross over so quickly as to perform effective interference even upon end runs. in "bucking the centre" he can come from behind with valuable weight and pressure. a coach should remember, though, that it will not do to start an end into doing too much unless he is able to stand the work, for an end had better do the work well upon his own side than be only half way useful upon both ends. a tired-out end makes the opponents doubly strong. [illustration: e. a. poe. princeton.] the tackle those teams upon which the work of end and tackle has been best developed have, for the last few years, been markedly superior in the opposition offered to plays of their opponents. this fact in itself is an excellent guide to the style of play one ought to expect from these two positions. the four men occupying them are the ones to meet nine tenths of the aggressive work of the opponents. the position of end has already been dwelt upon at length. that of tackle, a position much later to reach the full stage of development than the end, has nevertheless now attained almost an equal prominence. the tackle is an assistant to both end and guard, while he has also duties of his own demanding constant attention. when the opponents have the ball and are about to kick, the tackle is one of the most active components of the line. he may not be moving until the ball is snapped, but upon the instant that it is played he is at work. he may himself go through to prevent the pass or kick, or still oftener he may make a chance for a line half-back to do this. by a line half-back is meant that one who, upon his opponents' plays, comes up into the line and performs the duties of a rusher. this method has become so common of late that it is well understood. the play of this line half-back must dovetail into the work of the tackle so well as to make their system one of thoroughly mutual understanding. for this reason they should do plenty of talking and planning together off the field, and carry their plans into execution in daily practice until they become in company a veritable terror to opponents, particularly to kicking halves. one of the very simple, yet clever and successful, combinations worked in this way has been for the line half to take his position outside the tackle, who immediately begins to edge out towards the end. this opens a gap between the opposing tackle and guard, for the tackle will naturally follow his man. this line half simply watches the centre, and as he sees the ball played goes sharply behind the tackle and through the opening. this play can be greatly aided by cleverness on the part of the tackle, who, to perform it to perfection, should edge out most cautiously, and with an evident intention of going to the outside of his man. he should also watch the centre play, and, most important of all, jump directly forward into his man when the ball is snapped. this will enable the half to take almost a direct line for the half, and with his flying start have more than a fair chance of spoiling the kick. the tackle must not be idle after his plunge, but should follow in sharply, because there will always be an opposing half protecting the kicker; and if the line half be checked by this man, as is not unlikely, the following tackle has an excellent opportunity by getting in rapidly. the tackle and half should alternate in their arrangement, neither one always going through first, and thus add to the anxiety and discomfort of the opponents. [illustration: everett j. lake. harvard.] when the opponents are about to run instead of kick, the same combination of line half and tackle can be put in operation, except that it will not do for these two to follow each other through with such freedom, as there is too much danger of both being shunted off by a clever turn coupled with well-timed interference. the cardinal point to be remembered is, to be far enough apart so that a single dodge and one interference cannot possibly throw off both men. the tackle's duties towards the end have been partially described in dwelling upon the work of the latter, but there is plenty of detail to be studied. one of the first things to impress upon the tackle is, that he must watch the ball, not only upon the pass from the quarter, but also after it settles in the runner's arms, for the most successful double or combination passes are those which draw the tackle in towards the centre and give the second recipient of the ball only the end to pass. it has been too common a mistake of coaches to caution a tackle who has been deceived by this double pass against "going so hard." this is wrong. it soon results in making a slow man of the player, for he hangs back to see if the runner be not about to pass the ball, until he is too late to try for the man before he reaches the rush line; and, with the present system of interference and crowding a runner after he reaches the rush line, there is no chance to stop him short of three, and it may very likely be five, yards. the proper coaching is to send him through on the jump, with his eyes open for tricks. let him take a step or two towards the runner, so that, if no second pass be made, the tackle will be sure to meet him before he reaches the rush line, and not after it. this method of coaching makes not only sharp tackles, but quick and clever ones, with plenty of independence, which will be found a most excellent quality. as regards the relations between the tackle and guard, they are best defined by saying that the guard expects to receive the assistance of the tackle in all cases requiring agility, while in cases requiring weight the guard is equally ready to lend assistance to the tackle. [illustration: wyllys terry. yale.] when his own side has the ball, the tackle has far more than the end to do. in fact, the tackle has the most responsible work of any man along the line, having more openings to make, and at the same time the blocking he has to perform is more difficult. the earlier description of the work of a line half and the tackle in getting through is sufficient to indicate the difficulties which the opposing tackle must face in preventing this breaking through. while blocking may not be the most important duty, it is certainly the one which will bear the most cultivation in the tackles of the present day, for the ones who are really adept in it are marked exceptions to the general run. it is no exaggeration to say that more than two thirds of the breaking through that does real damage comes between the end and guard, and therefore in the space supposed to be under the care of the tackle. by successful blocking is meant, not unfair holding, which sooner or later will result in disaster, nor backing upon a runner or kicker as the charger advances, which is almost as bad as no blocking, but that clever and properly timed body-checking of the opponent which delays him just long enough to render his effort to reach his man futile every time. this kind of blocking looks so easy, and is so difficult, that it is found only in a man who is willing to make a study of it. coaching can but give any one wishing to acquire this a few points; the real accomplishment depends upon the man's unflagging perseverance and study. the first thing to be noted is, that a really good forward cannot possibly be blocked every time in the same way. he soon becomes used to the method, and is able to avoid the attempt. dashing violently against him just as he is starting may work once or twice, and then he will make a false start to draw this charge, and easily go by the man. standing motionless, and then turning with a sharp swing back against him, will disconcert his charge once in a while. shouldering him in the side as he passes will throw him off his balance or against some other man, if well performed, occasionally. falling down before him by a plunge will upset him even when he has quite a clear space apparently, but it will not work if played too often. by a preconcerted plan he may be coaxed through upon a pretended snap, and then the ball played while he is guarded and five yards gained by his off-side play, but he will not be taken in again by the same method. these are but a few of the strategies which engage the study of the tackle. how soon to let the man through is also an important question. when the ball is to be punted, the tackle upon the kicker's side must block long and hard, while the tackle upon the other end should block sharply, and then let his man through for the sake of getting down the field under the kick. when a drop is to be attempted, the blocking upon both sides must be close and long, much longer than for a punt. moreover, it is by no means a bad policy to have the blocking last until the ball is actually seen in the air in front of the line, because then, if the kick be stopped, the tackles can go back to assist the backs in recovering the ball. the blocking for a kick, as a rule, should be close; that is, every opponent must be matched from the centre out, leaving the free man or men on the ends. this rule has its exceptions, but when there is any doubt about the play it is safest to block close, and take the chances from the ends rather than through breaks in the line. in blocking for a run the case is very different, and depends upon the point of assault. if the run is to be made around the right end, for instance, by the left half-back, the right tackle must block very slowly and long. that is, he must not dash up to his man the instant the ball is snapped and butt him aside, for the runner will not be near enough to derive any advantage from this, and the opponent will easily recover in time to tackle him. rather should he avoid contact with his man until his runner makes headway, and then keep between the opponent and runner until the latter puts on steam to circle, when it is his duty to engage his man sharply, and thus let the runner pass. in blocking for an inside run upon his own side, he should turn his man out or in, as the case may be, just as the runner reaches the opening, being particularly careful not to make the break too early, lest the opponent reach the runner before he comes to the opening. the guard the position of guard, while it requires less agility than that of tackle, can never be satisfactorily filled by a man who is slow. many a coach makes this mistake and fails to see his error until too late to correct it. i remember once seeing upon a minor team a guard who weighed at least 190 pounds replaced by a man of 155, and the latter actually filled the position--greatly to my astonishment, i confess--in excellent fashion. this does not at all go to prove that weight is of no value in a guard. on the contrary, it is a quality especially to be desired, and if one can find a heavy man who is not slow he is the choice by all means. but weight must be given work to do, and that work demands practice, and slowness of execution cannot be tolerated. at the outset the coach must impress this fact upon the guards, and insist upon their doing their work quickly. it is really wonderful how much better the effect of that work will prove to be when performed with a snap and dash that are not difficult to acquire. [illustration: b. w. trafford. harvard.] when the opponents have the ball and are about to kick, the guard should have in his mind one persistent thought, and that is, to reach the quarter before the ball is away from his hand, but not to stop there. it is only once in a great while that fortune favors sufficiently to crown this attempt with success. when it does, so much the better; but the guard should take in the quarter only in a general sweep, making on for the kicker, and at the same time getting his arms up in the air when he comes before him, so as to take every possible chance of stopping the ball. just here it may be well to explain the confidence with which in these details of coaching the phrases are used "when the opponents are about to kick" and "when the opponents are about to run." it is true that one cannot tell infallibly every time whether the play will be a kick or a run, but experienced players are really so seldom at fault in their judgment upon this point that it is safe to coach as though there never existed any doubt about the matter. [illustration: t. l. mcclung. yale.] to continue with the work of the guard when the opponents are about to attempt a run. one of the most important features of the play in this position is to guard against small wedges. if a guard simply stands still and straight he will be swept over like a wisp of straw by any well-executed wedge play directed at him. an experienced man knows this, and his chief thought is how to avoid it, and how, first, to prevent the formation; second, to alter the direction, and, finally, to stop the progress, of this terror of centre work, the small wedge. there are as many ways of accomplishing these results as of performing the duties of tackle or end, and it rests with the individual player to study them out. to prevent the formation of small wedges, the most successful method is that of sudden and, if possible, disconcerting movements. jostling, so far as it is allowed, sudden change of position, a pretended charge--all these tend to break up the close formation. once formed and started, the change of direction is usually the most disarranging play possible; but this should not be attempted by the player or players opposite the point of the wedge. at that spot the proper play is to check advance, even temporarily; for the advance once checked, the wedge may be swung from the side so as to take off the pressure from behind. so it is the men at the side who must endeavor to turn the wedge and take off this pressure. without the actual formation upon the field it is difficult to fully explain this turning of the wedge; but if the principle of the defence be borne in mind, it will not be found so hard to understand. check the peak even for a moment, and get the weight off from behind as speedily as possible. the men who are pushing must necessarily act blindly; and if their force is not directly upon the men at the point of the v, they pass by the man with the ball and so become useless. both guards must keep their weight down low, close to the ground, so that the wedge, if directed at either, cannot throw that one at once off his balance backward. if this occurs, the wedge will always make its distance, perhaps go many yards. lying down before the wedge is a practice based upon this principle of keeping close to the ground, and is by no means an ineffectual way of stopping an advance, although it is not as strong a play as bringing about the same result without actually losing the power to straighten up if the wedge turns. moreover, the men in the front of a wedge are becoming so accustomed to meeting this flat defence that they not infrequently succeed in getting over the prostrate man and regaining headway upon the other side. this, as one can readily see, must always yield a very considerable gain. when a run is attempted at some other point in the line, it is the duty of the guards to get through hard and follow the runner into his opening, even if they cannot reach him before he comes into the line. in this class of play a guard should remember that if he can lay a hand upon the runner before he reaches the line he can spoil the advance to a certainty, for no runner can drag a heavy guard up into and through an opening. it is like dragging a heavy and unwieldy anchor. a guard can afford to, and must sometimes, tackle high. not that he should, in the open, ever go at the shoulders, but in close quarters he often has no time to get down low, and must make the best of taking his man anywhere that the opportunity offers. he must always, however, throw him towards the opponent's goal. another point for guards to bear in mind is, that in close quarters it is often possible to deprive the runner of the ball before he says "down." a guard who always tries this will be surprised at the number of times he will find the referee giving him the ball. he will also be astonished at the way this attempt results in the runner saying "down" as soon as he finds some one tugging at the ball. a man gives up all thought of further advance the instant he finds the ball slipping at all in his grasp; and when his attention is distracted from the idea of running, as it is when he is fearful of losing the ball, he can never make use of his opportunities to good advantage. for this reason the coach should impress upon all the forwards the necessity of always trying to take away the ball; but the men in and near the centre are likely to have the best opportunity for this play, because it is there that the runner encounters a number of men at once rather than a single individual. when his own side have the ball the guard must block sharply until the quarter has time for receiving the ball, and, at any rate, beginning the motion of the pass. it is safer, in the case of inexperienced guards, to tell them to block until the quarter has time to get rid of the ball. the distinction is this: that an experienced guard sometimes likes to gain just that second of time between the beginning of the pass and the completion of the swing, and utilize it in getting down the field or making an opening. so accustomed does he become to measuring the time correctly that he will let the opponent through just too late to reach the quarter, although it seems a very close call. it is not safe to let green guards attempt anything so close. they must be taught to block securely until the ball is on its way to the runner or kicker. the blocking of a guard is much less exacting in its requirements than that of the tackle. not that he must not block with equal certainty, but the act requires no such covering of two men as often happens in the case of a tackle. the guard forms closely towards the centre, and then follows his man out if he moves out, but only as far as he can go, and still be absolutely certain that the opponent cannot pass between him and the snap-back. to be drawn or coaxed out far enough to admit of an opponent's going through the centre shows woful ignorance in any guard. [illustration: v. m. harding. harvard.] when a kick is to be made the blocking must be prolonged a little, and on a drop-kick (as mentioned earlier) it should last until the ball goes from the foot. when blocking for a run, of course much depends upon where the opening is to be made, and a guard must be governed accordingly. the method itself is, again, different in the guard from that exhibited in the tackle. a guard may not move about so freely and must face his man more squarely than a tackle, for the guard must protect the quarter first, while the tackle considers the half only. if a guard allows his opponent to get a fair lunge with outstretched arm over or past his shoulder, he may reach the quarter's arm even though his body is checked, while such a reach at the point in the line occupied by the tackle would be of no value whatever. previous to the snap-back's playing the ball it is the duty of the guards to see that their individual opponents do not succeed in either kicking the ball out from the snap-back's hand or otherwise interfering with his play. this is quite an important feature, and a centre should always feel that he has upon either hand a steady and wide-awake assistant, who will neither be caught napping nor allow any unfair advantage to be taken of him. the guard should bear in mind one fact, however, and that most clearly. it is that squabbling and general pushing about are far more liable to disconcert his own centre and quarter than to interfere with the work of the opponents. the centre, or snap-back the man who may be selected to fill the important position of centre-rush must be a man of sense and strength. brain and brawn are here at their highest premium. but there is another element of character without which both will be overthrown, and that is patience. practical experience has taught football coaches that none but a thoroughly self-controlled man can make a success in football in any position, while in this particular one his disposition should be of the most equable nature. he will be called upon to face all kinds of petty annoyances, for his opponents will endeavor to make his play as difficult as possible; and never must he allow himself for one instant to lose sight of the fact that his entire attention must be devoted to his play, and none of it distracted by personal feeling. moreover, while he must be able to play the ball quickly when called upon, he can never afford to be hurried by his opponents. with the present excellent rulings of umpires regarding interference with the ball before it is snapped, much of the most harassing kicking of the ball from under his hand has been stopped; but, for all that, he is indeed a lucky centre who does not feel the ball knocked out from under his grasp several times during a game. in addition to this, every man who breaks through gives him a rub. sometimes these knocks are intentional, often they are given purely by accident, and the latter are by no means the lightest. then, too, a man is pushed into the snap-back just as the ball goes. it may be his own guard, but the blow hurts just as much; and a centre who is not amiable under such treatment soon loses his head and forgets that he should care for nothing except to accomplish gains for his own side. the object of placing so much stress upon this qualification is to impress upon a coach the almost inestimable value of the quality of patience in any men he may be trying for this position. he can never say too much about it. as regards the duties of the place, they differ from those of any other position in the line on account of the constant presence at that spot of the ball. the centre is either playing the ball himself or watching his antagonist play the ball at every down; so that while he has all the other duties of a forward to execute, he has the special work besides. here is the weakness of so many centres. they are snap-backs only or forwards only, the former being by all odds the more common. a good critical coach of experience will see nine out of every ten men whom he may watch in this position playing through day after day with no more idea of doing any forward work than if they were referees. putting the ball in play at the right time, and properly, is a great achievement, but it does not free the centre-rush from all other obligations. he must protect his quarter; he must aid in making openings, and perform any interference that may be possible, as well as always assisting a runner of his own side with weight or protection. he must always get down the field under a kick, for it is by no means unusual for him to have the best opportunity in these days when end rushers are so carefully watched. when the opponents have the ball, he must not be content with seeing that the opponent does not roll it to a guard, but must also see that there is no short, tricky passing in the scrimmage. then he must be as ready as either guard to meet, stop, or turn a wedge. he must make openings for his comrades to get through, even when he himself may be blocked, and always be ready to reach out or throw himself before a coming runner to check the advance. [illustration: jesse riggs. princeton.] the details of the special work of the centre are many, and thorough knowledge of them can only come from experience. during his early progress a new snap-back usually sends the ball against his own legs, or, if he manages to keep them out of the way, is upset by his opponent for his pains. it is no child's play to hold a ball out at arm's-length on the ground in front of one and roll it back so that it passes between one's feet, and still preserve a good balance in spite of a sudden push of a hundred-and-eighty-pound opponent. but that is just what a centre has to do every time the ball is down and belongs to his side. the first thing to teach a centre is to stand on his feet against any amount of jostling. then he must learn to keep possession of the ball until ready to play it. both of these acquirements take practice. the most finished and experienced centres have a way of playing the ball just as they are half straightening as though to meet a charge from in front. this insures their not being pushed over on to the quarter, and yet does not cause them to lean so far forward as to be pitched on their noses by a little assistance from the opposing centre. when a man stands so as to prevent a push in the chest from upsetting him, he naturally puts one foot back some distance as a support. when a centre does this he is apt to put that foot and leg in the path of the ball. a second objection to this way of standing is, that the centre does not offer nearly as much opposition to any one attempting to pass as he does when he stands more squarely faced about with a good spread of the legs. as to holding the ball, some centres prefer to take it by the end, while others roll it on its side. it can be made to rise for the quarter if sent on end, whereas if played upon its side it lies closer to the ground. the quarter's preference has, therefore, something to do with it. it requires longer practice and more skill to play the ball on its end, but it permits an umpire to see more clearly whether the ball be actually put in play by the snap-back or played for him by the surreptitious kick of the opponent. it has also the advantage of sending the ball more narrowly upon a line, so that its course is less likely to be altered than when rolled upon its side. while the snap-back is seldom held to the very strictest conformity to the rule about being on side when he puts the ball in play, it is necessary for him to practise with a view to this particular, because he is liable to be obliged to conform every time if the opponents insist. the reason for carelessness in this respect is, there is no penalty for infringement except being obliged to return to the spot and put the ball in play properly. a certain laxity, therefore, is granted rather than to cause delays. but, as stated above, a centre must be able to put the ball in play when fairly on side, and must live up to this with some moderate degree of regularity, or else the umpire will call an off-side and bring him back. a centre ought to practise putting the ball in play with either hand until he is fairly proficient with his left as well as his right. not that he should use his hands alternately in a game, but that an injury to his right hand need not necessarily throw him out of the game. it is by no means an unrecognized fact that the greater amount of experience possessed by the regular centre is so valuable as to make it policy to keep him in his place so long as his legs are good, even though a hand be injured, rather than to replace him by the substitute with whose methods the quarter-back is not so familiar. [illustration: w. h. corbin. yale.] a coach should see to it that his centre has a variety of men to face, some big, some tricky, some ugly. if any old players come back to help the team in the way of coaching, and among them are some centre rushers, they can do no better work than by donning a uniform and playing against the "'varsity" centre. the quarter-back the quarter is, under the captain, the director of the game. with the exception of one or two uncommon and rare plays, there is not one of any kind, his side having the ball, in which it does not pass through his hands. the importance of his work it is therefore impossible to overrate. he must be, above all the qualifications of brains and agility usually attributed to that position, of a hopeful or sanguine disposition. he must have confidence in his centre himself, and, most of all, in the man to whom he passes the ball. he should always believe that the play will be a success. the coach can choose no more helpful course during the first few days, as far as the quarter is concerned, than that of persuading him to repose confidence in his men. many promising half-backs are ruined by the quarter. there is nothing that makes halves fumble so badly, get into such awkward positions, start so slowly, and withal play so half-heartedly, as the feeling that the quarter does not think much of them, does not trust them, or believe in their abilities. every half-back can tell the same story--how he is nerved up by the confidence of the quarter, and what an inspiration it is to good work to see that confident look in the eye of the man who is about to pass to him. but not alone in the work of the half does it make a great difference, but in that of the quarter himself. when he lacks confidence in his man, his passing is unsteady and erratic as well as slow. he allows the opponents a far better chance of reaching the man before he can get started, both by irregular and slow passing, and also by a nervous looking at him before the ball is played. in practice, great stress should be laid on quick handling and sharp passing of the ball. a quarter can slow up in a game if advisable, but he can never do any faster work than that which he does in practice without throwing his men completely out. in order to make the play rapid, a quarter must be figuratively tied to the centre's coat, or rather jacket, tails. as soon as the centre reaches the ball after a down, he should know that the quarter is with him. usually there is an understood signal between them, which not only shows the centre that the quarter is on hand, but also when he is ready to receive the ball. one of the most common of these signals has been placing the hand upon the centre's leg or back. a pinch would let him know when to snap the ball. in spite of this method's having been used by opponents to fool a centre, it has been, and still is, the most common. one of the best variations of it has been for the quarter to put his hand upon the centre and keep it there until he is ready for the ball, then take it off and let the centre snap the ball, not instantly, but at his convenience. should anything occur making it advisable, for some reason, to stop the play, the quarter puts his hand upon the centre again at once, and until it is once more removed the snap-back understands that the quarter is not ready to have the ball come. almost any amount of variation can be made in the signal of the quarter to his centre; but in arranging this it should be constantly borne in mind that the signal should not be such as to give the opponents the exact instant of the play, because it gives them too close an idea of the moment when they may start. [illustration: alexander moffatt. princeton.] the speed of a quarter's work depends upon his ability to take the ball close to the snap-back and in proper position for a pass. in merely handing the ball to a runner, one might suppose that there would be no particular position in which the ball should be held; but in that he would be in error, for a ball so handed to a passing runner as not to settle properly in his arms or hands means in many instances a disastrous fumble, or at best a slowing-up of the runner's speed. in giving the ball to a passing runner, it should be held free and clear of the quarter's body and slightly tilted, so that it can be taken against the body, and without the use of both hands for more than an instant, because the runner must almost immediately have use for his arm in going into the line. it is impossible to give in print the exact angle and method of holding the ball for this purpose, but practice and the wishes of the runners, if consulted, will soon show the quarter just what is meant. when the ball is to be passed any considerable distance, it should be taken so that the end is well placed against the hand of the quarter, while the ball itself lies against the forearm, the wrist being bent sharply. this will enable the quarter to send the ball swiftly and accurately almost any distance that it may be necessary to cover. of course, in many cases the ball does not actually rest against the forearm of the quarter; but this is the best way of conveying the idea of the proper position of the hand upon the point of the ball, and by practising in this way the correct motion for steady passing is speedily acquired. in receiving the ball, the right hand, or the hand with which the throw is made, should be placed upon the end of the ball, while the other hand stops its progress, and should be placed as nearly upon the opposite end of the ball as convenient. this is the theoretically proper way of receiving the ball; practically, the handling cannot be as accurately performed as this would indicate. if, however, the quarter will in practice be constantly aiming at receiving the ball so that his right hand grasps the end just as his left hand stops the ball, and settles it securely against his right, he will find that after a few weeks he can receive four out of five snap-backs in such a way as to make any great amount of arranging the ball for his pass, after it is in his hands, quite unnecessary. after the preliminary weeks of practice, and when in a game, he must bear in mind the fact that, in order of importance, his duties are, first, to secure the ball, no matter how; second, to convey it to his own man, no matter whether in good form or not. he must never pass the ball if he has fumbled it, unless he has a perfectly clear field in which to do it. he must always have it down in preference to taking the slightest risk of losing it. even though he receive it without a fumble, there may be a way through in that part of the line towards which his pass is to be delivered; and here, again, he should hold the ball for another down rather than take any chance of the opponent's intercepting the pass. after letting the ball go, the quarter should follow his pass; in fact, he should be almost on the run as the ball leaves his hand. no matter whether the ball be caught or fumbled, he is then ready to lend assistance; whereas if he stand still after his pass, he is of no use to the rest of the play. when the play is a run, he can do excellent work in interfering; and when the play is a kick, he can take any opponent who gets through, and thus aid the half in protecting the kicker. in either case, if his own man muff or fumble he is close at hand to lend assistance in an emergency, which otherwise might prove most disastrous. when lining up the quarter should take a quick glance, not directly at the player he is to make the recipient of the ball, but covering the general position of all the men. in doing this he locates his individual without making it apparent to the opponents which man is to receive the ball. any amount of disguise may be practised in the way of taking a last glance at the wrong man, or calling out to some one who does not enter into the play. the chief point, nevertheless, is to avoid that tell-tale glance at the right man which is so difficult to omit. [illustration: ralph warren. princeton.] when the opponents have the ball, the quarter makes an extra man in or near the forward line, and, as a rule, he can by his shrewdness make it very uncomfortable for any point in the line which he chooses to assail. no law can govern his tactics in this respect, but he should be a law unto himself, and show by his cleverness that he is more valuable than any man in the line whose position is fixed. one caution only is worth giving to the quarter in this line of play, and that is, to be less free of going forward sharply when the play is evidently to be a run than when a kick is to be attempted. in the latter case, a quarter can always be sent for his best. the half-back and back as the game is at present played, the back is more of a third half-back than a goal-tend, and so should be trained to half-back work. it has been well said that all that one can ask of the best rush line is to hold the ground their half-backs gain; and when one follows carefully the progress of the play, he sees that this is the proper division of the work. the half-backs, then, must be the ground-gainers of the team. such work calls for dash and fire--that ability to suddenly concentrate all the bodily energy into an effort that must make way through anything. every one has such half-backs in mind, but unfortunately many of those half-backs who possess this type of character have not the necessary weight and strength to stand the amount of work required. although a light man be occasionally found who is particularly muscular and wiry, the constant shock of going into a heavy line of forwards usually proves too exhausting for any but those of middle weight before the end of a season be reached. it is not that the work of a single game proves too much for the light-weight half. it is that in both practice and games he is so overmatched by the weight of the forwards whom he must meet that every week finds him less strong than the preceding, until his playing falls off so markedly that the captain or coach is at last convinced that there is something wrong, and the man is replaced by some one else, often too late to bring the substitute up to anything like the mark he might have reached had he been tried earlier in the season. such thoughts as these will suggest themselves to the experienced coach when at the outset of a season he has placed before him a number of candidates for the position of half-back, among whom very likely there may be two or three men of perhaps one hundred and forty pounds' weight. likely enough, too, these men may be at that period easily superior to the middle or heavy weights. in such a case the very best advice that can be whispered in the ear of coach or captain is, to make quarters or ends of them, even though it be only substitute quarters and ends. it will leave the way open for the proper cultivation of half-backs better built to stand the wear and tear of a season. almost equally to be deprecated is the waste of time often devoted to making half-backs of slow heavy weights. only a quick man can perform a half-back's duties successfully; and although much can be left to practice, there must be some natural quickness to build upon. slow men can be improved far more rapidly in the forward line than among the halves. all this regarding the weight of half-backs applies not only to 'varsity teams, but school teams as well, if one will make the proper proportional changes in weight. that is, a 'varsity player will be called upon to face a forward line averaging one hundred and seventy-five or thereabouts, and men of less than one hundred and thirty-five to one hundred and forty are too light to meet that weight. in school teams the rush line will be some twenty pounds lighter, and the halves can therefore be selected from even one-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound men, if well built. in other words, a half-back ought not to face over twenty-five pounds' difference in weight; and the more that difference is reduced, supposing that speed and agility be retained, the more chance there is of turning out a thoroughly successful player. it is worth while to be thus particular upon the point of the early selection of candidates for the position of half-back, because, while no more work is demanded of them in a game than of others of their side, the quality of that work must be more uniformly good. when a half-back has to tackle, he must be as sure as a steel-trap; when a half-back has to catch, he must be a man to be relied upon; when a half-back is called upon for a kick, it must be no fluke; and, although no one expects a half-back to always make on his run the five yards, he must be a man who will not be denied when he is called upon for that last yard which will enable his side to retain the ball. [illustration: john corbett. harvard.] almost the first thing to be critically noted by the coach is the way in which a half-back takes the ball from his quarter. the case in which he takes it directly from the hands of this player has been already dwelt upon at some length under the head of the quarter's passing; but when the ball is thrown or passed some little distance, it is just as important that it be properly received. except when about to kick, the half-back should be moving when he receives the ball, and, more than that, the reception of it should have no perceptible effect upon his movements. in other words, he must take it as easily and as naturally as a batsman in a ball game drops his bat after he has hit the ball fairly. no batsman remembers that he has had the bat in his hands after the ball has been hit, and yet, when he is at first base, he has left his bat behind him at the plate. thus a football half-back should so receive the ball as not to know the exact instant of taking it, but find that he has it as he comes up to the line. it will never do for a coach to suppose that an inexperienced half can be told that he must take the ball "without knowing it," but it is necessary to explain to a half that until he does take the ball naturally, and without having to stop and calculate about it, he can never come properly up to the line nor get his whole power on early. to acquire the habit of taking a pass easily, a half-back should spend a little time every day off the field in practising taking a sharp pass when on the run. by a sharp pass is not meant hurling the ball with all possible force against a runner so that he is nearly knocked over by it, and cannot by any possibility catch it except at the expense of giving the catch his sole and undivided attention. such passing in practice does far more harm than good. the ball should be passed with that easy swing which sends it rapidly, accurately, and evenly up to the runner without any great apparent force, for it is remarkable how much the appearance of force tends to rattle the runner, who easily handles fully as much speed properly delivered. daily practice of this nature between the quarter and halves accustoms each to the other, so that the regular work of the team on the field is not disorganized by loose passing and looser catching. while this passing is progressing, the coach should stand by the side of the half, and watch him closely, correcting any careless tendencies of receiving or stopping, and paying particular attention to his going in a straight line--that is, not running up to meet the ball and then sheering off again. the best half-backs endeavor to receive the ball at approximately the same height relative to their bodies, no matter how it comes, and they will correct quite a variation in the quarter's throw by a little stoop or a slight jump. a half-back must be taught to be uniform in starting, and in reaching the spot where the ball is to meet him. the coach will have no great difficulty in teaching him this steady uniformity of pace, which will enable the quarter to throw the ball so as really to assist rather than retard his motion. there are two other things which the half-back must practise apart from his team-play. they are kicking and catching. the former is of sufficient importance to deserve a separate chapter, but a few hints under the half-back column will not be out of place. it is usually the case that of all three men behind the line, the two halves and the back, any one can do the kicking upon a pinch, but one of the three is, nine times out of ten, manifestly superior to the other two. in this state of affairs there is altogether too great a tendency to slight the practice of the two inferior kickers, and rely almost entirely upon the best man. it is quite proper to let the best man do all the kicking possible in an important game, but it is a very short-sighted policy to neglect the practice of the other two during the preliminary games. not only should they have the advantage to be gained in the length of their kicks by daily practice, but they should also have the steadying experience to be acquired only in games. it may happen at any moment in a most important game that the kicking will devolve upon them on account of an accident to the third man, and it is, indeed, a foolhardy captain or coach who has not taken sufficient forethought for this contingency. the principal reason why we develop so few really good kickers is, that coaches, captains, and players have given so little attention to the detail of that part of the work. fully nine tenths of the men who do the kicking upon american teams are more natural kickers than practised ones. let me explain this so as to be fully understood. as in boxing one often sees a man who, having taken no lessons, and being therefore unable to make the most of himself, can yet more than hold his own against a more finished opponent on account of his natural quickness, strength, and aptitude; so in football one sees here and there a man who is able to do some fair kicking without having devoted particular attention to it. in boxing, however, when a teacher takes the natural hitter in hand, he begins by putting him at work upon the rudiments of guarding, holding himself upon his feet, hitting straight, and moving firmly. he never undertakes to make a first-class man of him by merely encouraging him to go in harder, and increase his power without regard to the proper methods. in football, coaches rarely teach the kickers the first principles, but instead urge upon them only the necessity of constant practice in their own way. for this reason our kickers show all manner of styles, and the only wonder is that they kick so well in such wretchedly bad form. [illustration: w. bull. yale.] while it is neither advisable nor necessary that a kicker be prevented from attempting to kick hard until he has mastered every detail of the swing and brought it to the same point of perfection that a finished oarsman does his stroke, it certainly is best, in his practice, to subordinate power to method until he acquire good form. [illustration: knowlton l. ames. princeton.] the coach should take his man in hand by watching him make a half-dozen kicks in his own way. then he should select the worst of his faults, and show him why it is a fault, and how to correct it. he should keep him upon this one point for a few days, until he is convinced that there will be no backsliding, and then begin upon the next. in this way a few weeks will serve to make a second-class man a good one, and open the way for his becoming something out of the ordinary run in another season. in judging the faults of a kicker, the coach should note just where he gets his power on, what is the position of his leg and foot upon the swing, and what part of the foot strikes the ball. these are the principal points, and deserve the first attention. regarding the first of these, his power should be put on just as his foot has passed the lowest part of the arc in which it swings, and it should meet the ball in the upward sweep very soon after passing this point. the position of his leg and foot is to be next noted, and the "snap the whip" phrase is as good a one to convey the idea as any that can be adopted. as the leg begins to swing the knee is bent and the body pitched a little forward, so that the weight of the kick seems to start from the hip and travel down the leg as it straightens, reaching the foot just as it meets the ball, as above mentioned. as for the third point, the ball, when punted, should be struck between the instep and the toe, impinging most upon the former. in a drop-kick and a place-kick the ball is met by the toe, and the sweep is made with "a longer leg," as the expression has it; that is, the foot swings nearer--in fact, almost along the ground. all these three points can be most clearly illustrated by noting the effect of departures from them. if the power is not put on as above described, the man will simply send the ball along the ground, or will hook it up, merely tossing it with his foot instead of driving it. these two are the extremes, of course; but they illustrate where the power is lost or wasted. if the leg be not swung in proper position, the ball will be simply spatted with the foot, the only force coming from the knee. finally, if the ball be not met with the proper part of the foot it may snap downwards off the toe, or be merely bunted by the ankle. there is still another thing to be watched, which, while not the kick proper, really belongs to it as much as the swing of the leg. it is the way in which the ball is dropped to the foot from the hand or hands. the usual tendency of beginners, and many half-backs who could hardly be classed in that category, is to toss the ball from the hand; that is, to give it a motion up from the hand, which, however slight, causes much valuable time to be lost. the ball should always be dropped to the foot, the distance between the hand and foot being made as short as possible. the hand should be merely withdrawn just at the proper moment, and with practice it is not difficult to make the entire transfer from hand to foot so rapid as to almost eliminate any danger of having the ball stopped or struck during that part of the play. in drop-kicking the fall is necessarily greater, but it should never be a toss even then. there has been no little argument as to whether the ball should be held in one or both hands when about to kick, and such are the examples of good kickers arrayed on both sides that one cannot fairly say that either way is the only right way. if a player has become so accustomed to the two-hand method as to make him uncomfortable and inaccurate if forced to the one-hand way, it is hardly advisable to make the change. but any player who is taken early enough can be taught to drop the ball with one hand, to the great advantage of both his quickness and his ability to kick from tight quarters or around an opponent. the entire series of motions, therefore, which go to make up a well-performed kick should be in the coach's mind just as the separate parts of an oarsman's stroke are in the boating-man's mind when coaching a crew. the ball dropped, not tossed; the leg well swung, the power coming from both leg and hip with all the advantage that the poise of the body may add; the foot meeting the ball with the forward part of the instep on a punt, with the toe on a drop, and in either case just after passing the lowest point of the arc of swing, rather later on a punt than a drop, because the ground helps the latter to rise, while the rise of the former must come entirely from the foot. the next step in the education of the kicker is the side swing. the ball cannot be kicked as far when met directly in front of the kicker--his leg swinging straight, as it would in taking a step in running--as it can be kicked by taking a side sweep with the leg and body, the hips acting as a sort of pivot. one of the most common false ideas regarding this side kick is, that it is not performed with the same part of the foot as the straight punt, but that the ball is struck by the side of the foot. of course, this is all wrong. the foot meets the ball as fairly and directly as it does in the ordinary straight kick, and the ball impinges upon the top of the instep and toe just as before, the word "side" referring to the swing of the leg and position of the body only. all the suggestions thus far have been applicable to both half-backs and back, but before bringing the chapter to an end it is well to note a few of the special features of the full-back's position. the place originally was that of a goal-tend, but with the increase of the aggressive system of defence his duties have become more those of a third half-back. other things being equal, it is eminently proper to select as a full-back an exceptionally strong tackler; but as for placing tackling ability above that of kicking, that is a mistake which might have been made six years ago, but of which no coach or captain would to-day be guilty. [illustration: w. c. rhodes. yale.] the importance of the position is rapidly growing, and there is no doubt that the time will come in another year, if it be not already here, when the selection of the three men behind the line will be after this fashion--namely, picking out the three best half-backs, all things considered, then selecting that one of the three whose kicking is the best, and making him the third half or full back. after the man has been in this way chosen there will devolve upon him certain duties which do not commonly fall to the lot of the other two half-backs. chiefest among these is the duty of making a running return of a kick. the opponents have sent a punt down towards him, which he secures while the opponents are still some yards away from him, although they are coming down rapidly. in this case, a thoroughly finished player will not only gain a few steps before he takes his kick, but he will take that kick on the run, sometimes dodging the first man before taking the kick. a full-back who can do this and never lose his kick is the greatest kind of a treasure for any team, and it is worth a captain's while to devote a good bit of attention to the full-back's perfecting this special feature of his play. he will also be likely to have the long place-kicking to do. in fact, it is proper to practise him at this, because, if he be the best punter among the men behind the line, he can be made the longest place-kicker, and few realize the great advantage of these long place-kicks to a team upon occasion of fair catches. tackling, when it does fall to the lot of a full-back, comes with an importance the like of which no other player is ever called upon to face. it usually means a touch-down if he misses. for practice of this kind it is well to play the 'varsity back once in a while upon the scrub side. this is likely to improve the speed of his kicking also. signals when rugby football was first adopted in this country, it was against a strong feeling that it would never make progress against what had been known as the american game. this old-fashioned game was much more like the british association in a rather demoralized state. not only was there no such thing as off-side, but one of the chief features consisted in batting the ball with the fist, at which many became sufficiently expert to drive the ball almost as far as the ordinary punter now kicks it. there was very little division of players by name, although they strung out along the field, and one (known as the "peanutter"--why, no one knows) played in the enemies' goal. coming to players accustomed to this heterogeneous mingling, it is no great wonder that the first days of rugby were characterized by even less system than that displayed in the old game. the first division of players was into rushers, half-backs, and a goal-tend. the rushers had but little regard for their relative positions in the line; and as for their duties, one can easily imagine how little they corresponded with those of the rusher of to-day when it is said that it was by no means unusual for one of them to pick up the ball and punt it. the snap-back and quarter-back play soon defined these two positions, and shortly after the individual rush line positions became distinct, both as regards location and duties. all this was an era of development of general play with but few particular combinations or marks of strategy. if a man made a run, he made it for the most part wherever he saw the best chance after receiving the ball, and he made it unaided to any degree by his comrades. if the ball was kicked, it was at the option of the man receiving it, and the forwards did not know whether he would kick or run. it was at this point that the demand for signals first showed itself. the rushers began to insist upon it that they must be told in some way whether the play was to be a kick or a run. they maintained quite stoutly and correctly that there was no reason in their chasing down the field when the half-backs did not kick. as a matter of fact, the forwards even went so far as to contend that the running-game should be entirely dropped in favor of one based upon long kicks well followed up. failing to establish this opinion, they nevertheless brought it about that they should be told by some signal what the play was to be, and so be spared useless running. this was probably the first of the present complicated system of signals, although at about the same time some teams took up the play of making a rather unsatisfactory opening for a runner in the line, and made use of a signal to indicate the occasions when this was to be done. the signalling of the quarter to the centre-rush as to when the ball should be played antedated this somewhat, but can hardly be classed with signals for the direction of the play itself. to-day the teams which meet to decide the championship are brought up to the execution of at least twenty-five different plays, each of which is called for by a certain distinct signal of its own. [illustration: p. d. trafford. harvard.] the first signals given were "word signals;" that is, a word or a sentence called out so that the entire team might hear it and understand whether a kick or a run was to be made. then, when signals became more general, "sign-signals" (that is, some motion of the hand or arm to indicate the play) were brought in and became for a time more popular than the word signals, particularly upon fields where the audience pressed close upon the lines, and their enthusiastic cheering at times interfered with hearing word signals. of late years numerical combinations have become most popular, and as the crowd is kept at such a distance from the side lines as to make it possible for teams to hear those signals, they have proven highly satisfactory. the numerical system, while it can be readily understood by the side giving the signal, because they know the key, is far more difficult for the opponents to solve than either the old word signals or signs. still, the ingenuity of captains is generally taxed to devise systems that shall so operate as never to confuse their own men and yet completely mystify the opponents throughout the game. clever forwards almost always succeed in interpreting correctly one or two of the signals most frequently used, in spite of the difficulty apparent in the solution of such problems. the question as to who should give the signals is still a disputed one, although the general opinion is that the quarter-back should perform this duty. there is no question as to the propriety of the signals emanating from that point, but the discussion is as to whether the captain or the quarter should direct the play. of course all is settled if the captain is himself a quarter-back, but even when he is not he ought to be able to so direct his quarter previous to the actual conflict as to make it perfectly satisfactory to have the signals come from the same place as the ball. it is in that direction that the eyes and attention of every player are more or less turned, and hence signals there given are far more certain to be observed. moreover, it is sometimes, and by no means infrequently, necessary to change a play even after the signal has been given. this, if the quarter be giving the signals, is not at all difficult, but is decidedly confusing when coming from some other point in the line. the important fact to be remembered in selecting a system of signals is that it is far more demoralizing to confuse your own team than to mystify your opponents. a captain must therefore choose such a set of signals as he can be sure of making his own team comprehend without difficulty and without mistake. when he is sure of that, he can think how far it is possible for him to disguise these from his opponents. among the teams which contest for championship honors it is unusual to find any which are not prepared for emergencies by the possession either of two sets of signals, or of such changes in the manner of giving them as to make it amount to the same thing. considering the way the game is played at the present time, this preparation is advisable, for one can hardly overestimate the demoralizing effect it would have upon any team to find their opponents in possession of a complete understanding of the signals which were directing the play against them. [illustration: r. hodge. princeton.] while it is well for the captain or coach to arrange in his own mind early in the season such a basis for a code of signals as to render it adaptable to almost indefinite increase in the number of plays, it is by no means necessary to have the team at the outset understand this basis. in fact, it is just as well to start them off very modestly upon two or three signals which they should learn, and of which they should make use until the captain sees fit to advance them a peg. if, for instance, the captain decides to make use of a numerical system, he cannot do better to accustom his men to listening and following instructions than to give them three signals, something like this: one-two-three, to indicate that the ball is to be passed to the right half-back, who will endeavor to run around the left end; four-five-six, that the left half will try to run around the right end; and seven-eight-nine, that the back will kick. the scrub side will probably "get on" to these signals in short order, and will make it pleasant at the ends for the half-backs; but this will be the best kind of practice in team work, and will do no harm. after a day or two of this it will be time to make changes in the combination of numbers, not only with an idea of deceiving the scrub side, but also to quicken the wits of the 'varsity team. taking the same signals as a basis, the first, or signal for the right half-back to try on the left end, was one-two-three--the sum of these numbers is six. take that, then, as the key to this signal, and any numbers the sum of which equals six will be a signal for this play. for instance, three-three, or four-two, two-three-one--any of these would serve to designate this play. similarly, as the signal for the left half at the right end was four-five-six, or a total of fifteen, any numbers which added make fifteen--as six-six-three, seven-eight, or five-four-six--would be interpreted in this way. finally, the signal for a kick having been seven-eight-nine, or a sum of twenty-four, any numbers aggregating that total would answer equally well. a few days of this practice will fit the men for any further developments upon the same lines, and accustom them to listening and thinking at the same time. the greatest difficulty experienced by both captains and coaches since the signals and plays became so complicated has been to teach green players not to stop playing while they listen to and think out a signal. by the end of the season players are so accustomed to the signals that all this hesitation disappears, and the signal is so familiar as to amount to a description of the play in so many words. the other two methods of signalling by the use of words rather than numbers, and signs given by certain movements, although they have now given way in most teams to numbers, are still made use of, and have merit enough to deserve a line or two. the word-signal was usually given in the form of a sentence, the whole or any part of which would indicate the play. as, for instance, to indicate a kick, the sentence "play up sharp, charlie." if the quarter, or whoever gave the signals, should call out, "play up," or "play up sharp," or "play," or "charlie," he would in each instance be giving the signal for a kick. sign-signals are more difficult to disguise, but are none the less very effective, especially where there is a great amount of noise close to the ropes. a good example of the sign-signal is the touching of some part of the body with the hand. for instance, half-back running would be denoted by placing the hand on the hip, the right hip for the left half, and the left hip for the right half. a kick would be indicated by placing the hand upon the neck. particular care should be exercised when sign-signals are to be used that the ones selected, while similar to the acts performed naturally by the quarter in stooping over to receive the ball, are never exactly identical with these motions, else there will likely enough be confusion. [illustration: h. h. knapp. yale.] no matter what method of signalling be used, there is one important feature to be regarded, and that is, some means of altering the play after a signal has been given. this is, of course, a very simple thing, and the usual plan is to have some word which means that the signal already given is to be considered void, and a new signal will be given in its place. there should also be some way of advising the team of a change from one set of signals to another, should such a move become necessary. it is very unwise not to be prepared for such an emergency, because if a captain is obliged to have time called and personally advise his team one by one of such a change, the opponents are quite sure to see it and to gain confidence from the fact that they have been clever enough to make such a move necessary. training at the present advanced athletic era there are very few who do not understand that a certain amount of preparation is absolutely essential to success in any physical effort requiring strength and endurance. the matter of detail is, however, not faced until one actually becomes a captain or a coach, and, as such, responsible for the condition, not of himself alone, but of a team of fifteen or twenty men. experience regarding his own needs will have taught him the value of care and work in this line; but, unless he differs greatly from the ordinary captain upon first assuming the duties of that position, his knowledge of training will be confined to an understanding of his own requirements, coupled with the handed-down traditions of the preceding captains and teams. when he finds himself in this position and considers what lines of training he shall lay down for his team, unless he be an inordinately conceited man he will wish he had made more of a study of this art of preparation, especially in the direction most suited to the requirements of his own particular sport. many inquiries from men about to undertake the training of a team have led me to believe that, even at the expense of going over old ground, it will be well in this book to map out a few of the important features of a course of training. it should go without saying that there are infinite variations in systems of this kind; but if a man will carry in mind the reasons rather than the rules, he has always a test to apply which will enable him to make the most of whatever system he adopts. he should remember that training ought to be a preparation by means of which his men will at a certain time arrive at the best limits of their muscular strength and activity, at the same time preserving that equilibrium most conducive to normal health. such a preparation can be accomplished by the judicious use of the ordinary agents of well-being--exercise, diet, sleep, and cleanliness. one can follow out the reasons for or against any particular point in a system rather better if he cares to see why these agents act towards health and strength. exercise is a prime requisite, because the human mechanism, unlike the inanimate machine, gains strength from use. muscular movement causes disintegration and death of substance, but at the same time there is an increased flow of blood to the part, and that means an increased supply of nourishment and increased activity in rebuilding. as maclaren has expressed it, strength means newness of the muscle. the amount and quality of this exercise will be treated of later in this chapter. [illustration: a. j. cumnock. harvard.] in considering the matter of diet, a captain or coach should think of this question not according to the tradition of his club, nor according to his own idiosyncrasies. he should regard the general principle of not depriving a man of anything to which he is accustomed and which agrees with him. of course, it is advisable to do without such articles of food as would be injurious to the majority of the men, even though there might be one or two to whom they would do no harm. men should enjoy their food, and it should be properly served. i remember once being asked my opinion regarding a certain team at the time in training, and i expressed the conviction that something was wrong with their diet. the team, as a whole, were not seriously affected, but some three or four were manifestly out of sorts. i heard the coach go over the bill of fare, and it sounded all right. i then decided to take dinner with them and see if i could discover the trouble. one meal was sufficient, for it was a meal! the beef--and an excellent roast it was, too--was literally served in junks, such as one might throw to a dog. the dishes were dirty, so was the cloth. vegetables were dumped on to the plates in a mess, and each one grabbed for what he wanted. some of the men might have been brought up to eat at such a table, still others were not sufficiently sensitive to have their appetites greatly impaired by anything, but the three or four who were "off" were boys whose home life had accustomed them to a different way of dining, and their natures revolted. so, too, did their appetites. as it was then too late to correct the manners of the mess, i simply advised sending these men elsewhere to board, and they speedily came into shape. i cannot too strongly advocate good service at a training table. the men should enjoy their dinners, should eat them slowly, and should be encouraged to be as long about it as they will. as food is to repair the waste, it should be generous in quantity and taken when the man will not, from being over-tired, have lost his appetite. sometimes a team is not overworked, but worked too late in the day, so that the men rush to the table almost directly from the field, and fail to feel hungry, while within an hour they would have eaten with a zest. this course persevered in for several days will show its folly in a general falling-off in the strength as well as the weight of the men. to train a football team should be, in the matter of the diet at least, the simplest matter compared with training for other sports, because the season of the year is so favorable to good condition. crews and ball nines have oftentimes the trial of exceptionally hot and exhausting weather to face, while a football team, after the few warm days of september are passed, enjoy the very best of bracing weather--weather which will give almost any man who spends his time in out-door work a healthy, hearty appetite. in order that any captain or coach reading this book may feel that, while it offers several courses of diet, it would emphatically present the fact that there is no hard-and-fast system of diet that must be religiously followed, i submit a variety of tables, showing some old as well as new school diets. none of them are very bad, several are excellent; and i don't think that a captain or coach would be called upon to draw his pencil through very many of the items enumerated. [illustration: jeremiah s. black. princeton.] the oxford system.--(summer races.) a day's training.[a] rise about 7 a.m. | |so as to be in chapel; but | | early rising not compulsory. exercise | a short walk or run |not compulsory (walk only, and | | short). breakfast, 8.30 |meat, beef or mutton. | |bread or toast, dry |the crust only recommended. |tea |as little as possible | |recommended. exercise (forenoon)| none |american football men should | | kick, catch, and pass. dinner, 2 p.m. |meat; much the same as | | for breakfast. | |bread | crust only recommended. |vegetables, none allowed | a rule, however, not always | | adhered to. |beer, one pint |this is what americans call | |ale, and not indulged in to | |any great extent except after | |a hard game. exercise |about 5 o'clock start | | for the river, and row | | twice over the course, | | the speed increasing | | with the strength | | of the crew. | supper, 8.30 or 9. |meat, cold. | |bread; perhaps a jelly | | or watercresses. | |beer, one pint (see above).| bed about 10. [footnote a: as has been stated elsewhere, improvements have been made in diet since this table was compiled. this will also apply to the cambridge system, page 143.] torpid races. a day's training. rise about 7.30 a.m. | |early rising not compulsory. exercise. |a short walk or run. | not compulsory. breakfast, 9. |as for summer races. | exercise (forenoon). | none. | luncheon about 1 p.m.|bread, or a sandwich. | |beer, half a pint. | exercise. |about 2 o'clock start | | for the river, and row | | twice over the course. | dinner, 5. |meat, as for summer races.| |bread. | |vegetables, as for summer | | races. | |pudding (rice), or jelly. | |beer, half a pint. | bed, 10.30. the cambridge system. summer races (1866). a day's training. rise at 7 a.m. exercise. |run 100 or 200 yards as |"the old system of running a | fast as possible. | mile or so before breakfast is | | fast going out, except | | in the case of men who | | want to get a good deal of | | flesh off." breakfast, 8.30. |meat, beef or mutton. |toast, dry. |tea, two cups, or towards the end of training a |cup and a half only. watercresses occasionally. exercise (forenoon).| none. dinner about 2 p.m. |meat, beef or mutton. | |bread. | |vegetables--potatoes, |some colleges have baked apples, |greens |or jellies, or rice puddings. |beer, one pint. | |dessert--oranges, or | | biscuits, or figs; | | wine, two glasses. | exercise. |about 5.30 start for the river, | "most men get out for a | and row to the starting-post | little time before | and back | rowing back." |meat, cold. supper about 8.30 |bread. or 9. |vegetables--lettuce or watercresses. bed at 10. |beer, one pint. h. clasper's system. a day's training. rise between 6 and 7 a.m. exercise. a country walk of four or five miles. |meat, chop or breakfast, 8. |couple of eggs. |bread. |tea. ("we never drink coffee.") exercise. |rest for half an hour, and then a brisk walk | or run. if morning exercise has not been heavy, | a row on the river, terminating about 11 a.m. dinner, 12 m. |meat, beef or mutton (broiled). |egg pudding, with currants in it if desired, or other light | farinaceous pudding. |ale, one glass. |wine, one glass (port), or |ale, two glasses, without wine. exercise. |rest for an hour, and then on the river again for a hard row. | "rowing exercise should be taken twice every day." tea. |"tea, with toasted bread sparingly buttered, with one egg | only--more has a tendency to choke the system." supper. |not recommended. when taken, to consist of new milk and | bread, or gruel, with raisins and currants and a glass | of port wine in it. bed about 10. c. westhall's system. for amateurs. a day's training. rise at 6 a.m., | cold bath and rub down. or earlier in the summer. | exercise. | sharp walk about a mile out, and run home; or a | row of a couple of miles at three-parts speed. | a dry rub-down. breakfast (time not stated). | meat, mutton-chop or steak (broiled). | bread, stale or toast. | tea, half a pint. exercise. | (not stated.) dinner, 2 p.m. | meat (as at breakfast). | vegetables, none; "except a mealy potato." | bread, stale. | beer, one pint. exercise (afternoon). | rowing. if dinner be late, luncheon to be taken to consist of meat, beef or mutton, hot or cold. bread. beer, one glass. (if dinner be early, "tea with viands and liquids as at breakfast" to be taken.) supper. | half a pint of thin gruel, or dry toast | and a glass of ale. bed. | time not stated. n.b.--it is added "that the above rules are of course open to alteration according to circumstances, and the diet varied successfully by the introduction of fowls, either roast or boiled--the latter preferred;" and "it must never be lost sight of that sharp work, regularity, and cleanliness are the chief if not the only rules to be followed to produce thorough good condition." mclaren's system. a day's training. rise at about 7 a.m. (glass of cold water recommended.) exercise. | the crew meet at 7, walk and run for four or five | miles; or, in later practice, quick run of two | miles. | wash and dress. breakfast, 9. | meat (broiled); bread (brown) and butter; tea, two | cups. "cocoa made of the nibs boiled for four hours | is better than tea for breakfast." | smoking allowed (conditionally). "smoking is barred, | for, though here also a man's habits are to be | taken into account, the subjects | of training in match-boats are usually too young to | have contracted a custom of smoking so inveterate | as to have made tobacco indispensable | to the body's internal functions, though it is not | unfrequently so in older men. after breakfast is | the only time allotted to the pipe." luncheon at 1. | beef sandwich with half a pint of beer, or | biscuit and glass of sherry, or egg in sherry. exercise. | at 2.30 go out to row, and row over the whole | course. "this altogether | depends on the state of the crew." | wash in tepid water. dinner at 6 p.m. | meat (roast, broiled, or boiled). "any kind of | wholesome meat thoroughly cooked." | vegetables--"the green foods permissible contain in | their list spinach--the very best of all; sea-kale, | asparagus, but without melted butter; turnip-tops, | young unhearted greens, but not solid cabbages; | broccoli, carrots, parsnips, and cooked celery. | turnips are also favored, and pease condemned; also | cucumbers, and all salad mixtures. but boiled | beet-root is good, and jerusalem artichokes; | and french beans stand next to spinach in virtue." | the course is varied daily, so that no two days | together shall see the same articles on the table. | pudding. ("light puddings may be eaten.") | bread. beer, one pint. | wine, two glasses of old port or sherry, or three of | claret. biscuits and dried fruits, as cherries, | figs, etc., allowed. ("all fresh fruits are | avoided.") | jellies. ("plain jellies are innocuous.") | water. ("as much spring water as they have a mind | to.") supper, 9. oatmeal gruel if desired. bed at 10. n. b.--on sundays a brisk walk of three hours or so is taken. summary. sleep, eight or nine hours. exercise, about three hours. diet, very varied. stonehenge's system. a day's training. rise at 8 a.m. | according to season and weather. | cold bath. exercise, 8.30 to 9. | walking or running. "let all take a gentle run | or smart walk." breakfast, 9 to 9.30. | oatmeal porridge, with meat (beef or mutton, | broiled) and bread. | tea or coffee, or table beer, one pint. | "tea is preferred to coffee. | cocoa is too greasy." exercise, 9.30 to 11.30, | billiards, skittles, quoits, or | other light exercise. 11.30 to 1.30. | rowing. 1.30 to about 2.30. | running. "according to circumstances." | rubbed dry and linen changed. dinner, 2.30 to 3 or 3.30| meat--beef (roast) or mutton (boiled mutton | occasionally), roast fowl, partridges, or pheasants | (allowed), or venison (nothing better). | "it is generally directed that the steak or chop | should be underdone; this, i am sure, is a fallacy." |--bread (_ad lib_.).--puddings occasionally, | made of bread, eggs, and milk, and served with | preserved fruits.--vegetables--potatoes (one or two | only), cauliflowers, and broccoli (only as an | occasional change). if training is protracted, | fish allowed (cod or soles).--beer, from a pint to | a pint and a half.--wine, a glass or two, port or | sherry. after dinner, until 5 or 6. |a gentle stroll or book. exercise, 6 to 7. |rowing. supper, 8. |oatmeal porridge with dry toast or chop, | with glass of port. bed at 9 or 10. system of jackson and godbold. breakfast.--stale or whole-meal bread, or toast, a little butter, plenty of marmalade if you like, but not jam. bacon and eggs, or chops or steaks, with watercress if obtainable. to those who like it, a basin of oatmeal porridge, _properly made_, taken with pure milk about an hour before breakfast, is an excellent thing, and has a very beneficial effect upon the stomach, but it should not be taken every day. it is better to miss it every third day, or to take it regularly for a fortnight and then omit it from the next week's diet, as the too frequent use of it is rather injurious to the skin of some persons. tea--not too strong--is better than coffee. good ripe fruit is a capital adjunct to the breakfast-table, and is an excellent article of food. dinner.--lamb, mutton, beef, fowl (tender and boiled), varied by fish, of which haddock, whiting, and soles are the best, with potatoes (well boiled, and not much of them), and well-cooked vegetables, followed by a small allowance of light farinaceous pudding or stewed fruit, will be a good, wholesome diet. if you want bread, have it stale. never eat _new_ bread. avoid all sauces, or made dishes, and adhere to plain food only. one thing we would particularly impress upon the reader, and that is never to take his exercise immediately before or after meals, nothing is more injurious, or likely to produce indigestion, and its concomitant evils. some authorities abjure the use of sugar, but taken in moderation it is not injurious. a well-known champion of our acquaintance, when in the pink of condition, was wont to amuse himself by eating the contents of a sugar basin, if one were inadvertently left near him, and without feeling any ill effects from so doing. our readers need not follow his example, for although it might suit him, it probably would not agree with them. we have said, take sugar in _moderation_. now, in this last word lies all the lectures one can give on this subject. be moderate in all things, one might say, but above all things be moderate in the use of all edibles not actually necessary to support the increased exertion which a man in training is called upon to perform. no liquid should be taken except with, or just after meals, but we would not advise stinting the quantity too much. in summer three or four pints, and in winter two or three pints per diem would be about the quantity. never drink just before exercise, and it is better not to drink just before going to bed. in fact, the less one has to digest when retiring for sleep the better, and be sure not to drink tea late at night. [illustration: c. o. gill. yale.] tea, or supper, should be taken at least two hours before bedtime, and we would allow a small chop, or some light fish, bread, and very little butter, with some ripe fruit. the best meal to take before a race, and which should be taken about two hours before starting-time, is the lean of mutton-chops and a little dry toast. we have said that no liquids should be taken except at meal-times; but we do not intend to state that if a man be very thirsty he may not touch them. if he does so, it must be a very small quantity. thirst can often be assuaged by rinsing the mouth out with cold water, and this is by far the better plan if it is efficacious. a common-sense system. one author says: "rise at six; bathe; take about two ounces (a small cup) of coffee with milk: this is really a stimulating soup. then light exercise, chiefly devoted to lungs; a little rest; the breakfast of meat, bread, or oatmeal, vegetables, with no coffee; an hour's rest. then the heaviest exercise of the day. this is contrary to rule; but i believe the heaviest exercise should be taken before the heaviest meal; a rest before dinner. this meal, if breakfast be taken at seven or eight, should be at one or two, not leaving a longer interval than five hours between the meals. at dinner, again meat, vegetables, bread, perhaps a half-pint of malt liquor, no sweets. then a longer rest; exercise till five. supper light--bread, milk, perhaps with an egg. half an hour later a cup of tea, and bed at nine." j. b. o'reilly. seven o'clock is a good time for an athlete in training to rise. he ought to get a good dry-rubbing, and then sponge his body with cold water, or have a shower-bath, with a thorough rubbing afterwards. he will then go out to exercise before breakfast, not to run hard, as is commonly taught, but to walk briskly for an hour, while exercising his lungs in deep-breathing. before this walk, an egg in a cup of tea, or something of the kind, should be taken. the breakfast need not always consist of a broiled mutton-chop or cutlet; a broiled steak, broiled chicken, or broiled fish, or some of each, may be taken with tea or coffee. dinner may be far more varied than is usually allowed by the trainer's "system." any kind of butcher's meat, plainly cooked, with a variety of fresh vegetables, may be taken, with ordinary light puddings, stewed fruit, but no pastry. a good time for dinner is one o'clock. an american athlete, when thirsty, ought to have only one drink--water. the climate and the custom in england favor the drinking of beer or claret; but, beyond question, the best drink for a man in training is pure water. after dinner, rest, but no dozing or _siesta_. this sort of rest only spoils digestion, and makes men feel slack and "limp." supper, at six o'clock, should not be a second dinner; but neither should it consist of "slops" or gruel. the athlete ought to be in bed by ten o'clock, in a room with open window, and a draught through the room, if possible, though not across the bed. [illustration: e. c. peace. princeton.] the american football captain or coach should bear in mind, when reading these various systems, that the use of ale and port seems to be much better borne by those who live in the english climate than upon this side of the water. also, that stiff exercise before breakfast has not been proven advantageous to our athletes except as a flesh-reducer, and then only in exceptionally vigorous constitutions. also, that tea is not as popular with us as with the men who train in england. sleep and cleanliness. to come to the third agent of health enumerated some pages back, sleep. as a rule, it is not a difficult matter to see that members of a football team take the requisite amount of sleep. there are occasions, as in college, when some society event of unusual importance tempts the men to sit up late, but with such exceptions as these there is no great difficulty experienced in making the majority of the men keep good hours. and this is growing more and more simple as athletics become more general, for they take the place of much of the dissipation which was formerly the only outlet for the superabundant animal spirits of young men. in the case, however, of the occasional candidate for the team who comes under the captain's eye as inclined to late hours, there must be the strictest kind of discipline shown. such a man is the very one whose stamina will be affected after a while by lack of sleep, and that too at a time when the rest of the men are nearing the perfection of condition. thus he will be found falling off at the very time when it is a most serious matter very likely to fill his position with a new man. eight or nine hours sleep should be insisted upon, and that sleep should be taken with regularity. in fact, not only the sleep, but the meals and the exercise, should all be made as nearly regular, regarding hours, as possible. men should have separate rooms, and particularly when off upon trips they should not sleep together. plenty of fresh air should be admitted to the sleeping-room, but draughts are to be avoided. this is not because every time the air blows upon a man he is liable to contract a severe cold, for the chances are against this, but because there are times when he is particularly prone to such an accident, and if he is in the habit of sleeping without regard to draughts it is not likely that he will take precautions then. if a man has, for instance, played an especially stiff game and upon a muggy and exhausting day, he will undoubtedly turn in thoroughly tired out, and perhaps still somewhat heated. now if he, when in that state, sleeps in a draught, he will probably find himself very lame in the morning, even though he escape other more serious consequences. just one more word of caution regarding sleep, and that is in the matter of obtaining a good night's rest just before the important match of the season. to insure this is to do much towards securing the best work of which the men are capable from the team upon the following day. [illustration: w. heffelfinger. yale.] first and foremost, they should not be allowed to talk about the game or the signals or anything connected with football during that evening. if possible, they should do something to entirely divert their minds from all thought of the game. nor should they be hustled off to bed an hour or two earlier than usual. rather ought it to be a half-hour later, for then the chances are that the men drop off to sleep immediately instead of tossing about, thinking of the exciting event of the morrow. finally, as to overtrained men, and that restlessness and inability to sleep that almost always comes with the worst cases of this kind. there is but one thing to do with a man when he "goes fine" to this extent, and that is to sever his connection with the team for a time. if it is early in the season, there is some chance of his recuperating rapidly enough to still become serviceable. if it is late, there is no hope of this. in either case he must neither play, eat, nor spend his time with the members of the team. he can do almost anything else; he can go and watch the crew row or the ball nine play; he can study or read; he can, and in fact should, do everything possible to disassociate himself from football and violent exercise for a time, and, unless the trouble has gone too far, it will only be a couple of weeks before he will find himself coming out of it all right, and among the first signs will be good, refreshing sleep. to pass now to the fourth of our agents for health, cleanliness. it is fortunately seldom necessary to argue the advantages of the "tub" or "sponge bath" to our football players, because they are usually accustomed to it. a daily splashing has been their ordinary habit. it is well to mention also that a fortnightly warm bath may be indulged in to advantage. but with the present understanding of all these advantages, the wisest remarks that can be made are cautions as to indiscretions in the use of baths. in the first place, one bath a day is enough, and any other should be a mere sponging and rubbing. men who indulge in a tub in the morning and then spend another fifteen minutes in a plunge after practice in the afternoon get too much of it. again, the habit of spending a long time under the shower every day is a mistake. it feels so refreshing after a hard practice that a man is tempted to stay too long, and it does him no good. the best and safest plan is to take a light, quick sponge bath in the morning immediately upon rising, and then, after practice in the afternoon, to take just a moment under the shower, and follow it by a good rubbing. this, with the fortnightly warm bath, will be all that a man may do to advantage. a chapter for spectators to those who have never played the game of football, but who chance to open the covers of this book, a short explanation of the divisions and duties of the players will not be out of place. for these this chapter is added. the game is played by two teams, of eleven men each, upon a field 330 feet long and 160 feet wide, at either end of which are goal-posts with a cross-bar. the ball, which is like a large leather egg, is placed in the centre of this field, and each team endeavors to drive it in the direction of the opponents' goal-line, where any scoring must be done. goals and touch-downs are the only points which count, and these can be made only as follows: a goal can be obtained by kicking the ball in any way except a punt (a certain kind of kick where the ball is dropped by a player and kicked before touching the ground) over the cross-bar of the opponents' goal. a touch-down is obtained by touching the ball to the ground behind the line of the goal. so, in either case, the ball must cross the end of the field in some way to make any score. the sole object, then, of all the struggles which take place in the field is to advance the ball to a position such that scoring is possible. a firm grasp of this idea usually simplifies matters very much for the casual spectator. the object of the white lines which cross the field at every five yards is merely to assist the referee in determining how far the ball moves at a time; for there is a rule which states that a team must advance the ball five yards in three attempts or retreat with it twenty. if they do not succeed in doing this, the other side take possession of the ball, and in their turn try to advance it. [illustration: r. m. appleton. harvard.] there are certain rules which govern the methods of making these advances, any infringement of which constitutes what is called _a foul_, and entails a penalty upon the side making it. any player can run with the ball or kick it if, when he receives it, he is "on side"--that is, between the ball and his own goal-line. he may not take the ball if he is "off-side"--that is, between the ball and his opponents' goal-line--until an adversary has touched the ball. whenever a player running with the ball is held, he must cry "down," and a man of his side then places the ball on the ground and snaps it back. this puts it in play, and is called a scrimmage, and this scrimmage is the most commonly recurring feature of the game. for the purposes of advancing the ball or repelling the attack of the opponents it has proved advisable for a captain to divide his eleven men into two general divisions: the forwards and backs. the forwards, of whom there are seven, are usually called rushers, and they make practically a straight line across the field when the ball is put in play on a "down." next behind them is the quarter-back, who does the passing of the ball to one or another of the players, while just behind him are the two half-backs and the back, usually in something of a triangle in arrangement, with the last named nearest the goal which his team is defending. the following definitions will also aid the spectator in understanding many of the expressions used by the devotees of the sport: a _drop-kick_ is made by letting the ball fall from the hands, and kicking it at the very instant it rises. a _place-kick_ is made by kicking the ball after it has been placed on the ground. a _punt_ is made by letting the ball fall from the hands, and kicking it before it touches the ground. _kick-off_ is a place-kick from the centre of the field of play. _kick-out_ is a drop-kick, or place-kick, by a player of the side which has touched the ball down in their own goal, or into whose touch-in-goal the ball has gone. _in touch_ means out of bounds. a _fair_ is putting the ball in play, from touch. a _foul_ is any violation of a rule. a _touch-down_ is made when the ball is carried, kicked, or passed across the goal-line and there held, either in goal or touch-in-goal. a _safety_ is made when a player, guarding his goal, receives the ball from a player of his own side, and touches it down behind his goal-line, or carries the ball across his own goal-line and touches it down, or puts the ball into his own touch-in-goal. a _touch-back_ is made when a player touches the ball to the ground behind his own goal, the impetus which sent the ball across the line having been received from an opponent. a _fair catch_ is a catch made direct from a kick by one of the opponents, provided the catcher made a mark with his heel at the spot where he made the catch. _interference_ is using the hands or arms in any way to obstruct or hold a player who has not the ball. [illustration] the _penalty_ for fouls and violation of rules, except otherwise provided, is a down for the other side; or, if the side making the foul has not the ball, five yards to the opponents. the following is the value of each point in the scoring: goal obtained by touch-down, 6 goal from field kick, 5 touch-down failing goal, 4 safety by opponents, 2 the rules which bear most directly upon the play are: the time of a game is an hour and a half, each side playing forty-five minutes from each goal. there is ten minutes' intermission between the two halves, and the game is decided by the score of even halves. the ball is kicked off at the beginning of each half; and whenever a goal has been obtained, the side which has lost it shall kick off. a player may throw or pass the ball in any direction except towards opponents' goal. if the ball be batted or thrown forward, it shall go down on the spot to opponents. if a player having the ball be tackled and the ball fairly held, the man so tackling shall cry "held," the one so tackled must cry "down," and some player of his side put it down for a scrimmage. if, in three consecutive fairs and downs, unless the ball cross the goal-line, a team shall not have advanced the ball five or taken it back twenty yards, it shall go to the opponents on spot of fourth. if the ball goes into touch, whether it bounds back or not, a player on the side which touches it down must bring it to the spot where the line was crossed, and there either bound the ball in the field of play, or touch it in with both hands, at right angles to the touch line, and then run with it, kick it, or throw it back; or throw it out at right angles to the touch line; or walk out with it at right angles to touch line, any distance not less than five nor more than fifteen yards, and there put it down. a side which has made a touch-down in their opponents' goal _must_ try at goal. the end. * * * * * blaikie's how to get strong. how to get strong, and how to stay so. by william blaikie. illustrated. 16mo, cloth, $1 00. mr. blaikie has treated his theme in a practical common-sense way that appeals at once to the judgment and the understanding. a complete and healthful system of exercise is given for boys and girls; instructions are set down for the development of every individual class of muscles, and there is sound advice for daily exercise for children, young men and women, business men and consumptives. there are instructions for home gymnastics, and an easy routine of practice laid out.--_saturday evening gazette_, boston. every word of it has been tested and confirmed by the author's own experience. it may be read with interest and profit by all.--_christian instructor_, chicago. a successful performance, everything in the line of gymnastic exercise receiving copious illustrations by pen and pencil. the authors aim is genuinely philanthropic, in the right sense of the word, and his work is a useful contribution to the cause of physical culture.--_christian register_, boston. published by harper & brothers, new york. _the above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ * * * * * blaikie's sound bodies. sound bodies for our boys and girls. by william blaikie. with illustrations. 16mo, cloth, 40 cents. a manual of safe and simple exercises for developing the physical system. mr. william blaikie's new manual cannot fail to receive a warm welcome from parents and teachers, and should be introduced as a working text-book into thousands of schools throughout the country.--_boston herald._ a book which ought to be placed at the elbow of every school-teacher.--_springfield union._ the directions are so simple and sensible that they appeal to the reason of every parent and teacher.--_philadelphia press._ the influence of judicious exercise upon mind as well as body cannot be overestimated, and this will be a safe guide to this end, requiring no costume nor expensive apparatus.--_presbyterian_, philadelphia. published by harper & brothers, new york. _the above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ * * * * * books for anglers. fly-rods and fly-tackle. suggestions as to their manufacture and use. by henry p. wells. illustrated. square 8vo, cloth, $2 50. the book is one of great value, and will take its place as a standard authority, and we cannot commend it too highly.--_forest and stream_, new york. an illustrated volume, elegantly presented, that will make all anglers jealous of possession until upon their shelf or centre-table.--_boston commonwealth._ mr. wells's competence to expound the somewhat intricate principles and delicate processes of fly-fishing will be plain to any reader who himself has some practical acquaintance with the art discussed. the value of the author's instructions and suggestions is signally enhanced by their minuteness and lucidity.--_n. y. sun._ the american salmon-fisherman. by henry p. wells. ill'd. square 8vo, cloth, $1 00. the success of mr. wells's "fly-rods and fly-tackle" has made his name familiar to thousands of american anglers. "the american salmon-fisherman," like the former work, is the fruit of the author's long experience and practical knowledge of this subject. the text is illustrated throughout.--_boston traveller._ a practical, interesting guide to the sport of salmon-fishing. the tyro will read it through profitably; the old hand will not be offended by it as too elementary. the author is alert and companionable.--_atlantic monthly_, boston. published by harper & brothers, new york. _either of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ * * * * * dr. c. c. abbott's works. upland and meadow. a poaetquissings chronicle. by charles c. abbott, m.d. 12mo, cloth, $1 50. delightful reading for students and lovers of outdoor nature.... here the author discourses with the greatest charm of style about wood and stream, marsh-wrens, the spade-foot toad, summer, winter, trumpet-creepers and ruby throats, september sunshine, a colony of grakles, the queer little dwellers in the water, and countless other things that the ordinary eye passes without notice.... the book may be heartily commended to every reader of taste, and to every admirer of graceful and nervous english.--_saturday evening gazette_, boston. waste-land wanderings. by charles c. abbott, m.d. 12mo, cloth, $1 50. there is a freshness about his anecdotes of fishes and birds, and his descriptions of unfamiliar scenery, that must make the book delightful to every lover of similar sports. to those who have not the leisure nor the enterprise for similar expeditions the reading of it will charm many an idle hour, besides imparting in the most agreeable manner possible a large fund of interesting information.--_st. louis republican._ it is a charming book, introducing the reader to the interesting guests and dwellers in the forests, upon the downs, and by the river-side. all lovers of nature will find an abundant source of instruction and pleasure in it.--_zion's herald_, boston. published by harper & brothers, new york. _either of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ tiffany vergon, juliet sutherland, charles franks and the online distributed proofreading team. jack winters' gridiron chums by mark overton contents chapter i. gruelling football practice ii. the boy who was in trouble iii. big bob confesses iv. a friend in need v. a message from marshall vi. jack and joel investigate vii. strange fruit for a tree to bear viii. a call for help ix. headed for the field of battle x. when the great game opened xi. the struggle on the gridiron xii. glory enough for all xiii. when bed fire burned in chester xiv. what followed the celebration xv. in the burning house xvi. jack speaks for little carl xvii. the aftermath of a good deed xviii. big bob brings news xix. locking horns with harmony xx. the great victory--conclusion jack winters' gridiron chums chapter i gruelling football practice a shrill whistle sounded over the field where almost two dozen sturdily built boys in their middle 'teens, clad in an astonishing array of old and new football togs, had been struggling furiously. instantly the commotion ceased as if by magic at this intimation from the coach, who also acted in practice as referee and umpire combined, that the ball was to be considered "dead." some of those who helped to make the pack seemed a bit slow about relieving the one underneath of their weight, for a half-muffled voice oozed out of the disintegrating mass: "get off my back, some of you fellows, won't you? what d'ye take me for--a land tortoise?" laughing and joking, the remaining ingredients of the pyramid continued to divorce themselves from the heap that at one time had appeared to consist principally of innumerable arms and legs. last of all a long-legged boy with a lean, but good-natured face, now streaked with perspiration and dirt, struggled to his feet, and began to feel his lower extremities sympathetically, as though the terrific strain had centered mostly upon that particular part of his anatomy. but under his arm he still held pugnaciously to the pigskin oval ball. the coach, a rather heavy-set man who limped a little, now came hurrying up. joe hooker had once upon a time been quite a noted college athlete until an accident put him "out of the running," as he always explained it. he worked in one of chester's big mills, and when a revolution in outdoor sports swept over the hitherto sleepy manufacturing town, joe hooker gladly consented to assume the congenial task of acting as coach to the youngsters, being versed in all the intricacies of giltedged baseball and football. it had been very much owing to his excellent work as a severe drillmaster that chester, during the season recently passed, had been able actually to win the deciding game of baseball of the three played against the hitherto invincible harmony nine. mr. charles taft, principal owner of the mill in question, was in full sympathy with this newly aroused ambition on the part of the chester boys to excel in athletic sports. he himself had been a devoted adherent of all such games while in college, and the fascination had never entirely died out of his heart. so he saw to it that joe hooker had considerable latitude in the way of afternoons off, in order that the town boys might profit by his advice and coaching. "a clever run, that, joel," he now told the bedraggled boy who had just been downed, after dragging two of his most determined opponents several yards. "the ball still belongs to your side. another yard, my lad, and you would have made a clean touchdown. a few weeks of hard practice like this and you boys, unless i miss my guess, ought to be able to put old chester on the gridiron map where she belongs. now let's go back to the tackle job again, and the dummy. some of you, i'm sorry to say, try to hurl yourselves through the air like a catapult, when the rules of the game say plainly that a tackle is only fair and square so long as one foot remains in contact with the ground." so joe hooker had been laying down the law to his charges every decent afternoon, when school was out, for going on two weeks now. he seemed to feel very much encouraged over the progress made by a number of the boys. already he had weeded out three aspirants for honors on the eleven, who had shown no genuine aptitude for the exciting game where headwork and footwork combined go to bring success. others feared the coach had his eagle eye fastened on them, being doubtless conscious-stricken with the knowledge that they were not in their element. indeed, it was no unusual thing to hear one of these boys say to his mates that he hardly knew whether he cared to try for the squad after all; which admission would serve to let him down gracefully in case his suspicions were later on confirmed. but there were others who developed wonderfully under the friendly instruction of the one-time star player. among them, besides the tall chap, joel jackman, might be mentioned a number of boys whose acquaintance the reader of other volumes in this series has already formed. there was jack winters, looked upon as a leader in all sports, and late captain of the baseball nine; it seemed to be already taken for granted that he was bound to be given some position on the gridiron, for jack seemed to have a wonderful faculty for getting the best out of those who played in strenuous games with him. jack winters was really something of a newcomer in chester, but he had hardly landed in the old town than something seemed to awaken; for jack made up his mind it was a shame that, with so much good material floating around loose, chester could not emulate the example of the neighboring towns of harmony and marshall, and do something. there were those who said jack's coming was to chester like the cake of yeast set in a pan of dough, for things soon began to happen. then there was toby hopkins, one of jack's particular chums, a lively fellow, and a general favorite. another who bore himself well, and often elicited a word of praise from the coach, was sturdy steve mullane, also a chum of the winters boy. besides these, favorable mention might also be made of big bob jeffries, who surely would be chosen to play fullback on account of his tremendous staying qualities; fred badger, the lively third baseman who had helped so much to win that deciding game from harmony before a tremendous crowd of people over in the rival town; and several other boys who may be recognized as old acquaintances when the time comes to describe their doings on the gridiron. it was now well into october. already the leaves had begun to turn scarlet and gold on some of the hedges, and even in the forest, where the boys were beginning to go for the early nuts. early in the mornings there was a decided tang to the air that hinted at frost. considerable talk was being indulged in whenever a group of boys came together, concerning the prospects for a regular old-fashioned winter, and many hopes along this line were indulged in. there was a good reason for this, chester being most favorably situated to afford her young people a chance to enjoy ice sports when the bitter weather came along. right at her door lay beautiful lake constance, several miles across; and the intake at the upper end near the abandoned logging camp was the crooked and picturesque paradise river, where wonderful vistas opened up with each hundred yards, did any one care to skate up its course for miles. and with this newly aroused spirit for outdoor sports in the air, also a splendid gymnasium in the course of building where the boys of chester could enjoy themselves stormy days, and many nights, during the winter, it can be easily understood that a glorious prospect loomed up before them. why, over in harmony they were getting decidedly envious of the good luck that had befallen chester; and all reports agreed that their football squad was working fiercely overtime with the idea of overwhelming utterly all rivals on the gridiron, once the fall sports opened. by slow degrees, as he saw best, joe hooker was leading his charges along the rugged path; for there is no loyal road to a knowledge of the intricacies of successful football. constant practice alone will make a player act through intuition, since the plays are so lightninglike that there is never any time to figure out what is to be done; all that must be considered beforehand, and the player be able to decide what the most probable scheme of his opponents is likely to be. after they had again gone through a series of tackles, using the dangling dummy for the practice, and being shown by old joe in a spectacular fashion just what was the proper and lawful method of interfering with the man who was supposed to be running with the ball, play was called off for the day. it was about time, for some of the fellows were panting for breath, owing to the vigorous way in which they had been working. besides, most of them would need a bath before they could be allowed to sit down at the family table. "i've been asked by several persons deeply interested in football," joe hooker remarked, as they gathered around him for a parting word, some looking anxious, as though they half expected to receive their dismissal then and there, though it was not joe's way to "rub" it into any one, "what chance we had to meet harmony with a team that would be a credit to chester. to all such i give the same answer. there is no reason to despair. we have plenty of promising material, though it will need constant whipping to get it in shape between now and the first game with marshall. that will be a test. if we down those fighters we can hope to meet harmony on something like even terms. tomorrow i shall have to drop out several boys who, i'm sorry to say, do not show the proper qualifications for the rough game; but i want them to understand that we appreciate their offering their services, and we need their backing all the time. our motto must be 'everything for chester!' now get away with you, and if the day is half-way decent, meet me here tomorrow, prepared to strive harder than ever to hustle for victory." and with that the boys commenced to start homeward. chapter ii the boy who was in trouble as usually happened, the three inseparables, jack, toby and steve, kept company on the way home. they had much in common, and only that summer the trio had spent a glorious two weeks camping up in the woods of the pontico hills country. there were a number of remarkable things connected with that outing, and if the reader has not enjoyed already its perusal, he would do well to secure the preceding volume of this series, and learn just what astonishing feat jack and his chums carried to success.[footnote: "jack winters' campmates."] "i wish both of you could drop over after supper," toby hopkins was saying as they trudged along with the air of tired though contented boys. "i've got those plans for our new iceboat nearly finished, with several novel suggestions which i'd like to ask your opinion about before i order the wood to make it in my shop." "i guess i can run across lots, and spend half an hour with you, toby," jack announced; "though i couldn't promise to stay late, because i ought to be doing some of my lessons, you know. this football work afternoons throws everything out of gear." "sorry to say i'll have to beg off this time," said steve. "fact is, i've got a date, and couldn't break away very easily. another time will have to do, toby. and of course whatever you and jack decide on goes with me, you understand." in fact it was almost always that way, such unlimited confidence had both toby and steve come to place in jack winters. but then he merited all their high esteem, for rarely did things go wrong when jack's hand was at the helm; he seemed to be one of those fellows whose judgment is right nine times out of ten. looking back, the chester lads could begin to understand what a great day it had been for them when jack came to town, full of ideas which he had imbibed in the lively city where his folks had formerly lived. "i'm more than ever convinced," toby went on to say, reflectively, "that we'll be able to put a flier on the ice this coming winter that will have everything beaten a mile. it works out all right in theory anyway." "the proof of the pudding is in the eating," chuckled steve, who apparently was not built along quite as sanguine lines as toby. "but then it'll be a heap of fun to try something new. all the iceboats i've ever seen around here have always been built after the same old model. nobody ever seemed to think they could be improved on the least bit; and that it was only a matter of the pilot jockeying in order to blanket his rival and win out." "joe hooker seems to be taking considerable stock in what we're doing to build up a machine for gridiron work," mentioned jack, with a ring of satisfaction in his voice. "i certainly hope we can make things hum around here this fall. chester's hour has struck, it seems; and after our baseball victories we ought to be just in time to carry our colors to a sweeping triumph over harmony and marshall." "some of the boys are showing up splendidly," steve continued. "i'm a whole lot disappointed, though, in my work today, but i expect to improve, and hope to make the team when the final choice is reached." "huh! i guess there isn't much chance of _you_ being dropped, steve," snorted toby. "i only wish i was as sure of being retained on the honor roll. that run of mine today was as punk a thing as any greenhorn could have attempted. i saw joe look at me as if he'd like to eat me, and i felt so small i could have crawled into any old rathole. but i mean to surprise him yet, see if i don't. i've got the faith to believe i can play quarterback, and i will, i tell you; i'm thinking of it most of the night while i lie awake." "that kind of grit will take you a long ways, toby, believe me, "said jack encouragingly. "all of us fall far short of perfection; but joe is persistent and i've no doubt he already knows just who the members of the team will be, barring accidents, also the substitutes in the bargain." "we were mighty lucky to have such a dandy coach right at hand," declared steve; "and mr. taft is the best sort of a man to lend him to us so much, at a loss to himself. he contributed heavily to the fund for building the gym, too, i understand." "yes," added jack, "a town that has a few public-spirited citizens of his type is to be congratulated. but here's where i leave you, and hike across lots to my shack, where a nice bath awaits me. see you later, toby; and sorry you can't join us, steve." "oh! bother," chuckled toby, maliciously; "he's got something a whole lot better to attend to than just jabbering with his two chums over the lines of a projected iceboat wonder." good-natured steve only laughed in return, though had the gloaming not been settled down so early, the other fellows might have seen his cheeks flaming; for steve was an exceedingly modest chap, and easily flustered. jack winters reached home, and had his bath in time to come to the table when the supper bell rang. and it goes without saying that his appetite showed no sign of flagging on that occasion, for football work is calculated to put a keen edge on a boy's natural desire for food. later on he again set forth, after a hack at his lessons, and turned to make his way across lots along a well-worn path, in this fashion cutting off several corners, and shortening the distance, which is apparently a thing desired by every american lad. it was about eight when he arrived at the hopkins domicile, and was let in by toby himself. the other seemed wildly excited, for the first thing he did was to burst forth with: "jack, i've gone and done it, i do believe, this time! yes, sir, i've struck an idea that promises fairly to revolutionize iceboats. it came to me like a flash, and i'm wild to know what you think about it." jack did not enthuse as much as toby would have liked to see. truth to tell, jack had known several of these wonderful "theories" which toby had conjured up, to fail in coming up to expectation when put to the test; so he did not allow himself to anticipate too much. nevertheless when the idea was gone over he admitted that there might really be something in it. "perhaps you _have_ struck something worth while at last, toby," he told the other, "and we can work it out by degrees when we get down to actual business. evidently, you've got an inventive mind, and you needn't despair if a whole lot of your ideas do go by the board. every inventor has conceived a score of schemes to one he's adopted. even a failure may be the stepping-stones to success, you know." "that's good of you to say as much, jack, old chap, when i do think up some of the greatest fool notions ever heard of," acknowledged toby; "but it's my plan to keep right on, and encourage my brain to work along that groove. i feel it's going to be my forte in life to invent things. i'd rather be known as the man who had lightened the burdens of mankind than to be a famous general who had conquered the world." jack did not stay longer than half an hour, but during that time he went over the whole scheme of building the new iceboat in toby's shop. "i've got all the specifications down in black and white, you see, jack," the other said at the door, "as to what we'll need; and now that you've approved, i shall start right in and order the stuff tomorrow. the sooner we get started the better; though i don't suppose we'll really have much spare time to work at it until after thanksgiving, and the big game with harmony is over." so jack said goodnight and went out of the front door. usually he was wont to whistle as he crossed the lots that would serve as a short cut to his own house; but somehow tonight he was busily engaged with his thoughts, and forgot to indulge in this favorite pastime. it was a moonless night. the stars shone brightly in the blue dome above, but gave very little light; although it was not really dark anywhere inside the confines of chester, since the streets were pretty generally illuminated with electricity. jack had just started across lots when he made a discovery that aroused his curiosity a little. there was a queer sort of light flickering beyond him. he quickly realized that some person must be walking the same way as he was, and carrying one of those useful little hand-electric torches, which he seemed to be moving this way and that in an erratic fashion. "whoever it is," jack told himself presently, "i do believe he is looking in the grass for something he's lost." walking on and a bit faster than the unknown seemed to be going, he soon drew closer, and was able to see that it was a boy who bent over and scrutinized everything upon which the light of his flashlight fell. once he uttered an exclamation of sudden delight and made a jump forward, only to stop short, and give a doleful grant as though discovering his mistake. "oh! how cruel to fool me so," jack heard him mutter to himself; "only a scrap of waste paper, and i thought i'd found it. twice now i've gone over the whole lot, and never a trace have i seen. oh! what shall i do about it? i wish i knew." jack by now had recognized the boy as big bob jeffries, the heavyhitting outfielder of the chester baseball team, and who was admitted as standing a first-rate chance to be made the sturdy fullback of the new eleven in football. he was filled with curiosity to know what ailed big bob. something he must have certainly lost which he was now endeavoring to find again, and, if his lament was to be taken at its face value, without much success. jack was always ready to lend a helping hand to a comrade in distress. he had proved this on numerous former occasions, so that his first thought was to speak to big bob, and ask what was wrong. at the sound of his voice the other started as though shot, and jack could see that his face, usually florid and cheery, looked white and drawn. undoubtedly, then, the jeffries boy was suffering acutely on account of some carelessness on his own part. jack suspected that he might have lost some money which he had been carrying home for his mother. as the path was used by a number of persons to "cut corners," it would be next door to a miracle if the lost cash were found again, unless the one who had picked it up proved to be an honest citizen. "oh! is that you, jack?" said bob, in a trembling tone, as he turned his flashlight so that its rays fell full upon the other boy. "you certainly did give me an awful jolt, because i didn't dream anybody was so near by. on your way home, i reckon? well, i suppose i might as well give it up, and go home, too; but i hate to the worst kind, i sure do." "what's the matter--lost something, bob?" asked jack, joining the other. bob jeffries did not answer for a brief time. he was apparently pondering over the matter, and trying to decide in his mind just how far he ought to take jack into his confidence. then, as though some sudden impulse urged him to make a clean breast of the facts, he broke out with: "jack, to tell you the honest truth, i'm in just a peck of trouble for a fact. you asked me if i lost anything, and you'll think me a bit daffy when i tell you i don't know--i only fear the worst. i'm going to tell you all about it, jack, because i feel sure you'll never give me away; and maybe yon might even help me." chapter iii big bob confesses "look here, bob, suppose we adjourn over to my house and have our little talk out in my den. i've got some comfortable chairs there, as you happen to know; and it'll be a heap better than standing here, where people may come along any old time and interrupt us." that last line of argument seemed to convince bob, for he immediately agreed. "the fact is, jack," he went on to say, "i wouldn't want to have anybody hear what i'm going to tell you now. it certainly is a shame how i've muddled this thing up, and i guess i deserve all i'm getting in the shape of worry. it's going to be a lesson to me, i give you my word on that, jack." they were trudging along in company when big bob said that. of course such talk could only excite jack's natural curiosity still more. he began to understand that whatever the other had been searching for was not his own property, for he was hardly the kind of fellow, inclined to be careless, and free from anxiety, to let such a personal loss bother him greatly. presently the pair found themselves in jack's particular room, which he, like most boys of the present day, liked to call his "den." it was an odd-shaped room for which there had really been no especial use, and which the boy had fitted up with a stove, chairs, table and bookcases, also covering the walls with college pennants, and all manner of things connected with boys' sports. jack closed the door carefully. "pick your chair, bob, and i'll draw up close to you," he said, briskly, as though bent on raising the other's drooping spirits without any delay, just by virtue of his own cheery manner. bob looked as though he had lost his last friend. he sighed and then started to tell just what ailed him. "seems like i've grown three years older since i suddenly failed to remember about that particular letter father gave me to be sure to post before the afternoon mail went out. i had some others, you see, two of my own, and three that mom gave me. i can recollect shoving them in the shute one by one; but for the life of me, jack, i can't say positively that the one going across to england was with the bunch. oh! it gave me a cold chill when i first had that awful thought i'd lost it on the way. i remembered pulling something out of my pocket when crossing that shortcut path, and that's why i hurried there with my light, hoping to discover it in the grass." jack understood what lay back of this. he chanced to know bob's father was reckoned a very stern man, and that he had grown weary of bob's customary way of forgetting things, or doing them in a slipshod fashion. he even knew that mr. jeffries had laid down the law to his son, and promised to punish him severely the next time he showed such carelessness. "it's too bad, bob, of course it is, but then don't despair yet," jack told the other boy. "there is always a good chance that you did put that particular letter in the post-office. we'll try to find out if mr. dickerson, the postmaster, or his assistant, chanced to notice a letter addressed to england. it must have been of considerable importance, i take it from what you've said already." "it was just that, jack; and father impressed its importance on me when he handed it to me stamped, and ready to go. i think it means something big in a business deal of his. now, in these times when war has gripped nearly the whole world, uncle sam with the rest, it's a long wait before you can expect an answer to a letter going abroad, even if the german submarines allow it to reach there. and if i don't find out the truth now, just think of the days and weeks i'll be worrying my head off about that letter! oh! it makes me just sick to even think of it. i could kick myself with right good pleasure." jack realized that this was bound to be the long-needed lesson, by means of which careless bob would cut loose from his pernicious habit of taking everything free--and--easy. good might spring from evil, and what now seemed to be a crowing disaster, the boy was likely in later days to look upon as a blessing in disguise. "if you'd like, bob," he told his friend, to ease the strain, "i'll see the postmaster in the morning, and without arousing his suspicions find out if he noticed a letter directed to england in the mail yesterday. there are not so many foreign letters going out of chester these days but what such a thing might happen to catch his eye. if he says there was, of course that'll settle the matter. even if he didn't happen to notice any such, you mustn't believe it is absolutely certain you dropped it." "i'd give anything to just know, one way or another. then i could, if the worst turned out to be true, tell my father, and stand the consequences, for he'd be able to rewrite the letter, you see. but, jack, it would hit me terribly hard if he has to know what a fool i've been; because he told me if he caught me in any bit of carelessness again this fall he'd force me to give up all my connection with the football squad, and not even allow me to attend the gym this winter. oh! he's in dead earnest this time, and i'm afraid my goose is cooked. it'd almost break my heart to be shut off from connection with my mates in athletic sports, because i'm crazy about such things, you know; it's in the blood, i guess." big bob stretched out his massive arms when saying this, as though to call the attention of his companion to his splendid physique. indeed, he did look like a boy whom a generous nature intended to take part in every conceivable manner of athletic sports; no fellow in all chester was built in quite such a massive mould as big bob jeffries. "i tell you what let's do," said jack, immediately afterwards; "i'll get my lantern, and we'll walk back over that path. possibly the wind may have carried the letter further away than where you looked. how about that, bob?" "it's mighty kind of you to take so much trouble for such a stupid comrade, jack, and let me tell you i appreciate it a heap. yes, and i'll also get out before dawn in the morning to scour every yard of ground on the way from my house to the post-office. if i could only find that letter i'd be the happiest fellow in chester, believe me." so they once more donned their caps, and jack lighted the lantern he had mentioned. while its rays might not be as strong as the glow of the hand-torch, it was able to cover much more ground at a time; and with its help a white envelope half hidden in the long grass could not escape detection. jack could easily understand just what had happened to big bob. he had become so "rattled" when that dreadful suspicion first flashed into his brain after supper that for the life of him he found it impossible to say positively one thing or the other. now he thought he could remember distinctly pushing the important letter through the slot or drop inside the post-office; and immediately afterwards doubts again assailed him, leaving him worse off. after each experience. if they failed to find the letter, and the postmaster and his assistant had no recollection of having noticed it in cancelling the stamps of the heap that went out with the afternoon mail, then there was no help for it; and poor bob was doomed to wait day after day, as even weeks went on, always dreading lest each morning was destined to usher in the time when his great crime must come to light, and his punishment begin. they were soon on the spot, and each with his separate light started to carefully examine the long and tangled grass, now partly dead, that lay on either side of the well-worn path across the lots. doubtless bob's heart still beat high with hope and anticipation; for when jack on one occasion started to say something he saw the other whirl around as though thrilled with expectations that were immediately doomed to disappointment. nothing rewarded their search. bob might further satisfy himself, and believe he was only doing his duty, by coming out again at peep of dawn and once more covering the ground before giving it up as hopeless; but jack felt certain nothing would be found. if that letter had dropped from the boy's pocket, then some one must have long since picked it up. he believed he would hear of it if this person, being honest, delivered the letter at the post-office, and told how he had come to find it on the vacant lot. "well, it's no use looking any further, i guess, jack," big bob now remarked, in a decidedly dejected tone, after they had gone twice over the entire width of the three lots, and without any success attending their efforts. "i'm afraid not, bob," the other admitted with genuine regret, because he felt just as sorry as could be for the poor chap. "i suppose you'll sleep mighty little tonight, for worrying over this thing. try your level best to follow out all you did when in the post-office. some little thing may recall to your mind that you certainly did drop that particular letter in the slot." "i will, jack, surely i will," bob told him, vigorously; "but i'm afraid it won't do much good. you see, i've become so mixed up by now, thinking one thing and then another, that no matter what did happen i couldn't honestly say i remembered it. but i still have a little hope you'll hear good news from mr. dickerson; or that in the morning it may be handed in at our house, for my dad put his full address on the back flap, i remember that very distinctly. yes, i'd be willing to stand my gruelling and not whimper if only it turned up." he walked away looking quite down-hearted, jack saw. really he felt very sorry for big bob jeffries. the latter was well liked, having a genial disposition, like nearly all big boys do, the smaller runts being the scrappy ones as a rule, as every one knows who has observed the lads in their play hours, and made any sort of a study of their characteristics. on another occasion jack well remembered he had come very nearly losing one of the best players on the baseball nine, when the pitcher, alec donohue, appeared exceedingly gloomy, and confessed to jack that as his father was unable to obtain work in the chester mills and shops, and had been offered a position over in harmony, he feared that he would thus become ineligible to pitch for chester. but jack, as so often happened when trouble beset him, took the bull by the horns. he went and saw a gentleman who could give mr. donohue employment, and enlisted his sympathy. it had all ended right, by a place being found for the man who was out of work; and so alec pitched the great game whereby harmony's famous team went down to a crushing defeat. jack could not but take note of the similar conditions by which chester was to be threatened with the loss of one of the strongest members of her team. "looks as though history liked to repeat itself," jack mused, as he walked back home after parting company with big bob; "only in this case it's the football eleven that's liable to be weakened if bob's father takes him out; and we never could scare up a fullback equal to him if we raked old chester with a fine-tooth comb. so i certainly hope it'll all come out right yet, i surely do!" chapter iv a friend in need it lacked only five minutes or so of the school hour on the following morning when jack winters, hurrying along, was intercepted by a disturbed looking boy, who had been impatiently awaiting his arrival. of course this was none other than big bob jeffries, who had kept aloof from all his customary associates ever since arriving, and had never once taken his eyes off the street along which he knew jack must come. he seized hold of the other eagerly. jack needed no second look to convince him that poor bob had passed a wretched night. his eyes were red, and there was an expression of mute misery on his usually merry face, that doubtless had induced more than one fellow to ask if he felt ill. no doubt bob had a stereotyped answer to this sympathetic question, which was to the effect that he was "not feeling himself." "oh! i thought you'd never come along, jack!" he exclaimed, in a voice that quivered with eagerness and anxiety; "though of course i understood that you must be waiting for mr. dickerson to be free to talk with you. tell me what you did, please, jack?" "i'm sorry to say i couldn't learn much at the post-office," the other hastened to say, determined not to keep bob in suspense any longer than could be helped. "but you did ask about the foreign letters, didn't you, jack?" "yes, i worked that part of it pretty well, and managed to get into a talk about the great difficulty which most foreigners here in this country found in communicating with their old folks abroad. mr. dickerson said there was a time when every day he had quite a batch of letters going out to different countries; because you know there are many foreign workers in our mills here, and they were constantly sending money home to their poor folks. but as the war went on, he said, they began to write less and less, because they feared the letters were being held up by the british, or the vessels being sunk with all the mail aboard by the german subs. so he said it was a rare event nowadays for him to cancel the stamps on a foreign letter, though he had one yesterday, he remembered." "yesterday, jack? oh! what do you mean?" "but it was to italy the letter was going," jack hastened to explain. "mr. dickerson said he took particular pains to notice it, because the stamp was put on the wrong end of the envelope. he remembered that luigi, the bootblack at the railroad station, always insisted on doing this. he also read the address, which was to luigi's parents in genoa." big bob's face darkened again. "too bad!" he muttered, disconsolately; "why couldn't that letter he chanced to notice have been my lost one? hard luck, i must say, all around." "then you didn't meet with anything this morning, i take it, bob?" continued jack, hardly knowing what to say in order to raise the drooping spirits of his friend. big bob shook his head in the negative. "not a thing, jack," he went on to admit, "though i was really out, and walking up and down that path at peep of day. i couldn't tell you how many times i went over the ground without finding anything. why, i even remembered which way the breeze was blowing yesterday, and spent most of my time on that particular side of the path. think of that, will you, jack; and yet for the life of me i can't positively recollect whether i did drop that letter into the slot along with the rest. i must be getting looney, that's what." "well, you've just got to brace up, bob, and believe it's all right," jack told him, slapping the other heartily on the shoulder, boy fashion. "as time goes on you'll sort of get used to it; and then some fine day your father will speak of having heard from his correspondent abroad." "thank you for trying to bolster up my nerve, jack it's mighty nice of you in the bargain. i'll need your counsel more than a few times from now on, and i'm right glad i can have some one to go to when i feel so sick with the suspense, all the while i'm waiting and hoping i've got to tremble every time my father speaks to me that's the result of having a guilty conscience you know. i've read about such things before, but this is the first time i've actually had the experience myself." "besides," continued jack, "even if you did mail the letter, that's no assurance it would ever reach the party he wrote to. many a vessel has gone down before arriving at its destination, a victim to the terrible policy of the germans with their u-boats. and of course the mail sinks when the boat goes down in the war zone. if your father were wise he would duplicate that letter several times, and in that way make sure one of them had a chance to reach the party abroad." "do you know i thought of that myself, jack!" exclaimed bob, quickly; "but you see it would never do for me to mention it to him. why, he'd suspect something lay back of it at once, and ask me the question that i shall be dreading to hear--'did you positively mail that letter i gave you?' jack, sometimes i can see just those words in fiery letters a foot high facing me, even when i close my eyes. it makes me think of the handwriting on the wall that appeared before the eyes of that old worthy, a victorious general, i believe it was, or an ancient king, but which spelled his doom." "if i knew of anything else i could do to help you, bob, i'd be happy to try. now, i do remember reading an account of a gentleman who carried out the very policy of follow-up letters that i was speaking about. he explained how to make sure he reached his correspondent across the water he would send a duplicate letter every week for a whole month; and so far he had never failed to connect, although more than one boat carrying his letters went down. now, perhaps i can find that same newspaper, and give it to you. if you placed it where your father would be apt to pick it up, with the article marked a little, he'd read it, and might act upon it." "that sounds good to me, jack. please look hard, and see if you can run across that paper. it might be the solution of the whole thing. if father wrote again and even a third time i'd lose my guilty fears, because one of his letters would be bound to get across." "why, even the possibility of this proving to be a success caused the boy to smile, though he looked almost comical while so doing, because his heart still hung like lead in his breast. "well, try and forget it all you can, bob," jack went on to say, encouragingly. "i believe i can find that paper, and i'll hunt far and wide for it, i give you my word. if anything else strikes me meanwhile, i'll speak to you about it. if i were you i'd throw myself into the game, and that ought to help you forget your troubles." "yes, it's all very good for the time being, jack," sighed the other, "but say, after the excitement is all over with, and you find yourself nearing the house, and father, the most terrible feeling grips you around your heart. i know i'll have a perfectly terrible month of it, every day seeming to be forty-eight hours long. but it serves me right. after this bob jeffries will be a reformed boy, i give you my word for that. never again can i allow myself to grow careless, and do important things as though i was in a dream. i've awakened at last, jack." "then if that is so, bob, you're bound to profit by your lesson. it may seem hard, but in the long run it'll pay you many times over. i'll not mention your trouble to either of my chums, though for that matter both toby and steve would feel just as sorry as i do. still, there's no way they could help you, and for your sake and peace of mind i'll keep mum." big bob impulsively clutched jack's hand, and squeezed it so fiercely that it actually hurt. "you're a friend worth having, jack winters!" he exclaimed, warmly, while his eyes seemed to dim in a strange fashion, though he winked several times to conceal the fact that tears were near. "you put fresh heart into a fellow every time. if you can find that paper with the account of the duplicate letters in it, please let me know, and i'll run over to your house to get it." "i'll give a big look tonight," jack assured him; "and i'm almost sure i know just where i saw it. father never allows papers to be destroyed under a month old, and it'll likely be up in the attic. depend on me to get it for you, bob." just then the high school bell started to ring, and both lads had to hurry to enter in time. bob braced up and tried to assume his ordinary look. his pride came to the rescue, for no boy likes to find himself an object of commiseration among his mates. as for jack, he had to put the entire matter from his mind just then, having other things to occupy his attention. but every time he chanced to look toward big bob during that day's session it would be to find the other staring eagerly toward him; and a peculiar smile would creep across the big fellow's face when he caught jack's eye. he was depending on this comrade to extricate him from the pit which his own carelessness had dug for his feet. and bob was finding how good it was at such a crucial time in his life to have a reliable friend upon whom to lean. again and again he doubtless told himself how lucky he was to be so favored. it may be said in passing that jack did inaugurate a search among the latest pile of papers in the attic that night, and after a thorough hunt actually succeeded in locating the article he had mentioned. his wonderful memory had again served him in good stead, for it turned out to be in the very periodical he had had in mind. he even went to the trouble to drop over to give big bob the paper, marking with, a blue pencil the article just above the item in question. any one reading this interesting account of something connected with the war must naturally have his attention arrested by the heading just below it, which ran: "how to make sure foreign letters reach their destination in spite of u-boats;" and then went on to tell how the gentleman in question sent out follow-up letters, exact duplicates of the original one. bob was intensely interested. "i can fix it," he assured jack, "so that this paper will be lying on the floor of the library. i'm glad you had it wrapped around that old sweater you were returning, because if father should ask me about it i can truthfully say i believe you brought it here in that way, and that i must have dropped it in the library; which would be just like my careless habits of the past, you know, jack." taken altogether jack thought it a pretty good scheme. it might work, too, which would be a fine thing for everyone concerned; since mr. jeffries would be sure of having his letter reach its destination, and poor bob could be relieved of at least a portion of the load that was weighing on his mind. when jack left bob after a short stay, he saw that fresh hope had already taken hold of the other's heart. it had been the fact that he did not know which way to turn in order to try to remedy his mistake that had been the chief cause for the boy's desperation. now that there was at least a little chance of the ugly affair coming out all right, bob was beginning to pluck up fresh courage. chapter v a message from marshall "what does this mean, phil parker? why are you sitting here and watching the boys get the right dope from joe hooker out there on the field? i thought you were sure to land a tackle job." the speaker, a student who wore glasses, and therefore could have no hope of taking part in such a rough game as football, slapped a fellow on the back who was wearing the blue and white sweater of a chester athlete. phil parker, who had done yeoman service as left fielder on the baseball nine the preceding summer, laughed as he went on to reply. "oh! the fortunes of war, doc. i chanced to be one of those who didn't come up to the scratch with old joe. and i want to say right now he was right when he made up his mind i wasn't fast enough for his team. i hurt my leg a month ago, and it's never been quite as strong since. i've been expecting to hear something drop, and now it's come i'm actually relieved. the strain is over, and i can root for our team with the rest from the side lines." "you're the right sort, phil, i must say," the other student continued, warmly. "with you it's a question of chester first, last, and all the time. personal matters ought never to have any part in such things. every boy ought to be ready and willing to sacrifice himself for the good of the team. that's what i heard jack telling archie frazer, who's also been dropped; but his scotch blood seemed to be up, and he looked as if he had a personal grievance against old joe for letting him go." but the wisdom of the coach weeding out the weak brothers was already beginning to bear fruit. anyone who knew football could easily see that there was a distinct gain in the general work. it is just as happens in a convoy of vessels trying to slip past waiting submarines; the fastest has to hold up for the slowest, and in consequence much valuable time is lost. it has even been figured that this loss of time amounts to fifty per cent in all. a new fire and ambition seemed to possess the players on this afternoon. they appeared to adapt themselves to the conditions much more readily than at any time in the past it might be the steady work of the coach was beginning to make itself shown; and that the boys who remained, under the belief that they now had a good chance of becoming members of the fighting eleven, were induced to throw themselves into the battle with fresh vigor. joe hooker encouraged them constantly. his was a policy of this kind, whereas some coaches think it expedient constantly to keep telling their charges that they are unusually dull, and will never make themselves a fighting force; which is apt to discourage fellows, and fail to bring out all that is in them. joe believed that enthusiasm and a firm belief in themselves would in the end serve best. another thing joe did, which was to let down the unfortunate ones who must be dropped as easily as he could. he talked to them all like a father, and tried to impress it upon their minds that while chester might not be able to utilize their services that season, there was another time coming. besides, he endeavored to arouse their pride in connection with the home town, and beg them to do everything in their power to assist in encouraging those who were finally selected to battle on the gridiron for supremacy. outside of archie frazer no one had shown any ill feeling about the matter; but all tried to take it as the fortunes of war. jack himself had made up his mind to have a heart-to-heart talk with archie, to try to win him over. they needed all the backing possible in order to bring success. when there is any bitterness in the hearts of some of those who ought to be shouting themselves hoarse for the home team, it always hurts. jack at one time, when resting, and giving another fellow a chance to get in the game, suddenly discovered a strange face amidst the crowd that had gathered to watch the practice. he looked closer, and then remembered where he had seen the boy before. "tell me, stanley," he said to one of the fellows close by, "isn't that horace bushnell, from marshall? i seem to remember him playing on their team when we took that game from them last summer." "that's right, jack, horace it is," came the reply. "he played on third, you may remember, and made some rattling good stops in the bargain, that were ticketed for clean singles or even doubles. i was speaking with him a bit ago. he says he's just dropped over to see what's going on in old chester, once asleep, but suddenly resurrected since you came to town. you'll find horace a pretty decent sort of fellow, and built along the right lines too." jack sauntered over to where the boy was standing watching the exciting melee just then taking place out there on the field, with old joe hooker dancing and limping around like mad, shouting directions, or blowing his referee's whistle to indicate that the ball was dead, and that a fresh start must be made. "hello! bushnell!" said jack, extending his hand with that free masonry that always exists among boys. "i thought i recognized you, and asked if you didn't come from marshall way. took a notion to see how we were getting along over here, did you? well, we're making progress, i suppose, but only for our luck in having such a crackerjack of a coach i'm afraid chester wouldn't have much show on the gridiron this season; because most of the boys were as green as grass at the finer points of the game." "he certainly is a dandy coach, all right," asserted the marshall boy, shaking hands cordially. "i wish we had one half as good as old joe hooker. if you fellows make a dent in the game this season you'll owe it all to him. i've just been watching how he works, and it's simply grand. i understand that harmony is putting in extra licks too this year, being afraid marshall will down her team. so altogether it looks as if we'll have a pretty lively session." "i don't suppose, bushnell, that either marshall or harmony has much fear of chester taking their scalps this year?" laughed jack. "well, you never can tell what may happen in football, until you've tested the mettle of your antagonist," the other sagely replied. "anything is liable to come along the pike. but as a rule the veterans in the business are those who count; and we take it that few of the chester fellows have ever been in a real scrimmage; so we expect they'll have a heap to learn. still, with that veteran coach drilling it in day after day wonders may happen. you've got several weeks for practice before the game with marshall comes off. if you fellows keep on improving as you're doing now, i can see a jolly struggle taking place, and the result may surprise some folks i know." "it's nice of you being interested enough in our work to drop in and watch us, and i mean that too, bushnell," said jack. "well, of course i wouldn't think of coming across later on, when you'll be practicing your signal stunts, and different mass plays," hastily remarked the other, coloring a bit with embarrassment. "if marshall does carry off that game i want to see it won on merit, not trickery. football isn't a game where such things should be tolerated. once a chap from harmony was discovered watching our late signal work. he had a pair of field-glasses, and was perched on top of an old ruined chimney, from which place he had a fine view of the field. we didn't do a thing about it, only changed our signals in secret. well, believe me, that came near losing the game for harmony. they took it for granted that we would play the original signals, and in trying to cut us off left an opening that gave us a chance for our first touchdown. and it was only after the hardest kind of savage work that they were able eventually to lay us out cold, but only by a score of seven to nine." "that was playing dirty ball," said jack, indignantly. "i hope they won't repeat that thing this year." "i hardly think so," the marshall boy hastily went on to say. "their paper gave them a rough deal over it, and told them they deserved to lose every game where they placed any dependence on trickery, rather than true merit. some of the harmony fellows were heartily ashamed of it all, and came over to apologize after they learned about it. i don't believe such a thing can ever happen again around these parts. you weren't here then, winters, which accounts for your not knowing about it. but what message shall i take to our fellows from you, as i understand you have been selected to be captain of the eleven?" "only this, bushnell," said jack, impressively. "we're going into this thing with all our vim. we mean to wrest a victory from marshall by fair means, if it can be done. if luck is against us we'll be the first to congratulate you fellows over your success; and then get ready to give harmony the best there is in us. we believe in clean ball, and you never need be afraid that a chester fellow would be guilty of spying on your team when practicing signal work. if one did we'd refuse to take advantage of his knowledge, and warn you that such a thing had occurred." "that's the right kind of talk, jack winters!" exclaimed the other, effusively. "it's just what true sportsmanship means. every tub must stand on its own bottom, and may the best team win! my comrades will be glad to get a message like that from chester; and if such a thing should happen as your team beating us to a frazzle, why, you'll not find us poor losers. we'll give you a cheer that'll do a lot to make you buck up against that terrible harmony crowd." "i understand," continued jack, "that you've strengthened your team considerably this season." "yes, that's the only thing we've got to counterbalance your possession of such a great coach. we chanced to pick up several star players this year, fellows who moved to marshall lately, and who have played on other teams before. two of them are grand goal kickers, and may give you the surprise of your lives later on. then we've got a dandy end who is like lightning on his pins; and once he gets the ball he can bewilder the best of them by his ducking and doubling. well, enough for the present. i don't want to discourage you, winters, but take my word for it, chester has to go the limit if she hopes to snatch that game from us. we're full of ginger and--say, that was as fine a kick at goal as could be. that big chap is jeffries, isn't he? i remember his fielding when we played ball last summer; and the way he swatted the pill was a caution. it nearly broke our pitcher's heart. i guess some of your fellows can do stunts? as well as our stars. but i must be going back home, for i ran over on my motorcycle, you see. wish you all the luck going, captain winters; after marshall, of course!" jack rather liked horace bushnell. he did not know as yet whether the other was to play on the rival team, but at least he had shown his heart was set on his home town coming out victor in the approaching contest on the gridiron. at any rate it was a pleasure to know such an honorable fellow was to be an opponent, and that the marshall boys were so utterly opposed to any form of double-dealing or trickery, in order to win. chapter vi jack and joel investigate so the time passed, and a week, yes, fully ten days more had gone, with the marshall game only a few more days away. all this while the coach had kept at his constant grind, trying to get the eleven so accustomed to the many plays of the game that they could act through instinct rather than reason. every boy remembers how difficult it was at first to ride a bicycle, when equilibrium was a thing to be studied; but how after the muscles of the body had grown accustomed to adapting themselves to the slightest motion of the wheel, from that time on it seemed the easiest thing going to do all sorts of stunts while riding. so with football, where the action must be as quick as a flash. players who are dull-witted never make any great success in the game, no matter how clever they may appear at some particular feat. old joe hooker knew this only too well. it had been the reason for his detaching several promising fellows who could never understand why they were given the "indian sign" and dropped; but the fact was joe had found they could not break themselves of the habit of stopping just a brief space of time as if to consider, before making a play; and that second or two lost, he knew, might account for the game. it had now reached the critical point where they were practicing signals. while doing this it was deemed wise that they should get away from all spectators; not that they feared any chester boy would be so mean as to betray their codes to the enemy, or that either marshall or harmony would descend to taking advantage of such underhand treachery; but then it was the ethics of the game that such things should be kept to the players themselves. so on this particular wednesday afternoon, besides the eleven in the field there were only a dozen select fellows on hand, and all of them really held places as substitutes of one sort or another. some of them were likely to be called into action in case a fellow got hurt, and had to be taken out; so they were just as vitally interested in this secret work as any one could be. during the course of the afternoon they would all be given an opportunity to take part in the play going on, so as to become used to it. as the great day approached everyone seemed to be more filled with ginger than at any time in the past. coach hooker was racing this way and that, calling, adjuring, scolding mildly at times, but always with an eye singly to the advantage of the chester interests. if the team did not pull off a victory with marshall few there would be to say it was any fault of old joe. jack had been in the melee for quite some time now, and was giving way to a substitute who seemed eager to get in the game. joining the group over at one side jack fell into conversation with some of his mates. as he stood there he continued to follow the excited actions of the bunch out on the field. the counting could be plainly heard, and then would come the lightning-like play as the ball was put in motion; fellows leaped into action, each with a definite aim in view. then joe would call them back, to tell them where they fell short, and could improve on the play. "old joe seems to see everything that goes on, just as if he had a dozen eyes in his head," remarked joel jackman, who was also allowing a sub to take his place in the line-up. "well, that's what makes him the clever coach he is," jack told him. "in his way he's like the old orchestra leader, theodore thomas. i've heard it said that when his orchestra of a hundred and twenty pieces was practicing some big movement by one of the great composers, mr. thomas would suddenly stop the music, and scold one player in particular. his wonderful ear had caught a note that was imperfect, and he had been able to pick out the chap who was guilty. well, that's the way with our joe; only in this case it's his eye that is highly educated, instead of his ear." joel moved aside with jack. "listen to me, jack," he went on to say, impressively. "some of the boys here chanced to mention the fact that last year a harmony fellow tried to steal the signals of marshall, and in fact did so; but the other fellows discovered him watching the play from a tree or some place, and they just changed their code of signals after he had been scared away. now, jack, don't look surprised when i tell you i've got a sneaking notion we're being spied on right at this very minute!" jack saw that joel was not joking, and he looked serious. "what makes you say that?" he inquired, immediately. "i haven't mentioned anything about the matter to the fellows; in fact, i only got on to the game about the time you dropped in. just turn to the right a little, will you, jack. i'm not pointing, because it would tell the skunk we knew about his being there. see that bunch of trees over yonder, do you? pretty thick, all right, and offering a splendid asylum to any chap who might want to watch what we were doing out in the open field. he's up in the largest tree, that's right." "did you see him then, joel?" asked the other, after staring for a brief interval in the direction indicated, without noticing any incriminating evidence. "well, no, i can't say that i did, though it seems to me there is something like a bunch in that crotch about ten feet from the ground; but the branches sort of screen it. but, jack, i saw the sun flash from the lens of a pair of glasses, not only once but several times." jack continued to watch. this sounded like serious business, and he began to feel something like indignation surging up within him. if there was anything jack winters despised it was underhand work. straight and aboveboard himself he was unable to conceive how any fellow could so demean himself as to wish to win by trickery. "there, didn't you see that flash then, jack?" whispered joel, eagerly, a short time later on. "i certainly did," replied the other, between his set teeth. "don't you agree with me that there's some one hidden in that same big tree, and watching us through means of powerful glasses?" continued joel. "i must say it does look a good deal that way," he was assured. "well, what's the answer, jack? are we going to stand for such dirty business? of course he can't exactly catch the signals from over there, unless he's got some way of accentuating his hearing. but he can see the work that's being repeated over and over again, and in that way learn what our play is. it's a burning shame, that's all i can say. i'd just like to take half a dozen fellows and capture that spy. we would duck him in the river, and make him sorry he ever took a notion to peek on us. i heard that bushnell chap from marshall was over one day some time ago." "you can depend on it this spy isn't horace bushnell," jack hastened to assure his companion. "i talked things over with him at the time, and found him a boy after my own heart, who despises trickery." "but can't we do something about it to let him know he's discovered, and had better chase himself off?" pleaded joel. "i'm thinking of a way in which we might at least learn the truth," said the other, thoughtfully. "we've been going over to the little spring to the left for water. once we get there it would be easy to slip around, for it happens there's plenty of good cover, i notice. in that way we could surprise the fellow, and catch him in the tree." joel showed considerable eagerness to try the plan of campaign. "let's be starting across for a drink, then, jack," he urged, and accordingly they set forth. no one paid any attention to them, because from time to time some of the boys would head toward the spring, when the water in the bucket lost its freshness, and in their heated condition they panted for a cold drink. jack and joel both had their heavy wool sweaters on, so they took no chances of catching cold after their recent energetic exercise. they stopped at the spring, where there was a gourd that could be used for dipping up the refreshing water, and each of them took a drink. "there, he's still working away!" snapped joel, indignantly; "i caught another flash when he moved his glasses. the sun chances to shine in just the right quarter to make that flash each time. i only hope the skunk will stay there till we can get him, that's all." joel looked so extremely pugnacious when saying this that jack knew he must be making up his mind just what sort of corporeal punishment best fitted the crime of playing the spy on rivals in football, in order to obtain an unfair advantage over them and taking a game by trickery. "now, just duck down, and we'll be off," jack told his companion. he had sized the situation up correctly, joel saw. there was excellent cover running around to the patch of trees among which the object of their solicitude was placed. it would be an easy matter for two such agile lads to bend over and cover that short distance, all the while keeping themselves hidden from the eyes of the party perched amidst the dead leaves of that oak. it was real exciting work, too, for they fully anticipated having some trouble in making the spy come down after they arrived under the tree in which he was so comfortably perched. perhaps there might be a pair of them, when the situation was likely to be somewhat more strained. joel even wished now they had asked a couple of the fellows to accompany them, so as to make the capture more certain. once or twice they found themselves compelled to make a little detour, because the ground in front was too open, and offered little in the way of a screen; but jack knew just how to manage, and joel was quite willing to leave matters in the hands of his associate. everybody trusted jack winters, when a task was to be performed; and it is a great thing for any boy to possess the confidence of his mates in this fashion. "we're getting mighty close now, jack," whispered joel, presently. "i can see the trunk of the big oak all right. it's got limbs pretty near the ground too, so that spy couldn't have had a very hard time of it climbing up. i reckon he must have hit on that particular tree partly on that account." "keep quiet, joel, he might hear you," warned jack; although truth to tell there was little fear of that, because all the while there came across the field the cries of the workers and the chatter of those who looked on. a little farther and jack stopped short. he held up a finger as if to tell joel not to say anything. but that worthy was crouching there, listening as if petrified, while a look of astonishment bordering on consternation began to hold sway in his face. the truth of the matter was both boys had caught a series of giggles, and sounds of low laughter, which undoubtedly came from the direction of that particular tree; and what struck them as a staggering fact was that these gurgling noises seemed to be of a girlish character, rather than to proceed from boys. then jack made a gesture with his crooked finger, and both of them again commenced to creep softly along, wondering what effect their coming would have upon the fair watchers perched in the lower crotch of the giant oak with the spreading branches. chapter vii strange fruit for a tree to bear "oh! girls, you just ought to have seen fred badger run with the ball then! they all chased after him, but he dodged them like everything. if the boys win that game from marshall i'm sure fred's going to have a lot to do with it!" joel chuckled at hearing one girl say that, for he recognized the voice of pretty little mollie skinner, on whom it was said the fred mentioned was rather sweet, since he always accompanied her to choir meeting, and when they had a dance out in the country, she invariably went with fred. "well, i don't know what fred badger has got over steve mullane, or jack winters, or even joel jackman," said another voice, rather cynically, as though the speaker did not wholly subscribe to mollie's view that fred stood out as a shining mark above the rest of the bunch of struggling players. joel chuckled again. it tickled him to be mentioned at all by one of the fair watchers in the tree, even though with such a doubtful compliment as "even joel jackman!" would imply. "but i'm beginning to get tired of sitting here in this ridiculous fashion," said a third one, dolefully, "and taking turns at peeking through mollie's mother's opera-glasses. i wouldn't have come only i felt so much interest in our boys this year. it's their first appearance on the gridiron, and i'm just wild to see them beat that bragging old harmony. as to marshall, i just know chester will put those fellows down where they belong, at the foot of the class, without half trying." "neither would i have gone to all this trouble," spoke up the fair and spirited mollie, "only for that silly letter my friend in harmony wrote me, saying that it was a foregone conclusion harmony would sweep the earth this year because their team had been _terribly_ strengthened. in fact she gave me to understand that everything, even to the crepe, had been ordered for poor little new beginner chester. it kept me awake most all last night; and i felt so much excited that i just _had_ to get you girls to come out here and see what our gallant boys were doing." "yes, but however are we going to get down from here?" sighed the girl who had spoken second, and whose name was lucy marsh, while the last of the daring trio jack knew to be another pretty maid, adelaide holliday by name. "i feel afraid to jump from so high a place; and girls can't climb trees and come down like boys do." "would you mind if we came up and helped you, girls?" suddenly demanded jack, as he and his companion showed themselves. there were alarmed squeals from the three nesting in the crotch of the tree, and this was followed by girlish laughter when they discovered who the newcomers were. it was not only the boys of chester who liked jack winters; for any girl would be proud to be asked for her company by a fellow like jack, so universally esteemed. "you've turned the tables on us this time, jack," said lucy marsh, bravely enough. "it's a case of the biters bitten, evidently. we came to spy, and we've been spied on in turn. well, since you've discovered us in a tree, perhaps you'd better climb up and help a pack of foolish girls back to the solid ground again. i seem to lose my head once i get off the earth." accordingly jack and joel joined them, and it was no particular effort to help each girl down. when the last had been safely landed, the boys jumped lightly after them. "you'll excuse our looks, of course, girls," said joel. "we've been in a scrimmage and are hardly fit for ladies' company; but all the same we're delighted to have been of service to you." "and so," remarked jack, turning to mollie skinner, who was small but pert, and as pretty as a peach, "you had a boasting letter from some girl over in harmony, i think i heard you say as we came up. she tried to discourage you, didn't she? all right, mollie, you just send her back a roland for an oliver; give her as good as she sent. tell her the chester boys are going to swamp marshall next saturday, just to put them in trim for the great game on thanksgiving morning with poor old harmony. twit her with a few reminders of that last baseball game we played, when chester trailed harmony's colors in the dust. i guess you can rub it in good and hard, mollie, if you try." "and you guess right, too, jack winters," snapped the girl, her eyes flashing with spirit. "i'll compose a scathing letter that will give maude something to think about from now to thanksgiving. and let me say that i'll be meaning every word of it, too. why, after what we've seen you boys do in practice i just feel that fellows like fred, and some of the others of course, in the bargain, just can't be whipped by any old school team that plays. those are my sentiments, and i don't care who knows them." "those harmony fellows wear the yellow and black of princeton, you know," spoke up lucy marsh, "and love to call themselves the tigers. they think to frighten their opponents by a great exhibition of rough play, and try to act as if they expected to just walk away with every game." "that's right for you, lucy," chipped in joel, "but those same tactics didn't carry weight last summer. chester didn't seem to be afraid of being bitten by the tiger, in fact we managed to devour the beast, hide and all; and let me assure you, girls, we can do it again, don't you fear." "how about that, jack, do you subscribe to joel's boast?" demanded the girl, as though she would be ready to place a good deal more dependence on an opinion from the captain of the eleven than from the left tackle. joel laughed. "you're going to the wrong quarter for that kind of information, lucy," he went on to say. "jack's too modest to boast, as everyone knows, though he'll work his head off to win the game." "i'm not claiming anything!" declared jack; "and only saying that chester will have no cause for complaint, no matter whether we win or lose; for every fellow's grimly determined to do his level best. victories sometimes hinge on small things, and the luck of the game may go against us. but we'll be fighting all the time up to the blowing of the last whistle that tells the time of the fourth period has expired." "tell them what coach hooker said this very afternoon, jack?" begged joel. "please do, jack," the fair mollie pleaded; while the other two looked so wistful that jack could not have declined had he wanted to, which was far from the fact. "oh! joe seemed to be especially well pleased with our work today," he remarked, "and told us that taken all in all we made as lively and hustling a lot of youngsters as he had ever had the pleasure of handling. he even went on to say that if we worked as well in the marshall game we would carry off the prize as sure as two and three make five. and let me tell you, after hearing those inspiring words we played better than ever the next round, and had old joe beaming with joy. i honestly believe he thinks a heap of our bunch, since it's been weeded out." "we're all proud of you, just remember that," said mollie, boldly; "and we do hope you'll be able to make the marshall boys eat humble pie next saturday. why, nearly everybody that's worth knowing at all in chester is going over to marshall to give the chester salute when you come on the field. i chanced to hear packy mcgraw, your cheer captain, drilling his squad; and let me tell you they can give the chester yell in a way that thrills the blood." there could be no doubt about mollie and her two chums being heart and soul for the local team. jack was glad to see such enthusiasm. it would make himself and the other ten fellows fight all the harder to know that bright eyes were watching every move that was made; while dainty hands clapped until they ached, keeping company with the defiant cries arising wherever chester girls congregated, in grandstand or field. it means a whole lot to a team to feel that their home folks believe in them to the limit. just as soon as this interest gives signs of waning the best of teams grow careless, and show signs of disintegration. so jack hoped the girls as well as the boys and grownups of the town would be with them all the while, ready with cheering words and praise for good deeds, as well as apologies for mistakes such as the best of players may sometimes make. so the three girls departed, binding jack and joel to a promise not to betray them to the rest of the squad. this promise both boys gladly gave, for no harm had been done; and they knew now just how earnestly the girls of chester were hoping and praying for their success. it was really an inspiration, to joel at least. "there's no use talking, jack," he was saying, as they started to go around once more to the place of the spring, to avoid exciting any suspicion on the part of their comrades, "we've just _got_ to beat marshall on saturday. why, it'd break the hearts of those pretty girls if we failed. i really believe they'd feel it more than any of us would. and that little spitfire mollie is crazy to rub it into her boastful friend over at harmony, too. oh! we've got our job set out before us for a fact, and must sweep the deck each deal." the rest of the practice caused the boys to forget their recent little adventure for the time being. they worked hard, and won additional praise from old joe hooker. "you're getting better every day, fellows," he told the bunch as they started homeward, chattering like a lot of magpies. "i never was so pleased with the improvement shown; why, it's simply marvelous. if an old football man should watch some of your plays he'd swear you were anything but novices, and vow you'd done plenty of footwork last season. don't stop, boys! keep up the good work, and my word for it, your reward is sure to come, for you'll take marshall into camp on saturday, barring accidents." they would have two more afternoons for practice, and then saturday would dawn with its uncertainties that might not be relieved until the referee had blown his whistle to signify that the time for the game had expired. whose would be high score when that minute came around was an unknown quantity; and many a chester lad would have given much to be able to lift the veil of the future just that far. but this was beyond their ken, and they could only possess their souls in patience while hoping for the best. those two days would soon pass, and the great time come when chester folks could be seen thronging the road leading to marshall, bent on witnessing the meeting of the rival teams on the gridiron. how some of the most impatient managed to pull through the intervening time it would be hard to tell. but finally saturday morning dawned, and the fact that the sun shone from an unclouded sky, while the air was quite nipping, brought joy to thousands of eager hearts in chester, and doubtless also in marshall; for both towns were said to be football crazy this year. chapter viii a call for help "hello! jack, i was just thinking of dropping around at your place. can you spare me a few minutes of your precious time this morning?" big bob jeffries called this across to the other, down on the main street of chester. jack was hurrying along, after finishing the several errands that had taken him into the heart of the shopping district. it was on the great saturday morning that was to give the town folks their first taste of real football. everywhere people seemed to be talking about it, and the chances the local team had of pulling off a victory. jack, being known as the captain of the eleven, and an acknowledged leader among his fellows, was greeted with many an anxious question concerning the condition of the team, and whether he really and truly expected to score a triumph against the hard-playing marshall crowd. to all such inquiries the boy had returned a merry answer, simply saying: "we're going to do our level best, and we have hopes, that's all i can say. tell you more about it this evening." when he heard big bob calling out this request a look of real concern flashed across jack's face, the very first that morning. he feared lest the other was about to spring some sort of disagreeable surprise upon him at almost the last hour. all along he had managed to keep bob sort of buoyed up with constantly renewed hope that his troubles were sure to end in smoke. but evidently the big fellow had suffered in secret, and was in quite a nervous state of mind. "certainly i can, bob!" he exclaimed, starting to cross over to where the other stood, looking so forlorn that had any observing fellow come along just then and noticed the expression on his face, he might have spread an alarm to the effect that the big fullback was ill, and consequently there would be a weak spot in the line-up that afternoon, as sure as anything. "i hate ever so much to bother you, jack, with my personal affairs, just when, of course, you've got your hands full of the coming battle on the gridiron; but i must ease my head or something will burst, i'm feeling that wretched." "come along and walk with me," said jack, promptly. "i am in a little of a hurry, but we can be going in the direction of my house, and take it slowly. now what's happened, bob?" "happened, jack? why, nothing at all, and that's just what's the matter. if only something _did_ come along to break up this terrible monotony, i'd welcome it; but every day's like the one before it. i go to bed, and get to sleep all right, but when i wake up along in the early hours, about two or three o'clock, i begin to think, and lie there till dawn comes, just groaning to myself, and trying to make up my mind what i ought to do." "i'm sorry to hear that, big bob, sure i am," said jack, his voice telling the same thing. "but you say things haven't changed at home. by that i reckon you mean your father hasn't asked you anything about that letter he gave you to mail?" "not yet, jack, but i'm mighty much afraid it's going to come any time now. you see, he must be getting anxious because he's received no answer to his letter, though of course there hasn't been any too much time so far. but my mother is worried on account of _me_. i've almost lost my appetite. the things that used to appeal to me the most i now let pass with barely two helpings. she knows there's something gone wrong; you can always trust a boy's mother for being the first to suspect that, when he gets off his feed." "does she say anything to you?" asked jack, solicitously, for it pained him to see how much big bob felt it all. "oh! every day she asks me if i'm real sure i'm not sick," came the slow reply. "i always tell her i'm all right; but say, she knows better, jack. i can't meet her eyes when she looks at me like that. once she begged me to tell her what had gone wrong with me, whether i was doing poorly at school, even if my report stood to the contrary; but i tried to laugh that off, and told her i'd soon be all right again, after this football game, mebbe." "i hope you will, bob, and a lot of us will have a big load off our minds if only we can come back home this afternoon, singing, and feeling joyous. of course you never really knew how that little scheme of mine worked, did you?" "meaning the idea of putting that marked paper where my dad would be sure to see the item about the man who sent follow-up letters abroad, so as to make certain one of them would get to its destination, in spite of british blockade and german submarines? why, no, i never found out if father took to the idea or not. i only know he must have seen the paper, because i found it later on his desk in the library, and i left it crumpled up on the floor. he never asked me where it came from, so i didn't have to tell him you had it wrapped around an old sweater you were returning to me. all i'm sure of is that he didn't trust me to mail a second foreign letter. i only wish he had." "you said he was beginning to look serious, didn't you?" continued jack. "why, yes, and i can just _feel_ him watching me when he thinks i'm not looking. he certainly must suspect something, jack. but the queer part of it all is that lately he's been a heap more gentle with me than i ever knew him to be before." "i don't quite get the hang of that, bob." "well, you must know that my dad is reckoned a stern man. folks have always looked on him as what they call austere. he's engaged in a business that keeps his mind away up in the clouds most of the time, and he just can't pay much attention to the small things of life. i heard him tell that once, and i've tried to understand what it really meant, but somehow i couldn't, because my nature is just the opposite, so i guess i must take after my mother's side of the family. i can hardly remember the time when my dad played with me, or seemed at all interested in my childish hopes and fears. it was always ma to whom i went with my troubles; and jack, she never failed me. that's what makes it so hard for me now. only for you to confide in, i don't know what i'd have done." he seemed on the verge of breaking down at this point. jack in order to prevent anything like this hastened to ask again: "go on, bob, and tell me just how your father is acting differently nowadays from what he's always done." "why, you see," continued the other, with a spasmodic movement of his big frame that might have been caused, jack suspected, by a halfsuppressed sob welling up from his sorely distressed heart, "he's not only been watching me close at times, but twice now he's even asked me something about the football match with marshall; and last night ma told me he had said they must surely go over today and watch me play. oh! jack, that nearly broke me all up. i felt just like i must throw my arms around my mother's neck, and pour out the whole wretched story of my carelessness." "but you didn't, i suppose, bob?" "no, i managed to blurt out an excuse for hurrying away, though i kind of think she must have seen that there were tears in my eyes, for she called after me; but i didn't dare turn back right then, and pretended not to hear her. later on i'd managed to get a fresh grip on myself, and even smiled a little, though i tell you that was the most ghastly smile i ever knew, for it was a hollow mockery, jack." "but you've held out this far, bob, and you must pull yourself together so as to go through the game today," jack went on to say, warmly. "if you failed us our goose would surely be cooked, you know, because the fellow who has been practicing as your understudy at fullback is a mighty poor fish, and marshall will know it as soon as the first period is over, especially if they push us hard, and he breaks down, as he's pretty sure to do." "oh! as to that, jack, i'm not meaning to give up just now. i've got my mind made up to play savagely today. i want to forget my troubles, and i'll take it out on marshall. besides, i'll always be remembering that ma and dad will be there seeing no one but their bobbie; and it might ease my pain if only i could do some half-way decent stunt that would bring out the cheers, and make them glad i was a jeffries." "shake hands on that, bob. i felt pretty sure you wouldn't fall down at the last minute." "i guess i've got a little too much pride in myself for that," said the other, trying to look like his old self for once. "but that thanksgiving game is another question. if this sort of thing keeps on, i'll surely be a nervous wreck by then, and too weak and wobbly to play." "oh! don't cross bridges before you come to them, big bob," sang out jack, wishing to inspire the other with fresh confidence. "that's a poor policy, you know, and some fellows are addicted to it. there's another old saying that you might take to heart, and which runs like this: 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof;' which also means that it is foolish to worry, because nine-tenths of the time what we imagine is hanging over our heads never really comes off." "well, one thing i'm sure of, jack, and that is that you're the boss comforter. no matter how badly i'm feeling, only let me get in touch with you, and i seem to draw in new life and hope. i'll never forget all your kindness, you can depend on that, jack winters." "oh! don't mention it, bob; you'd do the same for me, or any other fellow, given a chance, because it's in your nature. but let's speak again of your father, for after all he's the central object of the whole thing. you said in the beginning that you feared he was beginning to suspect you, and that from the way he kept watching you when you were reading, you felt as if he might up and say something about that letter?" "yes, sometimes that gives me a cold chill; and then again i'm puzzled to know why he's taken to being so much kinder than usual. why, honestly, jack, just last night he even asked me if my old skates were still good for this season's use, or would i like to have a pair like those he'd noticed in the window down at higgins' store. oh! that nearly broke me all up. i felt as if i wanted to throw myself down on my knees before mm, and say that i didn't deserve new skates, or anything like that this year, because i was a wretched, careless boy, who had done something wicked. but somehow i managed to stammer out that i guessed my old ones were going to be good enough for one more season, though, jack, they are in bad shape; but then it would have made me feel worse than ever if i'd accepted his offer, after failing him when he trusted me." of course jack knew that big bob was making a mountain out of molehills, but he could readily understand how that came. the big fellow was extremely sensitive, and the possible enormity of his offense kept standing out before him all the time and constantly growing in dimensions. what he said about his father made jack secretly smile. it was about time, he told himself, that a reserved man like mr. jeffries woke up, and began to take more interest in his children, and not leave it all to his good wife. and in the end possibly this affair might work out for the good of all concerned, the father as well as the son. meanwhile, big bob must be encouraged to hold on for a time longer, until they could know the actual state of affairs. chapter ix headed for the field of battle big bob was already looking better, after what had passed between jack and himself. although time counted with the captain of the chester eleven just then, as he had a number of things he wished to do before noon, he felt that he could well afford to stand by bob a little longer, and get him to feeling more cheerful. football games often depend on small things that might seem trifles to those who do not know that the condition of mind as well as of body, on the part of every member of the squad, has much to do with ultimate success or failure. therefore, as it might turn out that victory would depend on some play on the part of the fullback, jack was earnestly desirous of arousing all the ambition he could in bob's heart. "now, see here, big bob," he went on to say, as they sauntered along, jack occasionally waving a hand affably to some boy who called out to him across the street, "i wouldn't think any more than i could help about your father's actions. because of your guilty conscience you can see only suspicion in his watching you so closely, but i'm able to view it from a different angle." "tell me what you mean, please, jack?" "it strikes me this way," the other complied. "your father has just begun to realize how much you and the other children mean to him. i think he has had his eyes opened to this in some way, and that in the future you'll find him changed. then it would be only natural for your mother to confide her fears concerning your health to her husband. that accounts for his watching you when he thinks you're not noticing. he wonders if you are really sick, and won't own up to it for some foolish reason. i wouldn't be surprised if he gets you to drop in and see the doctor, so as to be examined all over. why, they may even be giving you a _tonic_, bob, to try and fetch back that lost appetite of yours." "do you think so, jack?" said the other, with a grim smile flickering about his mouth. "well, i know the very best tonic that could come to me, which would be the news that the letter he wrote had reached its destination abroad. oh! if only i could learn that, i'd feel like flying, my heart would be so light. and play, why, jack, if such glorious news came to me right now i'd wake up those marshall boys this afternoon, believe me. they'd think a _cyclone_ had struck the line when i butted up against it. i'd tear everything to pieces, and the whole gang couldn't stop me; for all the world would be bright again, the birds singing, and best of all, i could once more look my father straight in the eye." "i wish that sort of thing would happen, that's all, bob," laughed jack, partly to conceal the fact that he was pretty much shaken up himself by the way big bob expressed his state of feelings. "but even if you don't get word about the letter, i'm confident that your position will be well looked after this afternoon." "you can depend on me, jack," said the other, simply, for bob was not given to boasting. "there is nothing more you want to say to me, is there?" asked jack, for they had by now arrived in front of his gate. "i guess not," answered bob, making a dive for the right hand of his comrade, which happened to be free of bundles, and which he squeezed most heartily. "thank you a thousand times for giving me so much fresh hope, jack. i'm going to try once more to believe that the whole nasty business will come out right. see you when we start across for marshall this afternoon. i've laid out not to eat more than half a ration this noon, because i want to be in fighting trim." so they parted, with a wave of the hand; and at least big bob did have a more contented look on his face than when he first called out to jack across the main street of chester, to ask for a little of his time. of course there was no attempt made to restrain the members of the team from eating any reasonable amount of food. they did not go in training for days and weeks before a gridiron battle, as is done in all colleges, their diet restricted to certain lines of food best calculated to add to their vigor, without making them loggy. but joe hooker had impressed it on their minds that it would be well for them to avoid certain things that might upset their stomachs; and all had bound themselves not to attend any parties, or stay out of bed later than ten o'clock on any night. small things like this often have a tremendous influence in deciding a fiercely contested battle on the gridiron. if one man has been indulging in too rich food, so that his digestion is impaired in the least, he has weakened his system; and in case the crisis of the fight chances to fall upon his shoulders, he will possibly be unable to bear the strain as he might had he been in perfect physical shape. so far as he knew, every fellow was in the pink of condition, jack was telling himself as lie worked at something up in his den that morning. he had been chiefly concerned about big bob; but this last little interview with the fullback gave him renewed confidence. the mere fact that his father had at last mustered up enough interest in boys' sports to promise to attend the game at marshall that afternoon had in itself inspired bob to determine to do his family credit, if it came to him to have an active part in the offense, or rather the defense; for that was where his duty generally came in. "we've got all the show we deserve," jack told himself, after viewing the situation from every possible angle. "joe hooker has taught us all he knows about the game, and he says we are going to do his coaching credit. that means he believes chester has a fair chance to win. and if every fellow is as determined to crush marshall under as big bob seems, we'll do the trick, that's sure." of course chester labored under a big handicap, in that they knew so little concerning the playing abilities of their opponents. most of the boys had, of course, attended previous meetings between harmony and marshall, since there was so little interest shown in chester for any sports. they had seen those young gladiators from the rival towns lock horns, and struggle excitedly for supremacy upon the flat gridiron marked stretch of ground, cheering for one or the other side without prejudice, as their fancy chanced to dictate; but that was not like feeling the brunt of a rush, or trying to outgeneral a swiftly running player with the ball, heading for a touchdown. actual hostilities alone could give them the confidence in themselves which they needed. "but," jack went on to assure himself, "after the first period we'll all be on our tiptoes, and ready to show them what we can do. by then we'll have a good grasp on their style of mass play, and what old joe has taught us will turn to our advantage. however, it's up in the air still, and as much our game as marshall's. the only thing i know is that we expect to fight with every ounce of strength we've got in us, and never give up till the last whistle blows. no one could ask for more; no boy do more. and i do firmly believe we'll come back home tonight crazy with joy over our first scalp." later on, having eaten a light lunch, jack set out for the rendezvous, clad in his now well-worn suit. rough usage soon takes the edge off a new set of football togs, for much of the work is done upon the ground. whether grass stains or dirt marks, it does not matter. like a sensitive hunter who proceeds to soil a new suit of khaki garments which he has been compelled to buy, lest some one take him for a novice in the shooting line, so those who play football take the keenest pride in their most disreputable clothes. every stain stands for a possible struggle on the field that may have spelled a crowning event for the participant. so they come to look upon these marks as those of distinction, just as a soldier would the medal he so proudly wears upon his breast. the boys were gathering when jack reached the scene, although it would be more than a good hour before the start was to be made. some of them looked a shade anxious, he was sorry to notice, though really that was to be expected. jack made it his duty to try to banish this feeling as far as possible, and to imbue everyone with some of the same confidence that was filling his own heart. as usual, his influence soon began to make itself felt. there were steve and toby also who hastened to back him up, realizing what a factor toward success this feeling of firm reliance on their ability to fight their own battles would be certain to prove. it was not long before a tremendous crowd had gathered. boys who expected later on to go over to marshall stopped to take a last look at the eleven, and figure out the "dope" as to whether they looked like winners or "quitters." and in nearly every instance they went away firmly convinced that jack's team would give chester no reason to be ashamed. it seemed to be in the air that great things were about to happen for the old town, so newly awakened. perhaps the pleasing memory of how jack winters had led his nine to victory against both marshall and harmony during the late baseball season still lingered in their minds, to inspire fresh confidence. "well," doc speaker remarked, as he sat in a car with his folks, and surveyed the struggling throng gathered to wish the boys the best of luck, "one thing certain, sis, if anybody can bring marshall's scalp home tonight it's jack winters. no one seems to just know how it comes, but there's a certain magnetism about that fellow that goes clean through the bunch. you know leaders like napoleon and our own teddy roosevelt are born, not made. jack is built on that plan. other fellows who have made up their minds to dislike him, as i did at first, soon come under the magic spell of his nature, and end by believing he can do almost anything he tries. and so we are all firm in the belief he'll carry his team to a glorious victory that'll cause those harmony chaps to sit up and take notice, because of course every last one of them will be on deck today, to pick up points about our style of play, and see if our line shows any yellow spot." when finally the big carryall, run by a motor, started off, headed down with the eleven players, joe hooker, and the numerous substitutes, it did seem as though the town were deserted. several of the mills had even closed for the day in order to give their hands an opportunity to go across and help cheer for chester. the road all the way to marshall, distant something like ten miles, was filled with all manner of vehicles from a farm wagon and an oldtime buggy to the latest thing in seven-passenger cars. and had a stranger chanced to come upon that road he must have wondered what all the travel meant, possibly concluding that some late circus had come to a neighboring town, or else billy sunday was holding forth there to immense audiences. the nearer they drew to marshall the greater the congestion became. other roads leading into the town were likewise thronged with pedestrians, and every manner of vehicles. such a tremendous outpouring of the people, and not young folks alone, either, had never been known before. seeing such mobs the chester boys could not help feeling that they must acquit themselves with credit that day or be forever disgraced. in this grim frame of mind they finally reached the field where the battle of the young gladiators was scheduled to take place, to see a sight that would thrill anyone capable of being moved by such a spectacle. chapter x when the great game opened it must be marshall's great field day, that was evident. business would be almost suspended while the game was in progress, only the most necessary stores keeping open. the grandstand was already filled to overflowing, newly arrived crowds trying to find seats anywhere they could, but with small success. those who had the affair in charge must have underestimated the immense throng that would be attracted to the field by the fine fall weather, and the prospect of a rattling good game. as usually happens, the chester crowds kept pretty much together. they could be picked out as a rule by the swirl of waving school colors, for every chester girl and boy who had journeyed to marshall to see their team win the game, made sure to carry the favorite combination. of course marshall did likewise, and as this was their home town, they possibly outnumbered the chester young people two to one. what they lacked in numbers, however, the visitors seemed able to make up for in noise. from time to time songs rang out over the field, that carried the sentiments of the confident chester girls, over there with the sole purpose of encouraging their team to carry off the prize. at one place a large number of boys from the other town seemed to be gathered, and there was always something doing in that especial quarter. seated in the front rank was a lively little chap who carried a tremendous megaphone. this fellow was no other than the redoubtable packy mcgraw, chester's cheer captain, who had done such yeoman service during the baseball games in leading the pack to hurl defiance at the enemy, and to encourage the home boys in every way possible. when the humor seized packy, or some stage in the game made such action desirable, he would leap the barrier, and jumping up and down like a harlequin in front of the bleacher benches, start his cohort into a combined school yell that must make the hot blood leap through the veins of everyone who called chester his or her home town. it was really a most inspiring sight, that immense gathering of people, all filled with animation, and a desire to see one or the other of the contesting teams carry the ball to goal and touchdown, until the victory had been won. the best, of course, was yet to come, when, game being called, every eye would be riveted upon the figures in the arena, crouching like wildcats ready to bound into life in concert. while the necessary preliminaries were being attended to, and the players were under close surveillance, naturally much of the talk being indulged in was connected with their appearance. some seemed to be of the opinion that marshall looked much stronger in the way of beef and brawn. it was undoubtedly true that, taken as a whole, the home players did outweigh the visitors. this might prove of advantage to them in certain mass plays, where their machine could mow down all opposition through sheer avoirdupois. but, on the other hand, it is not always given to the heaviest team to win. speed counts for more than heft in many of the fiercest struggles that take place on the gridiron; and a fellow who can run like the wind, and dodge all interference, is more likely to bring his side success than the slower and more stocky individual who lacks this advantage. mollie skinner and her two chums sat there in the front row of the grandstand where they could have an uninterrupted view of everything that took place. they had come over very early, just to secure these splendid seats, sacrificing their customary warm lunch, it seemed, for each of them had brought a "snack" along, which they had calmly devoured while waiting for the crowds to assemble. they felt amply repaid, however, for they found themselves envied by many who came later, and could not find a vacant seat. from where they sat they could watch the two teams as they stood in clumps and chatted and laughed, doubtless trying to appear quite unconcerned, for they knew how a myriad of critical eyes must be focused on them just then. "well, what do you think of the boys now, mollie?" demanded lucy marsh, upon noticing that the little girl with the clever tongue was observing the players critically. "i tell you what's bothering me," mollie hastened to say. "it's that big bob jeffries." "why, what ails him?" asked adelaide in turn. "i always thought bob jeffries was to be depended on any time he was needed. remember how he played in those ball games, and with never an error. yes, and didn't he knock out more than a few dandy two-baggers, with men on bases? why should you be worried about him, mollie?" "really i don't know," came the puzzling reply; "only i've heard several people say they didn't believe big bob could be feeling himself. he's been acting queer lately. even fred badger admitted that to me when i quizzed him, though he hastened to say that so far it hadn't seemed to interfere with his playing, for he kept holding his own right along. but something seems to tell me that if we lose this game today it's going to be through some bungling play on his part." "listen, mollie," said lucy just then, "don't speak quite so loud, because bob's father and mother are just back of us, i've discovered." "well, that's a queer thing," said mollie, without even turning to look. "no one ever knew mr. jeffries to take the least interest in outdoor sports before. he must have waked up from his rip van winkle sleep, apparently. i even heard that he declined to contribute a dollar to the new gymnasium that some of the town people are building to satisfy the craving of the boys for physical exercise, saying he guessed boys ought to be able to thrive without all those costly adjuncts; that as a boy he had never found the need for anything of the sort, and that he didn't mean to squander his hard-earned money on any such nonsense." "well," put in adelaide holliday, "whoever told you that must have been poorly informed, or else there has been a sudden revolution in mr. jeffries' beliefs; because my father, who is one of the committee to raise funds to pay the first expense of fitting up the new gym, with all sorts of modern appliances, said just last night at supper that he had had a visit from mr. jeffries that afternoon, who asked how the subscription list was coming on, and upon learning that there was still a whole lot needed, handed in his check for a cool hundred dollars. he also told him that if they still fell short when settling things up, to call on him for an additional hundred." "you certainly surprise me, adelaide," said mollie, "but i'm glad to hear that bob's father has waked up at last to understand just what such things mean in a civilized, up-to-date community like chester. old things have passed away, it seems, and everybody who has any sense will get on the band wagon before he finds himself lonesome. but that doesn't ease my mind about our big fullback." "why, he seems to be just the same as ever to me, looking from here," expostulated lucy marsh. "yes, that's because of the excitement, and the fact that his folks are present," explained the doubting mollie. "i saw him wave his hand to his mother just then. all i can say is i hope he'll do himself credit. jack winters assured me there wasn't a weak link in the chain, and when i mentioned big bob to him he turned a little red, and hastened to say that he would be found doing his duty as he invariably had in the past. but, all the same, i tell you jack is a little nervous about him; i could read that in his face when he answered my question so hurriedly." "oh! look! they're going on the field, girls!" exclaimed adelaide just then, and all minor matters were allowed to rest while they watched the opposing players run out and start to take their positions. a tremendous salvo of cheers greeted their appearance on the gridiron, destined to be the battle ground on which they must struggle for supremacy, utilizing every ounce of strength, and backed up with such generalship as their chosen leaders could bring to bear. they were certainly a fine looking lot of youngsters, and those near and dear to them had a right to feel proud at that moment when the great game was about to open. the cheering died away as though by some prearranged signal; indeed, it is simply astonishing how during the progress of a game the volume of sound will suddenly break out like a hurricane, and then cease almost as abruptly, so that the whistle of the referee may be heard in its piercing intensity. as the young athletes lined up on the field they stood in the following order: chester fullback jeffries halfback halfback mullane winters (captain) quarterback hopkins end tackle guard center guard tackle end douglass badger hemming griffin mcguffey jackman jones marshall end tackle guard center guard tackle end smith everett o'toole needham (capt.) willets bennett haldy quarterback lighthart halfback halfback collins trowbridge fullback budge of course, as the sides faced each other the left end of chester, jones, found himself confronting the right end of marshall, haldy. and while the fullback bore the ominous name of budge, it was apparent from his bulky frame that this was just about the last thing he might be expected to do, for he looked as though a mountain would not move him. silence fell upon the vast throng. if anyone had ventured to speak above a whisper just at that critical moment, he would have found himself frowned upon by a dozen angry persons close by. out there in the arena the twenty-two contestants crouched in their favorite attitudes, and with nerves strained to the utmost, waited for the ball to be put in action. it was a picture never to be forgotten, and no wonder the eyes of the gathered multitude of spectators remained glued upon the motionless figures, looking like statues of famous gladiators in the arena waiting to battle before a nero, who by the crook of his thumb, either up or down, would seal their fate eventually one way or the other. then all at once there was a sudden concerted movement, every one of the players leaping into life; and from that moment on there would be something constantly doing. chapter xi the struggle on the gridiron when the struggle first began it looked as though the veteran marshall players meant to smother their lighter opponents by means of the sheer force of their attack. they immediately carried the ball over into chester's side of the field, and there was danger of a touchdown before the game had been in progress five minutes. during this period the chester spectators sat with a numb feeling clutching their hearts, though they tried their best to assume a confidence they could hardly feel. their boys were really novices at the business, and it was to be expected, they reasoned, trying to bolster up their waning courage, that at first things would hit the chester line hard. but just wait a bit, until they began to recover their wind, and jack winters was given a fair chance to unmask some of his hidden batteries. "he laughs longest who laughs last," was a saying with a good deal of truth behind it; and anyhow the game was very young yet. besides, marshall hadn't scored, after all, it seemed. a burst of applause broke out that seemed to almost shake the ground, such was its vigor. and apparently most of it came from the excited chester cohorts, though there were some impartial local admirers of the great game who could readily cheer a daring and brilliant play, no matter on which side it occurred. what had happened was just this: winters had carried the ball around the marshall end for a gain of thirty yards, and when he was finally downed it was far over on marshall ground. the tables had been suddenly turned, and now it was the home team that was forced to act on the defensive. another little gallop, on the part of joel jackman this time, gave chester additional gains, with the ball still safe in their possession. as this evidence of the recuperative power of the new chester machine was discovered, it seemed as though the vast crowd would go crazy with delight. even the local rooters grinned their happiness. "well! well! well! they _can_ do something worth while!" one marshall student was heard to call out, as though he were indeed surprised. "why, bless my soul, we're going to see a real game after all, and not a walkaway." "you needn't worry," snapped a chester boy close by, full of ginger, and ready to stand up for his colors all the time; "we've got a pretty nest of tricks ready to unload on your fellows. just keep your eye on chester, green, and don't worry. plenty of time for that after the game is finished, and you hear the real chester yell!" next fred badger, given the signal, seized upon the ball when it was snapped to him, and actually smashed his way through left tackle for another gain of twelve yards. his action had evidently taken the marshall fellows off guard, for they must have anticipated a renewal of the drive around the ends. now they were well over on enemy territory, and for the first time in the game a cry began to arise for a touchdown, that only students hungry for a touchdown can emit. louder and more insistent it grew in volume as the players began to settle back again for a renewal of the desperate tussle. even many marshall fellows took part in the demand, for, as they loudly proclaimed, it would make the game much more interesting if their team had a handicap in the start to fight against, since they always did their best work when forced to exert themselves, and come up from behind. well, if they were really sincere about it they had their wish speedily gratified. hardly were the players in motion again than a single figure was seen streaking in like wildfire past the struggling mass, and heading deeper into marshall territory as though determined that this time nothing should prevent a score. it was mullane, the left halfback! as a rule, steve could hardly be called a genuine sprinter, and doubtless that was just why jack had selected him for this special occasion, for the lighter fellows would of course be under suspicion, and interference focussed on their actions. there was pursuit, of course, and it could be seen that bennett and haldy were rapidly overtaking the fugitive. such a wild howl as went up all over the field at this thrilling stage of the game! mullane dared not look back over his shoulder. by mere instinct alone he understood just what was happening, and how from several quarters marshall players were closing in on him. perhaps he fancied he could even hear their panting just behind him. it must have nerved steve as nothing else could have done. he knew that he was on the verge of immortal fame, even though he might not secure the coveted touchdown that the mob was now shouting for so hungrily. it is just such a situation as this that makes a fellow bring to the front hitherto unsuspected energies. steve certainly never in all his life ran like he did on that particular occasion. why, some of the delighted chester boys boasted that he fairly _flew_, as though he had wings suddenly developed; though of course those light-footed pursuers came even faster. then, just when bennett hurled himself to drag steve down, by a mighty effort the chester boy threw his body forward, and fell on his face, with the ball gripped fiercely in his hands _over the line!_ when this wonderful fact became evident to the crowd, as it did like magic, the air was rent with mad cheers. everybody jumped up to wave their hands, school colors, and handkerchiefs; while amidst the terrific din a hundred hats soared heavenward, to be reckoned with afterwards by their reckless and excited owners. it was a clean touch down for chester! first blood had after all come to the visitors. the marshall players began to look more serious. after all, then, it was not destined to be such a "soft snap" as some of them had made out to believe. they had better gird themselves, and start in to do something on their own account. these chester fellows could play the game, it seemed, for all there was in it. visions of possible defeat spurred the locals on to increasing their pressure. they remembered that jack winters led those hosts from the rival town; and in the baseball session he had demonstrated what a menace he could be to any opponent. besides, it must not be forgotten that chester had had the advice and coaching of a veteran college player, who had kept his finger on the pulse of the football world, even though he had been actually out of the real struggle for years. the kick for goal after the touchdown proved futile. either the distance was too great, or else a slant of the wind caused the ball to miss its mark, much to the regret of mcguffey, who had qualified for that honor. jack determined that if another like opportunity occurred he would depend on sturdy big bob jeffries. now that the thing was done, he realized that this was his first mistake thus far. but the score was five to nothing, and the fight still on marshall's lines. it might be possible to duplicate the performance, and still further push the home players down in the mud. marshall, however, was now nettled. the sting of that easy touchdown was like the goad to a lazy horse. the whole line quickened, and during the remainder of the first period they forced the fighting over into chester territory. indeed, after a number of downs, and a close call from having a touchdown scored upon them, chester only barely managed to hold the hungry enemy at bay until the referee's whistle announced that the first period had expired. during the few minutes between the end of the first quarter and the renewal of activities, there was much buzzing of tongues all over the grandstand. everybody seemed to be talking at once; and of course the three girl chums from chester had to have their brief say. "wasn't it a grand sight, though, to see steve mullane carrying the pigskin oval across the line?" exclaimed lucy marsh, her eyes snapping in her delight. "girls, after all, i've decided that i'll attend that barn dance thanksgiving night out at the badgeley farm with steve. you see, four fellows have asked me, and i hardly knew which one i wanted to accept; but after what steve has done to cheer up chester this day, of course i couldn't decline his invitation." "but please don't say that steve did it all!" spoke up mollie skinner, quickly. "he was only one in the chain, remember, though deserving of great praise for beating those fast runners, and falling across the line with the ball just in time. i noticed that fred badger made a distinct gain, without which steve never could have reaped his reward. some are given to plant, others to water, but the fortunate one is able to reap the harvest of cheers. it's hardly fair; fred, yes, and joel jackman, too, deserves a share in the applause, for they made that touchdown possible." "there's glory enough for all," said adelaide, wisely, to settle the question in a common-sense way. "every fellow on the team, from jack winters down, had a share in that play; for you must have noticed that they interfered and shut off much of the pursuit so that the nearest marshall boys could not hold steve when he started his plunge." "well, there they are at it again, girls, and what a dandy kick-off that was! oh! i hope chester still holds the advantage when this period ends." lucy's devout wish seemed without avail, for the fighting soon surged over on chester territory, with the heavy marshall machine pushing its way remorselessly forward yard by yard. before six minutes had passed they had scored a safety from their opponents, giving them two points to start with. then came a furious struggle ending in a goal being kicked from field that netted marshall just three points; and as the period finally came to an end they were threatening a repetition of this same system of tactics. during the intermission marshall made two changes in their line-up, it being discovered that there were weak links in their chain. chester had thus far fortunately escaped any serious accidents, and jack did not give any of the eager substitutes a chance to show what they had in them, though they were ready to jump in at a word. jack now saw it was true concerning the ability of several marshall players to kick amazing field goals, and he realized that it must be his policy after this to try to keep the situation from developing along those lines, and debar them from such opportunities as much as possible. with the starting of hostilities again the play began to center around midfield. now it was chester in possession of the ball, and then like magic it passed into the hands of the locals. half-way through the quarter the tide surged back on to chester territory, with all that brawn thrown upon them. speedily came a touchdown for marshall, but the kick for goal missed connections by a foot. when but two minutes remained for a recovery there came a series of brilliant forward passes on the part of chester, followed by steady gains, until just as the last minute was starting, jack gave the signal that brought about a brilliant play, following which jones, the left end, ran swiftly around and planted the ball across the line for another touchdown. a kick for goal failed to score, and as the whistle of the referee announced that the quarter had come to an end, a mighty howl arose from thousands of throats, while the whole grandstand and field seemed to fairly blaze with innumerable waving flags and pennants and all manner of such objects. for with the game threequarters finished the score was actually a tie, being ten to ten! chapter xii glory enough for all the stage was now set for the deciding quarter of the game. many already began to talk of the result being a tie that would necessitate another test of skill and endurance. marshall admirers, however, scoffed at such a thing. they tried to make out that thus far their veteran team had only been trifling with the fellows from the rival town. now that it had reached this stage they were bound to show their real form, and snow poor chester under. but somehow this line of talk failed to frighten those who wore the colors of the visiting team. what they had seen convinced them that their faith was in good hands. jack winters had yet to go down to defeat since he took charge of outdoor sports in chester, barring that one fight with harmony in baseball. no doubt he had managed to inspire his players with some of his own indomitable energy and never-give-up spirit. so play was resumed where it had been left off, and almost immediately the rival teams were at work, "hammer and tongs," as one gentleman described it. brilliant plays followed in rapid succession, each accompanied by a burst of applause, which was, however, instantly stilled, as though the crowd understood instinctively how it was necessary that they remain hushed in order that the leaders' signals, and the whistle of the referee, so frequently sounding, might be plainly heard by those who fought in the arena. after a successful plunge marshall lost the ball on downs. a punting duel followed, with the advantage slightly in favor of marshall, though both mullane and jeffries managed to hold up their end with considerable honor. then came a furious attack on the part of the locals that carried chester well off its feet. before they could rally to ward off the blow, a touchdown resulted, though again the kick for goal failed, owing to the flukey wind, as some of the chagrined marshall players hastened to explain. it began to look serious for the visitors, with marshall again in the lead. time was a factor to be counted on now in deciding matters. all marshall had to do was to hold their opponents, and they would win. of course the desire to add to their score would always tempt them to strive further; and this might give chester the opening needed. jack sent the word around for a supreme effort. he felt that they were capable again of turning the tables on the enemy, despite the fact of their superior heft and experience. when fred, joel, and the balance of the boys got that signal they realized how it was now up to them to play like demons. they had apparently been doing the best that was in them hitherto; but strange to say there always seems to be just a little more vim and snap in a football player's make-up that can be summoned to the fore when a desperate situation arises. all those devoted admirers who had traveled across to marshall to see them do the old town credit must not be disappointed, if it lay in human endurance to wrest victory from impending defeat. so spurred on by this incentive, and with their opponents resting under the belief that they had the game already "sewed up," by reason of that last touchdown, jack's warriors exerted additional pressure, and bent the line back until they were fighting on marshall territory, grimly pressing on a few yards at a time without a single fumble. it was thrilling to see how like inexorable fate they continued to push forward, despite the frantic efforts of the locals to head them off. again was the crowd on its feet, every eye fastened on the struggling mass of players. hearts beat high with renewed hope among those chester onlookers. they realized that this was to be the crowning episode in all the long and bitter contest, when jack winters would bring every particle of skill and endurance he could command in his fighting eleven to tear off a victory before the time had expired. how desperately captain needham rallied his players to the defense! it seemed as though they stood like a stone-wall against the rashes of the visitors; and yet in spite of everything chester managed to continue gaining. now it was by a clever swing around the end; again it was a mass play that tore through the center, and took the ball well along for perhaps five or six yards before the runaway was downed. chester still had the ball, and that was the encouraging feature of it all; chester meant to hang on to the ball like grim death until the golden opportunity came to try for a touchdown that would once again even up the score, now in marshall's favor by five points. there was no talking going on now in the grandstand. everyone was too much worked up for such a thing. besides, what with the outbursts of spasmodic cheering, instantly quenched, and the necessity for silence between times, no opportunity for exchanging opinions offered. many had their watches out and were casting apprehensive glances at the dials. there remained much less than two minutes of time. then the referee's whistle must sound to indicate that the game was finally over. could chester redeem that loss of a touchdown against such strenuous opposition as those marshall fellows were now putting up? even the most sanguine began to feel doubts gripping their faithful hearts. the boys were doing well, much better than anyone had ever believed possible; but, of course, the gruelling pace must be beginning to tell upon them. they were not seasoned veterans like most of the marshall fellows; and in such a long and bitterly fought battle on the gridiron experience counts in the last round. and yet they were still pushing ahead. it was wonderful, grand! how the sight did thrill some of those who years back may themselves have taken part in similar struggles, when in college, or attending a high school; and what vivid memories it must have called to mind as they stood there, holding their very breath, and drinking in the ever changing picture! if anything was going to be done, there was certainly no more time to lose, for really but a part of a minute still remained. it looked as though, despite their gallant fight, the boys from chester were doomed to be held back from the victory, or the tie, that was so near. then something happened. a gasp seemed to pass over the throng. scurrying figures on the field announced that the expected was being carried out. chester was making a last desperate effort for a touchdown. it would be the expiring flicker of the flame; for whether successful or not it must mark the end, since the referee would be blowing his whistle before play could be resumed. they saw a figure shoot out ahead of all the rest. why, what was this--could it be winters, the halfback, who had the ball, when many had distinctly seen it just a second before in the possession of fred badger? the pass had been so cleverly executed that not only had the spectators almost to a man been deceived, but the marshall players themselves were confused, and in this way last much of their effectiveness. fast upon the heels of the flying halfback two marshall players came dashing; but they might as well have hoped to catch the wind in a sixty-mile gale as overtake that speedy runner. it was as though jack had reserved his best powers for this special occasion. he saw just where he meant to hurl himself over the line, and clutch that envied touchdown. had a dozen followed he would have distanced them every one, such was his mettle just then. he seemed endowed with supernatural speed, many who stared and held their breath believed. then a roar went up that dwarfed all that had gone before. jack was over, and had thrown himself, still grasping the ball, for the touchdown that tied the score! hardly had this happened when the shrill whistle of the referee announced that the fourth and concluding quarter had ended. "a tie! a tie!" shrilled hundreds of excited voices. "hold on there, you're away off!" others called out, making frantic gestures as they shouted these words. "don't you see the umpire using his megaphone, and that referee, head linesman, and field judge are waving their arms? keep quiet, everybody! they've got a communication to make. perhaps the game isn't _quite_ over yet!" by degrees the uproar quieted down, when it was generally discovered that the umpire had an important communication to make. evidently the players understood just what its nature was going to be, for while the chester boys looked eager and expectant, those on the marshall side bore an air of despondency. "according to the rules of the game, as set down in the official guide," shouted the umpire through his megaphone, so that everybody was able to hear all he had to say, "when a touchdown is made just as play closes for the fourth period an extension of time is to be granted the side making the same, to try for a kick for goal. so chester is now at liberty to make that try. if it fails, the score remains a tie; if successful, of course the game goes to chester. please everybody remain quiet until the test has been made." this time jack made no mistake. he beckoned to big bob jeffries to try for goal. it was an oblique slant, and only a clever kicker could succeed, with that baffling wind against him. big bob looked once in the direction of the grandstand as if to draw inspiration. most people believed he must know some girl, whose encouragement he sought; but mollie and lucy and adelaide did not venture to take such honor to themselves. a little modest woman sat behind them, and it was her eyes moist with tears of pride that inspired big bob jeffries when he strode up to win, or know the reason why--his mother sat there! well, when the "punk" was heard, every eye followed the sailing ball. it seemed to sag to one side, then again took on a true course, as though guided by some invisible hands. as it was seen to drop squarely over the bar between the posts the crowd broke into frenzied shouts. chester had won by a single point! that last kick for goal after jack had saved the day by his touchdown, had done the business; and the happy visitors could go back home feeling they had a reason to be proud of the scrappy eleven that represented their town on the gridiron. the final score was 16 to 15. chapter xiii when the red fire burned in chester it was such a great victory that the boys of chester laid plans to celebrate by making a night of it, just as they always do in college towns, when the local team brings home high honors, to be handed down to posterity as great feats worthy of emulation. on the way back home every fellow in the big carryall promised to come out and join the parade that must circle through every street in town. it would be led by a brass band, and they would march to the glare of numerous bonfires, which of course the younger element could be depended on to furnish. they had already doubtless taken note of every old vegetable barrel that grocers unwittingly left outdoors nights, as well as a few tar barrels in addition, all of which would help make the heavens turn red under the glare, and add to the joyous occasion. jack tried to back out, but his mates would accept no excuses. "you're no more tired than the rest of the bunch, jack," toby told him; "and say, what is a victorious procession going to be like, anyway, with the noblest roman of them all absent? you are the captain of the football squad, and everybody'll expect you to be in the front rank. just forget all your modesty for once, jack, and make up your mind to have a grand blowout." "we certainly deserve it," snapped joel jack-man, "after putting up such a royal fight against desperate odds. why, when it drew near the end i warrant you even the most loyal among our rooters began to turn cold with fear that chester would be left out in the count. but didn't packy mcgraw and his crowd sing loud, though? that's what a cheer captain can do for his side. every time i heard them give that chester yell it seemed to put fresh heart in me." "'course you've just got to come out, jack," protested steve. "why, we'll gather around your shack and keep on yelling bloody murder if you refuse, until your folks will show you the door. we want you, and we've got to have you." so, to "keep peace in the family," as jack laughingly explained, he consented, although with a shade of doubt. "keep things within reason, fellows," he urged them. "don't let's be too crazy with our success. it's true that we've done our town credit today, and made old joe hooker happier than he's been for years, because he believed in us to the end; but let's hold ourselves in some." "it only happens once a year, as a rule, jack," said toby hopkins, exultantly; "and my stars! we've just _got_ to blow off steam after that great time, or bust, that's all." later on, after night had fully set in, the racket commenced. small boys began to set off firecrackers and fourth of july pistols loaded with blanks. here and there the first bonfires started, until one could hardly look up and down any street in chester without discovering one or more burning, with a host of busy little stokers clustering around, and adding fresh fuel to the flames as new stores were brought in by industrious scouts and raiders. it was a wise citizen who, having an ash barrel setting in his yard, had had the forethought to remove it to a place of safety; for the chances were decidedly against its being found in its accustomed spot when dawn came along. jack met big bob while on his way to the appointed rendezvous of the football boys, where smiling joe hooker had also agreed to join them for the parade. indeed, he had a suspicion that bob had come out of his way in the hope of finding him at home. this was proven by the first words the other spoke. "well, this is luck, jack," said bob, as he saw, by the light of a street lamp, whom he had run across. "i was on my way around to make sure you'd come out and join the boys. then, again, i just wanted to have a few words with you about--you know what i mean, jack." "has anything happened, bob?" asked the other, quickly. "if you mean has the mystery been cleared up, i'm sorry to tell you no," big bob replied. "but there has been a great change in my home affairs, jack. it's really wonderful, to me anyhow, because all my life it seems that my father has held me at arms' lengths. why, jack, what do you think, when i got home tonight, dirty as anything, and with this bruise on my cheek where i struck the ground that time we had the big smash, would you believe it, he actually shook my hand with a vim, and told me he was proud of me. why, i tell you that was worth all i did in my humble capacity, to help win the victory, yes, a dozen times over." jack did not laugh, although it seemed very humorous to hear a boy make such a strange statement as that. why, most fathers would have said that much and ten times over; indeed, few could ever have allowed such a gap of coldness to arise between themselves and their own children. it was high time mr. jeffries awoke to a realization of the fact that he had a boy of whom any father might well be proud. yes, he had shirked his duty as a parent long enough; and jack was glad to know the scales were being lifted from his eyes. to himself jack was saying that already it seemed as though great good was coming out of big bob's misfortune. what would a dozen lost letters count in comparison with the knowledge that his father had begun to know him, and that the gulf hitherto existing between them was in a fair way of being definitely bridged? "it's strange how suddenly your father has become interested in boys' sports, bob," he went on to tell the other. "i happened to run across mr. holliday this morning after i saw you, and he told me something that interested me a good deal." "about my dad, do you mean, jack?" "yes, about him, bob. did you ever know he had contributed money toward paying off what is still due on the new gymnasium? you know mr. holliday is the chairman of the citizens' committee that has the financial end of the undertaking in charge." "do you really mean it, jack? my father give money for such a project as that, when i've heard him say many a time that i was wasting every cent i put in baseball togs and such things; and that when he was a boy they had only a pair of skates, or a home-made sled, to have sport with. tell me more, jack, please; you've got me all in a flutter now." "oh! mr. holliday, adelaide's father, you know, simply said that mr. jeffries had awakened at last to a realization of how much athletic sports mean for the health of all boys who love to play ball, and skate, and exercise in a gymnasium, for he had come into his office of his own accord, planked down one hundred dollars in a check, and told the chairman that if when they were making up their tally the funds fell shy to call upon him for another like amount!" big bob gasped, such, was his surprise and delight. he fairly bubbled over when grasping jack's hand and squeezing it unmercifully. "thank you for telling me that, jack!" he cried. "it's certainly the best thing i've heard this many a long day. i thought i was happy over having had a share in our victory today; but say, that doesn't cut a figure with the way i am thrilled by such glorious news. it means a whole lot to me, jack. after this i'll have a chance to know my father, and he to understand me better. oh! if only that one dark cloud could be settled, how happy i'd be! did that letter go across to england, or was it lost out of my pocket on that fatal occasion when i forgot?" jack, knowing that he could not say anything more to comfort big bob, tried to relieve the tension by drawing the other's attention to something else. "we must devote ourselves from now on, bob, to perfecting a new line of attack," he went on to say. "every member of the harmony squad was there in the front row, and simply devouring our methods of assault. depend on it, they will expect to profit from what they saw today." "that's a sort of unfair advantage, it strikes me, jack, since we on our part know so little about their style of play. none of us has seen them practice this season; and i heard that they had completely altered their mode of attack and defense since last year." "all right, we're going to be given a chance to learn something between now and our thanksgiving game; because, bob, as you must know, harmony and marshall are due for a fight next saturday, the one before the day we get busy again." bob gave a pleased cry. "why, of course, how silly of me to forget that important fact, jack! and, to be sure, the whole chester football squad will be bunched close to the line, watching every play that is made, and remembering it for future reference. do you think they will down poor old marshall easier than we did?" "they ought to," came the reply, "because they have a team that works like a well-oiled machine, i've been told. but wait and see. lots of sure things in football dope fail to work out when the trial comes off. i've known a team that ran ten pounds heavier all through to be smartly beaten by a more lively bunch, that knew just how to carry the giants off their feet, and keep them from using their great strength. but here we are at the church, and most of the boys seem to be on hand." it had, of course, been agreed that none of the boys should discard their football togs, though given the liberty of washing up, and making themselves a little more respectable. what would a lot of victors on the gridiron look like in a procession, passing shouting crowds of enthusiastic admirers, if they appeared dressed as if on a sunday parade? old joe hooker was also present, bubbling over with joy over the success his proteges had won that afternoon. he freely predicted another strong fight, with a possible victory in sight, when they faced the tigers of harmony on thanksgiving morning. in due time the procession started. crowds were in all the main streets, and windows in adjacent houses had been illuminated in honor of the occasion. chester assumed a really festive air, and what with the mad cheering, and the loud laughter, it soon became evident that there was to be little sleep for anyone until the boys had exhausted themselves, and the supply of barrels, as well as fire-crackers, gave out. despite his objections they hoisted jack on the shoulders of steve mullane and big bob jeffries, to lead the van. then, as though it were only fitting that good old joe hooker should share in the occasion, he too was taken in hand, and carried in a chair close to jack. amidst whooping crowds they passed, so that everybody might have a chance to set eyes on the pair whom chester honored that night; while the explosions continued and the red fire burned in the streets. but it was fated that the glorious day was not to be complete without a touch of tragedy, for along about nine o'clock, when the rioters were beginning to feel too tired to continue the march much longer, and people were returning to their homes in great numbers, a sudden sound rang out that sent a thrill through many hearts. this was the loud, harsh clang of the fire-bell, telling that a real conflagration was about to add its quota to the excitement of the afternoon and evening. chapter xiv what followed the celebration "hey! boys, listen to that, will you? has the fire-engine company started to join in the celebration?" whooped phil parker, who was along with the rest, though barred from the football squad because of an injury to his leg, and also positive orders from headquarters at home to avoid all strenuous sports for some months. "not much they haven't, phil!" cried joel jackman, showing signs of growing excitement. "nothing make-believe about that alarm, let me tell you. there's a genuine fire broken out somewhere around town!" "just as like as not some of those reckless kids with their bonfires have gone and done it!" ventured steve mullane, indignantly; "and now the people will begin to say how foolish it was to give up the town to this wild orgy of celebration, just because the boys of chester won a game." "listen, will you?" exclaimed still another of the bunch, as they stood there with strained ears, and at the same time casting apprehensive glances around, as though each individual fellow had a haunting dread lest it might turn out to be his own comfortable home that was threatened with destruction. "going to be some fire, let me tell you," snapped fred badger, "with the wind blowing as strong as it does." "there, look over yonder, boys, just beyond the spire of the presbyterian church! don't you think it's showing brighter in that quarter? yes, sir, the fire lies over that way, as sure as anything!" "let's gallop along, then," suggested toby hopkins impulsively. "no telling when the volunteer firemen will get there, they seem so slow about gathering, and running their old machine to a blaze. thank goodness! we've decided to have an up-to-date fire department in little old chester right away. our town has waked up from her long sleep, and is beginning to stretch and yawn." they were already in motion before toby reached the end of his speech, running in pretty much of a bunch; just as though it might be a game of hare-and-hounds that was being started, and the signal had been given to take up the pursuit. as they dashed along at quite a good speed, the boys could hear cries of interest on all sides. people who had retired to their homes, under the belief that the exciting night's doings were about over, now stood in open doorways. questions were flung at the boys as they rushed by, the burden of these anxious inquiries being as to the location of the fire. of course, as they themselves were still densely ignorant concerning this, none of the bunch could give any coherent answer; though one might fling over his shoulder some reassuring words such as: "don't know exactly; but it doesn't seem to be in the mill section!" doubtless that brought a sense of relief, for whenever there sprang up a fire in chester the first fear of everybody was that it might be among the fine structures clustered closely together, and consisting of various busy mills and workshops employing hundreds of persons. it was a fit night for a big fire, others thought, as they noted how the november wind scurried along with a keen tang, as though the first fall of snow might yet surprise the unsuspecting who may not as yet have laid in their usual winter's supply of coal and wood. that same wind was just bound to contribute to the fire-laddies' troubles, if the conflagration managed to get a fair start, and other buildings chanced to be close to the one that was burning. chester was rather spread out, and covered considerable ground, for it had taken on quite a building boom during the last few years, when new enterprises were started, and more people came to town. there was no question now but that the boys, hurrying along as they did, were on the right road to the fire. they overtook others bound in the same direction; and as if this were not enough proof to settle the question, they could see that a great light was beginning to flame up, making the sky glow. "bet you it's only a grass fire after all!" jones, the left-end gasped, as he ran lightly along close beside hemming, the right guard, who had also been a substitute catcher in the baseball days when steve mullane held out behind the bat like a stone wall. "i'd say it was a barn full of hay going up the flue," the other ventured. no doubt every fellow was hazarding some sort of guess. none of them felt any further personal fear, because they now knew that the blaze was in a section where their homes did not chance to be situated. "whee! get that flash of fire, will you?" shouted big bob jeffries, who, despite his heft, managed to keep in the van alongside jack and joel and several other fast runners. all of them had seen it. through the darkness of the night a tongue of flame had suddenly shot up, and then vanished again; but not before they could notice that dense volumes of smoke hung around the spot. "what place is it?" called out mcguffey, from the centre of the bunch; "does anybody know?" "i wouldn't be a bit surprised if it turned out to be that crabbed old miser, philip adkins' big house!" ventured joel; who had often come around this way on his wheel on errands, and ought to be as well acquainted with the locality as anyone, it would seem. "right for you, joel; that's just whose house it is!" echoed another boy, as well as he could utter the words, considering that he was already beginning to get short of breath. they all knew of philip adkins, who had long been quite a character about chester. he was said to be quite well-to-do, though those who called him a millionaire were doubtless "drawing the long bow," as people always do whenever the wealth of a miser is under consideration. philip adkins lived in a big house that was unpainted; but those who had had the opportunity of seeing the inside always said he did not stint himself in the way of comfort at all, and that he was only a "peculiar" man. he had one great grudge against the world it seemed. other boys were straight and healthy, but for some unaccountable reason heaven had seen fit to give him a crippled grandson. little carl adkins was a pitiable looking object. they sometimes saw him shut up in a closed carriage, and being whisked through the town; but few had ever been able to pass a word with the poor boy. these reported that he was really bright, and had a woe-begone look on his drawn white face, as though his life had known little of joy. his grandfather hated the sight of other lads, because they reminded him that his boy had none of their abounding health and good looks. he loved the child almost fiercely, partly on account of the boy's misfortune. they said he kept a servant whose main duties were just to attend to little crippled carl. jack remembered an occasion when by sheer accident he had chanced to be passing close to the property of the so-called miser, when he heard a soft "hello, there!" and glancing up discovered a white, peaked face amidst some vines covering a stone wall. he had heard something about the strange habits of philip adkins, and how jealously he guarded his deformed grandson from coming in contact with the outside world, under the belief that people would pity the lad, and some be rude enough to mock his misfortunes. jack had stopped and given the little fellow a friendly smile. he had even spoken to carl, and when the boy eagerly answered him, entered into quite an animated little chat, replying to many feverish questions the other poured out, mostly concerning the things he knew other boys did, for he was a great reader, that being his one enjoyment. although their little talk was broken off by the sudden coming of the man-servant who looked after the crippled boy, jack had never forgotten the last words carl spoke to him: "oh! what wouldn't i give if grandfather would let me just _watch_ other boys play ball, and fish, and go in swimming!" jack had somehow never told any one of his little encounter with the crippled boy, but those plaintive words often rang in his ears. he had even wondered sometimes whether it would do any good if he should seek an interview with the crabbed, cross-grained old man, and try to persuade him to change his belief that he was doing right in sheltering the cripple from a rude world. but up to the present jack had not been able to make up his mind to attempt such a bold thing. and now, what if it turned out that this was the house that was afire, possibly set ablaze through some spark that had been carried by the wind, and lodged where it could communicate to some waste material. a peculiar sense of "coming events casting a shadow before" assailed jack. he had a vague idea that there might prove to be more about this than mere accident. sometimes a strange "destiny shapes our ends," he remembered reading, "rough-hew them as we may." mr. adkins had determined that his poor grandson, whom he passionately loved, should be sheltered from stinging criticism, and not allowed to mingle with his kind; but perhaps a power stronger than his will might take affairs in hand, to guide him along a new path, as his eyes were opened to the light. there was now no longer any doubt concerning the identity of the doomed structure. joel loudly declared it to be the adkins house, beyond question. "and let me tell you, fellows, it's going to be a tough job for our firemen to save any part of the old building, because the blaze has got such a good start i reckon old philip will have to put up a really modern house in place of the old rookery." "he's got the cold cash to do it, boodles of the stuff!" panted phil parker. the adkins house was surrounded with fair-sized grounds, in which no doubt the little prisoner took his daily constitutionals, crutches in hand, though his world must indeed have seemed exceedingly small to the poor chap. the gate was now open, and people pouring in through the gap, all expressing a great interest in the prospect of any part of the structure being saved. "but you can depend on it the old fellow has got it well insured," one man was saying to another as they pushed through the opening. "trust old philip for always looking out for the safe side. but she'll make a big blaze before they manage to get enough water going to smother the flames." just then the boys pushing closer toward the house that stood amidst clouds of billowing smoke saw some one rushing frantically about. it was old philip adkins himself, and he certainly looked almost crazed with excitement. at first, as was only natural, the boys rested under the belief that it was the possible loss of his house and its contents that made him act so wildly; but when they heard what he was shrieking they realized that he had good cause for acting so. "oh! won't some of you _please_ go in and save my poor boy? i believed his attendant was with him, and had carried carl out; but the man had slipped away after putting his charge to bed, and was over in town, amusing himself in a tavern, i've just found out. save the poor child, and name your own reward, for i'll go mad if anything happens to my boy!" chapter xv in the burning house something must have happened to delay the coming of the firemen, for as a rule they were prompt to reach the scene. possibly their engine had broken down again, as had happened once before; which accident caused such a talk that public sentiment was aroused, with the result that a new, modern auto-engine was ordered, and a paid department arranged for. "look here, boys, we ought to do something about this!" exclaimed jack winters, thrilled with what he had heard the sobbing old man cry out. philip adkins turned toward him frantically. he certainly did not hate boys just at that moment in his life, when it seemed that perhaps he would have to depend on them for the help he was demanding. "oh! don't lose any time, i beg of you!" he cried. "i tried to rush indoors myself, but some men caught hold of me, and said i'd surely smother in the smoke. if i thought my poor carl was lost, nothing could keep me from going in. save my boy for me, and any favor you ask will be granted; but hurry! hurry, or it will be too late!" jack saw that the old man was wild with fear. he reached out and took hold of him by the arm. "get a grip on yourself, mr. adkins," he said, in that steady voice of his that generally acted so soothingly on those whom jack addressed. "we'll try to get him out for you. but first tell me where his room is?" "upstairs at the first turn; but the hallway is full of smoke by now, and oh! i even fear the fire has reached there!" cried the old man, wringing his hands pitifully as he spoke. "try to point out the window of his room to me!" continued jack, steadily. eagerly mr. adkins consented to do so, even dragging the boy around with him as he thrust up a hand and with trembling finger pointed upward. "that one you see with the sash lowered. we try to keep him from any chilly draughts. when you push up the front stairs you must turn to the left, and enter the small passage. don't lose any more time, or it will be too late! go! please go!" "we might make a human chain, and push up the stairs that way," suggested phil parker. "then, even if one fellow does get dizzy inhaling all that terrible smoke he won't be apt to drop down. jack could be at the end of the chain, always pushing ahead as we added on to it here at the open door!" some of the others seemed to think that a pretty clever idea, judging from the exclamations that arose all around. but jack believed he knew what might be a safer way than the scheme thus proposed. "hold on," he told the others, "i've got an idea that beats yours all hollow, phil. leave it to me, fellows." with that jack sprang forward. "i understand what he's got in his head!" cried toby hopkins. "it's the grape-arbor! don't you see it lies just under that window. fact is, a fellow can climb right up to the sash as easy as anything." "bully boy, jack; you know how to manage it all right!" exclaimed steve, admiringly, though truth to tell he had never once doubted but that jack would discover a means to the end, as he nearly always did. jack was climbing fast. he knew that in a case like this seconds count. that pungent wood smoke was a terrible thing, and if carl lay helpless at its mercy for a given period of time the chances were no power on earth could restore the little cripple to life; for his constitution was far from robust at the best, and consequently he must succumb much more speedily than would a stronger boy. beaching the top of the arbor jack started to crawl along the bars heading toward the window. he had already arranged his simple plan of campaign. there was indeed only one thing he could do, which was to enter the room, and finding the lad manage in some fashion to get him to the window, and down to the ground. "be ready down there when i want your help!" he shouted to the rest of the gang; for what with the loud cries of new arrivals and the crackling of the flames close by it was necessary to raise one's voice in order to be heard. one look downward jack took just before he arrived at the side of the house. it was light enough now to see easily, for the fire had broken through, and the entire grounds seemed illuminated with the glow. he saw the faces of his numerous comrades turned upward toward him, intently watching his progress. and others had gathered around, too, intensely interested in the outcome of the affair; for they realized that it was a rescue that the football player had in hand. there amidst the rest jack picked out the weazened-up face of the old man. he would never so long as he lived forget that, there was such a world of apprehension, of piteous appeal in the look old philip adkins was bending upon him; as though all his remaining hopes of a little happiness in this world centered now upon the gallant boy who had undertaken to save his carl. then jack reached the side of the house. it felt warm to his touch, a fact that gave him a sudden fear that the worst might have happened to the crippled boy beyond the window. one effort he made to raise the sash, but it seemed stuck, or else was locked. there was no time for halfway measures, and accordingly jack, tearing loose a broken section of a wooden bar that formed part of the top of the trellis, smashed the window with several blows, after warning those below to get from under. he took pains to clear the sash from any projecting fingers of glass that might have given him trouble in the shape of severe cuts. then without another glance at the spectators gathered below the boy proceeded to crawl swiftly through the opening, heedless alike of the smoke that was oozing forth in thick volumes, or the possibility of his striking the fire itself, once he had entered the house. they saw his heels vanish through the gap. something like a gasp arose from some of the gathered crowd, constantly augmented as fresh arrivals came running up, to ask what had happened, and who it was they saw entering through that window. some seemed to consider it a rash thing to do. these for the most part were women who had not yet grasped the fact that jack was not risking his life out of sheer bravado, but that it was believed the poor little cripple had been abandoned in his room through mistake, and it was jack's intention to save him if he could. then their opinions changed like magic, for their hearts filled with sympathy. even the sobbing old man became an object of pity, though up to then few in the crowd had been heard to express any sorrow because it was philip adkins' house that was afire. this was owing to his unpopularity in chester, where he never gave to any charitable object, or for that matter even treated folks decently in his bitterness toward all mankind because his poor boy was so deformed, and stricken by a cruel fate. the football boys, however, felt none of those fears. they knew jack winters' ways, and that he always did what he attempted, if it lay within the range of human possibilities. although he had gone from their sight they continued to stand there in a bunch, ready to catch the child if jack dropped him from the window. one there was who did not seem content to just stand and wait. joel jackman was built upon too nervous lines for that; and just as soon as he had seen the last of jack through the broken window he started up after his leader. some of the other fellows called to him to come back, but joel knew what he was about, and gave no heed to their cries. jack might need help, he argued with himself, and in that case his arm would come in handy. there was surely enough of them below to do all that was necessary, so that his absence would not count for much. and after all perhaps joel would prove to be right in his surmise. meanwhile jack had entered the room. he found it full of pungent smoke that filled his eyes, and made them smart in a way that was almost unbearable. of course under such conditions he could not distinguish a single thing, and would have to depend on groping his way around. but it could not be a very large apartment, he figured, and the bed on which little crippled carl lay must be against the wall. so he immediately started to go the rounds, feeling with his hands in front of him. foot by foot he went, coming in contact first of all with some sort of dresser that evidently stood between the windows, for there were two in the room, the other having its shutter closed, probably in order to keep out the light to a certain extent. still onward jack pressed, groping as he went. he shut his eyes, for sight was next to useless under such trying conditions, and the smart of the wood smoke almost unbearable. then to his satisfaction he stumbled against what proved to be the side of a bed. eagerly he bent lower, and began to feel among the clothes. he was thrilled when he actually touched something that seemed like a human form, though jack felt a wave of feeling pass over him when he realized that it was the poor boy's distorted back that he had first of all come in contact with. tenderly, eagerly he gathered some of the bedclothes around the figure. there was not the least sign of life or animation about the boy. he might be dead for all jack could tell; but no matter, he must be saved from those cruel approaching flames. having bundled him up the best he could, under such trying conditions, jack gathered the little chap in his arms. he felt a glow in the region of his heart just then, such as anyone engaged in a mission of rescue might experience. but then, it was only a little thing to do, jack thought; he really took no risk, and had he held back he would never have forgiven himself for allowing prudence to sap his desire to render assistance. now for the window again. he looked around him in vain. his eyes were blinded by the smoke so that he could not tell in which direction he must go in order to come upon the exit. baffled in this one respect, that of vision, jack turned to another of his senses. he knew there must be a draught setting toward the opening, from which smoke was pouring so heavily. so he set to work endeavoring to learn which way the air moved, knowing that in this fashion he could grope his way to the exit. those outside were becoming a bit worried. no doubt seconds had been magnified into minutes in their minds, and they began to have fears that something had happened to the daring lad who had ventured within the building. every eye remained glued upon the place of his disappearance. joel had before then succeeded in reaching the open window, where he crouched and waited, occasionally peering in as if half tempted to crawl through the gap after jack. he had hard work contenting himself to remain there on his precarious perch; indeed, only that he did not wish to seem to be interfering with jack's plans joel certainly would have ventured across the window sill. unable to beep silent any longer, he finally gave a loud shout: "this way out, jack! here's the window, over this way!" chapter xvi jack speaks for little carl that was a bright idea on the part of joel, cowering there at the window, and dodging the dense volume of smoke that poured forth as through a funnel. for jack heard the call, and it gave him a clue as to where the window lay. so presently he arrived there, greatly to joel's delight. "oh! you've got the poor little chap then, have you, jack? is he dead or alive?" was what he burst out with, as he became aware of his friend's presence. "i don't know," jack replied; "but we must get him down as quick as we can, joel, so a doctor can work over him. he may not be too far gone yet from the smoke. the fire never touched him. do you think we could manage it between us, by taking all manner of care?" "sure thing, jack. here, let me hold him some while you climb out. hang that awful smoke, it makes the tears blind you!" a shout arose from the anxious crowd below. jack did not dare waste even seconds in glancing down, but he could imagine the old man stretching his hands up mutely as though imploring the rescuers to hasten, so as to relieve the tension of his breaking heart. cautiously they began to make their way along over the top of the trellis. jack only feared lest some strip of rotten wood might give way under their combined weight, and allow them to plunge downward. a solid phalanx of the sturdy football players had formed directly beneath, and they seemed determined that if anything of this sort took place they would serve as a buffer, so that those who fell through might not be seriously injured. but no accident befell them, and soon they were being assisted down the arbor by willing hands. the old man fought his way into the midst, nor did anyone have the heart to deny him this privilege, understanding how frantic he must be to learn the worst. a gentleman pushed forward. "here's doc. halleck!" cried phil parker, just then recognizing one of the town physicians, who with the rest had hurried to the spot, possibly being at the time on his night round of visits to patients, and thinking that perhaps the services of a doctor might be needed at the fire. he took the bundled form of the cripple from jack. old mr. adkins hung over the boy as though everything he had in the wide world could go up in flames if only he might be told that the child was all right. in that minute of time people who had looked down on the old miser with scorn began to realize that he was capable of human affection, and that he actually had a heart. carrying the lad to some little distance from the house, to be out of the way of the firemen when they arrived and set to work with their apparatus, doctor halleck laid his burden on the ground. then he called for some water, and the old man told one of the boys how to get a supply from the well close by. when this was fetched, the physician, who had already been holding a small phial containing ammonia, jack suspected, to the cripple's nose, set to work to bathe his patient's face with the cool liquid. "oh! tell me the worst, doctor, please!" begged old mr. adkins, wringing his hands as, by the light of the fire, he looked at the white face of little carl, seemingly so corpse-like. "is he dead, my poor, poor boy?" "nonsense, mr. adkins, he will be all right inside of five minutes," said the doctor, brusquely, for like many other people he had never liked the old miser. "he has inhaled considerable of the smoke, and must have fainted away up there in his room, after calling out for help without being heard. i give you my word, sir, there is nothing serious the matter with him; though had he remained in that terrible atmosphere a short time longer all efforts to resuscitate him would be in vain. you owe a lot to the boy who brought him out in time, let me tell you, sir." at that the old man turned upon jack winter, and clutched his hand almost fiercely. he was about to pour out a torrent of words telling how grateful he felt, when to the great relief of the boy a shout arose that drowned everything else out. "here comes the engine at last! now watch the boys get busy!" a roar went up as the red-shirted firemen with their helmets and their waterproof garments came rushing into the grounds. a babel of confusion followed, as they demanded to know where they could get connection with the nearest fire hydrant on the street, or if none were handy where could the cistern be found! jack broke away and went with the rest of the boys to lend a hand if anything could be done to assist the fire-fighters. it was learned that a hydrant stood handy not a hundred feet distant, and to this a hose was attached without delay. meanwhile the engine was run alongside a cistern, and set to work, the loud pumping soon telling that operations had been started. when the first stream of water was seen pouring into an open window a cheer arose from the crowd. of course few expected that there would be much left of the building but the bare walls, for the fire had by this time gotten a good start, and was being whipped by the night wind; but then they did not bother to waste any sympathy upon the owner, after once learning who he was. it was a spectacular and fitting climax to the night's celebration, just as though nature wished to add her mite to the glorification on account of the victory chester's boys had won on the gridiron that day. for some time it was a fight between the rival elements, fire against water; and as the former had obtained a good start it proved to be a difficult thing to head it off. here, there and in many places the flames would break forth, and eat up whole sections of the frame building, despite the vigorous efforts of the firemen to control them. fortunately there was no house near enough to be caught in the whirlwind of flames that poured furiously forth from time to time. a myriad of red sparks flew on the wind; but those who lived in the quarter whence they went were doubtless taking all necessary precautions to prevent damage, even to wetting the roofs of their dwellings with the garden hose, or by means of buckets. taken in all, it was a pretty lively time in chester, and one not soon to be forgotten either. the fire burned well through the house. it would have gone like a bundle of shingles only that the flames had started at the leeward end, and consequently had to eat their way against the wind. some of the boys had gone home, well tired out, but a number of them still hung around, and seemed bent on staying as long as jack winters did. if he had seen old mr. adkins approaching, jack might have tried to slip away, but he was unaware of the fact, though joel and toby knew it, and exchanged nods, while refraining from putting the other on his guard. so suddenly jack found himself once more seized upon by philip adkins. the miser was looking a thousand per cent better than before. that agonized expression had left his face, and something seen there caused toby to say aside to joel, "he almost looks human." "you are the boy who saved my carl's life!" exclaimed mr. adkins, in a voice that trembled with emotion, all the while he was clinging to jack's hand as though he did not mean to let him go free. "they tell me that your name is jack winters, and that you are a comparatively new boy in chester. i don't remember hearing of you before, but they say you have taken the lead of the boys here in town, and that everybody is talking about the influence you have with them. you have done me a great favor this night, jack winters. that poor little fellow, tortured as he is by a cruel nature, is dearer to me than most boys are to their parents. i told you to ask me any favor you could think of, and if it was within my means i'd gladly respond. even now i'd be glad to know something that i could do, just to prove to everyone how grateful an old man like me can be. isn't there anything i can do for you, jack winters?" the other fellows listened, and their eyes gave indication of how they considered this the golden opportunity in jack's life. why, to have an old miser worth all sorts of money say he would like to bestow anything in his power on a boy, to show his gratitude, was an event that only came to most fellows in dreams. jack had a sudden inspiration. it seemed to him that he could again see the pitiful look on the white face of the cripple, and once more hear little carl saying so sadly: "oh! what wouldn't i give if my grandfather would only let me _watch_ other boys play ball, and fish, and go in swimming!" "i'll tell you something you can do, mr. adkins, since you seem bent on thinking my little assistance needs compensation; and i'm going to hold you to your promise, sir. in the first place, please alter your opinion of the boys of chester. they are not the gang of young ruffians you've been picturing to yourself, when you set your mind on keeping your grandson from coming in contact with them. they would never taunt him, or make fun of his misfortune, sir, i give you my word for that. they would only feel very sorry that he couldn't have all sorts of fun like they enjoyed; and if it lay in their power at any time i assure you every fellow would go far out of his way to give little carl a good time. "i hope i'm not overbold in saying this to you, mr. adkins; but one day i happened to have a little chat with carl, who hailed me from the top of the wall where he had climbed. and, sir, if you could have heard the longing in his voice when he said to me at parting: 'oh! what wouldn't i give if my grandfather would only let me _watch_ other boys play ball, and fish, and go in swimming!' don't you see you are starving his soul by keeping him away from everybody? some day, if he lives, he must face the world, and you're keeping him from getting used to it now. please think this over, mr. adkins, and let him mingle with boys of his age. you'll never regret it, i'm sure, and it would be the best thing for the boy that could happen. you'll soon see color come in his face, and his eyes will take on a different look from the one of pain and dread they have now. and the first boy who offends that little cripple will have to reckon with me, sir, i give you my word for it!" "and with me, too," snapped fred badger, trying hard to keep from letting his eyes betray the fact that he was near crying; for jack's earnest plea, and the thought of the lonely life the little cripple had been leading greatly affected fred. other boys added their assurances to what had already been said. mr. adkins was plainly much impressed. he showed it by the way he stared around at the circle by which he was surrounded. jack held his breath with suspense. he wondered if he had made the impression he hoped for when saying what he did. strange, how things had worked to bring matters to this focus. "i _will_ think it over, jack," said the old man, presently. "i already begin to find my eyes opened to the fact that i have sadly misjudged the chester boys all these years. this almost tragic event may be what was needed to lift the scales from my distorted vision, and enable me to see clearly. yes, i will think it over, and let you know the result very soon. if i can convince myself that it would be for that dear child's benefit there is nothing from which i would shrink." and after the boys had seen him depart, once more hurrying back to where carl lay bundled up in blankets, every fellow insisted on shaking jack's hand, and telling how his feat in saving the cripple was overshadowed in his victory over the crabbed old boy-hating miser. chapter xvii the aftermath of a good deed "well, this is the last chance we'll have to practice our secret signal codes before we run foul of harmony in the big game tomorrow!" said joel jackman, on wednesday afternoon, as he and several other of the team arrived at the same isolated field, where we saw them working under the direction of old joe hooker on that previous occasion when jack and joel discovered the presence of spies, who later on turned out to be three little maids from school, deeply interested in the doings of the boys, and watching the play through a pair of opera glasses. "yes, tomorrow morning is the grand and glorious occasion when we hope to more than duplicate our past performance with marshall," laughed fred badger. joel cast a quick glance across the field. jack smiled when he saw that his attention was centered on the big oak, in the branches of which they had found mollie skinner and her two girl chums snugly ensconced. "still thinking of that other time, eh, joel?" he asked, as the other caught his eye and turned a little red. "why, you see, it's this way, jack," stammered joel; "i honestly believe those girls were our mascots. they said they meant to wish, and hope, and pray that we'd win the game against marshall, and sure enough we did that same thing. now, why shouldn't history repeat itself, i'd like to know? suppose we did discover 'em peeking again, wouldn't it make you believe we were bound to down harmony tomorrow? i'm not given much to superstition, but i own up i could see something like a good sign about that sort of thing." "well, i happen to know that mollie, for one, is over at her grandmother's in springfield today," spoke up fred badger, who of course had heard about the visit of the trio of high school girls to the big oak, and how jack and joel had to climb up and help them get back to earth again. "but she'll be on hand for the game tomorrow; in fact, she expects to be home tonight." "oh! leave it to little freddy to know all about the movements of miss mollie skinner," crowed phil parker somewhat derisively; but then no one paid much attention to what phil said, because it was well known that the said fred had cut him out of mollie's favors, for once upon a time she and phil had gone together to singing-school and parties. they found most of the boys assembled, and waiting for the coming of the coach, who had faithfully promised to be on hand that afternoon, in order to go over the various signal codes again. joe hooker had not yet put in an appearance, and several of the substitutes were enjoying themselves punting the ball, doubtless also wondering if they were going to be as luckless as before about breaking into the game, this time with harmony's tigers. "jack," remarked toby hopkins just then, "i want to know what's happened to keep you chuckling to yourself right along. i never knew you to do such a thing except when you had something _especially_ pleasant to communicate." "do you know," spoke up steve, "i was just thinking the same thing, toby. more than a few times i've seen jack look around at the rest of us, and grin as if he felt almost tickled to death over something." "well, i am," calmly remarked the object of this attack. "then why don't you up and tell the whole bunch what's in the wind, jack?" asked joel. "it isn't fair to keep it to yourself hoggishly, is it, fellows?" "we demand that you confess, jack!" said big bob, sternly. jack beckoned to the fellows who were knocking the ball about. "come over here, all of you, and gather around me," he said, pretending to look very serious, but not making a great success of it. "i've got something to communicate that may please the bunch, for it concerns every one of us, as well as all other boys in chester." "then it must be about the new gymnasium, jack!" exclaimed fred. "some one has given the project another boost," ventured phil parker. "i wonder now if your dad, bob, has planked down more hundreds after what he's already donated. is that it, jack?" "mr. jeffries has already done his whole duty in the matter, and proven his interest in chester boys," said jack. "there happens to be another gentleman in the town who up to date had a pretty poor opinion of boys in general, but who's had a change come over him, a revolutionary change, i should say, because he'd been in to see mr. holliday, asking for facts and figures, and then binding himself to stand for every dollar still needed to put the gymnasium on a firm footing, without going one cent in debt!" the boys held their breath for just five seconds. then, as if by some concerted signal, they burst out into one great shout, while several threw their extra sweaters high in the air, as though bound to give expression to the state of their feeling in some exuberant fashion. "great news this you've brought us today, jack!" cried steve mullane, his honest face lighted up with joy. "now, what generous gentleman do we have to thank for putting the project on such a solid basis as that? all the boys of chester will for ages to come feel bound to honor his memory." "what ails you, steve, not to be able to guess ?" toby demanded. "have you forgotten what happened the night after we licked marshall, and the adkins house burned to the ground? am i right in my guess, jack, and was this grand present made in the name of little carl adkins?" "you've hit the nail on the head, toby," admitted the leader of the football squad. "it was old philip adkins, and mr. holliday said to me that he had never seen such a change as has taken place in that man. why, he's smiling all the time now, and has been known to stop and watch street boys playing marbles in the vacant lots, or kicking an old fake football around in the side streets of town. seems like the old gentleman had just waked up, and begun to understand that boys have their appointed place in the whole fabric of animated nature, as mr. holliday expressed it to me in his poetic way." "go on and tell us all about it, jack," urged several, as they continued to press around and listen to all that was being said. "there isn't such a lot to tell, fellows," protested jack. "mr. adkins told me he would think matters over, and it seems that he has come to a sensible conclusion. he signed an agreement with the chairman of the gym. committee of finances, binding himself to pay all bills outstanding after the present collections have been taken up. i understand that this will be something like six thousand dollars, so you can see that after all it sometimes pays to have a converted miser in any community." "just what it does," agreed steve, "because, once he sees things at their true value, he's apt to give a heap more liberally than some tightwads who never have had to turn over a new leaf." "so you see," continued jack, "we'll not have to worry any more as to how the balance of the debt is going to be paid. when we open our new and wonderful gym, containing all sorts of up-to-date appliances for physical development, there will be no debt hanging over our heads. we figured on having to give all sorts of entertainments the coming winter, from basket-ball matches to minstrel performances, in order to raise funds to help out; but now we can devote our time to having all the fun going. you also remember the big promise several of the millowners made, led by mr. charles taft?" "they agreed that if we could work wonders, and get the gymnasium fully paid for when it started, they'd guarantee having a salaried physical instructor engaged who would be there week in and week out, ready to devote his entire attention to the job of building up weak bodies, and giving counsel to those who might strain themselves too much all at once. yes, and everybody agreed that if any such instructor were engaged we'd all vote to have our dear old joe hooker installed. well, that dream is going to come true also. joe has signed for a year and will begin his new duties on the first day of december, so that he can be present to see that the apparatus is all properly installed in the gym. when it arrives." again a mighty shout attested to the love those fellows felt for smiling joe, the old-time college player, who had been such a helpful instrument in building up a winning baseball nine, and now a football eleven, in chester. "there never was and never will be again a town more highly favored by fortune than little old chester," affirmed steve mullane, when he could make himself heard above all the wild clamor. "while the spirit is strong within us, fellows, let's give three cheers, first for mr. philip adkins, the boys' best friend; and then another series for our own beloved joe." "there he comes now, hurrying along, with a limp, and waving his hand to us!" exclaimed another boy. the cheers were given with a will. joe waved his hand again in greeting. he must have guessed that they had heard about the contract he signed that same morning in the office of his employer, mr. charles taft, whereby he agreed to be responsible for the upbuilding of the new gymnasium, and the character of its many boy members, for the period of a whole year, devoting his energies to the task, even as his heart was already enlisted in the work. "is there anything else you want to tell us before we settle down to business, jack?" asked toby hopkins. "just one more thing," replied the other, still smiling. "it concerns that poor little cripple and hunchback, carl. he has a really wonderful mind, once you get to know him, as so many of his type seem to have; as though nature to make amends for having cheated them out of so many pleasures connected with boy life had given an additional portion of intellect. mr. adkins came over to our house especially to see me last night. now although he completed those arrangements with the chairman of the financial committee yesterday he never once mentioned the fact to me. what he did say was that he had thought my proposition over carefully, and was convinced that after all he had made a terrible mistake in trying to shield carl from contact with the world that some day, if he lived, he must mingle with. so he has determined that the boy shall go in and out as he wishes, meet other boys, take the little knocks as others do, and have something to do with the sports boys love so dearly. of course he won't be able to run, or attempt most things; but he can see others doing them, and that will give him almost as much pleasure. why, fellows, mr. adkins fairly cried when he told me how the poor little chap hugged him after he learned what big revolution was coming about in his daily life. but here's joe on hand, and ready to put us through our last signal drills; so let's forget everything, except the game with the harmony tigers tomorrow morning." chapter xviii big bob brings news when his mother told jack he was wanted at the 'phone on thanksgiving morning shortly after he finished his breakfast, he had a queer little feeling down in the region of his heart, as though something was going to happen. "i've been half expecting it," he said to himself, as he hurried to the stair landing, where the small table with the receiver stood, handy to those above and below. "it would be pretty tough now if some fellow called me to say he couldn't show up this morning for the game, because he had been taken with the colic during the night, and was as weak as a cat. hello, there!" "jack, are you through breakfast?" asked a voice. "oh! it's you, is it, big bob?" jack went on to say, his fears in no way relieved by the discovery of the identity of the one who had called him up. "yes, i'm through eating. what's up?" "i'm coming over right away, jack. got to see you--very urgent!" jack groaned. then the blow was about to fall, and chester would be deprived of their best full-back. no one else could be depended upon like big bob for kicking a field goal, or one after a touchdown. "all right, come along. i'll try to brace myself to stand it!" he said. bob did not make any further comment, but just before jack caught the click as of a receiver being placed on the hook, he thought he heard a sound that was either a chuckle or a grunt, he did not know which. so he waited for the other to make his appearance, waited, and puzzled his head in the endeavor to guess what bob would have to say, inventing all sorts of possible excuses for wanting to give up connection with the game. jack was grimly determined that he would not let go his hold on the big fullback until the last gasp. surely he must be able to advance some argument that would have weight with any objections the other might raise. but there was bob coming as fast as he could walk, even breaking into a little run at times. his case must indeed be a desperate one to make him act like that. jack went to the door to meet him, thinking the worst. of course, just at the last hour as it might be bob's father had put the vital question to him, asking squarely if he could vouch for it that he had mailed that important letter; and poor bob had to confess his shortcoming. then mr. jeffries, with a return of his oldtime sternness, had told the offender that in punishment he should not be allowed to participate in the great thanksgiving morning game with boasting harmony. it was too bad, and jack felt his heart sink within him like lead. the morning had up to then seemed so crisp and promising that he had been telling himself how even dame nature favored the football rivals, and that everything was fine; but now all of a sudden the whole aspect seemed to change. he had refrained from opening the front door until bib bob mounted the steps, on account of the cold wind that would enter. now as he swung it wide to allow the other passage jack gave a tremendous start. "see here, what's this mean? you don't look as if you brought bad news along with you, big bob?" he fairly gasped, clutching the other by the arm. the jeffries boy was grinning for all he was worth. jack could not remember ever looking upon a face that seemed so utterly joyous. his eyes were dancing, and there was a flush in his cheeks that did not even confine itself to that portion of his round face, for big bob was as red as a turkey-gobbler strutting up and down the barnyard to the admiration of his many wives. "bad news, jack!" exclaimed the other in a half-choked voice; "well, i should say not. it's the most _glorious_ news i'm rushing over here with this fine morning. no one could have given me a more delightful surprise than i got just a little while ago. jack! i _did_ mail that letter, of course i did, silly that i was to ever doubt such a thing!" "how do you know now that you did?" asked jack, thrilled with satisfaction, while he dragged the other into the hall so that he might close the front door. "why, while we were just finishing breakfast who should stop at the house but mr. dickerson himself. he said an important letter had arrived for father, and as he was on his way back home to have his breakfast according to his usual habit between mails, he though he'd fetch it along with him; for father and he are very good friends, you must know, and jack, when i saw that it was from london, you--well, you could have knocked me over with a feather i was so excited. father read it, and i heard him tell mother that _two_ of his letters did get across after all. so you see, jack, he took a hint from that article we left for him to see, and used the follow-up style of correspondence. i've figured it all out, and know that a steamer carrying a third letter couldn't have had time to get there. besides, i heard father say it was the first, and also the second letter that landed, for his correspondent told him he had just received a copy of the original, and hastened to reply to both." jack seized the other's willing hand, and the two indulged in a mutual squeezing affair, in which the honors were about even. big bob certainly looked happier than jack could ever remember seeing him before. well, he had good reason for feeling light-hearted, since in a flash he had been enabled to throw overboard the terrible weight that had for days and weeks been lying upon his soul, and making life unhappy for the poor fellow. "but, jack," bob went on to say, earnestly, "right now i want you to understand that i mean to profit by this thing." "yes, i remember you vowed you would, bob," remarked the pleased captain of the chester eleven, once more easy in his mind, and no longer seeing that horrible gaping weak spot in the line-up. "this is going to be a lesson to me," continued bob, soberly. "i've turned over a new leaf for keeps. just let me catch myself acting careless again, whether in small things or in weighty ones, that's all. if i do i'm resolved to punish myself severely. that fault has _got_ to be conquered, once and for all." "fine for you, bob," jack told him. "and so in the end the terrible trouble that threatened to break you all up, and keep you from enjoying the sports you love so well, has turned out to be only the best thing that could ever have happened to a fellow with a bad fault. that's the way things often go, bob. every fellow can look back and see a number of happenings that at the time he considered to be almost calamities; but long after they are past he discovers that they only forced him to change his calculations, much to his profit in many ways; so that they turned out to be mere stepping-stones on the road to success." "well," the other went on, "i just couldn't keep the good news from you, jack, so i ran over to tell, because you've been such a great help to me in my time of trouble. and, jack, there's something more. tonight, after the game's all over, i've made up my mind i'm going to have a good heart-to-heart talk with my father." "yes, i think that would be a wise move for you, bob," said jack, deeply impressed. "i want him to know first of all what it was worried me all this while; that instead of my being sick in body i was sick at heart, and grieving because i had, as i feared, done him a great wrong. yes, i'm going to tell him everything, even to how we put that paper where he could see it, so he might take a notion to write a second and a third letter, and make dead sure. he must know that i've changed, and had my lesson that will make me a different sort of a fellow. besides, my dad has changed, too, as you know; and i firmly believe that after this we're going to be regular chums." "it couldn't be better, bob, and i certainly congratulate you on the way things have come out. and of course, after such a glorious piece of news striking you on this particular morning, you'll be able to eat your thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin pie with the right sort of spirit." "will i?" laughed the fullback; "well, they'll wonder whether there's any bottom to my stomach today, for i've got a lot of neglected dinners to make up for, you know. the sky never did look one-half so bright to me as this morning, after i learned the great news. it would seem cheery even if black clouds sailed over, and the snow began to fritter down; because my heart is as light as a feather right now, and there's no place for gloom down there." "i'm glad in many ways that this has happened just now," continued jack. "first, i'm glad on your account, because you certainly have had a rocky time of it for long dreary weeks. then i'm rejoiced for your father, because he has such a true-blue son, and has only just found it out. last of all, i'm feeling particularly joyful for the sake of chester, because after this, bob, i expect you'll be in trim to play the game of your life this morning against harmony tigers." "just you watch my smoke, that's all, jack. why, i feel as if i could do almost anything, i'm that full of ginger and snap and happiness. the cobwebs have all been swept clear from my brain, and robert is himself again. if i don't do chester credit today just take my head for a football, and boot it, that's what. but i must be going now, because both of us have things to do before we dress to go out on the field. this will be a banner day for the old town. it's been a long time back since they've seen a genuine game of football here. i'm glad you drew the choice, because in harmony there's always an element that tries to make it unpleasant for visiting teams, none of which is found in marshall or in chester, where we treat our visitors as true sportsmen should. well, so-long, jack. i couldn't keep such good news any longer, you understand." "and i'm mighty glad you didn't, big bob; for you've given me a whole lot to be thankful over. when i heard some one wanted me at the 'phone i was conjuring up all sorts of evil things happening that would threaten our line-up. even after i heard your voice i wasn't at all sure but you meant to tell me your father had learned the truth, and ordered you to stay at home today. but everything has come out giltedged, and we can afford to laugh." "yes," sang out the happy bob as he started for the door, "everything is lovely, and the goose hangs high; only today i reckon the bird will turn out to be a turkey instead. i'll be on deck long before time for the game, jack, and something tells me we're going to give those fighters from harmony the tussle of their lives, as well as win the game from them." "i hope you're a true prophet, big bob," laughed jack, waving his hand after his friend, and then closing the door. indeed, he felt, as he said, like "shaking hands with himself," the reaction had been so great, and bob's news so satisfactory. it might be looked at as an omen of good luck for the momentous occasion. surely a day that had opened in such a glorious manner for big bob, and the team in general, could not have bitterness and gall in store for those gallant chester fellows who expected to improve upon their work in marshall, and tear a victory on the gridiron from harmony's team. jack occupied himself in various ways until it was time for him to sally forth and join his band at the rendezvous. then in good time they would head for the field, where they might expect to see a perfect mob awaiting their coming. chapter xix locking horns with harmony such a crowd had never before been seen in chester, according to the opinion of the oldest inhabitant. the fact of its being a holiday had something to do with it, of course. then again the recent victory of the home eleven over marshall seemed to have electrified the entire community, which was rapidly becoming "sport mad," as some of the old fogies complained. the harmony tigers showed up in a big carry-all motor-van about the time jack and his followers trooped on the field, and began to pass the ball around to limber up their muscles for the great test. they were given a royal reception, for there were many hundreds of harmony rooters on hand to help the boys with cheers and the waving of flags and pennants. besides, chester was showing a fine spirit that could applaud a clever play, even on the part of the enemy team, though naturally their best yells would be reserved for the home boys. when the two teams lined up facing each other they stood as follows: chester position harmony jones.............. l.e ...........osterhide jackman............ l.t. ............o'leary mcguffey........... l.g. .............bailey griffin........... center .............chase hemming............ r.g. ..............boggs badger............. r.t. ............leonard douglas............ r.e. ...........clifford hopkins............ q.b. .....martin (capt.) mullane........... l.h.b. ............oliver winters (capt.)... r.h.b. ..........oldsmith jeffries........... f.b. ..........hutchings really it looked as though the tigers outclassed their opponents at the ratio of five to six, so far as weight and brawn went. they were an even heavier aggregation than the marshall team; which, by the way, had been snowed under on the preceding saturday to the tune of 27 to 6, the harmony boys scoring almost at will; and this sort of proceeding of course warned the whole chester team, watching eagerly from the side lines, what they would be up against when their day came. the game was started, and it was a seesaw affair all through the first period, play being kept near mid-field most of the time, with the advantage on neither side. consequently, when after a brief intermission to allow of any necessary changes in the formation of the teams, not required as yet, the crowd was unable to decide where the advantage lay. but harmony fans kept saying that the time had not yet come for their favorites to break loose; when it did there would be "something doing" to make chester folks "sit up and take notice." this proved to be poor prediction so far as the second quarter went. indeed, the tide started immediately to set in the other direction. hopkins, quarterback for chester, scored a touchdown in this period that carried the crowd off its feet with excitement, it was so cleverly done. he took a forward pass from winters, who shot the ball from the fourteen-yard line zone. the defense of harmony was all set and ready, but the artful hopkins must have discovered a small opening through which he managed to dash. it was, taken altogether, a daring play, and succeeded as much from that reason as anything else. in football the unexpected counts most, and harmony was certainly caught napping. winters made his difficult pass as swift and sure as a rifleshot into hopkins' arms. in a moment the harmony backs downed him, but the tackle came too late to save the score. this touchdown really had its origin in an error of the harmony team--just one of the errors that add thrills to the enjoyment of the crowd, but which must have doubtless made the respective coaches shudder. chester kicked off at the beginning of the second half, and captain martin of harmony ran the ball back to the 39-yard line, where he was tackled so hard by jones that he fumbled, and badger fell on the ball for chester. the harmony team was thrown into momentary confusion by this sudden turn in affairs, and chester was quick to take advantage of the opportunity thus thrust upon them. on the very next play winters called for an end-over play which left jackman clear and alone; and accordingly badger heaved a pass to jackman, who dashed to harmony's 20-yard line before he was dragged down. a thrust at the line was repelled, but another pass, winters to griffin, gained 5 yards, and the ball rested on harmony's 5-yard line. an attack on harmony's line resulted in a 3-yard loss, and on the last down winters resorted to the play that resulted so advantageously for his side. the ball traveled through a charmed zone, it seemed, for a dozen harmony hands leaped out to bat it as it sped along into the arms of the chester quarterback. thus at the beginning of play in the third period, after harmony had brought two new men into the field, and douglas, for chester, who had been injured, was replaced by wiggins, the scare stood 6 to 0 in favor of chester, for of course it had been easily possible to kick a goal following the touchdown. harmony looked dangerous at once. they started in as though determined to make amends for that blunder which had cost them so dearly. those in the grand-stand who knew the signs best settled back with the comfortable feeling that harmony had at last awakened to the fact that with half the game over they were in peril of being beaten, which would cover them with shame. it was bad enough to have lost to chester in baseball, but to have to yield the supremacy of the gridiron to the same town would be a calamity indeed. so they just tore their way down the field, and soon had chester fighting madly to keep them from a touchdown. there was some really brilliant play shown here, on both sides, that called forth frenzied cheers. but the applause died away like magic almost as quickly as it started; for everybody knew how essential it was in a grim struggle like this that the players should be allowed to hear the signals called out by their leaders. the hilarity of the harmony rooters increased when oldsmith, right halfback, crashed through left tackle for a gain of 8 yards, dragging a couple of chester tacklers with him. hutchings plunged straight ahead for 6 yards more, and the ball was then on chester's 8-yard line. there began to arise a howl for a touchdown as the chester players braced themselves for the shock. the harmony line shifted quickly and a double pass was tried. martin tossed the ball to hutchings, who shot it toward oldsmith for a dash upon chester's 6-yard line. oldsmith reached the ball, but it slipped through his eager fingers, and was buried under a swirl of chester fellows. after that the harmony team waxed anxious again. they had learned that this chester aggregation was all that marshall had found it to be, if not more so. their line tightened up at the critical places, and their right halfback, oldsmith, proved himself to be a very dangerous person, likely to circle the ends, and break up the game at any stage. soon another drive was started on the part of harmony, seemingly determined not to be denied the touchdown so urgently needed. sheer weight carried chester back, as it seemed, helplessly. plainly the only way to counteract this advantage on the part of harmony was through cleverness and swiftness. captain winters unbottled another of the tricks which old joe hooker had taught them, and the crowd gasped in wonder as they saw the tide again turn in chester's favor, since they had possession of the ball. back and forth the battle raged. it was furious while it lasted, and kept everybody keyed up to top-notch excitement. most of the fighting in this period was done on chester territory, however, for despite their utmost endeavors jack and his boys seemed unable to carry the war into the enemy's country. with but a short two minutes to cover harmony finally took a mad pace and managed to get the touchdown so ardently desired, as well as a subsequent goal, making the score a tie, just as it had been at the end of the third period when chester and marshall locked horns. the mighty harmony machine-roller seemed at fault when trying to crush all opposition on the part of chester. something seemed to have happened--either harmony was weaker than when playing last with marshall, or else they found the defensive tactics of their latest enemy more stubborn and resourceful. the last quarter opened, and again the fight raged bitterly. jack uncorked more of the contents of the trick bottle, and as a result the ball was over on harmony territory from the start. captain winters had figured it all out, and knowing what slight chances they had of securing another touchdown against those stalwart fellows, he had determined to risk everything on a kick from placement. somehow he seemed to feel this was big bob's special day, and that some of the glory ought to be given to him in order to prove that happiness can work wonders, even on the gridiron. so with an eye on the chances, also observing the slant of the wind, and such minor yet important things, jack tried his best to work matters that the ball would still be in their possession when on harmony's 30-yard line. at last he gave the signal. the crowd stood up to see better when it was realized that a kick from field was going to be resorted to. jack himself sprawled there on the ground to grip the ball, while jeffries poised himself to deliver the boot that might settle the whole game. such a play is a spectacular thing when done properly, and particularly when attended by success. with the halfback down flat and holding the oval, and the kicker with one eye on the ball and the other on the tacklers just breaking through it is not the easiest thing in the world to do. there was intense silence, so that the sound of the blow was plainly heard, even in the grandstand. up rose the ball, describing a graceful arch. would it fall between the goalposts, or, carried by the wind, drop far to one side? everybody was doubtless asking himself or herself that question. then it was seen to drop exactly between the posts and well beyond, really one of the most beautiful kicks ever seen. a mighty roar from the crowd attested to the admiration felt for jeffries, the fellow capable of doing such a fine piece of work. with the score 9 to 6 and against them harmony now started in to make a last game fight to carry the ball across into hostile territory; but there were only four minutes left in which to do or die. chapter xx the great victory--conclusion striving like mad captain martin and his ten followers tried to rush the fighting, so as to get another touchdown before the referee called the game; for that would fill them with joy, since it meant the score would be reversed and stand at 12 to 9. just as bent on preventing such a calamity jack and the chester boys braced themselves to out-maneuver all attempts looking at a successful run. at times their line proved a veritable "stone wall" to the heavy harmony halfbacks, who were dragged to earth before completing their intended long runs. still there was a constant gain, with the ball still harmony's. that one bitter fumble seemed to have stiffened their game wonderfully, for it was not repeated. time was passing, but, so, too, was harmony creeping up. one good run now was likely to wind up the game, for chester could never hope to retrieve such a misfortune. visiting rooters were frenzied, and every little forward movement on the part of their team was greeted with a burst of yelling that sounded almost like the discharge of a cannon, it came so suddenly, and died out again as quickly. oldsmith was the dangerous man, jack well knew. somehow he felt certain that to him had been delegated the task of carrying the ball through, and putting it over for the needed touchdown. several times harmony might have tried for a field goal, and the fact that they declined to accept this chance told jack what was in the wind. they were a greedy lot. a goal from field would have netted them just 3 and tied the score, but it would also have injured their chance for making a touchdown within the prescribed time; and harmony meant to either win that game, or lose it, with no halfway measure as a tie to carry home with them. well, jack winters was a good guesser, for just as he decided it fell to the harmony halfback to make the attempt. the bluff was dazzling, and deceived nearly all the chester players, so that it looked as though oldsmith with the pigskin oval in his grip would have a clear field to the coveted place in the line where he could drop for a touchdown, and victory. but he counted without the fleet winters, who was after him like a shot, and determined to make his tackle before oldsmith could cross. this of course was the real crisis of the entire game; it was win or lose for a certainty, because not a half minute of time remained, and a new attempt could not be made if this one proved futile. faster than the wind the two players tore along. there was no other opposition offered to oldsmith. indeed, the rest of the field almost stopped play, to watch the result of this duel of speed. oldsmith was a shade heavier than jack. he had also been engaged in more scrimmages latterly, and might have been a bit short of breath. such things count heavily against a player in football work, and they certainly did in this case; for it could be plainly seen that the chester captain was overtaking the possessor of the ball, despite his most frantic efforts to keep his own ground. could he reach the line before being dragged down? jack seemed inspired to abnormal efforts, as though he knew how those whom he loved were watching, and hoping, and feeling confidence in him. once before in the game with marshall he had been called upon to win for his team by a supreme effort; that time it was in the way of offense, whereas now it seemed to be along the line of defense. but no matter, one was just as important under certain conditions as the other. jack overtook his man, and made a beautiful tackle, bringing oldsmith to the ground just in time to prevent him from scoring his touchdown. it was a thrilling moment when this occurred. the vast crowd remained silent for a second, as though hardly able to grasp the truth that harmony had shot her last bolt and lost. then came the din of cheers that soared to the very clouds, it seemed, such was their intensity. confusion reigned, with a whirling mass of chester boys dancing around and hugging each other, while the faithful girl rooters broke out into frantic shrieks, waving their beloved school colors in riotous profusion. of course harmony tried to rally in the brief space of time yet remaining, but by now the chester team was sure of its ground, and backed captain winters up handsomely; so that when presently the referee blew his whistle nothing had been accomplished. so the great thanksgiving game ended in favor of chester. it would be the last battle on the gridiron for that season, as is customary. the boys gave harmony a salvo of cheers to try to take some of the bitterness of the sting of defeat away, but doubtless captain martin and his squad felt pretty sore to be beaten at the hands of these newcomers in the game. martin was man enough, however, to shake hands cordially with jack, and tell him that he certainly had a clever team back of him. of course, like most harmony fellows, he believed the hard knocks of the game had gone against their side, and that if the "luck" had been more evenly distributed they would surely have won; but then all that sort of talk invariably follows when a team wends its way back home after getting "licked." there seems to be some sort of consolation about figuring out just what share luck had in bringing about disaster. there was no mad celebration that night, as on the occasion of the victory over marshall. the town authorities had forbidden a single bonfire to be started in the streets of the town. that burning of the adkins home must serve as a lesson, through which they should profit. instead, a banquet was arranged for an a succeeding evening, by some of the friends and admirers of the football team, which all the boys, substitutes as well as regulars, should be invited to attend, and at which speeches would be in order. there would also be a little statement from the head of the financial committee connected with the gymnasium then building, telling just what progress had been made, and how every dollar of the expected expense had been guaranteed, thanks mainly to the generosity of their esteemed fellow citizen, mr. philip adkins. chester was now well started on her career of outdoor sports. other towns less fortunate envied her the possession of that splendid gymnasium where, during the long winter evenings, basket-ball could be played, and all sorts of athletics indulged in under a competent instructor. there could be no doubt that it would prove of inestimable benefit to the growing lads, not only serving to keep them off the street corners at night, but also enable them to strengthen their bodies, and enjoy fellowship with their mates under uplifting conditions. big bob carried out his scheme as mentioned to jack and on the very morning after thanksgiving he took pains to let the other know the result. his father had heard the whole story with deepest interest, and then told bob that he was very glad such a thing happened, since it had really been the means of taking the scales from both their eyes, and allowing them properly to appreciate one another. bob assured jack that his father was a different man nowadays, and showed an increasing appreciation for healthy sports, and the welfare of boys in general. although the football season wound up with that glorious thanksgiving victory, it must not be assumed that there would be any lack of fun abroad in chester, with the coming of the time of snow and ice. with that magnificent sheet of water at the door of the town, in the shape of lake constance; also the crooked paradise river beckoning the boys to explore its upper reaches, and the mysteries to be found there, surely winter should open up a new round of exciting outdoor activities for jack and his friends. that this proved to be the case is evident from the title of the next story in the series, which it is to be hoped every reader of this volume will secure and enjoy to the full--"jack winters' iceboat wonder; or, leading the hockey seven to victory." the end [transcriber's note: extensive research found no evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] interference and other football stories by harold m. sherman the goldsmith publishing company chicago copyright 1932 by harold m. sherman made in u. s. a. contents interference a case of nerves the bright token "butter fingers" for the glory of the coach interference "can i see you a minute, coach?" "yes, mack. come in." mack carver, substitute back on grinnell university's varsity squad, stepped across the threshold of coach edward's office. he carried his one hundred and eighty-seven pounds easily and with an athletic swagger. but he scowled as he entered, indicating that his call was about an unpleasant matter. "well, boy--what's on your mind?" smiled the coach, straightening up from a mass of papers which contained diagrams of the plays grinnell was to use in her season's big game against pomeroy, now less than a week away. "plenty!" was mack's bluntly grim answer. he stood now, facing his coach, across the desk. coach edward's smile faded as he met mack's challenging glance. "i want to know why i've been kept so much of the time on the bench?" the substitute back fired, point blank. "because," answered coach edward, evenly, "there were eleven better men on the field. that's ordinarily the only reason any man's kept on the bench." "i don't believe it," retorted mack, feelingly. "you've had it in for me because my brother is coach at pomeroy. that's the reason! and you'd like to be coach at pomeroy yourself!" coach edward drew in his breath, sharply. "perhaps i would!" he said. "but that's a strict matter of business--nothing personal!" "no?" flashed mack. "you and brother carl have been rivals for the last two years. you've been out to beat each other on the gridiron and now that you've turned out some cracking good teams with the smallest college in the state, you think you've got my brother on the run!" "i'm tickled, naturally," admitted the coach. "wouldn't _you_ be? don't you suppose your brother enjoys his triumphs over _me_? ... it's all in a spirit of good sportsmanship!" "that part of it may be all right," conceded mack, "but you feel strong enough against my brother, just the same, to not want to give _me_ a break!" "that's bunk!" branded coach edward. "but there's one thing i've always wanted to know ... why is it you quit pomeroy after two years and came to grinnell?" "that's an easy one to answer. i discovered i could never hope to make the team that my brother was coaching. he was bending over backward to keep from showing me any favors. when i found that out, i figured i'd better save him from any further embarrassment and give myself a fair chance by changing schools. that's why i came to grinnell!" "but why grinnell--pomeroy's bitterest rival? of all the schools you might have picked...!" mack grinned, sardonically. "my brother didn't think i'd ever make a good football player. i'd hoped to be able to show him." "that's just your greatest fault," spoke the coach, frankly. "you want the limelight every move you make. you're wondering all the time if everyone's looking at you ... and it's hurting your game. no good player can be thinking of starring and playing at the same time." mack stared hard for a moment. "you've got me wrong," he said, slowly. "i naturally want to do the best i know how. and maybe i've looked to you like i wanted to attract attention. if i have, it's only because i hoped _you'd_ take a shine to what i was doing. the spectators didn't matter." "you didn't need to worry about me," the coach replied. "it's my business to keep tab on each man on the squad. i'm sorry if you feel i've legislated against you but you force me to say that, up to the present, i'm inclined to agree with your brother." "you will excuse me a minute?" requested the coach, on observing that mack had no comment to make for the moment, "i've an air mail letter i must post at once." "okay," mack assented,, and sank disconsolately in a chair beside the desk as coach edward strode from the room, envelope in hand. "this is a swell fix i'm in," mack bemoaned, with the coach having gone. "talk about being hoodooed! how should _i_ know that coach edward would ever be out after my brother's coaching job? i'll bet you every time coach sees me he thinks of my brother and that kills my chances. but i was good enough so he had to make me a sub anyhow." mack's gaze suddenly fell upon coach edward's pile of papers. diagrams of football plays caught his eye. he leaned forward that he might see them better, then gave a glance toward the door and arose from his chair. "hello! pretty nice!... maybe my brother wouldn't give a lot to have a copy of all these plays!... he's probably had his scouts covering grinnell games ... but here's some plays we haven't used all season. boy--that lateral pass opening out into a forward is a pip!... coach edward's been saving the fireworks to shoot on pomeroy all right!... guess he'd give his left ear to beat my brother's team this year. huh! i'd give my right ear to get in the game!" impelled by curiosity, mack lifted some of the papers and studied other diagrammed plays. he became more engrossed than he had intended when he was seized with the uncomfortable feeling that someone else was in the room. "well?" spoke coach edward, standing quietly just inside the door. "oh! i ... er ... a ...!" stammered mack, badly fussed. "pardon me!... i saw these plays here and i...!" "... and you thought you'd get them _memorized_," said the coach, bitingly. "no, sir!" flashed mack, stung at the insinuation. "i was just interested. i...!" there was nothing further that he could say. it dawned on him in that moment that his relationship to the coach of pomeroy's eleven was apt to cause many actions of his to be misconstrued. he would have to be more careful. coach edward was even now regarding him suspiciously. "i hope, mack, that i can trust you," he was saying. "you sure can," grinnell's disgruntled substitute answered, inwardly resenting the suggestion that he might use such information as he had gleaned against his school. "i am surprised," coach edward finished, "that you would have permitted yourself to examine anything on my desk." "i'm sorry, sir," mack apologized, realizing that the coach had reason for complaining. "but i wouldn't think of passing anything on to anyone else." "it wouldn't be exactly wise," said coach edward as the two stood face to face. mack, who had toiled so long in the hopes of becoming a varsity regular and whose disappointment had finally assumed proportions of a grudge against his coach, now made one final appeal. "coach, everything i do seems to be wrong. i can't get over the feeling that you don't like me. i swear i didn't mean anything by looking at those plays ... but you've an idea that i did. as for my being on the team and not getting a real chance to play--there must be some reason ... some big reason, if it's not prejudice. whatever that reason is--i want to know it." "that's what you _say_," rejoined coach edward. "but you're the sort, mack, who won't be told. you're proving that fact right now even though you claim you want to know what's wrong. i've done the best i could for you on what you've shown me... i'm not in the habit of arguing or discussing a player's merits or demerits with him off the field so i'll have to ask you to consider this interview at an end." "okay!" rasped mack, his pride deeply wounded and his feelings running away with him. turning on his heel, he strode to the door, but whirled impulsively to throw back an angry taunt: "and here's hoping you get trimmed by pomeroy!" "thank you," replied coach edward, icily. "i might have expected just such a remark from you." and a very unhappy youth, leaving the coach's presence with a wave of remorse sweeping over him, knew that now he most certainly had sealed his doom. he could hardly expect to be given an opportunity of playing in the pomeroy game after this. grinnell's football schedule was so arranged that the pomeroy game was always the last of the year. this permitted the small college eleven to throw its complete strength against an ordinarily more powerful team in the annual hope of creating an upset. for pomeroy, the grinnell contest had customarily been booked as a "breather" between big games. there had been little disposition in previous years, as a consequence, to take grinnell's opposition too seriously. thus, most of the excitement and enthusiasm had been provided by wide-eyed grinnell supporters who had hypnotized themselves almost to the point of believing that the impossible was about to happen--a grinnell victory! that these loyal rooters had been disappointed as regularly as the annual conflicts arrived, did not seem to dampen the ardor of the next season's support. "hope springs eternal" was the trite but simple explanation offered by certain zealous followers who steadfastly refused to concede pomeroy's vaunted superiority. coach edward's advent at grinnell had served to heighten the interest when the small college had held pomeroy to a 20 to 7 count the first year of his mentorship. things commenced looking decidedly up as grinnell, under the new coaching regime, came back the following fall with even more stubborn opposition, losing to pomeroy in the last quarter, 13 to 7. no longer could pomeroy consider the smaller college a set-up and this alone was sufficient for grinnell supporters to claim a "moral victory." but even bigger things were expected this season--grinnell's first undefeated eleven going into its major contest against a pomeroy team which was fighting hard to sustain its prestige of former years. secret practice sessions were announced by coach edward the final week before the pomeroy game, adding an air of mystery and high tension to an already pulsating feeling of suspense. "coach has a genius for inventing new plays," frank meade, left half, remarked to mack carver as the two dressed for practice on tuesday afternoon. "don't you think?" "he figures out some good ones all right," mack admitted. "i'll say he does!" echoed frank, with enthusiasm. "that one he taught us last night--a forward pass breaking out of that lateral!" mack's face colored. he was too familiar with this play from having seen it in diagram form on the coach's desk. "yes," he mumbled. "that's a peach." "if it's properly executed," frank went on, "it should be good for a touchdown." "absolutely," mack agreed, bending down and fingering with his shoe laces. "of course the right half has to block off any tacklers who may be trying to get through at the man with the ball," frank continued. "the ball carrier's got to be given plenty of chance after taking the lateral to spot a receiver for the forward. if he can do this--the play ought to be a wow." "i'd like to be in there on that play," mack said, impulsively. frank laughed. "you may get the call yet. anything can happen in this game!" "yeah?" retorted mack, sarcastically. "all i've gotten so far is slivers in the seat of my pants from sitting on the bench. i'm getting tired of being shoved in for a couple minutes before the end of the half to give you birds a chance to get under the showers and take a rub-down before the second half opens. and then rushing in after the game's in the bag to hold 'em for dear old grinnell. there's no kick in that." "but somebody has to do it," returned frank, regarding mack, curiously. "i did that the last two years before they put me to work as a regular." "yes, but this is my _third_ year," rejoined mack. "at that rate, if i'm any good, i ought to be out there with you, too." "you're playing in hard luck," frank replied, pulling on his sweater. "grinnell has the best material she's ever had and the regulars are so good that even good substitutes don't have the chance they might have." he made a little bow, winking mischievously. "of course, i'm excluding myself. i'm rotten!" mack forced a grin. this whole situation was too serious to him to be taken lightly. "yes," he retorted. "i'd probably be a regular if i was as rotten as you are!" "cheer up!" chuckled frank, slapping mack on the back. "maybe some day--you _will_ be!" "i won't unless coach gives me a better break," said mack, a bit bitterly. "i've played in enough games to get my letter but it hasn't meant anything ... an average of five minutes a game. even at that--don't you think i'm as good a back as dave morgan?" mack bit his lips as he asked the question. it was perhaps unfair to so embarrass frank but grinnell's substitute back was tempted to "fish" for compliments as a defensive gesture against coach edward's analysis of his ability. should frank agree that there was very little difference, in his opinion, between dave and himself, mack felt that this alone might prove the coach to be biased. "you--as good a back as dave?" repeated frank, cagily. "well, i'd be a hard one to answer that. dave happens to team together with me just about perfectly. he's cleared the way for most of my long runs, as you know." "probably i could have done that, too," mack argued. "but i've never been put in the game when you were in. i've gone in with the second string backfield. we don't have an open field runner in that crowd who can get away like you can." "thank heaven for that!" grinned frank. "say--you've asked _me_ a question. now let me ask _you_ one. since your brother is coach of pomeroy you ought to know something about our chances for beating them this year. what do you think? are we going to break the jinx?" mack hesitated. frank, who had raised his voice to command the attention of fellow teammates, was enjoying mack's discomfiture. "that's what i call putting a fellow on the spot," sympathized dave morgan, sauntering up. "if you can't think of a good answer, mack--i suggest the old reliable 'yes and no'." fellow team members laughed. "hey, mack!" called fullback steve hilliard. "isn't your brother handicapped with poor material this year? his team's not done so well ... sort of an in and out eleven ... one saturday looking like a world beater ... the next saturday looking like a bunch of dubs. what's the low-down?" "you fellows know as much about it as i do," replied mack, reluctant to venture a comment. "for one thing, i think my brother's team has played the stiffest schedule in their history ... and he's had trouble keeping them at their peak every game. but pomeroy's liable to make plenty of trouble for us--as usual." "meaning you think we still can't take them over?" pressed frank, jovially. "we'll have to go some!" was mack's well guarded opinion. "which leaves us just where we were before," summarized frank. "too bad, guys! here we've got a man--the actual brother of pomeroy's coach--and he can't give us a better inside on what to expect. was for two years on the squad, too!... i was hoping he could tell us all of pomeroy's weaknesses and what his brother might be having up his sleeve. but now it begins to look like 'no soap'!" "don't you even know his standard plays?" joshed steve. "if you know the formations, you might tip us off so we could shift to meet them." "i'd have to be in the line-up to do that," said mack. "each play would have to be diagnosed. even then i wouldn't want to do it." "why not?" "wouldn't seem hardly fair--taking advantage of what i know about my brother's plays ... or system." "all's fair in love and football," kidded steve. "shouldn't think that would make any diff. your brother has scouts out, trying to discover what he can about us. our coach has scouts giving your brother's team the once-over. so there you have it! fellows have changed colleges before. you're entitled to bring what you know about football at pomeroy to grinnell. why be close-mouthed about it?" mack shook his head decisively. "as far as my football in pomeroy is concerned," he gave answer, "it's a closed book. i'm here at grinnell just as though i'd come here at the start. of course i can't forget, with the pomeroy game coming up, that my brother's coach of the team and that i'm really opposing him..." "how do you feel about that?" frank asked. mack drew in a deep breath as team members looked at him with intent interest. "all right, boys!" broke in coach edward, entering the locker room. "snap out of it! we're going to have our last scrimmage of the year tonight. going to try out those new plays i ran you through yesterday. let's go!" the players, springing to their feet, jostled each other through the doorway onto the field, mack joining with them, secretly glad of the coach's interruption. inwardly he was in such a turbulent state that he didn't really know how he felt about the pomeroy-grinnell clash. he should be intensely loyal to grinnell, without question ... but there were other factors crowding in. if to lose the grinnell game actually meant the loss of his brother's coaching job ... it also meant the loss of his mother's support. carl had been assuming this responsibility until he, mack, could finish his schooling and help out. under these circumstances, with carl's position probably wavering in the balance due to an unsteady season and the demand of pomeroy alumni for winning football, the outcome of the grinnell game took on added if not painful significance. the situation was even beginning to take the edge off mack's original desire to compete against his brother's team and show it up. there was always drama in the idea of brother against brother. newspapers were already hinting at the possible conflict and would make much capital of the matter if it did come to a head. but mack did not now relish the thought of being in any way instrumental in the loss of his brother's coaching job. "i'm getting in more and more of a jam, it seems to me," he muttered, as he trotted out on the field. "maybe i'd be better off if i quit this game entirely." opportunities often come when least expected. coach edward suddenly decided that he wished the regulars to face the strongest lineup he could possibly throw against them as a severe test of the new plays. as a result, mack carver found himself at right half on the second eleven which had been trained in pomeroy plays. "you've run through many of these pomeroy plays yourself," coach edward said to him, "so we're depending on you to carry the brunt of the second team offensive and give us a good idea of what to expect next saturday." there was nothing in the coach's attitude to indicate a remembrance of the unpleasant interview between them. mack's heart bounded at the thought that coach edward was recognizing him to this extent. here was, at least, a chance to demonstrate what he could do in practice--much more of a chance than he had been given hitherto. "i'll try to impersonate dizzy fox, pomeroy's star right half," mack told alf rigsbee, second team quarterback. "he's the man our fellows will have to look out for!" "okay, _dizzy_!" grinned alf. "you're going to be in for a busy afternoon!" "and listen!" cried mack, with more spirit than he had felt all season. "let's give this varsity bunch more than just a work-out!... if we all hang together, i think we can outscore 'em!" "we can try!" volunteered bob hayes, fullback. "seeing as how we've got some of you first team subs in here to help us!" coach edward, assuming the role of referee, blew his whistle, signalling the two teams to take the field. it was to be the varsity's kick-off. frank meade, carefully toeing the ball, looked over the boys opposing him. "don't be too hard on us, you guys!" he joshed. "we're just learning the game!" "then we'll teach you a lesson this afternoon!" quarterback alf rigsbee called back to him. "we're out to _get_ you babies and we don't mind saying so!" the threat brought howls of good-natured derision from the varsity team members but the chiding ceased when, with franks kicking off over the goal line and the ball being brought out to the seconds' twenty yard line, mack carver made fifteen yards on the first play with one of his brother's clever wing back formations. "i'll show coach edward whether i'm a ball carrier or not!" mack told himself, highly flushed with his early success. "call my number again!" he begged. quarterback rigsbee shot him the ball a second time and mack skated through tackle on a delayed wing back for seven yards. "this varsity isn't much!" kidded the seconds' linesmen, elated at mack's gains. "wait till we've solved these new plays and we'll stop you cold!" promised bert henley, varsity quarterback. but the seconds were well drilled and mack carver, in particular, functioned remarkably well, skirting the ends and knifing through the line on plays with which he had long been familiar. "wonder what coach thinks now?" he said to himself as the seconds landed on the varsity's ten yard line for a first down. mack found himself regretting that there were no student spectators and no newspaper reporters on the sidelines watching his performance. all such had been banned for this week of secret practice. "come on, gang! let's stop this advance right here and now!" appealed varsity quarterback donner. "we've played with these little boys long enough!" the varsity had taken a time-out to get reorganized. the so-called scrubs hadn't made things this interesting throughout the entire season. "they'll be expecting another wing back," counselled mack. "my brother had another good play you fellows haven't been taught. what do you say we try it?" "no--we'd better stick to the plays that have been given us," replied quarterback alf rigsbee. "it's simple," insisted mack, "and we want this touchdown. listen--you feint a pass behind the line to me and i shoot to my left like i've got the ball but the left half really gets it--only, after he does, he fades hack into the backfield and then throws a forward pass out to me. it's a grand scoring play. we ought to be able to work it without rehearsal and it should catch the varsity flat-footed!" quarterback rigsbee looked to his fellow team members questioningly. "sounds like a peach to me," endorsed left half bill grady. "what do you say we try it?" "well, if you guys think it's okay," agreed alf. "now this'll be the signal...!" with play resumed, the seconds sprung their surprise play. a quick crisis-crossing behind the lines, mack lunging to the left, bill grady taking the ball and dropping into his backfield...! "look out for a pass!" the varsity shouted its warning as bill suddenly wheeled and hurled the pigskin to his left where a crouching figure straightened up, raced toward the goal, jumped into the air to catch the ball and was tackled almost immediately, only to fall over the line for a touchdown. "atta boy, mack!" shouted delirious seconds, dragging the tickled varsity substitute to his feet. "how about it, you varsity?" mack taunted. "a march of eighty yards!" "yea, pomeroy!" razzed second team members. "you can't stop pomeroy!" "just a minute!" broke in coach edward, abruptly. "what play was that you fellows just pulled?" alf rigsbee, seconds' quarterback, looked a bit uneasy. "why, er ... it was a play mack suggested to us ... one his brother used. not so bad, hey?" "since when is anyone giving you men plays without my authority?" the coach demanded, picking up the pigskin. "ball's on the ten yard line. use the plays in which you've been instructed!" mack stared, open-mouthed. "but, coach, i...!" he started, biting off the protest. "i was afraid of that," quarterback rigsbee mumbled. "but we scored on the varsity anyhow. they can't take that away from us! never mind that, guys--we'll do it all over again!" cut here alf's optimism encountered its first snag. the varsity, now desperate, crashed through the seconds' line to throw mack for a four yard loss. in four downs the seconds had advanced the ball only to the nine yard line where it went over. the varsity tried a running play which failed to gain and then kicked out of danger. on an exchange of punts, the varsity gained twenty yards and put the ball in play on their twenty-nine yard line. "here we go!" they announced. "yes--_backward_!" shouted quarterback rigsbee as the seconds' line charged fast and forced a two yard loss. "get in there!" ordered the coach. "you've got to work for your yardage tonight. i haven't picked out any bed of roses for you varsity men. if you're going to stand a chance against pomeroy you've got to do better than this!" "don't let them shake frank meade loose!" pleaded alf of his determined seconds. "frank depends on dave's clearing the way for him. stop dave and you stop frank most of the time!" "i'll take care of dave!" volunteered mack, eyeing his rival for right halfback. "the coach thinks he's better than i am. all right--this is a swell time for him to prove it!" on the first play with dave running as interference, grinnell's star blocking halfback collided with the fellow who thought he was just as good and mack's ambitious effort to break up the formation ended in a nose dive as frank, carrying the ball, raced down the field for thirty-seven yards and a first down on the seconds' thirty-four yard line. "i thought you said you'd take care of dave," chided quarterback rigsbee as a dejected mack picked himself up. "he won't block me out again!" was all mack would say as he took his place behind the line. "dave's a tough man to stop," rejoined alf. "you pick him off right along and you _are_ good!" the varsity was laughing now. frank's long run had pepped grinnell's first stringers up. quarterback bert henley said something in frank meade's car. frank nodded. it was to be one of coach edward's new plays ... two laterals behind the line with frank on the ball carrying end. "watch this one!" warned alf rigsbee as he saw the shift. his seconds were all eyes and they needed to be for the passes which followed left them momentarily dazed. the pigskin changed hands with bewildering speed behind the line and frank finally emerged with dave running interference, dashing around right end. most of the seconds had been pulled in on the play but mack, studying the shift closely, hazily recalled that this was another of the plays he had seen diagrammed. "frank around right end!" he exclaimed, "that play looked like a nifty when they ran through it last night. but i'll nail frank this time!" racing to his left, mack rapidly loomed in front of the fast traveling frank who was shielded by his interferer, dave, running a step ahead and in front of him. dave, seeing mack coming, prepared for the impact. mack, eyes only for frank, charged savagely, intending to brush dave aside and keep on going until he had brought frank to the ground with a diving tackle. what actually happened was extremely jolting to mack. he hit dave but did not tumble him. instead it was he who rebounded and dave continued on. mack, rolling over, painfully, saw dave go on down the field to bowl quarterback alf rigsbee, playing safety, out of the way and leave frank with a clear path to the goal line. "great work!" mack heard coach edward complimenting dave. "that's what i call 'interference'!" the varsity lined up in front of the seconds' goal line with dave holding the ball while frank place-kicked the point after touchdown. a chagrined mack carver could only turn to alf and declare: "the score should have been a tie if that touchdown of ours hadn't been disallowed." alf shrugged his shoulders, expressively. "what do we care?" was his answer. "it's only practice!" to mack, however, his entire efforts seemed to have been punctured like a toy balloon. he had tried to put more fight in his play. he had tried, moreover, to show the coach that dave was not so hot as a blocking back. but he had actually only served to further demonstrate dave's great ability to dump would-be tacklers. this scrimmage had been more than practice to him--it had been a final testing of abilities he had claimed to have which he apparently did not possess. the coach would probably discount the runs he had made while impersonating pomeroy's star back, dizzy fox. he had already discredited the touchdown scored on a trumped up play, despite its perfect execution. in fact, every way you looked at it, this fellow mack carver appeared as a complete wash-out. he even marvelled now that he had had the audacity to visit coach edward and ask why he wasn't a regular on the varsity. how foolish of him to have imagined that the coach was holding his relationship to carl carver against him! he really owed the coach an apology! "hey, mack!" said a voice, and grinnell's substitute back, momentarily lost in a solemn revery, realized that dave morgan was at his elbow. "listen, old man," dave was saying. "i didn't hurt you, did i?" "no," mack replied. "but you sure took me out of those plays. it was swell interfering." dave nodded. "you came at me like the charge of the light brigade," he grinned, "only you hit me too high ... gave me a chance to get under you and i hoisted you out of the way. next time try the shoulder and the half roll--like this ...!" and dave put his words into action, sending mack spinning as he did so. "much obliged!" was mack's comment, when he had recovered his balance. "don't mention it!" said dave, and was off to join his varsity mates as the two elevens lined up again for kick-off. mack, standing staring after the fellow who had beaten him out for the team, could scarcely control his feelings. he had carried a chip on his shoulder all season; hadn't mixed with the fellows the way he might have; had taken the game and its incidents too seriously, and here was a guy--his rival--who was sport enough to take him aside and tip him off as to how he might be stopped! "i'll try it next chance i get," mack decided, "and if it works...!" varsity kicked off to the seconds who lost the ball on downs after putting on another advance--this one for forty yards. mack was responsible for half of the yardage gained but the varsity was now getting on to the pomeroy plays and developing an effective defense to cope with them. taking the ball on its twenty-three yard stripe, the varsity started a slashing drive, mixing straight line plays and end runs. finally, with the seconds' defense stiffening, quarterback bert henley called upon coach edward's new play--the lateral opening out into the forward pass. "now!" thought mack, as he analyzed what was coming. dave morgan, intended as frank's screen on the pass, lateralled to frank and stationed himself in front as interferer. frank, who had started to run wide, faded back for the throw. coming in fast, mack, following instructions, tore into dave, hitting him low. frank's interference disappeared suddenly and completely in a jolting somersault and mack, with a half roll, was upon his feet and diving back after the man with the ball. frank tried to elude him and to forward pass at the last instant but mack had covered him too fast. he was tackled before he could get the ball away for a loss of twelve yards. "great stuff!" congratulated a winded dave who had staggered to his feet. "that's getting past interference!" "now aren't you sorry you wised me up?" smiled mack, appreciatively. "you could have had things all your own way." "but it wouldn't have been any fun," was dave's reply. "now i've got to _work_!" and dave's prediction proved correct. a friendly feud developed between mack and himself. it was no longer possible for dave to block mack out of the play and keep going himself. invariably the two went down and out together. occasionally mack would so batter his interference as to reach the man with the ball himself. if he did not, he so thoroughly removed the interference that he forced the ball carrier in the open and made him comparatively easy prey for fellow seconds to bring down. "dave, you've done wonders for me," mack said, gratefully, at the end of a gruelling practice. "i don't know how to thank you." "don't try," dave answered. "i've been watching you for some time. i knew you were just missing out. you ought to make it tough for anybody from now on!" that any fellow player would have been so unselfish as to help a rival overcome a fault in charging interference and thus jeopardize his own position on the team was almost beyond mack's comprehension. long after the practice session was over he puzzled dave's great kindness and wondered, too, whether coach edward had finally been impressed with the way he had played. "after i got the hang of it, i made even dave look bad," mack told himself. "i certainly didn't intend to do this ... but every time i broke up the interference and nabbed frank it counted in my favor and against dave. coach doesn't know, of course, who's responsible for my improvement. i only wish it was earlier in the season. i might be able to get somewhere." but this thought brought a feeling of remorse since mack's advancement would ordinarily have to be at dave's expense. "i see now what coach meant about a fellow's playing wholeheartedly for the team," mack reflected. "dave wasn't thinking of himself when he helped me out. if i should develop into the better player, i know he'd take his hat off to me. and here i've been playing for myself right along. swell guy--this mack carver!... so swell he ought to be ducked in grinnell lake!" news travels fast across a college campus. the following morning students were thrown in a turmoil of excitement by word that coach edward's office had been rifled during the night and nothing disturbed but the team plays. it was rumored that two detectives had been employed by the college to determine, if possible, the guilty party or parties. despite an attempt to keep the matter quiet, newspapers got hold the story and, later in the day, papers appeared with streaming headlines: grinnell plays stolen from coach's office pomeroy authorities indignantly deny accusations of part in attempt to secure grinnell plays and signals the grinnell _leader-tribune_ went so far as to declare, in its news story, that relations between pomeroy and grinnell had been strained for the past two years since grinnell had developed into a school to be feared by the larger college. it seemed that pomeroy had scheduled grinnell merely for the purpose of giving her a drubbing and taking it easy between big games and that grinnell's increased opposition had been embarrassing to pomeroy students and alumni who rated their eleven far better than the intended victim. now matters had become so acute, a report was going the rounds that coach carl carver's job at pomeroy hung upon his winning the grinnell game, about which there was some doubt owing to pomeroy's uncertain season. a victory for grinnell, on the other hand, would be the greatest triumph ever scored by that school since pomeroy was a nationally known eleven, accustomed to playing the best in the country. "it's a step up or a step down for either coach," the news article concluded, and mack carver, grinnell substitute back, who read the stories with a strange lump in his throat, breathed his thanksgiving that no mention was made of him. "this is one time when my not being well known as a football player has helped out," he said to himself. "if i'd been prominent on the grinnell team, i'd have been played up along with my brother. as it is, they'll probably let me alone." but in this surmise, mack was wrong. on reporting for football practice that afternoon, he found fellow team members regarding him with traces of suspicion. "coach wants to see you in the field house," frank informed. "he says not to dress." mack stiffened with surprise. "okay," he replied, face sobering. "any idea what it's about?" "how should i know?" rejoined grinnell's star back, but mack fancied he noted an attempt on frank's part to conceal his real feelings. "maybe," frank added, rather lamely, "he's moving you up as a regular!" "no chance of that," said mack, grimly. "see you guys later!" he turned on his heel and strode out of the locker room. on the way to the field house his thoughts ran together crazily. there could only be one answer to the coach's request to see him. it must be in connection with the stolen plays!... mack's mind raced back to the moment in coach edward's office when he had been detected examining the plays. he winced. this was probably the meagre clue upon which he was being drawn into the case ... this and the fact that he was a brother of carl carver's! coach edward was apparently awaiting mack's arrival. he was in the company of two strange men when grinnell's substitute back located him in one of the conference rooms. "meet mr. pierce and mr. greene," the coach introduced. "take a chair over here." mack sat down, feeling the two men looking him over, shrewdly. "you've been called," explained coach edward at once, "in the hopes that you may help us throw some light on what happened in my office last night." "i thought so," answered mack, eyeing his coach squarely. "why did you think so?" demanded the man referred to as pierce. he was solidly built, black moustache and heavy eyebrows. mack took an instant dislike to his bullying manner. "the reasons should be obvious," he replied. "as we understand it," spoke up the man introduced as greene, "you paid coach edward a visit some days ago--at his office." "i did," acknowledged mack. "at that time," continued mr. greene, "you took quite an interest in some diagrams of plays which your coach had on his desk." mack's face flushed. "i did," he admitted. "what was the big idea?" boomed pierce. "you knew your coach would tell you all he wanted you to know about any plays he had. why take the first chance you got to look them over?" mack turned to coach edward who sat back, having left the questioning to the two strange gentlemen. "listen here, coach! who are these men? am i being cross-examined? you don't think that _i_...?" "these men are detectives as you've probably supposed," said coach edward. "i haven't accused you of anything. the case has been turned over to them. they have been acquainted with all known facts ... and you simply are being asked to contribute what you know." mack stirred uneasily. "i don't know anything!" he replied, frowning his defiance. "didn't you even know that a key to coach edward's office was found to be missing from his desk shortly after you left?" pressed detective pierce. "no," said mack, his temper slowly rising. "but you're willing to admit that a knowledge of grinnell plays and signals would be highly valuable to your brother, aren't you?" mack glared. "i suppose they would ... but if you think my brother would take any underhanded advantage...!" "we're not thinking," interrupted detective greene, smoothly. "we're just talking out loud. i believe you've been peeved at your coach for some time ... even accused him of not giving you the breaks you deserved!" "that's right," said mack, after a moment's hesitation. "and i want to apologize for that." "you do, eh?... what for?" "because i discovered last night i was wrong." "last _night_?" "i mean--yesterday afternoon ... in scrimmage. i thought i was better than i really was. i'm sorry i ever said anything, coach." coach edward nodded, exchanging glances with the two detectives. "trying to make things right now, aren't you?" taunted detective greene. "but you can't explain away that crack you took at coach edward just as you were leaving." "what crack was that?" "'here's hoping you get trimmed by pomeroy!'" mack flinched. he had been sincerely trying to straighten matters up but the detectives did not appear to be giving him credit. "i was sore when i left," said grinnell's substitute back. "i shouldn't have said that. i didn't really mean it." "you didn't mean it, eh?... isn't it a fact, when you left coach edward's office you were practically positive you wouldn't get a chance to play against pomeroy?" he hesitated. "yes, sir," he finally granted. "and," persisted detective pierce, "isn't it a fact, if you couldn't get a chance to play, you would rather have seen your brother's team win?" "no!" cried mack, rising from his chair. "just a minute, son!" snapped detective pierce, pushing mack down. "wasn't that remark you made, leaving coach edward's office, actually a threat?" mack stared at the burly figure in front of him in amazement. this interview was taking on the proportions of a third degree. "a threat?" mack repeated, somewhat bewildered. "a threat that, if the coach didn't put you in the game against pomeroy--you'd do all you could to help pomeroy win!" "that's a lie!" branded mack. "i didn't have any such idea in mind. you can't prove a thing. i never saw the key. i haven't been near coach edward's office since. i haven't been in touch with my brother. you can't make me out a thief. i went straight to the coach with my grievance and got it out of my system. i've apologized--whether he wants to accept it or not. i'd intended going to him and apologizing today ... until this came up. it's unfortunate ... but i didn't have anything to do with it!" mack's outburst sounded incoherent as it poured from his lips but he was greatly up-wrought. to think of such suspicions having centered upon him! he could understand how he had been responsible for part of his dilemma but the rest seemed far-fetched, absurd. "i think, officer, the boy's been questioned enough," said coach edward. "not quite!" rejoined detective pierce. "this young man also mentioned in your presence the rumor that you were out after his brother's job. isn't that so, mr. carver?" "yes," glowered mack, now strictly on the defensive. "he had that very much on his mind. it's human then to believe that he would be interested in his brother's holding his job. am i right?... isn't that the way you feel about it, mr. carver?" "naturally," conceded mack, with a feeling of being cornered. "but i wouldn't let even that stand in the way of playing my hardest for grinnell if i got the chance in the pomeroy game!" "on the other hand, if you should sympathize too much with your brother, you might fumble at the right time or make a poor play which would help pomeroy out?" "no, no!" mack fairly shouted. "i'm not that sort. i won't answer another question!" "you're quite right, mack," sided coach edward, evidently disturbed by the turn the cross-examination had taken. "gentlemen, i don't think anything is to be gained by detaining mr. carver longer." detectives pierce and greene looked consultingly at one another. "i'm not satisfied that the boy's telling all he knows," declared pierce. "since i'm in charge of this case, i must ask that he be suspended from the team until this matter is solved." "please," begged coach edward, as mack looked his concern. "not that. it will mean unfavorable publicity--ill feeling between the two schools." "we can't help that," said detective pierce, bluntly. "you've reported that your office has been entered. we've been assigned to the case. you've told us everything you knew about events leading up to last night and it's our job to run the clues down. greene and i feel that this young man should be held as a material witness. naturally it won't look right for you to keep a man on the team who's under suspicion." "i quite agree with you there." "then suspend him at once." "i dislike doing this very much." "you haven't any choice, mr. edward." "but i don't feel you've lined up sufficient evidence to warrant such action. i'll confess thinking first of mack when i discovered what had been done ... but it was only because of certain incidents. listening to this cross-examination today, i'm not convinced that he is any way connected. rather, i believe that the circumstances surrounding him have been unfortunate. i'd much prefer to drop the whole matter than..." "you can't drop it!" bellowed detective pierce. "it's in the papers. we're not going to have it said that we were hushed up. whoever broke into your office must have been working for pomeroy because the plays and signals wouldn't have done anyone else any good. when this young man decides to talk we'll find out something. you wait and see." mack carver laughed, grimly. the situation, serious as it was, now struck him funny. two small town detectives with an inflated sense of their own importance. coach edward, because of his desire to win the pomeroy game had magnified the happening until it had developed beyond his control. there was going to be some fireworks now despite anything that he could do. "it's all right, coach," said mack, sympathetically. "go ahead and suspend me. you probably wouldn't have played me anyway--so it's no loss to the team. besides--these men can't prove anything on me if they spend the rest of their lives." "mack," addressed coach edward, with obvious sincerity. "i hope you'll believe me when i say that i'm deeply sorry this thing has occurred. you've made your mistakes in judgment ... and i've made mine. i've a feeling now that you're being done an injustice but there's little i can do about it for the time being...!" "what are you trying to hand the boy?" cut off detective pierce. "is he suspended or isn't he?" "he's suspended," said the coach, simply. "very well!" snapped detective pierce. "come on, greene. i've got another angle for us to follow up. as for you, son--you stay put where we can call you!" "i will," mack promised, and stepped into the hall. outside the cool november air felt bracing to his feverish temples. he inhaled it to the depth of his lungs as he strode from the field house, across the gridiron where darby, assistant coach, was putting the squad through its paces. "hi, mack!" yelled frank as the substitute back was discovered. "where you going?... wait a minute!" the team members looked mack's way, apparently much interested. "they're probably curious to know what's happened," thought mack, a peculiar sort of numbness taking possession of him ... a numbness which was making him insensible to bitterness and disappointment. but mack had no desire to mix with his fellows and hurried his footsteps toward the exit gate. "hold on, carver!" assistant coach darby shouted after him. mack came to a stop and looked back, wonderingly. darby hurried, over, followed by varsity team members. "what's the matter?" asked mack, almost defiantly. "what do you want?" "better get into your duds," said darby. "we may need you." "not me," mack rejoined, incredulously. "yes, you!" replied frank, coming up and tapping him on the shoulder. "dave's just been carried off the field with a dislocated knee. it's doubtful if he'll be able to play saturday." mack stood for a moment, shocked at the news. the field seemed to spin around in a circle ... then the peculiar numbness returned. "too late," he heard himself saying. "you'll have to use someone else. i'm no longer on the team. i've been suspended." and, with that, he continued on out through the exit gate, not so much as glancing back over his shoulder. grinnell college never knew a sensation to compare with that which arose over the suspension of one mack carver. not widely acquainted because of his having entered grinnell as a junior with his residence on the campus not quite three months in duration, mack now became the most discussed young man in school. his brother, coach carl carver of pomeroy, had been too well known for the past few years, due to the steam roller effect of his team upon the woeful best that grinnell could put on the field. newspapers, in their merciless survey of the present situation, left nothing to be imagined, emphasizing that the coming saturday's contest was more a "battle of coaches" than it was a "battle of elevens." injury of dave morgan, grinnell's great blocking back, had complicated matters still more since mack carver, the suspended back, would logically have taken his place on the team. news had leaked out of mack's satisfactory performance in the last secret scrimmage and rumor had it that mack and his brother were not supposed to be on speaking terms. this rumor hardly jibed with the suspicion mack was declared to be under--of having stolen grinnell signals and plays for the purpose of tipping said brother off that pomeroy might be assured of winning the game. but, since one good rumor deserved another, all those interested might read and take their choice. meanwhile all sorts of wild reports were circulated, sides were frenziedly taken, and the grinnell stadium was sold out with thousands of demands for tickets being of necessity refused. "there'll be plenty of excitement here saturday," a grinnell storekeeper remarked. "i'm going to re-enforce my store windows so the crowds can't push 'em in." friday afternoon, pomeroy's football squad, thirty-three strong, arrived at grinnell, having made the hundred and forty mile trip by bus. they immediately took rooms in the grinnell inn--a whole floor to be exact--and then the squad stretched their legs with a walk up and down the main street while coach carl carver got on the telephone and called his brother. "mack--this is carl! what's all this i hear about stolen plays and your suspension?" "it's all a lot of noise!" "yeah? doesn't sound like it by the papers. looks pretty serious to me. i've invited coach edward up here to see me in fifteen minutes and i want you to be here." "aw, nix, carl!... i've said my say. i'm not begging for anything. i've embarrassed you enough as it is! you know what they're saying ... that we're in cahoots!" "what do i care what they're saying?... i want you to be here, understand?... i'm not taking 'no' for an answer!" "okay," said mack, reluctantly, "but i'm telling you beforehand, it won't do you any good." mack arrived five minutes before coach edward appeared. "well!" greeted carl, "this is a nice kettle of fish!" "mostly my fault, too," said mack, and related the events leading up to the present moment. "so coach edward is after my job?" mused carl. "that's what happens after you've had a winning team for a couple years. a few reverses and the proud alumni commence hollering 'get the axe'! everybody loves a winner and they don't stop to figure there's got to be a loser to every winner. now that grinnell's piled up a great record this year, we're supposed to bump you off. if we do, despite the fact we've had no season to shout about ourselves, the alumni will consider our year crowned with success." "you think you're going to beat us?" grinned mack. "yes--with you suspended!" kidded carl. "cut it!" mack winced. "i'll prove to you yet that i can play football!" "go to it!" invited carl. "i admire your stick-to-it-iveness! three years and just a substitute indicates a bear for punishment." "being related to you is my biggest handicap," was mack's rejoinder. "it cost me better consideration before and it's costing me my chances now." "tough luck!" sympathized carl. "but if your coach gets my job next year, you'll have a clear field!" "i hope he doesn't!" "meaning you hope we win?" mack's face colored. "no--but i hope you keep your job win or lose." "listen, kid!" and carl looked cautiously toward the door, "we've been slowed up due to injuries and illness this year in addition to poor material. but right now my eleven's at its peak for the first time and we're set to give grinnell a whale of a battle tomorrow. so--if your team wins, your coach will be deserving of something!" a rap sounded on the door. "there he is now!" carl strode over and flung the door open. "edward, how are you?" "fine, carver. and you?" "okay!... i've asked my kid brother to sit in." "oh! ... hello, mack!" "hello, coach." "sit down, edward." "thanks." "i haven't said anything to mack about this but maybe i can throw a little light on this stolen play business." "yes?" "on wednesday night, this week, i received a mysterious note, signed by a mister "x" who proposed to sell me your signals and plays. i was advised to leave one hundred dollars under a log in a vacant field..." coach edward leaned forward, highly interested. mack whistled, impulsively. "what did you do?" "i left the hundred," related coach carver, "but i marked the bills. the next morning i found the bills gone and, in their place, this sealed envelope which, i imagine, contains the stolen plays and signals." "you haven't opened it?" you'll have to take my word for it. the seal is unbroken. of course--this could be a second envelope." "hardly likely," said coach edward, greatly fussed. "may i open it?" "i should expect you to," said carl. "maybe we've both been fooled. it may be nothing but a wad of paper." "no--it's the plays all right ... and--the signals!" gasped coach edward. "this is almost incredible ... and certainly brazen! i don't suppose the guilty person has been traced?" "no--although the police in pomeroy as well as the merchants have been quietly tipped off as to the marked bills--a tiny "x" in the right hand upper corner. you see, the idea is to out-x mister x." carl was smiling. "but he's probably left the town," surmised coach edward. "yes--and he's more probably returned to grinnell," predicted carl. "you may find some of the marked five dollar bills in your town." "then you figure the thief a resident of grinnell?" "well, i most certainly don't wish to claim him for pomeroy! we've already been given the name of being behind this ... and my own brother is under the shadow of suspicion." "this i regret very much," declared coach edward. "i said so at the time. mack and i have had our differences; i jumped a bit too hastily at conclusions myself and the result is this unfortunate notoriety. i'm profoundly sorry. i would like to be able to make amends." "then may i suggest that you begin by reinstating my brother at once. you have the evidence now to prove he was not implicated and i demand that you do it!" "you won't have to demand," promised coach edward, "i was opposed to this action in the first place and it will please me to present these facts to the dumb detectives on the case who would have half the college indicted for the theft if i'd listen to them!" "whether you use my brother in the game or not is no affair of mine," continued coach carver. "but it _is_ my affair when his name and mine is attacked. as for tomorrow--good luck but not too much of it!" "i might say the same to you!" said coach edward, extending his hand. the two coaches shook hands. carl's hand was cool and firm; but his rival's palm was hot and trembly. morning papers, the day of the game, carried the news of mack carver's reinstatement and a letter of public apology from coach edward. no explanation was offered, as to the reasons behind mack's return to the varsity. "i'll bet this action was taken simply to reduce the feeling between the two colleges," ventured a grinnell supporter. "there have been enough ugly reports surrounding this game and the authorities probably got together, figuring they'd quiet a lot of wild rumors and unfounded stories. but you can't tell me--where there was so much smoke--that there isn't plenty of fire!" and this opinion seemed to be shared by most of the thousands who jammed the stadium for the game. it was a clear, cold day with a dry, hard field destined to provide a fair test of the strength of both elevens. in the locker room, as grinnell players dressed for the game, mack carver was approached by team members who expressed their confidence in him. mack, while he tried not to show it, was highly nervous and ill at ease. there was now every reason to believe that he would see service in the game since dave's knee had not responded to treatment and since coach edward would probably feel that his playing at least part of the contest would prove to pomeroy that no grudge or suspicion remained. "if i'm put in i've got to play a bang-up game," mack told himself, "or i'll be open to criticism again. i can't afford to make any slips." dave morgan, hobbling in on crutches, had encouraging words to say. "you're in a tough spot, i know," he sympathized. "but just forget you're related to coach carver and go out there to play a game of football. if you tear in there the way you did when you got started against me--you won't have to worry." "thanks," said mack, gratefully. "you're a peach!" "don't kid yourself," grinned dave. "i didn't throw this knee out to give you your chance!" mack's eyes clouded. "no, dave--you've done more than that. you've shown me what real spirit was. i've been so wound up in myself that i couldn't feel it before. i feel it now, though ... and i only hope i can play good enough so your loss won't be felt too badly." dave patted him on the back. "i'll be pulling for you, boy!" a buzz of excitement went through the crowded stands as the pomeroy and grinnell elevens lined up for kick-off and the player numbered "26" in grinnell's backfield was pointed out to be mack carver. pomeroy was kicking to grinnell. "the highly exploited brother act is about to be put on!" cried a fan. "we'll soon see what a brother player can do against a brother coach. if there's not plenty of fireworks in this game, i'll miss a good guess!" mack, as he awaited the referee's whistle starting the game, felt his heart throbbing in his throat. this was his big moment--a terrible moment. for him--the world rested on his shoulders. thanks to unwelcome newspaper publicity his every move would be watched. he would be playing as though followed by a spotlight. keenly conscious of the business rivalry between his brother and coach edward, mack thoroughly appreciated the gesture of his being placed in the opening line-up. he even wondered what his own feelings would have been had he been in coach edward's shoes. could he have trusted the brother of a rival coach in the big game--knowing how deeply rooted is family loyalty? not that he would have suspected said brother of deliberate leanings toward the other side ... but he might have feared an unconscious favoring and a partial let-down on the part of the brother at critical times. were a game the only thing at stake, such brotherly consideration might be entirely discounted. but when the loss of such a game might affect the family pocketbook, the situation took on different proportions. and this was the tough spot in which the grinnell coach and player found themselves. coach carl carver had never intimated any personal concern nor confessed to any embarrassment at the possibility of mack's playing. his attitude had been impersonal ... but he, of the three, was least in position to feel the strain. the kick-off! mack's eyes followed the ball as it arched in the air and spun his way. out of the corners of his eyes he saw team-mates forming a phalanx in front. then he heard frank meade's voice off to his left. "take it, mack--and follow me!" the stands were rocketing sound as mack, his throat suddenly dry as paper, realized the pigskin was coming to him on his own seven yard line ... that the pomeroy eleven was rushing down ... trying to penetrate grinnell's quickly forming interference. he made the catch, clutching the ball to him fearsomely, terrorized at the thought of dropping it, and felt himself in motion as he slid in behind frank who crossed in front of him. ten--fifteen--twenty yards he traveled ... conscious that frenzied pomeroy forms were being dumped heavily to earth by fellow team-mates ... and that frank, directly ahead, was doing herculean work at clearing the way for him. on the thirty yard stripe, frank suddenly went down, blocking off another tackler as he fell ... and mack was forced to veer toward the sidelines as he was left upon his own. he saw now that dizzy fox, pomeroy's star backfield man, was bearing rapidly down on him. there was no escape ... he must try to straight-arm ... or else be forced out of bounds.... smack! dizzy's body-jarring tackle could be heard over the entire field. mack felt his breath violently punched from him and the mad clamor of the field fade out in almost total darkness. a referee's whistle screeched. mick came to himself with the trainer bending over him, lifting him up and down at the waist. he was gasping for breath. "pomeroy's ball!" he heard the referee saying. "pomeroy's ball?" mack repeated, dazedly. "yeah--you fumbled when you was hit!" said the trainer. "tough break, old boy!" pomeroy's ball on grinnell's forty yard line and mack carver's brilliant runback of the initial kick-off reduced to naught! "what will coach edward think?" an agonized mack wondered as he stumbled to his feet and was shoved back into position. "never mind that, mack!" frank was saying in his ear. "that might have happened to any of us!" but this was small consolation and it was even less consolation when pomeroy, overjoyed at the early turn of fortune, put on an inspired drive which carried them the remaining distance to the grinnell goal in three first downs. the point after touchdown was kicked and pomeroy, five minutes after the game's opening, was out in front with a seven to nothing lead. "that's what you call brotherly cooperation!" remarked a disgruntled rooter, but he was instantly howled down by those inclined to be charitable. "mack was over-anxious!" explained one. "he made a great get-away but he was trying too hard. he was too tense when he was hit and the ball was snapped out of his arms. if he'd have relaxed, he'd have held onto it. shouldn't i know? i played for three years!" again pomeroy kicked off. this time the ball went to frank meade who was downed on the twenty-five yard mark. then followed a terrific struggle between two powerful lines--both elevens settling down to work with the first hysteria of battle over. the contest became a punting duel between the twenty yard lines with the offense of the two teams effectively checked. "looks like that lone touchdown might prove to be the measure of difference between pomeroy and grinnell!" observed a spectator as the half ended. "if it is, it's going to be hard on mack carver! he hasn't shown much so far ... but no one has--except dizzy fox who made the only score. that fellow sums up as the best back on the field!" in the locker room a dejected mack carver rightfully expected a reprimand from his coach. instead, coach edward announced to his squad: "boys, you'll be glad to know that the man who stole our signals and plays has been caught. he's a small time gambler who'd placed bets on pomeroy to win. we owe his capture to mack's brother, coach carl carver. and i want to again apologize to mack for the embarrassment i've caused him and his brother." "that's all right, coach," replied grinnell's substitute back who had played in the starting line-up for the first time. "i'm darn sorry about that fumble." "go out after 'em this half!" was coach edward's retort. "you can get that touchdown back!" mack could have no quarrel now about not being given the proper chance to show what he could do. coach was keeping him in, was giving him the benefit of every doubt, was finding no fault even when his fumble might be costing coach edward an opportunity to take over the coaching reins at pomeroy ... and at the same time help coach carver to hold his position. "this touchdown mustn't be what decides the game!" mack told himself, fervently. "if pomeroy wins, i mustn't be held accountable for it!" the third quarter began as though to continue the close defensive struggle but, along toward the end of the quarter, grinnell suddenly came to life as left half frank meade, behind the frenzied interference of mack carver, broke away for a thirty-nine yard run which placed the ball on pomeroy's twenty-one yard mark. "great work, mack!" shouted a delighted dave morgan from the grinnell bench. then, turning to the grinnell subs, dave grinningly declared: "say--he looked just like _me_ out there on that one! did you see him block those tacklers out of the way?... now he's got going ... look out, pomeroy--here we come!" pomeroy's defense tightened. an end run failed to gain. a lateral pass was good for four yards. third down and seven to go. quarterback bert henley, calling signals in the huddle, nominated one of coach edward's new plays--the lateral pass opening into a forward. on this play, mack was to take the pass from bert and lateral to frank who was to fade back while mack screened the pass from in front, blocking off would-be tacklers. the ball was snapped. mack took the toss from bert and started running, then tossed the pigskin on to frank who was running on his left. the toss was poor and frank fumbled, then recovered. mack continued left, covering frank as he dropped back ... but the pomeroy line was through fast and mack found himself confronted with three frenzied linesmen who sought to break up the pass. he threw himself in front of them all and actually succeeded in bringing two down but the third dodged to the side and leaped up, just as frank, hurried by the poor toss, released the pass. "it's intercepted!" screamed pomeroy stands as the pomeroy right end deflected the ball and gathered it into his arms, starting off for the grinnell goal, some eighty yards distance. he angled his run to avoid a desperate frank meade who immediately gave chase. mack, disentangling himself from the two pomeroy linesmen, also attempted to follow after but was bumped joltingly to the ground again by another pomeroy player who came up from nowhere to offer interference in his team-mate's wake. "touchdown!" yelled a delirious pomeroy as the right end crossed grinnell's goal just as frank hit him in a diving tackle. "there goes your old ball game!" amid a riotous ovation by pomeroy rooters, the point after touchdown was added as the third quarter ended with the scoreboard reading: pomeroy, 14; grinnell, 0. "i'm responsible for that score, too!" moaned mack, inconsolably. "that rotten pass i made to you, frank. by the time you recovered and got set they were on you!..." frank, bitterly disappointed, had nothing to say. but quarterback bert henley, greatly perturbed by the breaks of the game, turned savagely upon grinnell's substitute back. "you're right, mack. you've played a swell game today for pomeroy! if you'd stolen the signals and handed 'em to your brother's team, you couldn't have done any better! coach edward's treated you pretty white ... but you're about as low as a guy could get!" "shut up, bert!" demanded frank, grabbing the outraged quarterback by the arm as mack accepted the blazing denunciation with clenched fists, controlling himself with difficulty. "he ought to be taken out!" cried fullback steve hilliard, equally upset. grinnell team members looked to the sidelines, half-expectant that coach edward would take action but he sat immobile as pomeroy prepared to kick-off once more. whether by design or not, the pigskin was driven directly at grinnell's offending player. "i'll take it!" cried frank, racing over from the side. "no!" shouted mack, "it's _mine_!" something in mack's brain went hot at the realization that his team-mates were trusting him no longer. here was frank, trying to take a ball away from him which was rightfully his to accept. frank made the catch, snatching the ball practically out of mack's arms. "get in front of me!" he yelled. mack had no other choice. pomeroy players were sifting through grinnell's interference as mack shot up the field, with the fleet-footed frank constantly urging him on to greater speed, until both got behind a wedge of their own team members who were doing an excellent job of crashing pomeroy tacklers. at mid-field the wedge was broken up and mack and frank emerged from the heap on their own. "to the right!" directed frank, seeing that two tacklers were bearing down from the left. mack changed directions obediently. grinnell supporters, wild with hope, screamed the two runners on. "look out from behind!" they shrieked, as a pomeroy player, giving mad chase, was rapidly closing up the gap. frank looked back over his shoulder, then called to the fellow who had put his own team in the hole. "mack--drop back and take that guy out!" "okay!" answered mack, dropping at once to the rear as frank raced past him. the pomeroy tackler loomed up almost at once and mack, whose charge down the field as frank's interferer had been fraught with one spectacular piece of frenzied blocking after another, now completed his task by hurling himself in front of the last threat to frank's sensational touch down dash from kick-off. tackler and interferer went down in a thudding pile as grinnell's star halfback crossed pomeroy's goal line and triumphantly touched the ball down. then the field rocked with sound. "what a run!" gasped dave morgan, waving his crutch. "and what a piece of interfering! mack sure produced that time! didn't look like he was handing the game to pomeroy then, did it?... come on, gang--this old game isn't lost yet!" but a great groan went the rounds as the pass from center was bad and frank missed the kick for extra point. score: pomeroy, 14, grinnell, 6! "if we make another touchdown and kick the goal, we'll still be a point behind!" grieved a grinnell supporter. "there goes our outside chances of at least tying the score!" "now you're playing _football_!" were frank's words to mack as he shook his fist at him and then turned on other scowling team members with the demand that they show a little fight. "this is not enough!" mack kept repeating. "i've got to do more!... this is not enough!" grinnell kicked off and it was a frenzied mack carver who raced down the field to bowl over interferers and down the pomeroy man with the ball on his eighteen yard line. "yea, carver!... yea, yea, yea!" "hold 'em!" ordered quarterback bert henley. "make 'em kick!" the grinnell linesmen, battered from the pounding they had received, dug their cleats into the turf and held for three downs with pomeroy being able to gain but two yards. dizzy fox then dropped back to his five yard line to punt. "block that kick!" was the cry. and, with the snapping of the ball, grinnell opened up a hole. it existed but for a moment as the lines strained against one another ... but, in that moment, grinnell's right guard was through. he hurried the kick, all but blocking it so that the ball went out of bounds on pomeroy's thirty yard mark. "all right, gang!" shouted quarterback bert henley. "what are we going to do about this?" "we're going through!" answered the team to a man. coach edward sent in three fresh linesmen with the aim of aiding the offensive drive. the scoreboard read: eight minutes to play. to mack's astonishment, he was given the ball on the first play, a drive through tackle. he plunged for four yards and, heard the grinnell stands yell his name. frank was good for two yards ... steve was good for four more and a first down on pomeroy's twenty yard mark! "that's hitting 'em!" commended bert. "keep it up, you guys! how about you, mack? do you want to see us win or don't you?" mack glared. "just gimme that ball!" fighting and squirming his way through, mack made another four yards. "four yards, carver!" the stands commenced shouting. but pomeroy rose up to turn fullback steve hilliard back at the line of scrimmage. third down and six to go. frank meade--on a triple pass behind the line--with mack as interference, breaking out around left end! the play was beautifully executed but mack, as he turned the end, stumbled so that frank bumped him and was thrown off his stride. before he could recover, pomeroy tacklers were in on him so that he gained but a yard. "there you go!" razzed bert, shaking a blackened fist in mack's face, "spilling the bucket again!" "shut up, bert!" snapped frank. "signals!" "signals!" bert repeated. mack stiffened. bert was calling the trick play once more on which he had made the poor toss to frank. this time the play must be good. here they were on pomeroy's fifteen yard line and fourth down with five yards to go. "if i bungle _this_ one...!" mack thought, and bit his lips. berths toss to him was wide but mack reached out one hand and pulled the ball to him as he ran. he shot the ball on a quick lateral toss to frank and fairly sobbed his relief when he saw that the toss couldn't have been better. frank faded, holding the pigskin ready to pass, as mack now turned his attention to helping block pomeroy men who were trying to get through at him. in this he was successful, going down under two pomeroy linesmen as frank shot a pass low and to the right--over the end zone. there--racing into the end zone, was right end eddie miller. he touched the ball with his finger tips, juggled and caught it, being almost immediately buried beneath an avalanche of tacklers. "yea!" roared the grinnell stands. "a touchdown!" pomeroy, a greatly sobered team, lined up in front of its own goal posts. the team charged viciously and frank, with bert upending the ball, again missed the place-kick for extra point. score: pomeroy, 14; grinnell, 12. "well, we might as well lose by two points as one," philosophized a grinnell supporter. "nice comeback we staged ... but too late to do us much good. only four minutes left to play." grim-faced grinnell warriors eyed each other. could they possibly regain possession of the ball and drive down the field for a third touchdown and snatch a victory from almost certain defeat? the odds were overwhelmingly against them. it had been a most spectacular and pulsating game from the standpoint of spectator and player alike. both teams were now near exhaustion from their offensive and defensive efforts. "brother carl will certainly know his team's been in a ball game," thought mack, feeling somewhat relieved that he had at last performed creditably after several wretched blunders. inwardly, however, there lurked a condemning conscience which impressed upon him that no performance save one which might lead to a grinnell victory could ever suffice. this feeling took precedence over a flash of satisfaction that his brother was apparently to retain his coaching position, if it actually had hung upon the outcome of this game. "but i mustn't think of this at all!" mack told himself at once. "my attitude has got to be like dave suggested. i've simply got to forget any family tics. i'm playing to beat pomeroy ... not my brother!" grinnell kicked off to pomeroy and the visitors indicated at once that they intended to retain possession of the ball until the end of the game if they possibly could. several first downs in succession ate up valuable seconds and took the ball to grinnell's forty-five yard line. "hold 'em!" begged and ranted quarterback bert henley. "what's the matter with you guys? gone to pieces?... get in there and _hold that line_!" more reserves came dashing out from the side lines to help bolster a grinnell forward wall which had taken plenty of punishment. these fresh men drove into the pomeroy line on the first play and opened a hole through which mack carver darted. he hit an interferer, sent him spinning and broke up a pass behind the line. the ball went wild with mack following into pomeroy's backfield after it. three wide-eyed pomeroy men were on his heels as he dived for the pigskin and rolled over with it clutched against his stomach. the three pomeroy men landed on him almost together. "grinnell's ball on pomeroy's forty yard line!" announced the referee, and grinnell supporters went crazy. "great stuff, mack!" shouted coach edward from the sidelines, and mack, hearing, could only gulp his joy. the game might be lost but if coach edward only could believe he'd done his best despite the two glaring misplays ... errors, at least, which he, himself, could never excuse...! "your kid brother's playing quite a game out there!" observed a faculty member to pomeroy's coach who fidgeted nervously. "_quite_ a game?" was the response. "a whale of a game!... i never saw a kid play in worse luck the first three quarters ... but now he's making his own breaks ... and am i glad there's only a minute left to play...?!!" mack was thumped joyously on the back by fellow players as he staggered back in position, holding his side. he had held onto the ball at all costs and despite a scrambled attempt on the ground to wrest it away from him. with only time for about two plays, quarterback henley called for a pass. frank meade faded back and shot a long one. mack, breaking through with other possible receivers, had not expected to be singled out, but wheeled just in time--after getting free--to hear the crowd yell and see the pigskin coming straight at him. he reached up and picked it out of the air on pomeroy's twenty-five yard line, being hit before he could move by dizzy fox. "yea, carver!" yelled the stands. mack, all but bewildered by the way plays had revolved about him, was pushed into the huddle as time-keepers consulted their watches. "what'll it be?" demanded bert. "shall we chance another pass?" "a field goal would do it?" cried steve, with a glance at the scoreboard. "but frank's toe hasn't been so hot today!" "we've only time for one more play," reminded bert. "can you fellows hold that line? seems to me a kick's a little better than another pass. we're almost dead in front of the goal posts!" "i'll try it if you say so!" volunteered frank. "mack--you've got to block 'em off until i toe that ball! they mustn't get through at me this time!" "okay!" said mack, jaws tightening. here was the test. a successful kick meant defeat for his brother ... no, defeat for _pomeroy_! it meant that all scores against him would be wiped out ... his misplays forgotten...! ... but how about his brother's coaching position?... he mustn't think about that!... his mother--her support!... no, no!... whatever happened would be all right.... he must do his part ... he must be loyal to grinnell. he'd picked this school with the hope of someday helping to beat pomeroy ... and here was his chance!... he must do his part to the uttermost limit ... and then--if the kick failed ... well--nobody could say he hadn't tried...! "kick formation!" bert was calling. a murmur of surprise swept through the stands and a pall of silence fell. grinnell--attempting a field goal as a last resort ... attempting to pull a lost cause out of the fire! "hold 'em, gang!" begged bert. "you've got to hold 'em!" grinnell's quarterback was kneeling, ready to upend the ball. steve and mack were stationed at the side and in front. they exchange determined glances. "no one gets past us!" said steve. mack, too full for words, nodded, fingers twitching, eyeing the enemy line. coach carl carver, pulling nervously at the rim of his hat, sized up the distance between the teams and the goal posts. "it's one chance in a...!" he started. the ball flashed back and the two lines came together in a desperate upheaval. grinnell's line wavered and snapped. as it did so, bert caught the pigskin and placed its nose on the ground, sighting the distant goal posts. frank started running forward. "you get those two--i'll stop these babies!" fullback steve shouted to mack as he blocked off frenzied pomeroy linesmen, rushing through in a mad attempt to spoil the kick. "right with you!" echoed mack, obliterating from his mind all thoughts of possible consequences ... intent only upon doing the job assigned him. his body halted the plunge of the pomeroy left end and guard ... and resulted in a third pomeroy player piling atop. as he went down he caught a fleeting glimpse of the pigskin passing over his head. a moment of breathless, very terrible suspense, broken only by the sharp crack of the timer's gun, signalling that the game was technically over. then a tremendous roar! mack freed himself from the mass of arms and legs just in time to see the ball settling over the bar and to see the scoreboard change its figures to read: grinnell--15 pomeroy--14 unaccountable things happened after that. more pandemonium than a fellow, playing his first full game for grinnell had thought existed in the world. joy-crazed students surrounding him as he suddenly gave vent to his feelings and, to the amazement of fellow team-mates, broke into uncontrolled sobs. "what the heck are you crying about?" frank meade was demanding. "because," he choked, "pomeroy lost!" a great shout of laughter went up at this from all except those who realized the predicament grinnell's substitute back had been in. "cheer up, kid!" called a familiar voice, and mack beheld coach carver fighting his way through to him in company with coach edward. "but you lost your job?" mack wanted to know, still somewhat dazed by it all. "i sure did!" grinned brother carl, gripping him by the shoulder. "you knocked me out of that!... i always said you couldn't play football!" "and now he knows it!" smiled coach edward. "i'm taking your brother's place at pomeroy next year--so he tells me!... in fact, he recommended me!" "what?" gasped mack. "why not?" rejoined carl, his eyes twinkling. "i've signed up to coach great western next year at ... guess what salary...?" carl looked about him, cautiously. "i don't want any newspaper guys to hear this--it's ... er ... just something to be kept in the family." whereupon carl cupped his hand between his mouth and mack's ear and whispered a figure. "no?" cried mack, overjoyed, and--forthwith leaped atop his brother's back, bearing him to earth for a down which was not recorded in the game! a case of nerves "look at that guy--he hasn't been eating enough to keep a canary alive for the last three days!" "you know what's the trouble, don't you?" "indigestion?" "yeah--nervous indigestion? speed's on edge over the big game next saturday against hamilton!" "no kidding?" kinky doyle, who sat at the second team's training table, stared at his informant unbelievingly. "straight dope!" replied sober watkins, quarterback of the scrubs, with a glance toward the varsity training table nearby and star half-back speed bartlett, toying with his meal. "speed had the same kind of stagefright last season ... lost so much appetite and sleep and got so high strung that he fumbled in the hamilton game and handed them the victory on a platter!" "that's funny," said kinky, after a pause. "he hasn't been this way up to the last few days. he's played through the whole year...!" "sure--the big game's the only one that bothers him this way," grinned sober. "you know, some fellows can stand every kind of flower but goldenrod ... and that knocks them for a flock of sneezes. well, for some reason, speed has the feeling that hamilton's not to be sniffed at. all the other games are just dress rehearsals but this contest is the real thing!" "that's bad," declared kinky, seriously. "bad for speed and bad for the team. the other fellows can't help but be depressed by the way he's taking it. and after what happened last year it'll be a wonder if speed don't have the whole eleven on edge." "you said it," agreed sober. "but what can we do about it? that's a neat little problem for coach brock to solve!" could the two squad members have known it, the coach was even at that moment turning a rather drastic plan over in his mind. something certainly had to be done. practically every fellow at the varsity and second team training tables had observed the sudden funereal atmosphere being radiated by one speed bartlett. his sad and solemn conduct had begun to descend like a pall upon a heretofore gay and carefree dining hall. just why this climax to a medford season should have such a nervous effect upon her star halfback was as difficult to determine as why some folks got short of breath in the proximity of a cat. "cat asthma", this was called. there weren't any words exactly descriptive of speed's disorder for he was courageous to a fault. in the heat of battle he played with an abandon and a drive that usually carried him through to his objectives. it wasn't, then, a matter of his actually being "afraid" of anything. but, still, the seeming mere anticipation of the big game with hamilton produced a nerve-shattering reaction. "i can't let this go on," coach brock decided, "or i won't have any morale left. hamilton has a strong eleven this year and we'll need all the fighting spirit we've got. now if i can just figure out some way to suspend speed from the team--tell him he's out of the big game--relieve him of his nerve tension and then shove him in the contest at the last minute ... that might turn the trick!" phil doran and milt gleeson were as rabid medford supporters as could be found in college. more than this--they were close chums of speed bartlett. between them they owned a little runabout in which they travelled to the various college towns where medford's eleven might be playing. the coming hamilton game, however, was to be played at medford and, since it was to be the last contest of the season, the boys' football trips were over. "what do you suppose coach brock's sent for us about?" phil asked milt as the two were on the way to the athletic director's office. "haven't the slightest idea," grinned milt. "but maybe he wants us to help him work out some new plays to spring against hamilton!" "only play i could suggest would be for him to put in the first and second teams at the same time," declared phil. "then we might have a chance to win by sheer weight of numbers!" "oh, it's not as bad as that," replied milt, defensively. "if speed just holds to his regular form this year, he'll give hamilton plenty of trouble. he's crazy to make up for his fumble in last season's game. have you seen him lately?" "not in three days. have you?" "no. i called around at his dorm yesterday but he wasn't in. about time we got together again. speed's a great guy." "and a mighty sweet football player," complimented phil. "well, here we are--outside the sanctum of the man who controls the destinies of medford pigskin chasers. shall i rap?" "sure--don't you see it says 'private'?" a voice bade the callers to "come in!" and phil and milt presently found themselves standing before the genial-faced coach. "sit down!" coach brock invited, motioning to chairs. and when the two wondering visitors were seated, he came straight to the point with: "i understand you fellows know speed bartlett very well?" phil and milt exchanged glances. "well ... er ... yes, sir ... we ...!" "we're _pretty_ good friends," temporized milt. "why--what's ... er ... happened?... is speed in trouble?" coach brock smiled, amusedly. "yes, as a matter of fact, he is. not necessarily serious trouble," he hastened to assure as phil and milt looked their concern, "but i want to guard against it getting any worse." "good grief!" exclaimed milt, anxiously. "what's speed done?" "we haven't been out with him for some time," volunteered phil, "so we wouldn't know anything." "it's nothing like that," declared the coach. "speed's simply going to pieces over thoughts of the hamilton game. i've got to break him of this or he's going to have himself in such a mental stew by game-time that he'll be next to useless." "oh--then you want us to brighten him up?" divined phil. coach brock shook his head. "no, there's only one thing that can have any effect upon speed," he said, decisively. "he's got to be told that he can't play on saturday. this will bitterly disappoint him, of course, but it will relieve him at the same time. but the fly in the ointment is how to make speed believe that he's really not going to play. he knows very well that i wouldn't remove the star of the team without definite reason. obviously, then, the only way we can put one over on speed is to catch him breaking one of the strict rules i've laid down for members of the squad." "now i 'get' you," cried phil, eagerly. "you want us to help get speed in bad!" "that's precisely it," agreed the coach. "and here's how you can do it. take him over to ashby in your car to catch the early evening show. there's a knute rockne two-reeler showing at the picture house that i'll recommend be seen. as you fellows know, my orders are for every man on the squad to be in his room and in bed by ten o'clock. ashby is a good twenty miles from here and, after stalling for time you start back to medford with just time enough left to get speed to his dorm within the ten o'clock law. unfortunately, however, your car breaks down and you are delayed getting back until after midnight." "quite a thrilling plot," agreed milt. "it calls for some real acting," opined phil. "and if speed ever caught on he'd darn near kill us!" "aren't you willing to die for your college?" smiled coach brock. "i'll be within sight of the dorm so that i can manage to be passing when you drive up, several hours late, with speed. what happens after that will be regrettable but hardly any fault of yours. automobiles do break down ... even in the best of families!" phil and milt grinned. "but what if speed doesn't care to see this picture?" queried milt. "i think he'll jump at the chance after the send-off i give to it this afternoon at practice," said the coach. "but i'll insist that all fellows who do make arrangements to take in the show, make a point of getting back by their accustomed hour." "okay!" accepted phil. "we'll tackle speed on the proposition after practice ... tell him we've just learned of the football program ... and that we're leaving in time to catch the seven o'clock show. wouldn't he like to go along?" "that's right," coach brock approved. "you can explain to speed that the seven o'clock show will be over around nine o'clock which gives you a whole hour to drive the twenty miles back. let me know, for sure, if you can make arrangements, and i'll be ready to do my part." "we'll try our darndest," promised phil. "and, of course," the coach added, warningly, "it goes without saying that you are to keep this little matter strictly confidential. you are doing this, remember, for the team!" phil and milt stiffened with a sense of their responsibility. "you can trust us," they assured. speed bartlett was quite innocent of any plot against him and quite glad to accept the invitation of his two friends to attend the show. in fact, he welcomed the opportunity as a means of possible relaxation. coach brock had spoken highly of the knute rockne short subject--declaring it to be extremely educational, particularly as pertained to open field running. since this was supposed to be speed's specialty, his curiosity was aroused. "strange you fellows should be interested in seeing this same show," mused speed, on the way over. "it's a good break for me since i'm supposed to see it, anyway." "listen, speed," declared phil. "we're nuts over football. we'd go almost anywhere within reason to see a game or something interesting about it. and when we read in the paper that one of knute rockne's pictures was there ... well, that was enough for us!" "clever bird, this fellow, knute," kidded milt. "i'd place him next to coach brock." arriving at ashby, phil and milt parked their car on a side street and were surprised to find a crowd waiting to get seats. "hello--they're doing some real business. must be a great show!" exclaimed milt, with a wink at phil. "ten minutes after seven," said speed, a bit disturbed. "oh, there's plenty of time," said phil, "but i've got so in the habit of sitting that i hate to stand." it was seven-thirty before the three patrons from medford were escorted to seats and then it was to discover that the knute rockne feature had just finished. "tough luck," milt whispered. "but it'll start the next show. we're all right." the three then settled down to enjoy the feature picture and time sped quickly. it was ten after nine that the knute rockne short subject next flashed on the screen and its interest was compelling from the start. the two-reeler was over at nine-forty, much to speed's concern when he discovered the time. "holy smoke!" he cried. "we've got twenty minutes to drive twenty miles. you fellows'll never make it!" "we'll try!" declared phil, optimistically, as they rushed for the car. "gosh, where did that time go to?" "won't make much diff if we are a few minutes late," said milt, reassuringly. "coach won't hold you to account on this." "but he made a point of saying we had to be back on time if we went," speed recalled. "sure--he's got to keep his discipline up," rejoined phil, sliding behind the wheel and working the starter. "what's the matter with this thing? have i flooded the carburetor?" the engine had refused to respond. "that's probably what's the trouble," diagnosed milt. "turn off your gas entirely." "good grief!" groaned speed, "get going, you guys! i don't want to be any later than i have to!" "keep your shirt on!" soothed milt. "there she spits! she'll catch hold in a minute. this little old bus hasn't failed us yet." another valuable minute shot past ... and another. "say--there goes the interurban!" said medford's star halfback, nervously. "it makes medford by ten-thirty. i'd better catch it!" "don't be foolish!" cried milt, grabbing speed and holding him in the car. "we'll be back in medford before that traction! it's a concrete road most all the way!" "here we go!" announced phil as the engine finally took hold. "now--just as soon as we get beyond the city limits...!" at ten o'clock, when all good little football players were supposed to be tucked in their beds or, at least, safe in their rooms, a runabout containing the outstanding star of medford's eleven was whizzing along the highway with the indicator wavering between fifty and fifty five miles an hour. "nine miles in fifteen minutes!" figured phil, eyes intent on the road ahead. "at that rate we'll be in medford around ten-sixteen. you don't see that interurban do you?" "it's just about leaving ashby now!" grinned milt. "how's this for traveling, speed? this is just a little faster than you go down the field. say--what did you think of that rockne picture anyhow? pick up any pointers?" "very interesting," admitted speed. "but what's that i hear--is it a knock in the motor?" "careful, phil!" warned milt. "the old engine's getting too hot again. better slow up!" "what's the matter?" asked speed, anxiously. "nothing much," answered milt, "only we can't hit it up too fast for too long a time. might burn out a bearing or something!" phil reduced the speed from fifty to twenty miles an hour and still the knocking persisted. "sounds like it's almost out of gas," said speed. "it's commencing to cough now!" "maybe it caught cold standing out there to-night," suggested milt. "it _is_ acting strangely. wouldn't you say so, phil?" "something's gone wrong," was phil's grave comment. "i think there's some foreign substance clogging the carburetor!" pulling to the side of the road, phil stopped the car. "now what?" gasped speed, glancing at his watch. "have to take a look," said phil, getting out and raising the hood. "pass out the flashlight, milt!" "which seat is it under?" asked the confederate in the dire conspiracy. "how do i know?" was phil's rejoinder. a half hour of tinkering with the engine followed, during which an agitated speed bartlett paced up and down the highway, returning every few minutes to inquire the progress made. "we can't even get the engine started now," was milt's cheerful report. "it's a good thing we stopped when he did!" "that's where you made your mistake," said speed, irritably. "you never should have stopped!" "no!" retorted phil, caustically. "you should burn out a bearing on _your_ car!" "i haven't any car!" replied speed, sharply. "that's just the point!" returned milt, smothering a chuckle. "but, don't worry, speed, we'll explain to the coach! have a chocolate bar--there's one in my coat in the car." "i can't eat anything," was speed's glum rejoinder. "my stomach's on the blink." a flashing headlight suddenly appeared from around a curve in the road. "heigho!" exclaimed phil. "here comes the interurban!" "quick--your flashlight!" cried speed, with sudden resolution. "i'll flag it!" medford's football star dashed forward but milt fumbled the flashlight in handing it over and by the time speed got hold of it the interurban was whizzing past. "i knew i ought to have gone home by traction!" he lamented, loudly. "something told me not to go back with you guys! this is terrible!" "listen, speed--you're getting all worked up over this," consoled milt. "you crawl in the car there and curl up on the seat and get your sleep. that's why the coach wants you to turn in at ten--so you'll get the right amount of sleep. if he should find out about this, we'll tell him you got your sleep just the same!" "sleep?" bellowed a greatly aggravated! speed. "i haven't slept for four nights as it is! how can i sleep now?" "hey, phil!" cried milt, insinuatingly. "i'll fix this bird. where's the monkey wrench?" it was a quarter to one o'clock before a familiar looking runabout appeared in front of the macdaniel dormitory and the door popped open to let a highly exasperated and greatly worried athletic figure out. there was not a sign of another soul upon the campus, nor was there a light visible save the flickering street lamps. "coast is clear!" whispered milt. "awfully sorry, old boy, but nobody will be any the wiser. you sneak in to your room and...!" "hello, there!" sounded a voice. "is that you, speed?" "blue murder!" exclaimed an agonized fellow, under his breath, as he cringed against the side of the car. "that's coach now!" "it can't be!" said phil, punching milt knowingly with his elbow. "what would coach be doing out this time of night?" there were the sounds of footsteps approaching. "make a break for it!" advised milt, hoarsely. "i can't," moaned speed. "i--i'm caught--cold!" "well!" addressed coach brock, as he got within real hailing distance. "is this the time for you to be turning in? who are these chaps with you?... oh, yes--i see. doran and gleeson. where have you been?" "it's all our fault, coach," phil spoke up. "milt and i took speed over to see the rockne picture at ashby and ... and our car broke down on the way back." "i've heard that story before," was coach brock's unfeeling reply. "what did i tell you, speed, about being in by ten o'clock?" "but, sir ... i ... er ... it was unavoidable," stammered medford's star half-back. "i fully intended ..." "sorry, speed!" cut short the coach, severely. "orders are orders. i'd like to make an exception but this wouldn't be fair to the other members of the squad. from now on you're under suspension and this act removes you from the game on saturday!" "no, coach, no!" pleaded speed. "you can't keep me out ... not for this! it's the first time i ever broke regulations and it wasn't intentional...!" "then why were you trying to sneak in the house?" demanded coach brock. "you didn't intend to report this infraction to me did you?" "well, er ... don't suppose i did," speed was forced to confess. "i was afraid maybe you wouldn't understand." "hmm! it's a good thing i worked late at the office tonight," was the coach's comment. "as it is, i understand only too perfectly. you'll turn in your suit tomorrow!" medford campus was thrown in a turmoil the next day, which was tuesday, with the news of speed bartlett's suspension. the report was first treated as a rumor but when a crestfallen speed himself would not deny it and when he did not appear on the field for practice, the awful truth finally dawned. "it's good-bye game now!" mourned medford fans. "did you hear what coach kicked speed off the team for? being out late! can you fathom that? and speed had a good reason, too ... he was in a car that broke down." a wave of indignation swept the college that the star player should be ruled out of the big game of the year on a technicality, but coach brock, in issuing a brief statement, stood by his guns, declaring that discipline was necessary and the owners of the car, on further cross-examination, could not prove that anything was or had been wrong with the car. it was natural that such an excuse would be offered when the fellows were caught flat-footed. but none of the three, under questioning, would tell where they had been after leaving the theatre at ashby. the affect of speed's removal on his fellow team members was to eliminate any possible tendencies toward over-confidence. in its stead a grim determination was born. medford would have to make up for the loss of its star by a greater fighting spirit. speed himself, as disappointed as he was, suddenly discovered that his appetite had returned. stomach muscles which had contracted under the nervous anticipation of the coming conflict, now relaxed and set up a cry for food to work upon. and, while speed no longer reported to the training table, it was observed by a spying phil and milt that he ate abundantly but wisely. "coach sure knows his psychology," milt said to phil as they were crossing the campus the day before the game. "all that was the matter with speed was a bad case of nerves...." at the moment of this remark, the fellow in question was hurrying in an attempt to overtake his two friends, and had just gotten within earshot. discovering that he was being talked about, speed lagged curiously behind. "speed's got sand all right," he overheard phil say. "but he worries too much before hand. you can imagine how bad it must have been for the training table with speed sitting there like a guy with a load of lead in his stomach. the whole eleven's better off. it's a blow to have speed suspended but medford'll take the field tomorrow with a world of fight. "and when coach sends speed into the game--maybe medford spirit won't rise sky high!" chuckled milt. "boy, i guess maybe we didn't play our parts to perfection! we ought to get letters for this!" medford's star halfback stopped in his tracks and let his two friends continue on their way, not realizing that he was anywhere near them. he was burning with humiliation and resentment. so--this had all been a put-up job! coach brock had enlisted the services of his two chums to frame him ... to save his nerve for the big battle! "i'll go to the coach and tell him what i think of him!" was speed's first reaction. but more sober thought decided speed against this step. there was truth in what phil and milt had said about him. he had been painfully conscious of his feelings toward the coming game. even now, since he knew that coach brock intended reinstating him at the last moment, all the old nervous symptoms had returned, worse than ever. there was that heavy feeling in his stomach, the quickening of his pulse, the strained sensation in his head.... "i guess i wasn't such a good influence around the fellows in this condition," speed reflected glumly. "but coach put me off the team and i'm going to stay off the team. i'll fix him--i'll leave town tonight so he _can't_ get hold of me!" saturday morning found the campus of medford alive with old grads and loud-mouthed hamilton rooters who told everyone who would listen, in no uncertain terms, what their eleven was going to do to the home team. "too bad your star is out of the game!" hamilton lamented. "you'll be using that for an alibi--but we'd have beaten you either way!" at noon, coach brock sent word by second team member, kinky doyle, that speed bartlett was to report to him at once. the varsity had just left training table, having had an early lunch. in two hours they would be dressing for the game. "hey, coach!" cried an excited kinky fifteen minutes later. "i've just come from speed's room. he's not there ... but i found this note--addressed to you!" coach brock took the note, wonderingly, opened it, and read: to coach brock, medford college, medford. dear sir: since i have been removed from the team, i couldn't bear to stay and see the game, so i have left town. yours, speed. "great jumping jehoshaphat!" swore coach brock, crumpling the paper. "the boy's gone crazy! get hold of doran and gleeson at once!" "yes, sir!" blinked a wondering kinky doyle, hurrying off. with phil and milt delivered to him, post haste, coach brock took them privately aside and showed them the note. phil gasped and milt whistled. "where would speed have gone?" demanded the coach. "i haven't the slightest idea," replied milt. "have you, phil?" "there's four different directions," phil answered. "and one's as good as another!" "well, you've got to find him!" the coach ordered. "you got him in this mess!" "_us?_" mumbled phil and milt, all but overcome. "don't argue!" snapped the coach. "get out and hunt him up! if speed bartlett doesn't play today, the game's as good as lost!" "end of first half!" cried the radio announcer. "and what a game this has been!... but hamilton's great team is proving too much for medford today. they're out in front, two touchdowns, thirteen to nothing, which just about indicates the difference in playing strength. medford's offensive hasn't been able to get going ... no doubt due to the loss of their backfield star, speed bartlett... stand by, folks, we're to have a word now from coach brock of medford...!" there was a moment of prickling silence, then the sound of someone clearing a husky throat. "i hope you will pardon me, radio football fans, for this brief intrusion," spoke coach brock. "but i am addressing this appeal to speed bartlett with the hope that he may be within the reach of my voice. i herewith apologize to him. further ... er ... facts have just come to light in regard to his violation of the rules and were he here in medford today he would be offered his place in the line-up. it is self-evident that medford needs him...!" a certain young man, standing in front of a radio store in ashby, waited to hear no more. he rushed over to a taxi stand at the curb and hailed a driver who had been listening in on the game. "what'll you charge to take me to medford?" the taxi driver almost fell from his seat. "that's a fifteen dollar ride, son!" "okay!" accepted speed, "and there's an extra five in it for you if you break all records getting there!" "have you got that much money?" asked the driver, incredulously. "no," answered speed, truthfully. "but coach brock has...!" "oh--be you speed bartlett?" exclaimed the driver, starting his car. "suffering cats, boy! then i'm gonna turn this old bus into a flyin' machine!" "good!" cried speed, jumping in. "oh--wait a second! i want to run in this telegraph office!" a messenger boy, twenty minutes later, with the third quarter about four minutes under way, reached coach brock's side. the coach was intent upon the game inasmuch as his team was being pushed once more into the shadow of its own goal posts. hardly realizing what he was doing, he took the yellow envelope and thrust it in a side pocket. "hey, coach!" cried a substitute, grabbing his mentor by the arm. "that was a telegram!" "read it to me!" snapped coach brock, handing the wire over and not taking his eyes off the field. the sub slit the envelope open and gazed at the message in bewilderment. "why--why--this is funny!" he exclaimed. "there's no name signed or anything--just one word...!" "what is it?" asked the coach. "hold 'em out there! what's the matter with you fellows? gordon, go in for ochs at left tackle!... what did you say that one word was...?" "the word is '_coming_'!" announced the substitute. coach brock whirled, interest quickening, and seized the yellow piece of paper. "_coming?_" he repeated. "coming?... by george--this is from that goofy speed bartlett!... jerry, you go in for maltby at right guard. get pete to take a time-out and tell the team that speed's on the way here. tell those guys to buck up! speed'll be in the game now ... he's due any minute!" a second substitute raced out on the field and coach brock now excitedly examined the telegraph blank. "ashby!" he groaned, as he saw the office from which the wire was sent. "twenty miles... he had ten minutes of the intermission minutes for time-outs ... plus two minutes' for the third quarter plus another ten to fifteen minutes for time-outs ... plus two minutes' intermission between quarters ... how much does that make? can he get here before the game's over?... why did that galoot have to go so far away?... come on, team--the old fight!" news that their backfield star was due to appear any second proved a tremendous bracer to a beaten team. medford braced on her ten yard line and held the mighty hamilton for downs, then punted out of danger. medford did even more than this. as the third quarter drew to a close, she drove deep into hamilton territory on her first sustained offensive of the day. "save the game for speed!" became the slogan. "put the old ball in scoring position!" but the fourth quarter got under way with no sign of speed bartlett and coach brock was forced to wave a yellow slip of paper as proof that he hadn't been pulling a ruse on his team. "he's coming!" the coach megaphoned. "this wire says so!" "he must be coming from florida!" growled quarterback pete slade. "let's go, guys!... maybe we can score without him!" a taxi suddenly wheezed into the stadium, steam and water frothing from the radiator, the cap of which had been blown off. a figure leaped from the taxi before it had come to a stop and went racing toward the medford bench. a section of the medford crowd recognized the figure and set up a great hue and cry. the medford team, hearing the outburst, immediately called for "time out!" "pay this man twenty bucks!" speed panted, pointing to the taxi driver, as coach brock embraced him, wildly. "how about my togs?" "they're right here!" said the coach. "gather around him, you fellows. he'll have to change on the field ... no time to chase to the locker room!" clothes were fairly thrown at medford's star halfback and willing hands helped strip him while other willing hands, almost too willing, fairly jerked on his moleskins. meanwhile coach brock had shoved two ten dollar bills in the taxi driver's hand, wrapped a blanket around him and pushed him down on the bench alongside the substitutes. "what's he doing this for?" asked the bewildered driver. "don't know," grinned the sub next him. "if he finds he needs you, he'll probably send you into the game!" the time-out period exhausted, medford resumed play with third down and eight to go on hamilton's fifteen yard mark. but, so stimulating was the knowledge that speed bartlett was actually on the field, medford opened up a hole which sent quarterback pete slade galloping through for a first down! and then the top of the stadium all but lifted as speed dashed out on the gridiron, buckling his belt. team-mates greeted him like a long lost brother and medford went into a huddle. the stands were in an uproar. fullback ned turner went through for two yards to hamilton's five yard mark. there was nothing nervous about speed bartlett as he crouched in his position, waiting to hear his signal called. he had been given so much to think about on his wild ride from ashby to medford that the nerve strain had left him. he was coldly calm and grimly determined, obsessed with a desire to make up for lost time. an enthused medford, having taken a severe battering from hamilton earlier in the game, now tore into the enemy and made a slicing opening for her backfield star who flashed through and over the line for a touchdown on his first play. phil and milt, just entering the stadium after a fruitless search for speed, could not believe their eyes as they looked out on the gridiron. "what's coach been doing--kidding us?" they gasped. "speed's been in the game all the time!" greater cheers as speed kicked goal for extra point and the scoreboard changed to read: hamilton, 13, medford, 7. "six more minutes to play!" someone announced, hysterically. "do it again, speed, old boy!" team members exchanged words with speed as they lined up to kick off to hamilton. "boy, we thought you'd never get here!" "so did i!" speed grinned. "been softening hamilton up for me all this time, eh? well, let's get another touchdown!" a worried hamilton, receiving the kick-off, was downed on her twenty-two yard mark. but three yards were gained on two tries and hamilton punted, desperately resolved to hold the touchdown lead to the finish. it was medford's ball on her own thirty-three yard line. but medford now was playing with a frenzy and yet with a precision which it had not shown all season. mixing line plays, end runs and lateral passes, with speed bartlett being given the ball three-fourths of the time, quarterback pete slade drove his warriors down to hamilton's twenty yard mark with two minutes remaining. "listen, fellows!" said speed, in a huddle, "i saw a play in a movie the other day ... one of knute rockne's ... and there's a weakness in hamilton's line ... right where this play's supposed to go. it's an off-tackle smash ... and if the man with the ball gets through into the open field it's almost impossible to stop him...!" "give us the dope!" ordered quarterback slade. "we're entitled to one more time-out!" "now what's speed up to?" wondered coach brock, who, for the past five minutes had been biting off fingernails at a rapid rate. "looks to me like he's been knocked goofy and is delivering the boys an oration!" with the calling of time the team snapped back into position and a new formation took shape before an astounded coach's eyes. the ball was passed and a hole was suddenly cracked open off left tackle. through this hole a dashing speed disappeared and then, as suddenly, reappeared in the face of hamilton's surprised secondary defense. two would-be tacklers were shunted out of the way by vicious medford interference and speed side-stepped another. the rest of the way to the goal line was unmolested and he romped across for his second touchdown of the quarter to tie the score at thirteen all! "i never gave the boys that play," said coach brock. "but it's vaguely familiar. i've seen it some place before!" "that play was shown in the rockne picture!" informed a substitute. coach brock blinked a moment, then put a hand to his head, staggered dizzily, and sat down. but he did not remain seated long for speed bartlett coolly toed the ball between the uprights for the point that sent medford into the lead, fourteen to thirteen, just as the gun banged for the game's end, in one of the greatest last quarter finishes ever witnessed in the home stadium. phil and milt were the first wild-eyed rooters to reach medford's star halfback as other supporters swarmed on the field with one idea in mind--to tear down the goal posts. they hoisted a protesting speed on their shoulders and hurried him across the field toward the medford bench. "why carry me this way?" speed shouted, looking down at them. "how about your car--is it broken down again?" something in the way speed said this caused phil and milt to glance up suspiciously. "how did you get wise?" phil wanted to know. "never mind!" rejoined speed. "keep moving! don't let this crowd catch me ... and keep me away from coach brock!..." "why?" gasped milt. "what's the matter?" "nothing!" said speed, "except i haven't had anything but a malted milk all day--and i'm darned hungry!" "can you beat that!" groaned phil. "hold up your side of him, milt! he's getting darned heavy!... here we've sacrificed ourselves to save this guy's nerves ... and then, in this last five minutes, we get all upset ourselves! my stomach's tied up in such a knot that i couldn't even digest a soda wafer." "don't mention stomach to me," said milt. "i'm a nervous wreck!" "hey!" shouted a jubilant coach brock, who saw that a gathering crowd was carrying the star of the game in triumph to the locker room. "wait for me, speed!" then, grinningly, he held up a yellow slip of paper and signalled with it. "don't you see--you boob--i--i'm _coming_!"... the bright token "here, take this--it's your token of good luck," she had said. that was twenty years ago, when she was a wistful, dark-eyed slip of a girl and he a wiry, sandy-haired bundle of nerves that football authorities insisted on dubbing the best quarterback in harvard history, a man who would certainly be accorded all-american honors at the conclusion of the season. it was a bare hour before the game that he had met her in a secluded spot in the shadow of the stands. a cold rain was falling which, most every one admitted, made a yale victory look overwhelmingly certain. he could remember how the delicately traced fingers had clung to the lapel of his sweater, and how, when he had started to take leave of her for the locker room, she had restrained him. the fingers had gone to her throat, had fumbled there an instant, and had undone the slip of a crimson bow which had been caught at the collar of her waist. tinglingly he could recall how she had commanded him to hold out his right wrist, how sheepish he had felt when she had tied the bow about it--and yet how proud! he had kissed it then and she had laughed, a laugh of nervous admiration, and patted him on the arm. and he had gathered her into one last, impulsive embrace and whispered, "my darling wife!" ah, that was twenty years ago! twenty years! and yet memory made it yesterday; for to-day carrington r. davies was going back--back to the scene of it all--back to witness the annual clash with the yale bulldogs, and to sit in the stands where he would be pointed out as one of harvard's greatest old-time football heroes. every year since his graduation, c. r. d. had gone back on the occasion of the yale game--gone either to cambridge or new haven--and he intended to keep on doing it as many years as he was permitted to draw breath. as davies took the train at the grand central station, new york, he glanced apprehensively at the gray sky overhead and hoped that the weather man who had prophesied rain was wrong. harvard would need a dry field this year to stand an even chance at winning. her back field was light, fast, and shifty. it depended on a quick get-away and a sure under-footing. yale's eleven was solid, heavy from end to end, with a stubborn defense that had allowed but two touchdowns so far that season, and a pile-driving back field that moved slowly but surely behind a battering forward wall. if it rained, davies reflected, harvard's last vestige of hope was due to be trampled in the mud. and yet twenty years before, almost to the day, with a driving rain falling and yale dangerously near harvard's goal in the last quarter, the game locked in a grim nothing-nothing tie, a bespattered, sandy-haired youth with a crimson bow encircling his right wrist, had scooped up a fumble at his very goal line and dodged and slipped through the whole eli team for a frenzied touchdown. the final score of that heart-blasting contest had been five to nothing, and the sensational length-of-the-field run had clinched for the harvard quarterback his right to all-american honors. the feat was talked about yet, wherever harvard men gathered who had witnessed the spectacle of victory jerked from the grinning jaws of defeat. at the harvard club on forty-fourth street, new york, carrington frequently ran into brother alumni who said, "i remember you when----" and then he was forced to listen to their versions of his crowning football achievement. davies found solace in going over old times. the harvard club was his haven of refuge. he was one of the best known men there. to enter the dining room was to nod to men at practically every table. there was a joy in feeling that he was among friends; in having his praises sung to younger grads by those who had chummed with him in college; to have his football prowess perpetuated by retelling. it was nothing to c. r. d. that he was recognized also as one of the leading architects in new york city. he had worked hard the past twenty years, but perhaps it was not so much because he had yearned to go forward as it was to keep him from thinking too much on certain closed incidents of his life. at times, like this morning, he found himself trying to piece together what his father, martin s. davies, would have told him had he not died with the words on his lips. it was only four years back. the elder davies had been stricken suddenly while carrington was in the west, and a wire had brought the son on the first train. he was told, on arrival, that the father was desperately ill; that he had held to the weakening thread of life and consciousness because of a strong-willed desire to impart some vital information to his son. however, when carrington davies had been led into the sick room, the father, overcome with emotion, died from the shock, his fingers clutching the arms of his son, his eyes set upon his son's face, and the words: "your wife--i--she's at----" trailing off into the darkness with him. for days after, when all his father's effects had been painfully gone over, davies had sat in frenzied study. it had been years since he had given serious thought to the brief, tragic romance of his college days. he had suffered keenly for a time, but his father's counsel had held weight with him, held weight even though he could never forget the girl, nor that day of days when she had plighted her faith in him with the dainty crimson bow and he had gone out on the field of battle feeling like a gladiator. a silly, lovesick fool he had been, perhaps, on that glorious day; but no incident in his entire life thereafter quite came up to this. when he had become older and more mature, when he had reached an age at which he could better judge the sort of woman he should marry, davies, as his father said he would, had come upon the discovery that all feminine creatures were hopeless bores. thus his unattached state grew to be recognized as perennial, and whatever romance he enjoyed came to him through the cultivated channels of his memory. how angry his father had been when he had found that davies had secretly married! the boy had written home for the family blessing and had received, by return mail, the family curse. carrington davies came of too good and wealthy a stock to have been inveigled into marrying a nobody, his proud parents told him. why, the girl was an orphan, her parents had been dead some years, and she was employed at serving in a quaint little tea room under the brow of the university. it was quite natural that a girl of her circumstances should have roped davies in. any girl who had really cared would have insisted that he wait until after graduation. should this marriage become known to college authorities, davies would be expelled. and then where would he be? disgraced! his career ruined! and ruined by a girl who had cleaved to him only for the money that he represented! martin s. davies made a special, hurried trip to cambridge to make his son see all these points. and the elder man brought plenty of money to make any others concerned see as he wanted them to see. the affair was successfully hushed up. carrington davies, threatened with being disowned if he did not do exactly as his father dictated, had stood by powerless. he reflected now that this had been the biggest mistake of his life. but years of strict obedience to his parent had awed him, awed him into letting his father approach hazel nubbins, the girl who had so shortly before become his wife. what the elder davies said to her or what proposition he made, the son never knew. but he recalled the satisfied expression his father wore on returning from the interview, when he said: "it's all right, son. i've fixed everything. now, for god's sake don't ever get into a jam like this again!" and the next day carrington davies heard that the girl had left the place of her employ, pleading ill health. weeks later, when he had come out of the daze occasioned by these happenings, davies had been unable to obtain any information as to hazel's whereabouts. and gradually, as the weeks stretched out into months, the whole affair shaped itself into the memory of a vaguely pleasant dream which had turned out a blundering nightmare. now, as he sped over the rails on the football special bound for cambridge, his thoughts came racing back to the present at the dash of something against his window, a something that left a running streak. "rain!" exclaimed davies disappointedly. "drizzling, cold rain! the devil hang the weather man, anyhow!" as the trip progressed the rain did likewise, true to forecast. at twelve fifteen, when the special arrived at brighton, a stop one mile from the stadium, davies stepped into a sullen, sweeping downpour. there was little hilarity among the detraining football followers, and crimson colors gave way to the somber black of umbrellas. davies raised his coat collar and pulled down his hat brim, making a dash for a store front that carried a light-lunch sign. it seemed that almost every one else made a dash for the same place at the same time, and the race proved a dead heat with the first fifty. these just managed to squeeze inside, davies being about the forty-seventh by half an elbow and several sore toes. it made him feel as if he was bucking the line again; only there was little relish to it this time, with the general pell-mell and every one calling out his order in place of the familiar, "rah, rahs!" just how davies at last came by a swiss-cheese sandwich and a cup of pleasantly hot and fragrant coffee he never quite knew. he just found himself jostled along, automatically holding out his hands when he came up against the counter, taking what was thrust into them, putting it out of sight as quickly as possible, while some one behind him was fighting for his place, and then following the path of least resistance, which led to the cashier's perch where the extent of his hasty appetite was checked up in so many cents. after that davies discovered himself once more in the rain, feeling strangely alone and just a little bit dazed. it was early yet. he had half a notion to go up to the locker room and see the boys. he had done this in other years, had even sat in the dugout with them and had thrilled at the imagining that his presence had inspired them; but somehow, this day, davies felt his inadequacy. it was a sort of left-out feeling; more than that, a sensing that his sun had set, that perhaps he had worn the halo of gridiron hero too long, and that his friends might have been humoring him. it was such dampening, disconsolate thoughts as these that prompted davies to hail a taxicab and go directly to the stadium. he would refrain from his usual haunts this year and, through this refraining, see if he was missed. it was quite possible, did he not remind harvard, year by year, as to just who he was, that the old college would forget him. he must remember that the world lived largely in the present while he had been living largely in the past. the rain had abated somewhat when carrington emerged from the taxi and joined the wet line of harvard and yale enthusiasts crowding through the main entrance. there was life here; the atmosphere of expectancy that was bred by the very outline of the stadium, the concrete sides of which had rocked with throat-tearing sounds, time on time. how could one's blood help but warm, even under the pelting of rain, at the memories intrusted to the historic amphitheater of sport in which so many athletic classics had been staged? davies' heart leaped as he came inside the stadium and got his first glimpse of the green-sodded gridiron, now spotted with pools of water, the goal posts looking sleek. already the stands were alive with huddled humanity and bobbing umbrellas. yellow slickers, dotted through the field of black, made davies think of a checkered taxicab. he cursed himself for not having brought his own raincoat along. in years gone by he could have been wet to the skin and not minded it, but now he was conscious of a desire for dry comfort. certainly he couldn't be getting old! by game time the stadium was a howling, wet mass. the rain had subsided to a spraylike drizzle, and carrington, after a minute study of the sky line, decided that this improvement was the best which could be hoped for. the conditions underfoot were bad. the sod was soggy and slippery. punters, in practice, stationed themselves with great care before getting off their kicks. even then the punting experts were observed to retain their footing, at times, with difficulty. davies shook his head forebodingly. there was nothing encouraging to the crimson in the outlook. the sons of old eli were cheering their steam-roller eleven to the echo. as davies compared the heavy yale line with the noticeably thinner harvard wall, he shuddered instinctively as he thought of these men taking the impact of what was due to come. he was seized with a sense of futility at the very outset, and a ready sympathy for the harvard back field. he had been in just such a position years before when it seemed as though he was battering his head against the side of a brick building, and all for naught, it seemed, too--only that he knew he should keep on battering, battering, just for the crimson, the dear old crimson. plunk! the hollow, wet sound of toe meeting pigskin and a mud-spattered object turning end over end, with beneath it--jerseyed figures charging! harvard had kicked off! davies rose spontaneously from his seat and added his puny voice to the maelstrom of noise. on the yale ten-yard line a blue-clad man pulled down the mud-spattered object and, clutching it firmly against his chest, took a few slipping side-steps to dodge an eager tackler. the eli succeeded in this, only to crash directly into the arms of a second harvard tackler, who bore him to the sodden earth on the blue's fifteen-yard stripe. davies sank back into his seat with a sigh of relief. the first prickling moment of the game was over. there were, though, further prickling moments to come. on the first play yale launched a line-smashing offensive, aiming her backfield men at different points on the harvard forward wall. it was slip-slosh-bang, slip-slosh-bang! there were slow, heavy shiftings, then a mud-smeared man with the ball diving through a hole for one, two, three, or five yards--sometimes ten. yielding, always stubbornly, but always yielding, the slender harvard line bent back and back under the savage, relentless onslaught of unmuzzled yale bulldogs thirsting for the blood of victory. davies wore his voice to shreds trying to stop yale's advance. it was no use. this was one of those days when all the cheering that could be martialed, and all the resistance that could be offered against the foe, availed but little. thwarted from a touchdown by the crimson's grim stand on their very goal line, nixon, yale's star kicker, dropped back and booted the dripping-wet ball between the uprights for a spectacular field goal which shot the elis into a three-point lead. in the second quarter, facing the same bitter opposition and impeded by the slow, heavy conditions underfoot, yale satisfied herself with battering the crimson eleven back until, clawing at one another on the harvard twenty-yard mark, nixon mechanically duplicated his first field goal to bring his team's score for the half up to six points. yale supporters shrieked their joy. the harvard stands roared loyal encouragement, then lapsed into mournful silence. during the intermission, davies confessed to himself that he had never seen a "fightinger" team except, perhaps, the eleven that had fought that memorable battle back in 1905. here were crimson gridiron gladiators who made the heart burst with pride; who, though being slowly ground into defeat, were displaying spartanlike valor; who, by the inspired nature of their resistance, were putting gnawing lumps in the throats of their ardent followers. ah, this was a contest worth watching, a combat which would go down in history, a story of how a slight harvard eleven, struggling against tremendous odds, had all but wrested victory from one of the most powerful yale machines of all time! when the teams reappeared on the field for the second half, davies felt the years fall away as in a strange dream. he began to wax exultant about the weather, remembering with what grim satisfaction he had rubbed his nose in the wet dirt behind yale's goal line after his sensational dash the length of the gridiron twenty years ago--yesterday? no, twenty years---a frenzied cheer brought davies back to the present. yale had kicked off, and harvard, receiving, had run the ball back fifteen yards. first down on their twenty-one yard line! broadhurst, slim-figured harvard quarterback, seemed a dynamo of pep from the way he was barking out signals and urging the utmost from his men. another cheer, more frenzied than the first, burst out as a crimson back slid around right end for a four-yard gain. the next play netted seven yards around the same end and a first down. harvard rooters went crazy and davies went with them. given cause for hope in the first worth-while ground gained against the powerful yale eleven, the harvard team threw its whole remaining force into the drive. for seven pulsating minutes it seemed as though the crimson could not be denied a touchdown. yard after yard was torn off on slipping end runs and slashing plunges through the line. davies forgot some of the sympathy he had felt for the team of his alma mater. it was now risen to the heights of david against goliath. alas, though, with the ball on yale's five-yard mark and the harvard, stands wildly intreating a touchdown, broadhurst, trying to carry the ball himself, fumbled! the pigskin was seen to strike the ground and then to be swallowed up by a cloud of flying forms. when the referee had dug through the confused mass of arms and legs, he found the ball in yale's possession, and harvard's big glimmer of hope immediately vanished. broadhurst, who but a second before had been credited with putting the driving force into harvard's great attack, was now roundly censured as the blunderer who had blown the golden opportunity. the quarterback was a sophomore, davies learned from the talk of some of the more recent harvard graduates near by. overjoyed at having brought a stop to the one serious threat of the enemy, the yale team lined up on their four-yard mark and held like a stonewall while the great nixon got off a forty-yard punt from behind his own goal line. with the punch gone from harvard's attack, the crimson made but a scant yard in two downs; then the little broadhurst threw a long forward pass. the play was well screened; but an alert son of yale, keenly on the job, managed to intercept the ball. he was thrown in his tracks. it was growing dark, with the lowering clouds threatening a genuine deluge. a chilling gust of wind whistled through the stadium. some of the less hardened "rooters" got up and began forcing their way toward the exits. a gloomy silence hung over the field. once more in swing, the yale steam roller got under way. it took up its old battering tactics--slip-slosh-bang, slip-slosh-bang. there was nothing sensational in its movement, just methodical. and back--ever back--though courageously resisting, went the crimson line. a flock of substitutes came running out now. the ball was on harvard's twenty-three yard line, four minutes more to play. the substitutes brought a new, if hopeless touch of spirit to the harvard eleven. they were ambitious, almost pathetically so in the circumstances, to make a good showing in their fleeting chance for glory. "touchdown, touchdown, touchdown!" the yale supporters began to chant in monotonous fashion. it was not a question now of who would win, but could yale go over the goal line in the time that was left? harvard had put up a surprising battle against an eleven which had been favored to defeat her by at least twenty points. and yale was a bit miffed at this, sternly desirous of adding to the score by hammering through for a touch down. a victory won solely through the talented toe of the great nixon was hardly sufficient tribute to the supposed offensive power of the team itself. there were two minutes left to play when yale brought up on harvard's three-yard line for a first down. behind the battered and tottering crimson wall a figure raved and ranted and roared, entreating his teammates to stave off the bulldog's advance. he stamped from end to end in the churned up sod, prodding each player in a vicious manner. but there was no visible stiffening of the harvard defense at the savage barking of its quarterback. the team was crushed after having done its best to no avail. "look at that bird begging his line to hold and he the one who made that costly fumble!" cried a yale supporter, who somehow had obtained a seat in the harvard sections. it was next to that of davies'. "wonder if he thinks they'll pay any attention to him now?" davies felt like making some hot retort to this, but he didn't. he decided to salve his feelings in a cigar and to escape the agony of watching old eli crush the crimson under the added weight of a touchdown. as davies lighted up, the lowering clouds spread wide apart, letting down sheets of driving rain. "a good thing it's almost over," he told himself. "about time for one more play. well, i don't suppose we could have expected anything different, with the odds against us, and the weather, but if broadhurst had only----" settling back in his seat, davies was gloomily conscious of the hosts of yale rising to their feet with a stupendous din. his view was blotted from the gridiron by flashing arms and wildly lurching forms. but davies was no longer interested. there was no use, he thought, in getting excited over a yale touchdown. while all was confusion about him, davies sat still, puffing on his cigar. but the cheering kept up! there was a different note in it now, a great, heart-rending groan that was drowned out by an ear-bursting, joyous roar. davies looked up wonderingly. "say, what's happening?" just how davies got to a standing position on his seat he never knew. but he was suddenly and overwhelmingly conscious of a most unusual sight. crossing the harvard thirty-yard line, running toward the distant yale goal with head down, straight into the driving rain, was the slim-lined figure of the harvard quarterback--the ball tucked under his right arm. behind the speeding man with the ball, trailed three desperate yale players, while another was cutting across the gridiron in the hope of intercepting the crimson runner from in front. back near the harvard goal line, teammates on both sides, now completely out of play, yelled encouragement to pursuers and the one pursued. davies, eyes glued on broadhurst, jabbed out an arm and grabbed the yale supporter by the shoulder. "yea! how'd we get the ball?" the hero of twenty years before demanded. "let go my collar bone!" the yale fan winced, trying to jerk away. "all right; but how'd we get the ball?" persisted davies. "nixon fumbled on your goal line. what's the matter, you poor fish! why don't you watch the game?" davies _was_ watching it now for dear life. the slender harvard quarterback was being pressed from front and back. he had been forced close to the side line in an effort to evade the tackler who was lumbering at him across water-soaked sod. but, it was now evident that broadhurst must face this peril. the soggy condition underfoot had made it impossible for him to evade the eli even by keeping close to the side line. there was no turning outward. to do so would carry the ball out of bounds. and any hesitancy or slowing up would close the distance between the crimson runner and the three yale men who kept doggedly pounding along after him. instinctively davies stiffened his right arm and pushed it out violently. for one heart-quaking second it seemed to him that the years had rolled back and that he was carrying the ball. he sensed acutely the sensation that must be broadhurst's, and he suddenly found himself shrieking: "give him the straight arm! give him the straight arm! give him the----!" and as if, from out that mad pandemonium of sound, broadhurst had heard and heeded, the harvard quarterback ran directly at the oncoming tackler; then, when it appeared as though broadhurst must go down with arms reaching out to encircle him, he jabbed a mud-stained hand straight from the shoulder, catching the yale man in the face. the impact almost threw broadhurst from his feet, but he saved himself by a quick jump to the side and, a slipping lurch which shook a foot loose from the last frantic grab of the tackler as he dived head foremost into a muddy sheet of water. "atta boy! atta boy!" cried davies, no longer accountable for what he might say or do. the man with the ball now had a clear field and was crossing the fifty-yard line. the going was difficult, each step uncertain. several times he all but fell, the ground was so heavy and sodden that it seemed almost as if broadhurst were running in one spot, his feet slipping under him. and with the tread-mill effect it looked as though the three frenzied pursuers were gaining. in yale territory now, the bleak goal posts looming up in front of him, broadhurst chanced a glance back over his shoulder. what he saw was none too reassuring. the yale stands broke into a roar of insane entreaty. a yale man was at broadhurst's very heels, and broadhurst was crossing old eli's ten-yard line with a touchdown in sight! it was but a matter of seconds. if the crimson runner could be overtaken, harvard's last bubble of hope would be punctured. "yea! he's got him!" yelled the yale supporter, crashing davies over the head. "he hasn't, either!" the harvard grad shouted, with a shove which all but upset the rival rooter. "look at that, will you?" at the four-yard line the yale tackler left his feet in a frantic dive. he struck the man with the ball just below the knees, and broadhurst crumpled forward, giving a tugging leap. it may have been due to the fact that he was soaked to the skin and that the tackler's hands were wet and chilled; at any rate, the eli's grip slipped to one leg, and, instead of going down, broadhurst strained along, dragging his tackler after him. as he reached the goal line the two other yale men sailed through the air and hit him. all four went down in a splashing fall. then every one in the stands went wild. with the strength of a team gone delirious with joy, the crimson players took their positions in front of the yale goal and prepared for the play which would give them a try at the extra point after touchdown. the stands rocked with tributes of noise, bestowing upon broadhurst one of the most deafening ovations ever accorded a gridiron hero. he had fittingly redeemed himself. his blood-tingling length-of-the-field run in the last minute of play had tied the score at six to six. davies waited only long enough to see the water-soaked ball sail between the uprights for the winning point. then he clambered over the seats and cut across the outraged gridiron in the direction of the clubhouse, unmindful of the fact that the mud had sucked off both his rubbers. at the clubhouse, carrington davies encountered unexpected opposition in gaining admittance. it seemed that no one had known who he was and, what was more, no one seemed to care after being informed. such crass ignorance irritated davies greatly, but he held his patience. the disregard shown him was only due to the prevailing excitement. if any one of them had only stopped to think! at last davies rushed to the door and slid past, picking a hole between the burly door-tender and a rather uppish young substitute who c. r. d. ardently hoped would never become a regular. once inside, the going was easier. players in different stages of dressing, and others still under the showers, glanced at him curiously as his eyes sought out but one individual--the harvard quarterback. "where's broadhurst?" davies asked of the crimson man nearest him. "other side of the lockers," the individual addressed answered gruffly. then, as davies followed the direction, he mumbled: "who let that bird in?" the latest harvard hero was lacing a shoe when the former all-american quarterback came upon him. davies paused a moment, looking down at the slim-lined figure sitting on the bench. he watched the slender fingers as they plucked feverishly at the shoe strings. evidently the boy was in a great hurry, davies thought. he probably wanted to get out--to meet his sweetheart and to hear her tell him how wonderful she thought he was. davies felt a gripping pang. he knew all about it. he had been there--exactly in broadhurst's shoes--twenty years before. after what seemed a dragging century, the young fellow finished lacing the shoe, looked up, and started. "oh! i--i beg your pardon. did you want to see me?" now that his opportunity for congratulation had come, davies for some unknown reason, felt suddenly small and insignificant. he felt the clear blue eyes of the new harvard star boring into his with kindly inquiry, and for once in his life old c. r. d. found himself stammering. he did manage to extend his hand. "i--i just wanted to tell you how much i--that is--it did me lots of good to see--- oh, hang it! signals over! what i mean to say is that i've followed harvard football for over twenty years. you see, my name's carrington r. davies." the harvard quarterback continued shaking the stranger's hand politely; but there was no sign of recognition at mention of the name, only a slight frowning of the eyebrows. c. r. d. noted this and his stammering became several degrees worse. "i--i--used to play quarterback on the crimson, too." the other's eyebrows lifted at this. "and i--and i--- well, of course you wouldn't remember; but it was just such a day as this--twenty years ago--that i--- perhaps you've heard tell of it?" c. r. d. brought up lamely, loath to relate the entire incident and hoping that broadhurst would recall hearing of it. the harvard quarterback shook his head, but there was an interested gleam in his eyes. "why, no. i'm sorry, sir; but i----" "well," the former all-american quarterback broke in desperately, "i made a ninety-five-yard run for a touchdown in the last minute of play and won the game against yale, much as you did--to-day." there was a deep-throated chuckle from young broadhurst. "then it's you, sir, who deserve congratulations!" "no, no. that's not the point," insisted davies, with a sense of giddy bungling. "that's really not the point. i just mentioned it because i--because i couldn't help thinking of it, that's all. i couldn't help thinking of myself from the moment i saw you out there, free, with the game at stake, making for the yale goal. it was just like looking at a moving picture of myself--twenty years ago. you'll pardon me, broadhurst, i know. nothing's ever gripped me like that run of yours this afternoon. nothing!" davies was in the swing of things now. he had recovered from his embarrassment and was pouring out his feelings in a flow of words which tumbled over themselves to get expressed. broadhurst was the one who was embarrassed this time. he looked down at the floor and shifted his feet awkwardly and tried to draw away his hand, but the stranger only gripped it the tighter. the harvard quarterback shot a glance about the locker room, relieved to see that no one appeared to be noticing them. every one was interested in his own business, anxious to get outside and join the victory-crazed celebrators. "i was with you every step of the way," davies went on. "when you slipped, i slipped. when you straight-armed the yale man, i straight-armed him, too. everything you did all the way to the goal line, i did. it was almost uncanny. even when they tackled you as you went over for a touchdown and pounded you into the mud--that's just what happened to me. so i have you to thank more than to congratulate, broadhurst, for we both know what it means to have done our best for the good old crimson. and you have helped me to live over one of the happiest, most thrilling moments of my life!" the harvard quarterback withdrew his hand. the stranger turned away to hide eyes which brimmed with tears. "i--i'm glad, sir," was all that broadhurst could think of to say. davies stiffened, chagrined at himself for his show of feeling. he was a silly, sentimental old fool, inflicting his childishness upon a gentlemanly young fellow who was too kind and sportsmanlike to show distaste or offense. but why should any one else be interested in his, carrington r. davies' feelings, or the fact that, twenty years before, he had scored a touchdown? "well, i'm keeping you from going out. i'll be taking leave," remarked the all-american quarterback, backing off apologetically. "don't be in a hurry," broadhurst said, reaching out for his dress shirt, but obviously glad to be about his business. "i'll be through in a minute and then----" whatever else the harvard quarterback may have said was lost upon davies. he was quite instantly, unexpectedly, and acutely made conscious of something extremely coincidental. the arm that reached out to take the shirt from the locker had the slip of a crimson bow tied about the wrist. davies rubbed a hand across his eyes and looked again. how he had missed seeing that bow before he could not understand. but it was certainly there. infernally peculiar! it was certainly there. broadhurst, noting the stranger's stunned expression, stopped, his shirt half on, to inquire what was the matter. "why--why nothing--only that bow. you--you'll probably think me odd--but, do you mind my--my taking a good look at it?" the harvard quarterback held out his arm with a slight gesture of impatience. davies took the hand and studied the bit of ribbon. of course, it wasn't--but didn't it beat the devil how everything had worked out this day? either that or he was suddenly losing his mind. perhaps that was it. he had brooded so long over the affair of his youth that at last it had affected his brain. the ribbon was wet--and soiled--and--this, he thought, could easily be his imagination--it was actually a trifle faded. but it did look strangely familiar, strangely like the one that a dear, trusting girl had tied about his wrist, and that he had sealed there with a kiss twenty years before. it was infernally peculiar. that was all there was to it. infernally peculiar! davies straightened up, to find the harvard quarterback at the point of exasperation. "i don't blame you for thinking me out of my mind," sympathized c. r. d. "and i may be, for all i know. so many ungodly things have happened to me to-day. but--if it's not being too personal--where did you get that bow? from your sweetheart?" there was almost a contemptuous note in broadhurst's voice as he started to button his shirt. "no! my mother." davies felt his knees give way beneath him and he dropped down heavily upon the bench, staring up at the harvard quarterback, unbelievingly. "your--your mother?" "yes. what's wrong with that?" demanded broadhurst, picking up collar and tie. "it's a good-luck charm," he explained curtly; then he added with a smile: "and it sure worked to-day!" "a--a good-luck charm?" echoed davies weakly. "a good-luck--- say! your mother--i mean, is your father--living?" the harvard quarterback paused in his tying of a four-in-hand to shoot a puzzled glance at the evidently insane stranger. "no, sir. he died before i was born." "oh, i see," davies mumbled, conscious of his heart thumping in his ears. "but your name--broadhurst? was that your father's?" this question was almost too much for the latest harvard hero. he spun his locker door shut with a bang. "why certainly!" then, wheeling upon his questioner, he asked: "why wouldn't it be?" "i--i thought perhaps your mother might have married again and that you--you took the name of your--your stepfather," hazarded davies. "see here. i don't know what you're driving at, but i don't like your insinuations. my mother was married only once, and she----" "listen!" broke in davies excitedly. "if i'm not badly mistaken, your real name's carrington r. davies. i mean--perhaps not carrington r.--but davies anyway!" "you don't know what you're talking about. my name's carrington nubbins broadhurst!" "carrington nubbins. it is! well, why didn't you say so? but you're all wrong on the last name. where's your mother? i've got to see her. why, confound it, old boy, i'm your father!" five palpitating seconds of electrifying silence followed davies' fervent outburst. then c. r. d. spoke again, in a voice that was husky with pent-up emotion and the shock of it all. "where's your mother? i've been twenty years trying to find her. oh, god, this is wonderful! you--my son!" still the young man who went by the name of broadhurst stood, unspeaking, undecided as to what to make of this rabidly serious personage who, not alone satisfied with claiming prestige for performing a gridiron feat similar to his, was now trying to claim a part in his parentage. "it was twenty years ago," explained davies appealingly, "almost to the day, when, just before the game with yale, i met your mother--met her in a secluded spot under the stands. there was a cold rain falling, and i can remember how we pressed up close against the stands to keep from getting soaked. and she took that little crimson bow from about her neck and tied it around my wrist. i can even recall exactly what she said. it was, 'here, take this--it's your token of good luck.'" davies' voice broke at this and tears glazed the eyes of even the harvard quarterback. "i--i guess there must be something to it, all right," confessed the youth who had been surnamed broadhurst, the name his mother had taken. "that's just what mother did this afternoon--insisted on meeting me under the stands, and--and tied on this bow--and said those same words!" it was a peculiar sight--had any one been there to see it--a grown-up man and a growing man clasping hands, their faces wet and streaked. "i'm taking mother to dinner tonight," said the younger man softly, after what seemed like an hour of understanding silence. "no--you mean that i'm taking mother and you," corrected the old-time player firmly. then, leaning over, he touched the crimson bow reverently and asked: "i--i wonder if you'd let me wear that to-night? i want her to see me with it on. i want her to know that davies played the game!" "butter fingers" how did "rus" lindley get his nickname, "butter fingers"? now _i'll_ ask _you_ one! "why did the guys call six foot harry tibbits, 'shorty'?" answer that and you've answered your own question about "rus." i guess, if you'd go into the science of nicknames far enough you'd find that the name you can pick which comes the furtherest from fitting who you're picking it for is the one that suits the best! there--how's that for getting rid of an involved sentence? at any rate, if "rus" really deserved to be dubbed "butter fingers" then the moon is really made of green cheese and the cow really did jump over it and all that stuff. because if there was one thing that "rus" _wasn't_, it was _butter fingers_. "rus" was a lean, lanky, long-armed, awkward, thin-nosed cuss that you'd think, to look at, didn't have an ounce of ambition or a pint of sense. the next minute you'd wake up to find the ounce a hundred pounds of condensed lightning and the pint a couple of gallons of trigger thinking. that's the kind of a surprise package "rus" was. and, brother, look out!! if "rus" ever had occasion to lay hands on you he didn't let go until he got good and ready. try your _durndest_ and you couldn't shake loose the grip he carried in those long, slender fish hooks of his. "butter fingers"? what a laugh! "rus" was never known to have muffed anything in his life! it was "butter fingers" who climbed the greased pole and took down the senior colors his freshman year. it was "butter fingers" who untied the wet knots in the fellows' clothes the time we sophies got caught swimming in the old bend, thus saving us from a most embarrassing situation. it was "butter fingers" who hung by his digits from a window sill on the fourth story of our dorm when she was burning down ... hung there ten minutes till the firemen got a ladder under him after he'd been cut off from the stairs. he saved seven roommates by that sure-grip of his, swinging them from a window where they were trapped and sending them down the stairs ahead of him before the fire put the stairs out of commission. and who but "butter fingers" could have "human-fly-ed" it up the front of the old stone chapel, clear up into the belfry? of course he did it on a dare but those wonder fingers of his just pulled him up, catching hold of places that the ordinary person would tear their finger nails on and cry thirteen bloody murders from the strain of hanging to crevices by the finger tips. that was "butter fingers"! but, using the words of al jolson, "you ain't heard nothin' yet!" what i've just got through telling you was just practice exercises for the bird with the muscular mitts, the uncanny grip, the steam shovel hands and the never-break-clutch. say, i hope you're not getting this "butter fingers" wrong. he was long, lean, lanky, awkward, thin-nosed and all that ... but he wasn't built like a foundry. his hands weren't extra large, either ... excepting that the fingers were extra long. he only weighed a hundred and fifty-one pounds which isn't much when you're thinking in terms of football and so much for so tall. that's where "butter fingers" had you fooled. you had to see him in action before you'd believe what "rus" lindley could do. was he modest? he was so quiet and unassuming that you could hear his watch ticking in his vest pocket! was he athletic? don't be ridiculous! if he wasn't athletic anywhere but in his fingers he'd have been athletic enough. as it was, he was the best end that ever played on a football eleven representing burden high! what makes you think "butter fingers" was a freak? he wasn't born strong-fingered. naw. he had to develop it. what made him do it? well, i don't know as i could answer that exactly. i remember "butter fingers" saying once he'd gotten a kick out of chinning himself ever since he was a baby. sure! you don't chin yourself with your chin ... you chin yourself with your ... anyhow it's mostly done with your grip! you get a hold of a bar or something and pull your body up rigid! all right, then! why didn't you say you'd tried it? ain't so easy, is it? especially after the tenth time! can you imagine what sort of an end a guy with a powerful grip could make? can you figure what would happen to a football if "butter fingers" ever laid his grapplers on it? and can you picture a runner trying to get away from a tackle by a bird like "rus"? a fly might as well try to pull its feet off a sheet of sticky fly paper as a runner to jerk loose from "butter fingers" once he's got him. would you like to hear how "butter fingers" won his undying fame? have i got the time? no, but i'll take time. this story's worth it! just make yourself as comfortable as possible. you'd better sit on the edge of your chair, though, because that's where you'll be before very long anyway. and i'll start right in at the beginning so you won't miss any of the picture. first, you got to get a close-up of this fellow, "rus" lindley. he's the kind they describe in the movies as "oliver, who takes everything seriously--including football." before any of the guys nicknamed him "butter fingers," "rus" was just an ordinary, awkward candidate for the team ... but while he was picking up bumps in practice he was likewise putting on bumps of knowledge. "rus" had one of them scientific slants of mind and he always had to figure why he was supposed to do a certain thing a certain way. once he'd found out the reason he was satisfied. professor tweedy, our "math" teacher, used to say that "rus" was a "natural born thinker." but geometry and trigonometry weren't the only subjects that "rus" approached from all angles. he used his bean at all times and places. that's why, when "rus" went out for football, he felt called upon to exercise his gray matter. it was perfectly obvious to him, for instance, after a careful study of the rudiments of the game, that the weather might seriously alter one's style of play. "take the difference between a dry field and a wet field," he says to me, one afternoon, "i'm surprised the coach doesn't make us practice with a wet ball and the field soaked down. the almanac indicates rain three saturdays this fall and the signs couldn't be any worse for torrential precipitation on the saturday we play edgewood. what's that going to mean? simply that the luckiest team wins! but if the coach used the little mechanism inside his bean it might mean that the _smartest team_ would win. what made napoleon great was his dry land operations. but, oh boy, didn't he get _soaked_ at _waterloo_! of course that's a rather far-fetched illustration. just the same, you've got to know how to handle yourself under all conditions or you're practically sunk before you start!" i agreed with "rus" not feeling equal to stacking my brain up against his, and besides he has a way of making things sound darn logical. seeing as how the coach seemed to be overlooking a good bet, "rus" decides that he's going to get the training he should have anyway. so we meet one night after football practice in his backyard. "this is what i'd call a laboratory experiment," explains "rus" as he soaks down the back lawn with the garden hose, "the other boys would probably give us the merry ha ha if they saw what we're going to do but if my theory's right we'll see the day when we can laugh up our own sleeves!" when the lawn's nice and oozy and slippery from super-saturation, "rus" turns the water on the football and gets it just as wet as though it had fallen in a lake. "all right, mark," he says to me, "i'll hit the dirt first. this kind of practice isn't exactly going to be pleasant but it has a good chance of proving profitable. now you stand over there and roll that football across the grass. i'm going to try to fall on it!" it's easy enough for me to do what "rus" directs. but it's not so easy for "rus" to do what he intends. we're dressed in our football togs, of course, right down to the cleated shoes. but even at that the grass is so sleek that the footing's as treacherous as a polished ball room floor. on his first try, "rus" slips and falls flat before he gets to the ball and the pigskin rolls to the fence. "there went the chance to save the game!" he points out as he gets to his feet. "let's try her again!" honest, you never saw anybody that's such a glutton for punishment! "rus" gets sopping wet and all grass-stained and dog-tired but he keeps me throwing that football in all sorts of zig-zag bounces across the lawn till it's so dark that the street lights come on. and then he apologizes for not having traded off with me so's i could have got some of the same experience. "i'm just as well satisfied," i answers. "you don't need to feel bad about that!" "we'll do it again, every chance we get," says "rus," not seeming to notice my lack of enthusiasm, "i'm rotten! i missed at least half my dives. and as for scooping the ball up on the run, wasn't i pitiful? but that's what an end's got to be able to do and yours truly isn't going to make a bad muff in a game if he can help it!" being a friend of "rus's" and practically a next door neighbor as well as a team-mate, i can't really turn the serious-minded bird down. besides, i have to admit to myself that it's darn interesting watching the vim that "rus" puts into this secret practice. some nights it's mighty chilly and with the grass wet down it's enough to make your spinal column wriggle, but "rus" never seems to mind. "the most annoying part of this thing for me," says "rus," "is 'mom's' objection to my draping these wet togs over her radiators. she claims the house smells like a chinese laundry every night. i tell her she must be a good sport and put up with it for the good of the team!" say, you'd be surprised, after a couple of weeks, to see how "rus" improves! it gets to be marvelous the way he can tear across the lawn, reach down with those long fingers, scoop that slippery pigskin up and keep right on going toward what he imagines is the enemy's goal! "preparedness!" he'd smile at me. "that's one of the greatest words in the english language! i want to be ready when the fumble comes!" sometimes "rus" would hit the lawn like an india rubber ball and almost seem to wrap his lean, lanky frame around the pigskin, bouncing up on his feet on the roll and untangling his legs from the knot to be streaking away almost before you could tell what was happening. once he put so much steam behind it that he couldn't stop in time and plowed into the back fence, busting two boards loose and bruising his shoulder. "zowie! i ran into some real opposition that time!" he grinned. it isn't long before all this extra practicing that "rus" is doing begins to show up on the football field. in scrimmage he gets the reputation of being "sure-fingered" because he drags down passes, recovers fumbles and handles the ball so smoothly that it seems like he can't miss getting hold of it no matter how wild it goes. in comparison the rest of us look pretty sick, all excepting me ... and i'm a little better than average because of my experience with "rus." several times, while i'm playing my position at left half, there's a poor pass back from center and i have to drop on the ball. believe me, i'm mighty thankful then for the special training i've picked up! "this game of football is just a matter of following the ball," "rus" airs to me one night, "i don't care what these wise birds say. there's breaks in every game that, if we could take advantage of 'em, would do more than all the fancy plays ever invented. look at last week when we played madison. we have 'em down on their own ten yard line and we break through and block the punt and two of our fellows dives for it. do they get the ball? yes, they do not! a madison back, who knows his onions, shoots in--picks the ball up off his shoe tops after it's bounced out of our fellows' arms--and runs forty yards before he's stopped. that's what i call converting good fortune out of disaster! either one of our boys ought to have downed the ball on madison's eight yard line but both of 'em muffed it. on a dry field, too...! inexcusable!" "but you must realize, rus," i argues, "that _your_ attitude on this matter is very exceptional. you can't expect all football players to pay the attention you've been paying to developing themselves to a fine point on picking up loose balls!" "razzberries!" retorts "rus," "then they're not worthy of the name of football players!" and there the arbitration rests. but the season doesn't get much older than "rus's" mania begins to break out in a new channel. he's so anxious to see all the boys proficient in the gentle art of falling on the ball that he takes to ragging them every time they miss out. "butter fingers!" he yells, and gets a glare in return for his trouble. "butter fingers, yourself!" cries the guy who's just looked foolish. and the first thing you know, the name that "rus" has branded his team-mates with, comes back on him like a boomerang. so, the only fellow who doesn't deserve the title of "butter fingers" is the one who gets it! "that's all right," "rus" says to me. "let 'em call me 'butter fingers.' i'll make 'em eat that word twenty times a day. and they'll be trying extra hard to keep from being 'butter fingers.' you see!" which makes it sound like "rus" has decided to act the martyr to some adopted cause! now right here's where a complication enters my story in the shape of mr. maxwell tincup, dignified member of the school board and a political power in the town. among other things mr. tincup is bitterly opposed to football as a sport that's "absolutely barbarious." football, in mr. tincup's exalted opinion, is a machine which manufactures a lot of good-for-nothing rowdies. he's made the air blue at many board meetings, voicing his protest against continuance of the sport as an athletic activity at burden high but he's never quite been able to get a majority vote against it. just the same his attitude has stirred up considerable feeling and hasn't exactly made him popular with the boys. "what tincup needs is a dose of second childhood," "butter fingers" prescribes one day. "he evidently didn't have any the first time!" mr. tincup's home is right on our way to school, a big old-fashioned house that stands on a corner of the street, surrounded by a high picket fence. we often see the anti-footballist's three year old son hanging to the fence and peeking out as though he'd like to investigate the outer world. "look at the poor kid," points out butter fingers as we're passing one afternoon. "they keep him as spic and span as a children's advertisement. maxwell tincup, junior's sure going to be a chip off the old block if the old block has anything to say about it! i'll bet some day he takes the tiddly-winks championship of south america!" "are you sure mr. tincup won't consider that too strenuous?" i asks, innocent like. "butter fingers" grins and shrugs his shoulders. it's not until the monday before the big game of the year with edgewood that the something happens which changes the complexion of the whole situation and brings mr. tincup's objection to football to a boil's head. "butter fingers" and me are coming back from the athletic field after an extra hard workout. i have a football and we're tossing it back and forth as we're trotting down the sidewalk, me about fifty feet ahead of "butter fingers" so we can have plenty of distance to pass. as we cut across the corner toward tincup's house i spot him out in the yard, washing his front porch off with the stream from the garden hose. "hello!" says i to myself, "mr. tincup's getting industrious in his old age!" just then "butter fingers" lets loose an extra long throw. i can see at a glance that the ball's going to be over my head unless i can take it on the jump. nope! i miss it by three feet, banging up against mr. tincup's front fence trying to pull it down. "look out!" i yells when i see what's going to happen. if "butter fingers" had took aim he couldn't have made a squarer hit. the pigskin spirals over the fence and plunks mr. maxwell tincup smack on the side of the head. the blow's so unexpected it knocks the nozzle of the hose out of his hands and before anybody can say "ask me another!" the hose squirms around like a snake and soaks him from head to foot. mr. tincup begins yelling like he's in the middle of the ocean, going down for the last time. it takes him a couple of seconds to get on to what's hit him, but the minute he sees the football lying on the lawn he lets out a bellow of rage and turns to us, shaking his fist. "all right, young gentlemen!" he snorts. "that's the end of your ball ... and it's the end of _you_, for that matter!" it may be the end of us but it's not the end of our ball so far as "butter fingers" is concerned. he's over the fence in a jiffy and streaking for the pigskin as though he's on a football field. mr. tincup doesn't suspect any opposition on picking up what "butter fingers" regards as a free ball. he's too dripping wet and ripping mad to suspect anything. as he stoops down to pick up the ball which is also wet, it slips out of his fingers. to make matters worse he kicks it accidently with his foot and it rolls along in front of him. it's right then that "butter fingers" arrives. he takes a running dive across the wet lawn, skids right under mr. tincup's nose, curls himself around the pigskin, bounces up on his feet and keeps on going till he comes to the fence which he hurdles. mr. tincup stares at the human cyclone, his mouth so wide open that you can see all the gold in his teeth. "come here!" he shouts, waving his arms. "i'm sorry!" calls "butter fingers," "we didn't mean to do what we did but this is our ball and we got a right to it!" "you've got no right to be playing football!" raves mr. tincup, beginning to shiver now as the air's kind of cold. "and i'm going to see that you don't play football hereafter!" "gee!" i says to "butter fingers," when we've beat it. "i don't know as that was such a bright stunt--your rescuing that pigskin. we might better have let old tincup have it. now he's going to raise a rumpus for sure! he'll probably go to the board." "butter fingers" gives me the laugh. "make your pulse behave!" he says. "everybody knows mr. tincup's a great guy to holler. he won't get any further than his echo. say--i don't hear you mentioning anything about that pickup i made. speak up, brother! can't you recognize a masterpiece?" "your masterpiece," i answers, "wasn't the pickup. it was hitting mr. tincup on the bean!" "just the same," argues "butter fingers," "if the old boy'd only had some football experience i'd never have gotten away with the ball. that only goes to show the value of...!" "oh, dry up!" i orders. "you're getting unbalanced on that subject...!" it isn't until the next morning that we get the glad tidings of bad news. ain't it the truth that everyone's glad to be the first to tell you something sad? and what do you suppose has happened? that peeved mr. tincup has stirred up a special called meeting of the school board and has gone and gotten us suspended from the team! he's raised a terrific rumpus about football in general and has tried to get the big game of the year with edgewood canceled but he can't get away with that. he's influential enough to put a crimp in the team, though, and to put a crimp in us in particular, by getting the board to have us kicked off the eleven just when we're needed most. i hope you won't think i'm handing myself bouquets on purpose but i'm the best backfield man the team's got and i've already told you how hot "butter fingers" is as an end. are we sore? are we sick? so is most everyone else but what good does that do 'em? the students get out a petition asking for the school board to meet again and reconsider the matter but the school board pays about as much attention as a deaf ear. "we're sunk all right," i says to "butter fingers" in the middle of the week. "leave it to tincup to see that we don't play saturday! he's got it in for us for fair! and we're going to be treated to the _exquisite pleasure_ of sitting on the sidelines and seeing our team take a nice trimming from edgewood!" "edgewood's going to be plenty tough!" admits "butter fingers," soberly. "we wouldn't have been any too strong with our best line-up against 'em. wouldn't this give you a pain? especially after all the extra work we've put in so's we'd be in tip top shape for that game!" "don't cry on _my_ shoulder," i replies, "i got tears enough of my own!" saturday comes. it's the one day in the fall that the almanac gets absolutely right. there's a precipitous rain falling. the weather sort of reflects our gloom. "it's just the kind of a day i've been dreaming about," moans "butter fingers," "there's bound to be plenty of fumbles. i ought to be in there to get 'em!" "tell that to tincup!" i answers. by noon a wind springs up and the clouds lift a little. the downpour begins to let up. but the football field is already a young lake and water is backed up in the streets. it's going to be a grand afternoon for ducks and a splashing time for a gridiron battle. at one o'clock, an hour before game time, "butter fingers" says to me, "mark, there's one thing old tincup can't keep us from doing. he can't prohibit our going to the locker room and hanging around with the fellows till they're due on the field. maybe we can cheer the gang up a bit!" "not much chance of that," i replies. "but, i'm with you, nevertheless...!" so we sets out. and of course our direction takes us right past the house that's owned by the object of our affections! i suggests to "butter fingers" that we make a detour but he growls that he'll be darned if the high and mighty mr. maxwell tincup is going to make him take so much as an extra step. the rain has entirely stopped now and by the breeze that's blowing it looks like the sky is through for the day. as we get near the picket fence we discover something unusual. mr. tincup's three-year-old kid is out by the curb trying to sail a toy boat in the water. and standing on the front porch, staring at us with a satisfied grin on his face, is the anti-football member of the school board himself! mr. tincup looks at us as much as to say, "well, how do you young rascals feel now?" there's nothing we can do but swallow our medicine and parade past with eyes front as though we haven't even seen him. this we start to do when--all of a sudden--a strong gust of wind comes along and takes the kid's hat off, rolling it into the street. "butter fingers" sees this, and grins. "dadda, look!" says the kid, pointing a finger at his hat which is lying in a puddle of water in the middle of the street. we watch the kid, laughing inside to think of anything happening which might affect old tincup's dignity. the kid runs along the curb, finds a place where he can step over the stream of water and starts out on the street after the hat. "junior, come here!" yells mr. tincup, hurrying down off the porch. "papa'll get it for you!" but papa doesn't have a chance. things commence to take place after that so fast that it leaves me dizzy. just as the kid starts off the curb a big, heavy duty truck comes thundering down the side street and turns sharp around the corner. the driver catches sight of the kid, lets loose the klaxon and reaches for the brakes. seeing the danger, the kid tries to beat it back, slips on the wet pavement and falls! i stop dead, looking on, petrified. i'm so frozen that i don't even see "butter fingers" leave my side. my eyes are glued on the kid and the truck, with the brakes set, skidding right down on him! i hear mr. tincup scream. then there's a swishing sound and a body goes sliding along the pavement. it strikes the kid, arms reach out, fingers grab a hold, the body does a roll ... and then you can't tell which is which. honest, i don't dare look for a second, it's so close! but when i opens my eyes again i see the truck driver crawling down off his seat, wiping perspiration from his forehead. over on the opposite curb there's a long, lean, lanky bird getting to his feet and helping up a badly scared youngster that's all wet and dirty. "who says football doesn't fit you for something useful?" i hear "butter fingers" mumble to himself. then he stoops down. "how are you, kid, all right? we took a nice, wet roll, didn't we?" the next instant an insane man races across the street and grabs the kid in his arms and sits down on the damp curb and breaks into sobs. "boy," said the truck driver, extending his hand to "butter fingers," "that was the nerviest stunt i ever seen! look how far that old wagon skidded past where you were!" "butter fingers" looks. "been a bad place for a fumble, wouldn't it?" he says, then glances quick at me. "say, mark--we'll have to be legging it or we'll miss out seeing the team!" "just a minute!" says a choky voice from the curb. "where you boys going?" "to see the game!" i answers, rather short. "no, you're not!" raves mr. tincup, jumping to his feet. "you're going to _play_!" he fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a calling card and scribbles on the back. "give that to coach spilman," he says, handing it to "butter fingers." "i'll have to get in touch with the other members of the board before i can get your suspension lifted but i'll do it, boys, if it's humanly possible! meanwhile, you get to the locker room and get all dressed ready to go in at a minute's notice!" we're not reinstated till the beginning of the last quarter but it's time enough for "butter fingers," with the score 13 to 7 against us, to scoop up an edgewood fumble on our seventeen yard line and run practically the length of the field for a touchdown! then i kicks the extra point to make the score 14 to 13 which is the way it stands when the game ends. as we're going off the field an overjoyed member of the school board comes pushing through the crowd and compliments "butter fingers" for his star performance, ending up with, "and young man, i can't ever tell you how grateful i am for that other wonderful thing you...!" "don't mention it!" says "butter fingers," breaking in modestly. "the thanks are on _my_ side. i didn't have much practice this week and picking up the kid just put me back in trim!" for the glory of the coach "there's no use talking, mooney. you've broken training rules and you're through. that's final." for a pulsating moment elliott university's star fullback stood facing the great john brown, acknowledged dean of all football coaches,--facing him as though he had not heard aright. there was stunned surprise evident in the attitudes of his team-mates, too. no one had imagined that john brown would have the nerve to cross mooney beyond the giving of a reprimand. not and hold the reputation which he had slaved so hard to preserve in turning out a winning eleven for decadent elliott his first year there. the great john brown might better have remained in permanent retirement, resting on his richly deserved laurels, than risk his halo of "wizard" and "miracle man of the gridiron" by failure to restore elliott's former football supremacy. the press had been free to predict, when coach brown had finally consented to do what he could for elliott, that this task would prove his waterloo. "coach severely handicapped by material and facilities," one headline read, while another had it, "sun now hardly destined to set on triumph for john brown," the articles going on to decry the lamentable conditions surrounding elliott's effort to attain a higher athletic grade. the task was regarded as beyond that of even a miracle man and john brown was credited with having accepted the crudest of tests. and now, after elliott had risen toward glory by defeating hale, first of the big three, thus repudiating in part the commonly accepted opinion that the university could not hope to win any of her big contests that year--now, when all eyes were upon john brown as never before; when it seemed as though this wily old fox, in some uncanny manner, had juggled another victorious eleven out of athletic chaos,--the coach was cutting off his nose to spite his face by dismissing tim mooney from the team! why it had been mooney who, almost single-handed, had accounted for hate's defeat. the backfield had been built around him; his experience had been relied upon as a stabilizer for the entire eleven which was comprised mostly of green, untried material. removing mooney from the team was like jerking the center pole out from under a tent and expecting the tent to remain standing upright. at least that is the way members of the eleven felt about it. and the reason coach brown was kicking mooney off the team was because he had stayed out past midnight on several occasions with his co-ed sweetheart, ruth chesterton. one of john brown's rules was that every football man must be in bed by ten and those acquainted with his usually strict disciplinary measures had become accustomed to obeying. but mooney's case had somehow been regarded as different. folks had come to consider him, because of his outstanding athletic prowess, a law unto himself. in fact, tim had become obsessed with the same impression. "you--you're not joking?" he asked, still unable to believe john brown's stern edict. "joking!" blazed the coach, "what would i be joking about? i warned you what would happen ... and the same thing's going to happen to anyone else who wilfully violates rules. you're through, mooney, and you're through for good. turn in your togs at the clubhouse!" a hurt expression crept into the eyes of elliott's star fullback. he took a step forward, intreatingly. "aw, say, coach ... honest, i'm sorry. i didn't think you'd ... that is, i ... i ... it won't happen again, sir." "no, you can bet it won't," said john brown in a voice of quiet coldness. then, deliberately turning his back, "all right--first and seconds out for fifteen minutes' scrimmage!" at naylor college where coach brown had inaugurated and made famous his football system, he had been loved and respected by players as well as student body. resigning his seat of honor at naylor had been one of the hardest things john brown had ever done. but, even though the announcement of his resignation had been met at once by staggering offers from big schools east and west, the noted coach had refused them all. he had retired to gain what he felt to be a much needed rest from years of strenuous yet highly enjoyed activity. and newspapers throughout the land, devoting columns to his eulogy, extolled the unbroken string of victories which his teams at naylor had scored over the most powerful elevens in the country. quitting the game at the zenith of his career, it was a widely known fact that coach brown could have fixed his own price for services with at least six of the biggest institutions of learning in america. here was a man who had coached football for the sheer love of it, immune to the earning possibilities of his tutoring. but two years in retirement had done much to lessen coach brown's resolve. it had remained for a small group of loyal elliott alumni to approach the coach on a new tack. these men believed that john brown might be landed if the proper appeal were made. they had studied out that the other schools had failed in striving to outbid one another, a point which seemed to prove that money to john brown was no object. all right then--the way to reach him must be through sentiment--if he could be reached at all. for years elliott had been embarrassed through its position as a leading university and its inability to put winning athletic teams on the field. this condition was particularly true of the football elevens. the touch of a master hand was needed; the application of such a system as john brown had put into effect at naylor; the guidance of a coach who could command not only the respect of his players but the enthusiastic support of the student body. carefully planning their verbal assault, the committee of elliott alumni swooped upon brown. they found the great coach apparently as determined as ever not to re-enter the football limelight, but they presented him with a picture, so graphically and despairingly setting forth the sorrowful condition of athletics at elliott, and so feelingly playing upon his love for the game that john brown, wavering, finally consented to take charge of elliott for _one year_! immediately the press, so glowing in its accounts before, had leaped to the conviction that john brown, despite all he had said to the contrary, had actually been a hold-out until some college had reached the figure he demanded. this conviction had been given wings with the rumor that elliott university was to pay him the unheard of amount of $50,000 for a yearns services although, it was grudgingly admitted, if john brown could bring elliott out of the slough of athletic degeneracy, he would probably be worth every cent of that sum. thoroughly appreciating the huge job cut out for him, john brown, in taking over the reins of football government at elliott, had signed up red murdock, one of the stars he had developed in other years at naylor, to act as assistant coach. and one of his first official acts had been to put into force a rigid rule of discipline. he knew that he must demand the utmost in every way from whatever or whoever there was at hand in order to even approach what he hoped to accomplish. but the mere fact that brown had come to the head of things at elliott was cause for the schools on elliott's schedule to regard their proverbially weak opponent with new respect and wonderment. the game with hale had been a genuine eye-opener. elliott's 20 to 6 victory had hardly been looked for and neither had the startling performance of one tim mooney whose open field running had made two touchdowns possible and whose talented toe had kicked two field goals. a new star had arisen to add to coach brown's constellation of developed gridiron heroes. on the strength of mooneyes work alone, football authorities were now willing to concede elliott a chance against larwood, second of the big three, which was to be met the following saturday. but delmar, last and bitterest enemy of elliott--a college noted for the consistent power of its football elevens and this season rated as possessing the greatest team in the country--was considered a good thirty to forty points better than coach brown's aggregation at its strongest. "what! mooney banned off the team!" when the news of coach brown's drastic action flashed through the elliott student body it was greeted by a storm of indignant and growing protest. a petition was immediately drawn up and sent the rounds asking john brown to reconsider his expelling of mooney. the petition was as nearly one hundred per cent as a petition could be. but the petition failed to move the coach. those who reflected on his past history reported gloomily that once the coach took a stand on anything he was like several rocks of gibraltar. ruth chesterton, the girl indirectly responsible for tim mooney's dismissal, felt greatly upset over the whole affair. she had thought coach brown's bed time regulation a silly old rule until it had operated against her hero. now she was one of the most rebellious in her attitude toward the man whom many people referred to familiarly as j. b. so, the petition had failed to do any good? well, she knew what she would do! she would go to him and tell him what she thought about the matter and then what could he do but rescind his action? but when the irate miss chesterton came into the presence of the great john brown she suddenly quailed. she couldn't tell exactly why she quailed but she found it exceedingly difficult to look into the crystal-pointed blue of j. b.'s eyes and say the things she was going to say. instead, she felt somehow like a foolish little girl who had been used to having her own way at all costs and who had now met up with a man who knew her better than her own father. she was conscious almost at once of the smooth tufts of silvery hair about this man's temples and the great furrowed line across his forehead, the firmly set mouth, the broad shoulders--the trace of a smile as he leaned toward her and said, in a kindly inquiring manner, "well?" and that one word, peculiar as it may seem, had unnerved her or disarmed her, she didn't know which. there crept over ruth chesterton a sense of guilt. she found herself stammering and stumbling. "please, sir ... i'm the girl that mr. mooney went out with when he broke the rules." "oh--you are?" "yes, sir." an embarrassed pause. "well--what of it?" "why, i ... i thought perhaps you'd like to see me." that wasn't the right thing to say. ruth knew it the moment she had uttered it but she had never felt more uncomfortable in her life. "me--like to see you? why should you have thought that?" there was a trace of ironic amusement in the coach's voice. "why--why because i was sort of responsible for mr. mooney's breaking the rules." "did he send you here?" this question did much to bring ruth back en her feet. "no, sir! i came of my own free will. he doesn't know anything about it. he isn't that kind, mr. brown. he's taken all the blame--and it's really more my fault than his--lots more. i--i encouraged him to--to go out with me those nights ... i didn't think it would do any harm ... and you'll have to admit yourself that ten o'clock is pretty early," ruth added, as she gained courage. "sorry, young lady, but the question of time is not debatable. mr. mooney broke the rules and that ends it..." "but, mr. brown ... won't you ... i mean ... the team ... or rather, the game with larwood. won't he be needed?" the coach nodded, frankly. "i shouldn't be surprised." "then perhaps--well, maybe if folks understood just how he came to break the rules... i'd be glad to..." john brown raised his hand in a waving gesture. "it's done now--and what's done cannot be helped. the time for you to have thought of the consequences was before you tempted your friend to ignore the restrictions." ruth, sensing that she was getting nowhere, decided to throw herself entirely upon john brown's sympathy. "mr. brown ... if i tell you that i'm awfully, awfully sorry and that i'll never, never interfere with anyone keeping rules again, would you...?" the coach shook his head, giving a sharp, deep-throated laugh. then the lines in his face hardened, the furrowed crease stiffened--ridge-like--and he leaned forward compellingly. "you are not sorry because tim mooney's loss to the team may mean the loss of the game--or games. you are sorry only for mr. mooney and the limelight his playing might reflect upon you. pardon my frankness but i know your type well. you are a disciple of this individual freedom cult which has swept the world. you have regarded rules as being made only for the thrill and pleasure of breaking. it has pleased your vanity that mr. mooney should have chosen your company rather than the observance of football regulations, a loyal elliott girl, having a friend on the team, would have insisted on keeping training rules with him. but, not you! you've been a thoughtless traitor to your college. and now perhaps your joy will be complete when i tell you that your act may come close to costing me the ambition of my life. good day!" shocked by the sudden, burning reprimand and the blunt abruptness of her dismissal, ruth sat for a few prickly seconds staring at the coach. then she arose and, in place of being indignant, walked sobbingly from the room! the following saturday, minus the services of tim mooney, elliott went down to a bitter, heart-rending defeat at the hands of larwood, losing by the hard-fought score of 7 to 0. five times during this blood-tingling conflict, elliott drove the ball down inside the enemy's ten yard line but somehow, every one of these times, just missed the punch which would have taken it over. throughout the game, and especially at the moments when elliott was in possession of her golden scoring opportunities, the stands had madly implored for mooney. "mooney! mooney! give us mooney!" they had chanted. and after the game elliott fans took occasion to warmly denounce coach brown for the discipline he had employed which had deprived elliott university of what would have been one of her most notable victories in years. the press of the nation was full to overflowing of newsprint that day either attacking or defending the great john brown. most sport writers were of the opinion that the famous coach had only himself to blame for the defeat, poking much fun at his ten o'clock law. a few of the more orthodox ones, however, credited john brown with having put law and order above victory, and lauded the personal sacrifice he had made in so doing. but elliott, crazed at having been given a taste of athletic fruits after so long a time of starving, could not reconcile herself at not having been able to eat the whole apple. as time ticked on, larwood's defeat of elliott seemed more and more uncalled for ... and the abuse of john brown grew and grew. what coach brown's thoughts were on the situation no one knew. he had scarcely been seen since the game and he had stayed so close to his room--it had been reported--that he had even had his meals sent up to him, refusing all interviews as well as callers. this in itself was unusual--but that was john brown. eccentricity was expected of a man who had been in the habit of accomplishing such astounding results with raw human material and a football. to those who flattered themselves that they reasoned, it was decided that john brown, incurring popular disfavor, had taken the simplest and most effective course of curbing drastic comment by giving his antagonists no object to shoot at. after all, right or wrong, coach brown was in charge of the team and it had been through his efforts solely that elliott had been able to even give larwood a fight. every monday, following a game, it was a custom among coaches to review the previous saturday's struggle, calling attention to the errors of omission and commission as well as stressing the strong points of play. coach brown's analyses of games had been regarded by many as classics--some even called them scholarly treatises--but, at any rate, the monday hour in the elliott clubhouse was recognized as the education period par excellence of the entire week in football circles and everyone who could possibly command a right to attend was there to hear the contests cussed and discussed play by play. "wonder what thunderbolt j. b. will have up his sleeve for us this time?" every elliott football man was asking himself as he headed for the clubhouse the monday after the larwood battle. it was certain that john brown would say something distinctly significant. his stone silence over the week-end would indicate that. whatever his reactions to the boiling pot of criticism which had been stewed over him, the team could expect to get most of these reactions in the form of sharply defined lightning thrusts at weaknesses which--to coach brown--had been responsible for elliott's failure to win. team members instinctively knew that, so far as tim mooney was concerned, john brown would regard him as though he had never lived. the coach would chalk up the defeat--not against mooney's absence from the line-up--but against the team individually or collectively failing to come through in some particular. they knew this because john brown had emphasized, in some outstanding past instances, that "games are never won by the men on the sidelines but by the eleven on the field." at the clubhouse the hands of the old wooden-faced clock pointed to five minutes after four. this was fifteen minutes past the time that the monday talk usually began. players, lounging in the locker room, looked at one another in silent wonderment and then strolled toward the windows and gazed out down the walk which led through a lane of trees to the campus. as the clock droned the quarter hour, red murdock--assistant coach--got up, with an air of uneasiness, and sauntered to the door and stood, peering. an unnatural quiet fell upon those present. coach brown had never been late before. punctuality had been one of his iron-clad rules. and now he had kept them sitting there, in growing impatience and suspense, some twenty-five minutes! suddenly the assistant coach straightened up and stepped from the door. automatically the players changed from lounging positions to attitudes of expectant attention. and every face cried to heaven of the exclamation, "ah,--he's coming!" there followed the sound of feet on the sidewalk--a firm, measured tread which grew methodically nearer until it stopped abruptly at the threshold. a moment more and a figure filled the doorway. but such a figure! john brown to be sure--yet a different john brown, an older john brown; a sadder john brown. his face looked white--not so white as the chalk lines on the gridiron--but unusually white. and there was a drawn quality about it with a certain weariness under the eyes. all this no one could help but notice as he stood in the doorway, facing them. yet, when the face relaxed into the smile that everyone had grown to love, its white, drawn weariness was forgotten. the coach was himself again. "well, boys, you've got one on me this time. sorry to have kept you waiting." john brown advanced into the room, nodding a greeting to red murdock. he lifted a foot and placed it upon the empty end of a bench on which some players were seated, leaning over to rest his elbow on his upraised knee and his chin upon the palm of his hand. he stood thus, the thumb of his other hand run in under his belt strap, his cap pulled well down so that the band of the rim seemed almost to press against the furrowed line of his forehead. just a simple, unaffected pose perhaps--but somehow, this tardy monday afternoon, it held a touch of the dramatic. "team--i have a little surprise for you to-day," said the great john brown. "we're not going to discuss saturday's game with larwood, the game itself has been discussed enough by everyone who saw it. but i would like to say to you and let it be heralded as coming from me, that i never hope to see a more perfect game of football than you men of elliott played against larwood!" could the roof have crashed in unexpectedly at that instant it could have caused no more profound astonishment than this most surprising of tributes from the lips of john brown. was he suddenly gone crazy--or was he about to perpetrate some biting joke? a substitute, anticipating a sarcastic follow-up, let out a mirthful cackle. "all right, you're through for the day." the coach gave the order without raising his voice nor even looking at the culprit. he waited until the chagrined disturber had slunk out before resuming. "i mean it, men. my idea of perfect play is when a team performs strictly as it has been coached to perform ... following a system through to the very last regardless of the breaks of the game or the preconceived notions of the individual players. that is team-work in the fullest--that is genuine football. that you failed to win does not alter the fact that you gave a faultless exhibition insofar as your experience and training permitted. saturday you were by no means the greatest team i have ever coached, but you were by all odds the fightingest, willingest bunch of grid warriors that, in my estimation, ever wore moleskins!" the coach paused and shifted his position to the other knee while the elliott men sat like a group of badly fussed and dumbfounded school boys. even red murdock could not conceal a look of frank bewilderment. what on earth was the great john brown driving at? he had never heard the coach extol an eleven before. this was a most radical departure.... "a comparatively green line and a green backfield and yet you held larwood to one touchdown and threatened her goal five different times! there is victory enough for me in that achievement...." forgetting their embarrassment at the praise which was being heaped upon them, a change began to creep over the team members--a sort of magical change which stiffened spines and raised heads with a growing pride. gone was the inward despondency which had gripped them since their gruelling loss to larwood. and in its place...? quick to note this rousing transformation, red murdock--assistant coach--fought back a smile and the simultaneous inclination to kick himself. "strike me for a dumb-bell! j. b. sure knows his stuff. he realizes he's dealing with practically new and little seasoned men ... and he's trying to save their morale and bolster it up for the biggest game of the year--against delmar. criticism at this stage of development would eat their hearts out. he's feeding them... but oh, aren't they eating it? they've turned to putty in his hands right now!" this much red murdock told himself while coach brown was pacing impulsively across the room and back. the wily old fox still! and the elliott men leaning forward breathlessly, hanging upon his every word. "but what you _have_ done is nothing as compared to what you _can_ do! this week you are going to learn how to beat delmar ... and next saturday you are going to do it!" an involuntary gasp escaped the lips of john brown's listeners. "you are going to do it because i have faith in you and i am going to see you through. i..." the face of john brown returned suddenly back to its chalk-like white; the flash sunk out of his eyes, leaving weary rings; the drawn quality took hold of his cheek muscles--and his foot slipped off the bench to the floor as he clutched impulsively at his shirt front. "i..." a dozen hands caught the great john brown as he slumped forward and fell. there was the mad moment of bringing water, of applying restoratives, of sending out a rush call for doctor landon. then the quieter, more chilling moment when the doctor had come ... and had looked up ... and shaken his head. newspapers were kindly enough now. they told how the great john brown had been stricken down at the height of his brilliant career. they intimated that the strain of developing a winning team at elliott had taken its toll, together with the loss of the larwood game and its attendant _unjust_ criticism. colleges throughout the country went into mourning. football practices were curtailed as a mark of respect and memorial services were held. at naylor there was talk of a monument to place in their hall of fame. the sporting populace at large sincerely grieved over the passing of this nationally revered figure who had contributed much to football in particular and all athletics in general. but it was natural that elliott should take coach brown's passing hardest of all. a difference of opinion sprung up at once as to whether the last game of the season should be played. some argued that the game should be cancelled as a tribute to john brown's memory, while others--who claimed to know j. b. the best--wondered if this were the sort of tribute that the famous coach would have appreciated. had he not left his body with the message to "carry on" on his lips? had not his dying words been a fervent exhortation to the team to buckle down to the strenuous task of preparing to meet and, if humanly possible, to defeat delmar? in the light of delmar's imposing season's record, the coach's last talk may have seemed preposterous for the colossal faith he was seemingly placing in his system and his ill-experienced but fighting team. yet john brown had died with his face to the front--ready to meet his biggest test head-on, and--under these circumstances it would be a good thing for elliott and the entire football world if the game were gone through with on schedule. there were two individuals at elliott who mourned as one--a big-framed, well proportioned fellow and a slender-lined, sweet-faced girl. their sorrow over j. b.'s loss had been made all the more inconsolable because of certain previous events now stamped indelibly upon their minds and magnified to the point of causing them much remorse. perhaps they should not have taken the happening quite so much to heart but tim mooney and ruth chesterton somehow felt as though they had been condemned in the eyes of the coach and his demise now offered them no opportunity to redeem themselves. when the elliott board of control, after a special called session of great solemnity, announced its decision to permit the looming contest with delmar to be played there was much sober rejoicing. the athletic world figuratively wore a mourning band on its arm but there had been born a sense of thrill in its heart such as the prospects of no other gridiron battle had aroused. the demand for seats at the elliott stadium became unprecedented. authorities, harassed from all sides by the frenzied petition for pasteboards, ordered the construction of temporary stands but the clamor soon outgrew all bounds of accommodation. it was estimated that some fifty thousand fans must be denied the spectacle of coach john brown's last team meeting the tartar of all football elevens in delmar. there was little doubt as to what would be the outcome of the game but the conditions under which the game was to be played were such as to raise interest to the highest human pitch. it had been decreed that there should be no vying of rival cheering sections with one another--a rather foolish decree, some thought--finding it hard to imagine a football contest devoid of the familiar and on-spurring "rah, rahs." but this was an idea that the faculty had devised as a mark of respect and no one could criticize the spirit which had prompted the formulation of the decree. no, if the game were to be played the proper tribute to john brown must, at the same time, not be lost sight of. and what could be more significantly impressive than a crowd numbering upwards of seventy thousand, watching a football contest in profound silence? wednesday night, after red murdock had got back to his room from the services held for his beloved leader, he was surprised by a tap on the door. "don't wish to be disturbed," he said. "but i--it's very important, sir," intreated a voice from the other side. "can't help it!" he snapped, his irritation being due to the enormous responsibility which had fallen upon him. "see me tomorrow." for answer the doorknob turned and the door swung inward. the assistant coach raised his head, about to make angry protest, but the protest melted on his lips at what he saw. standing in the hallway was the grim and resolute figure of tim mooney. "i beg your pardon, sir--but i've just got to see you tonight!" "well,--all right. come in." the former elliott fullback stepped through the doorway and pushed the door shut after him, nervously. he came over toward the man who had been forced into the unenviable role of trying to fill coach brown's great shoes, and stood--fumbling with his cap. there was an awkward moment, broken finally by red murdock. "you said you had something important. let's get it over quickly. i don't feel like...." tim mooney crumpled the cap in his large right hand and raised the fist in an appealing gesture. "it's just this, sir... i didn't have to--being off the squad--but i've kept every regulation since. and i want to go in. i'd give my right arm to go in. i--i--somehow i feel like i'd been partly responsible for j. b.'s death!" "you shouldn't feel that way, mooney." "perhaps not ... but i can't help it.... if we'd only won from larwood. but we can't lose to delmar, mr. murdock. we can't! no matter how strong delmar is we've got to beat 'em ... for j. b.'s sake. please, sir ... won't you reinstate me just for this game? after that i'm through. i'll never play again so long as i live..." mooney choked. "i guess there's no flowers our coach would like better than a victory over delmar. won't you let me help try to give 'em to him?" there was something in tim mooney's appeal that was heart-rending. tears glistened in the former elliott fullback's eyes and found their reflection in the eyes of john brown's assistant coach. "mooney," spoke red murdock, with difficulty, "i know just how you feel. i played for j. b. once and i'd have given as much for him in life as you're now willing to give to him in death. i can't refuse you, boy. you play. report for practice tomorrow night!" outside the brown-stoned house and across the street from the place in which red murdock had his room, a girl paced up and down, taking care to keep within the gathering shadows. every once in a while she would stop, just opposite the house, and gaze anxiously at the entrance. the time of her waiting seemed a young eternity to her though in all it could not have been more than ten minutes. and then the figure she had been looking for emerged. he glanced about, saw her, and both started toward each other. "what did he say?" she cried, breathlessly. the former elliott fullback did not attempt a verbal reply. he simply reached out and gripped the hands of the girl, as they met, and nodded his head. "pm so glad," she murmured, tears splashing down upon his rough knuckles. "i really think j. b. misjudged me ... and i haven't any way of making up to him ... except through you.... it's our chance, tim ... to make good!" he smiled and patted her arm and the two of them went off, hand in hand, through the dusk. no one saw the sun rise the morning of the momentous day as saturday dawned behind a bank of dark, somber-looking clouds. highways early became choked with lines of automobiles and railway schedules slowed under the running of football specials. the vicinity about elliott university soon resembled a vast ant hill, swarming with sport-crazed humans. by noon the little college town was transformed into a huge outdoor garage with every available space, even front lawns, taken up by autos, many of which bore licenses from distant states. the throng milled up and down the streets, impelled by a restless curiosity. delmar students, on hand six thousand strong, felt almost lost without the tuneful services of their famous band. an uncanny absence of boisterous sound prevailed as though everyone was impressed with the peculiar nature of the occasion. and because of this strained sort of reverent silence the atmosphere was gradually being made so tense as to be almost unbearable. members of the elliott team, confined to their rooms until noon by order of red murdock, reflected--to a much more trying degree--the feelings of the multitude. outside they could hear the tramp and shuffle of feet and occasionally an outcry, but their ears recorded no blare of music or outburst of jostling gaiety. and, as minute crawled after minute, their irritation grew so that they took to pacing up and down--up and down--figuratively frothing at the mouths to be out and clawing into delmar ... anything to get the torture of waiting over! by fifteen minutes before game time every possible nook and cranny of elliott field was jammed with heart-palpitating humanity. the great stadium was packed, aisles and all, with the greatest crowd its historic confines had ever held. and thousands more stormed the gates outside, beseeching entrance. in the clubhouse, eleven elliott men--the choice of red murdock to start against delmar--sat in a rigid circle while their assistant coach delivered his last admonitions. "and one word more," said red, as the shrill whistle of the referee called impatiently for elliott's appearance on the field. "it was just last monday that john brown stood in this room, precisely as i am standing now, and voiced his confidence in you. he declared that saturday you were going to beat delmar. he said you were going to do it because he was going to see you through. outside there, to-day," with a wave of the hand toward the stadium, "there are eighty thousand people, one of the greatest football gatherings that ever attended a game in america, hushed and waiting to see what account john brown's team gives of itself. throughout the country telegraph keys will click your every play and radios will tell the story to countless thousands. to-day you hold within your palms the opportunity for achieving elliott's greatest athletic triumph and at the same time immortalizing the name of coach john brown. does john brown live ... or does john brown die...?" another urgent blast came from the referee's whistle. a motion from red murdock and eleven grim-jawed men shot from the club-house. a great murmuring hum arose as the team burst upon the field--then an involuntary cheer as the game got under way with delmar kicking off. highly strung and nervously eager, elliott took the kick-off on her seven yard line and advanced the ball, under splendid interference, for nineteen yards before being downed. the man with the ball had been tim mooney and the stands echoed his name though the cheering sections were dumb. on the first play, as a price for her over-anxiety, elliott was penalized five yards for being off-side. the next play netted but two yards, an attempt through delmar's sturdy line. then the ball was snapped to elliott's star fullback and mooney--every nerve pulsating with the desire to give his all--fumbled. a mad commotion of flying legs and arms ... a moment of breathless suspense as the arms and legs were untangled ... a mighty groan of disappointment from the crowd--scarcely three minutes of play over and delmar in possession of the ball but twenty-three yards from elliott's goal! the recovered fumble was too good an advantage for delmar to pass up. employing a crushing style of attack, directed furiously and unmercifully at the lighter elliott line--delmar commenced her first march toward a touchdown. it took just five plays to put the ball across despite the most heroic efforts of elliott to resist delmar's steam roller offensive. delmar added the point after touch down by a kick from placement, giving her an early lead of 7 to 0. convinced now that they were in for the witnessing of a massacre, the stands sat dejectedly considering how foolish it had been to hope that the late john brown's eleven could possibly prove a match for delmar--cream of the country's football teams. there were some who even callously began to remark, as delmar launched her second ground-gaining onslaught against elliott, that providence had been kind to john brown in calling him home, thus saving the great coach from the ignominy of seeing his last efforts crowned by a crushing and devastating defeat. but passing such quick judgment upon elliott was hardly fair in the light of the terrific strain under which the eleven was playing. temporarily shot to pieces by the disheartening fumble, it was not until delmar had swept into elliott territory again that john brown's team found itself enough to brace and rock the stadium with the thrill of stopping delmar's smashing advance by taking the ball on downs! even this sudden flare-up of spirited defense was lightly regarded by the stands who saw in elliott's improved play but the last spent effort of a dying ember whose light is always brightest before it fades into oblivion. and tim mooney's fifty yard punt, putting elliott out of danger for the time being, was the ember at full glow. delmar would soon get going once more and elliott would be beaten back until the team, burning itself out against a mightier foe, became as so many ashes underfoot. but oh, how that ember clung to the light ... and life! all through the first half it persisted, shining brightest when fanned most by the tempest, and standing out as a bulwark which delmar, with all her relentless battering, could not surmount. time upon time delmar pounded dangerously near elliott's goal yet each time the elliott spark of resistance was somehow equal to the occasion with tim mooney's toe doing herculean work toward driving the invaders well back into their own territory from whence they were forced to begin all over again. gradually there stole upon the eighty thousand humans the throbbing realization that they were witnessing a sample of raw-handed courage such as men display only when under some great, compelling influence--an influence inspired by a necessity equalling a marne or an argonne to them--an influence which cried out above the bruising tide of battle, "they shall not pass! they shall not pass!" between halves the stands arose and stood two minutes, with heads uncovered and bowed, as a tribute to coach john brown's memory. the tribute was of involuntary nature, started by students in the elliott section and quickly copied by the crowd. "you're a great team today, boys," was red murdock's greeting as the elliott warriors lurched drunkenly into the clubhouse for their precious ten minutes of rest. the players eyed him soberly, chests heaving, shirts mud-grimed and torn, bodies sore and weary from blocking the path of the delmar tornado. and red murdock, looking them over, felt how hollow would be the saying of another word. he devoted attention instead to treating their various minor hurts and giving an encouraging slap here and there to the back of a man whose shoulders inclined to droop. furious at having been held to one lone and practically fluke touchdown, delmar opened the second half with a drive of even greater power, calculated to put elliott speedily to rout. the cream of the country's football teams had hammered steadily enough at elliot's line to have worn it to shreds by now. no other eleven had stood up so long under delmar's terrific charging and john brown's team must crack wide open soon. but all through the third quarter, calling upon an almost uncanny reserve force, elliott managed to stave the enemy off. true, whenever elliott came into possession of the ball she found herself unable to launch an offensive of her own. this was due to a delmar line of equal stone-wall quality--a line which had not permitted a touchdown to be scored against it that season. and elliott was not going to be the first team to do it either. there was humiliation enough for delmar in the fact that victory was being won by so small a margin. going into the last quarter, the stands could notice a perceptible wilting of the elliott team. there were no expressions of surprise at the sight, only wonderment that john brown's eleven had withstood the gruelling attack that long. a wave of sympathetic feeling passed over the stadium. the crowd did not care to see the pathetic spectacle of a team which had acquitted itself so nobly in the face of odds, crumbling in the final fifteen minutes of play and falling a helpless, exhausted victim to the ravages of a foe already maddened at having been so bitterly repulsed. now, as the vast throng looked through half-closed eyes, it saw the mighty delmar slowly corning into her own. taking the ball on her forty-two yard mark, delmar sent her backfield men galloping through holes which began to yawn open in the elliott defense. five, ten, fifteen yards were reeled off on every play. time was called while the elliott line was patched up by three substitutes. but with play resumed, the delmar steam roller continued unaffected on its way, rumbling and pounding over the ground which separated it from the elliott goal. six minutes of play remained as the country's leading football eleven drew up for a first down on their stubborn opponent's ten yard line. "touchdown, delmar!" called its six thousand rooters, uttering the first real blast of sound which had come from the stands all day. up in the elliott section a white-lipped girl strained forward, silently intreating. her face was tear-streaked. there was something desperately compelling about her attitude. the spectre of defeat to her was as grim as the spectre of death. almost unconsciously her lips parted and she started to sing in a low, wavering voice: "john brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave ..." spectators on either side of her looked at the girl queerly as if they thought she had suddenly gone out of her head. "john brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave," now some of the people near her became conscious of a strange, tingling sensation that seemed to cut to their very marrow as the voice, gaining in strength so that it carried out over the stand, repeated once more: "john brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave," and, in a magnetic sort of way there arose a spontaneous response of voices from all parts of the stand, joining in on the next line: "his soul goes marching on!" down on the gridiron, their bodies weary from battle, crouched the battered elliott eleven. the players glanced up curiously as the first swells of the song reached them. then they were seen to stiffen as the chorus, gaining volume, chanted out to them: "glory, glory hallelujah! glory, glory, glory hallelujah! glory, glory hallelujah! his soul is marching on." the delmar line crashed forward and the man with the ball dashed around the end. but he got little more than started when it seemed as though the entire elliott team had torn through and nabbed him. there was a roar in the stands and the great crowd was on its feet, men with their heads uncovered, while the song leaped to the lips of all and welled into a mighty dirge as the girl--lifted to the shoulders of those nearby--led by a waving of her arms. "the stars of heaven are looking kindly down, "the stars of heaven are looking kindly down, the stars of heaven are looking kindly down, on the grave of old john brown." a great cheer went up as elliott, suddenly transformed into men of steel, took the ball on downs and snapped into its first play. another cheer as tim mooney tore through the hitherto invincible delmar line for fourteen yards. on the next play mooney charged through for five more. "glory, glory hallelujah...!" as though there had come into each elliott player a superhuman force, the delmar team was pushed back and back, resisting stubbornly but ineffectively. it was a driving offensive against time. if elliott could go over for a touchdown in the three minutes left and kick goal, it could at least earn a tie with the mighty delmar. on its seventeen yard line delmar braced desperately. thirty valuable seconds were taken in two setbacks for a four yard loss. then mooney broke through for a run that carried the ball over the goal line. feverishly the teams lined up for the kick after touchdown. "he's gone to be a soldier in the army of the lord, he's gone to be a soldier in the army of the lord, he's gone to be a soldier in the army of the lord, his soul........" and mooney missed the attempt at goal after touchdown! the song broke into a great heart-broken moan. score--delmar 7; elliott 6. the one stupendously inspired chance gone. the teams lined up again for the kick-off with mooney sobbing like a baby at his failure. delmar kicked ... and the ball settled into mooney's arms. he started down the field with a grimness born of despair. past chalk mark after chalk mark he ran while the words of the song, now sung in frenzied fashion, roared in his ears: "glory, glory hallelujah!' his soul is marching on ..." at delmar's forty yard line mooney was stopped. he was thrown heavily after having completed the longest run of the game--fifty yards. the time-keepers consulted their watches. mooney shouted hysterically at the quarterback ... the quarterback barked a signal ... mooney lunged back and planted his feet in the rough sod, holding out his hands... "john brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, john brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, john brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, his soul is marching on!" standing on delmar's forty yard line, as charging delmar linesmen broke through and plunged at him, mooney's toe swung up and booted the ball. as the ball took the air there came the shrill shriek of the time-keeper's whistle. then the throbbing notes of the song, swelling on in a burst of fervent hope as the ball turned end over end, straight for the goal posts.... "glory, glory hallelujah! glory, glory, glory hallelujah!" a moment more and the elliott players fell upon mooney, hugging and kissing him with mad joy, while the song roared into a mighty harmony of heart-bursting sound: "glory, glory hallelujah!" and then, as if with a sudden thought of overwhelming reverence, the voices died into a soft refrain: "his soul is marching on!" the eighty thousand spectators poured from the stands with a solemnity which bespoke their attendance at a memorial service. they had just looked upon and been party to a miracle. the last second field goal from the forty yard line had given elliott a 9 to 7 victory over the great delmar eleven. at the corner of the field a girl cried happily, her head unashamedly against mooney's shoulder. "whatever made you think of that?" mooney asked her, tenderly. "i--i don't really know," she answered, looking up at him with just a trace of embarrassment, "but somehow ... you'll think i'm foolish for saying this ... i had the feeling it was john brown!" **** all american sport series harold m. sherman, one of the most popular authors of boys' books needs no introduction to the vast majority of young readers. to boys who like, as every red-blooded boy must, these high type sport stories, we dedicate this series. football . . . . . interference football . . . . . its a pass! football . . . . . over the line basketball . . . . under the basket ice hockey . . . . down the ice base ball . . . . strike him out tennis . . . . . . the tennis terror football . . . . . capt. of the eleven the goldsmith publishing co. chicago books by harold m. sherman it's a pass interference down the ice over the line strike him out under the basket the tennis terror captain of the eleven tahara--boy mystic of india tahara--among african tribes tahara--boy king of the desert tahara--in the land of yucatan the fun loving gang--in wrong right the fun loving gang--always up to something bert wilson on the gridiron by j. w. duffield author of "bert wilson at the wheel," "wireless operator," "fadeaway ball," "marathon winner," "at panama." new york george sully & company publishers copyright, 1914, by sully and kleinteich _all rights reserved._ published and printed, 1924, by western printing & lithographing company racine, wisconsin printed in u.s.a. contents chapter page i. never say die 1 ii. raked, fore and aft 20 iii. a thrilling exploit 32 iv. breaking the rules 52 v. tackling the army 62 vi. reddy's recollections 82 vii. the lion's escape 90 viii. on the toboggan 108 ix. hammered into shape 127 x. in the enemy's country 140 xi. a desperate fight 153 xii. the coach robbery 171 xiii. an unexpected meeting 186 xiv. a plot that failed 195 xv. the dash for the goal 209 bert wilson on the gridiron chapter i never say die "hold 'em! hold 'em! buck up, fellows. don't give an inch!" a storm of cheers swept over the field, as it was seen that the scrubs were holding the 'varsity on their ten-yard line. three times in succession the 'varsity players plunged like enraged bulls against the defenders of the goal, only to be thrown back without a gain. one more fierce attempt, and the ball went to the scrubs on downs. it was unprecedented. it was revolutionary. it shrieked unto heaven. the poor, despised scrubs were actually holding the haughty 'varsity men on even terms. more than that; they even threatened to win. they seemed to forget that they were doormats for the "regulars," mere "sparring partners," to be straightened up with one punch and knocked down by the next. the "forlorn hope" had suddenly become a triumphant hope. the worm had turned, and turned with a vengeance. pale and panting, plastered with mud and drenched with sweat, with "blood in their eyes" and here and there a little on their features, they faced the "big fellows" and gave as good as they took. reddy, the college trainer, danced up and down on the side lines and sputtered incoherently. "bull" hendricks, the head coach, stamped and stormed and yelled to his charges to "put it over." the things he said may not be set down here, but he gave the recording angel a busy afternoon. his words stung like whips, and under the lash of them the 'varsity men braced themselves desperately. they burned with shame and rage. were they to have a defeat "slapped" upon them by the scrubs? the college would ring with it, and it would be the sensation of the season. but the scrubs were not to be denied. they had caught the 'varsity "off its stride," and they fought like tigers to clinch their advantage. every ounce of strength and determination that they possessed was called to the front by the prospect of impending victory. a daring run around the left end netted them twenty yards, and they gained fifteen more on downs. an easy forward pass was fumbled by the regulars, who were becoming so demoralized that the men fell all over themselves. the panic was growing into a rout that promised to end in a waterloo. the referee was poising his whistle and looking at his watch, ready to blow the signal that marked the end of play. there was but one chance left--a goal from the field. on the 'varsity team only two men had seemed to keep their heads. the quarterback and fullback had sought to stem the tide, but in the general melting away of the defence had been able to do but little. the ball was now on the scrubs' forty-yard line. the player who had it fumbled in his eagerness to advance it, and the 'varsity quarterback pounced on it like a hawk. with almost the same motion he passed it to the fullback. the opposing line bore down upon him frantically, but too late. one mighty kick and the pigskin rose in the air like a bird, soared over the bar between the goal posts, and the 'varsity was three points to the good. an instant later and the whistle blew. the game was over. the hearts of the scrubs went down into their boots. another minute and the game would have ended with the ball in the middle of the field, and the score a tie; and a tie on the part of the scrubs was equivalent to a victory. but that last kick had dashed their hopes into ruin. still, they were not wholly cast down. they had deserved success, if they had not actually won it. they had really played the better game and beaten their foes to a standstill. the nominal victory of the 'varsity was a virtual defeat. and the 'varsity knew it. for an instant they felt an immense relief, as they crowded around wilson, the fullback, and clapped him on the shoulder. but their momentary exultation was replaced by chagrin, as they filed past the coach on the way to the shower baths, and their eyes fell before the steely gleam in his. "i won't say anything to you dubs, just now," he announced with ominous calmness, as they shambled along wearily and shamefacedly. "i don't dare to. what i'd have to say wouldn't be fit for the ears of young ladies like you. besides, i don't want to commit murder. but i may have a few quiet remarks to make before practice to-morrow." "a few quiet remarks," muttered ellis, when they got beyond earshot. "gee. i'll bet life in a boiler factory would be peaceful compared with the training quarters when he once gets going." "i've always thought deafness an affliction," said drake, "but i think i'd welcome it for the next twenty-four hours." "ten to one that's why they call a football field a gridiron," grumbled axtell. "the fellows that play on it get such a fearful roasting." just then, morley, the captain of the scrubs, came along with a broad grin on his face. "buck up, you fellows," he joshed, "the worst is yet to come. i can see just where you 'false alarms' get off. your epitaph will be that of the office boy." "what was that?" queried martin, biting at the bait. "monday, hired-tuesday, tired-wednesday, fired," retorted morley. "don't you worry about epitaphs," snapped tom henderson. "we're not dead ones yet, as you'll find out the next time we take your measure." "what was that satan said," asked dick trent, "about rather reigning in hell than serving in heaven? i'd rather be a boob on the 'varsity than king of the scrubs." "o, well," laughed morley, "if you want to put yourself on a level with satan, there's no one to prevent you. as for me, i'm a little particular about _my_ company;" and with this parthian shot he rejoined his exulting mates. it was a disgruntled group of athletes that plunged into the tank and stood beneath the shower. and when it came to the rubdown, reddy and his helpers seemed to take a fiendish delight in picking out the sore spots and getting even for the day's poor showing. but such vigorous health and splendid condition as theirs could not be long a prey to gloom, and when, refreshed and glowing, they wended their way to the training table, they were inclined to take a more cheerful view of life. they ate like famished wolves, and when they had made away with everything in sight, even the promised raking from "bull" hendricks had lost some of its terrors. "o, well," remarked tom, "while there's life there's hope. we won't be shot at sunrise, anyway, even if we deserve to be." "no," assented dick, yielding to his irrepressible habit of quotation: "somewhere 'tis always morning, and above the wakening continents from shore to shore, somewhere the birds are singing evermore." "the only bird you'll hear to-morrow," said practical bert wilson, "will be a crow. poe's raven won't have a thing on hendricks when he starts croaking." one would have had to go far to find a finer group of young fellows than this trio, as they sauntered over the campus to the college buildings. they were tall, well-knit and muscular, and no one, looking at them, would "despair of the republic," as long as she produced such sons. outdoor life, clean living and vigorous exercise had left their stamp on face and frame. they were immensely popular in the college, leaders in fun and frolic, and in the very front rank as athletes. each had won the right to wear the college jersey with the coveted "initial," proving that on hard fought fields they had brought glory to their alma mater. this was preëminently the case in college baseball. tom at third and dick at first had starred in their positions, while bert in the pitcher's box with his masterly "fadeaway" had cinched the pennant, after a heartbreaking struggle with the "greys" and "maroons," their leading rivals. the story of how he had plucked victory from defeat in that memorable fight was already a classic and had made his name famous in the college world. and now, in the early fall, the three comrades were seeking to win further laurels on the gridiron as they had previously won them on the diamond. provisionally, they had been placed by the keen-eyed coach on the 'varsity team. tom's quickness and adroitness had singled him out as especially fitted for quarterback. dick, who had been the leading slugger on the nine, was peculiarly qualified by his "beef" and strength for the position of center. bert's lightning speed--he had made the hundred yards in ten seconds, flat, and won a marathon at the olympic games--together with his phenomenal kicking ability, made him the leading candidate for fullback. so far, the results had seemed to indicate that no mistake had been made. but no one knew better than they how insecure their positions were, and how desperate a fight they would have to wage in order to hold their places. the competition was fierce, and the least sign of wavering on their part might send them back to the scrubs. bull hendricks played no favorites. he was "from missouri" and "had to be shown." his eagle eye was always looking for the weak places in the armor of his players, and no one was quicker to detect the least touch of "yellow." he had no use for any one but a winner. he watched unceasingly for any failure of body or spirit and pounced upon it as a cat upon a mouse. nor could any past success atone for present "flunking." not that he acted hastily or upon impulse. had he done so, he would have been unfitted for his position. he knew that everybody had his "off days." the speediest thoroughbred will sometimes run like a cart horse. no one can be always at the "top of his form." but after making all allowances for human weakness and occasional lapses, when he once reached a definite conclusion he was as abrupt and remorseless as a guillotine. many a hopeful athlete had been decapitated so swiftly and neatly, that, like the man in the fable, he did not know his head was off until he tried to sneeze. it was a sharp but wholesome discipline, and kept his men "on their toes" all the time. it gave hope and energy also to the scrubs. they knew that they had a chance to "make" the 'varsity team, if they could prove themselves better than the men opposed to them. the scrub of to-day might be the regular of to-morrow. they felt like the soldiers in napoleon's army where it was said that "every private carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack." so they fought like tigers, and many a battle between them and the 'varsity was worthy of a vaster audience than the yelling crowds of students that watched it rage up and down the field. but the rivalry, though bitter, was also generous. there was nothing mean or petty about it. after all, it was "all in the family." everybody, scrub or 'varsity, was crazy to win from the other colleges. if it could be shown that the team could be strengthened thereby, any 'varsity man would go back to the scrubs without grumbling and "root" just as hard as ever for the team to make good. it was a pure democracy where only merit counted and where the individual effaced himself for the common good of all. so that while the 'varsity and scrubs were bitter enemies on the gridiron, they were chums as soon as they had shed their football "togs." "we certainly did put up a rotten game to-day," ruminated tom. "i don't wonder that the coach was sore. we ought to have eaten those fellows up, but they walked all over us. what was the matter with us, anyway?" "aw," snorted dick, disgustedly, "why is it that an elephant runs away from a mouse? they simply threw a scare into us and we lost our nerve. we can thank our stars it was only a practice game." "it goes that way sometimes," said bert philosophically. "it's just the same in other games. i've seen the giants and athletics play like a lot of schoolboys. one fellow will muff an easy fly and then the whole infield will go to pieces. they'll fumble and boot anything that comes along." "yes," assented tom, "and the pitchers get theirs too. there's matty, the king of them all. there are days, when even ty cobb, if he were batting against him, couldn't do anything but fan. then again, there are other days when he hasn't anything on the ball but his glove. i saw him in an opening game in new york before thirty-five thousand people, when he was batted out of the box like any bush leaguer." "even homer sometimes nods and milton droops his wing," quoted dick. "if our playing is rank sometimes, it's a comfort to feel that we have lots of company. but speaking of baseball, fellows, how do you think it compares with chasing the pigskin?" "well," said bert slowly, "it's hard to tell. they're both glorious games, and personally i'm like the donkey between the two bundles of hay. i wouldn't know which to nibble at first." "of course," he went on, "they're so different that it's hard to compare them. both of them demand every bit of speed and nerve a fellow has, if he plays them right. and a bonehead can't make good in either. there are lots of times in each game when a man has to think like lightning. as for courage, it's about a stand off. with three men on bases in the ninth, nobody out, and only one run needed to win, it's a sure enough test of pluck for either nine. but it needs just as much for a losing eleven to buck its way up the field and carry the ball over the goal line, when there's only three minutes left of playing time. both games take out of a fellow all there is in him. as for brute strength, there's no doubt that football makes the greater demand. but when it comes to saying which i prefer, i'm up a tree. i'd rather play either one than eat." "how happy could i be with either, were 'tother dear charmer away," laughed dick. "well," remarked tom, "it's lucky that they come at different seasons so that we can play both. but when you speak of 'brute' strength, bert, you're giving 'aid and comfort' to the enemies of football. that's just the point they make. it's so 'awfully brutal'," he mimicked, in a high falsetto voice. "nonsense," retorted bert. "of course, no fellow can be a 'perfect lady' and play the game. even a militant suffragette might find it too rough. there are plenty of hard knocks to be taken and given. it's no game for prigs or dudes. but for healthy, strong young fellows with good red blood in their veins, there's no finer game in the world to develop pluck and determination and self-control and all the other qualities that make a man successful in life. he has to keep himself in first-class physical condition, and cut out all booze and dissipation. he must learn to keep his temper, under great provocation. he must forget his selfish interests for the good of the team. and above all he has to fight, fight, fight,--fight to the last minute, fight to the last ditch, fight to the last ounce. it's a case of 'the old guard dies, but never surrenders.' he's like old general couch at the battle of kenesaw mountain, who, when sherman asked him if he could hold out a little longer, sent back word that 'he'd lost one eye and a piece of his ear, but he could lick all hades yet.'" "hear, hear," cried tom. "listen, ladies and gentlemen, to our eloquent young demosthenes, the only one in captivity." he skilfully dodged the pass made at him and bert went on: "i don't deny that there was a time when the game was a little too rough, but most of that has been done away with. there has been progress in football as in everything else. there's no wholesale slugging as in the early days, when the football field was more like a prize ring than a gridiron. of course, once in a while, even now, you'll be handed a nifty little uppercut, if the referee isn't looking. but if they catch on to it, the fellow is yanked out of the game and his team loses half the distance to its goal line as a penalty. so that it doesn't pay to take chances. then, too, a fellow used to strain himself by trying to creep along even when the whole eleven was piled on him. they've cut that out. making it four downs instead of three has led to a more open game, and the flying wedge has been done away with altogether. the game is just as fierce, but the open play has put a premium on speed instead of mass plays, and made it more interesting for the spectators and less dangerous for the players. and the most timid of mothers and anxious of aunties needn't go into hysterics for fear that their algernon or percival may try to 'make' the team." "this seems to be quite an animated discussion," said a pleasant voice behind them; and wheeling about they saw professor benton, who held the chair of history in the college. they greeted him cordially. although a scholar of international reputation, he was genial and approachable, and a great favorite with the students. in connection with his other duties, he was also a member of the athletic association and took a keen interest in college sports. he himself had been a famous left end in his undergraduate days, and his enthusiasm for the game had not lessened with the passing of the years and the piling up of scholastic honors. "we were talking about football, professor," explained bert, "and agreeing that many of the rough edges had been planed off in the last few years." "i could have guessed that you weren't talking about your studies," said the professor quizzically. "you fellows seldom betray undue enthusiasm about those. but you are right about the changes brought in by the new rules. it surely was a bone-breaking, back-breaking game during my own student days. "and yet," he went on with a reminiscent smile, "even that was child's play compared with what it was a thousand years ago." "what!" cried dick. "is the game as old as that?" "much older," was the reply. "the greeks and romans played it two or three thousand years ago. but i was referring especially to the beginning of the game in england. in the tenth century, they commenced by using human skulls as footballs." "what!" exclaimed the boys in chorus. "it's a fact beyond all question," reaffirmed the professor. "in the year 962, when the danes were invading england, a resident of chester captured a dane, cut off his head and kicked it around the streets. the gentle populace of that time took a huge liking to the game and the idea spread like wildfire. you see, it didn't cost much to run a football team in those days. whenever they ran short of material, they could go out and kill a dane, and there were always plenty swarming about." "those good old days of yore," quoted dick. "plenty of bonehead plays in those days as well as now," murmured tom. "of course," resumed the professor, "that sort of thing couldn't go on forever. the danes withdrew, and naturally no englishman was sport enough to offer his own head for the good of the game. so they substituted a leather ball. but the game itself was about as rough as ever. it was usually played in the streets, and very often, when some dispute arose about the rules, it developed into a battle royal, and the players chased each other all over the town with ready fists and readier clubs. heads were broken and lives lost, and the king issued an edict forbidding the game. but under other rulers it was resumed, though in a somewhat milder form, and has continued up to the present. "no longer ago than yesterday," he added, taking out his memorandum book, "i ran across a criticism of the game, by an englishman named stubbs, way back in 1583. he goes for it right and left, so bitterly and yet so quaintly, that i thought it worth while preserving, old-fashioned spelling and all. here's the way it goes: "'as concerning footballe, i protest unto you it may rather be called a friendlie kind of a fight than a play or recreation, a bloody and murthering practice than a felowy sort of pastime. for doth not every one lie in wait for his adversary, seeking to overthrow him and kicke him on the nose, though it be on hard stones or ditch or dale, or valley or hill, so he has him down, and he that can serve the most of this fashion is counted the only fellow, and who but he, so that by this means their necks are broken, sometimes their backs, sometimes their arms, sometimes their noses gush forth with blood, sometimes their eyes start out; for they have the sleights to mix one between two, to dash him against the heart with their elbows, to butt him under the short ribs with their gripped fists, and with their knees to catch him on the hip and kicke him on his neck with a hundred murthering devices.'" "phew," said tom, "that's a hot one right off the bat." "he hits straight from the shoulder," agreed dick. "i'll bet the old boy himself would have been a dandy football rusher, if he'd ever got into the game." "he certainly leaves no doubt as to where he stands on the question," assented the professor, "and i think we'll admit, after that, that the game has improved. the most rabid critic of to-day wouldn't go so far as this old briton. the game as played to-day offers very little danger to life and not much more to limb. of course, accidents happen now and then, but that's true of every game. the old french proverb says that 'he who risks nothing, has nothing.' the element of risk in football is more than counterbalanced by the character it develops. the whole secret of success in life is to 'never say die.' and i don't know of any game that teaches this as well as football. but i must be going," he concluded, with a glance at his watch; and, turning off to the right with a farewell wave of the hand, he left the boys to finish their interrupted stroll. "the prof's all right," said tom emphatically. "they say that he was the bright particular star on his football team," contributed dick. "and he's starred just as brightly in his profession since then," chimed in bert. "i guess that 'never say die' motto has stuck by him all the time," mused tom. "it's a bully motto, too. by the way, have you fellows ever heard the story of the mouse that fell in the milk pail?" they stared at him suspiciously. long experience with that facetious youth had taught them the folly of biting too quickly, when he put a question. "no catch," protested tom. "this is on the level." "well," said dick, "if a crook like you _can_ be on the level, shoot." "it was this way," continued tom, cheerfully accepting the reflection on his character. "two mice fell into a bucket of milk. they swam about for a while and then one of them gave it up and sank. the other one, though, was made of different stuff and wouldn't give up. he kept on kicking until he had churned the milk into butter. then he climbed on top of it, made a flying leap for the edge of the bucket and got away. you see, he was a kicker from kickersville and his motto was 'never say die'." they looked at him reproachfully, but tom never "batted an eye." "that mouse was a smooth proposition," murmured dick softly. "a slippery customer," echoed bert. "but, tom," he asked, in mock innocence, "is that story true?" "true?" snorted tom, "you'd butter believe that it's true. why----" but this crowning outrage on the english language was too much, and he took to his heels, barely escaping a flying tackle as they launched themselves toward him. chapter ii raked, fore and aft in the training quarters, "bull" hendricks paced to and fro, his forehead creased by deep lines as he wrestled with the problems that beset him. six feet two inches in height and built in proportion, he was a fine figure of a man. despite his weight and bulk, there was nothing ungainly or awkward about him. if he had not the grace of an apollo, he had what was better--the mighty thews and sinews of a twentieth century hercules. his massive chest and broad shoulders were capped by a leonine head, from which looked the imperious eyes of a born leader of men. few men cared to encounter those eyes when their owner was angered. he was a good man to have as an ally, but a bad one to have as an antagonist. how he had obtained his nickname was a disputed question in college tradition. some maintained that it was due to a habit of plunging through the opposing lines with the power and momentum of an enraged buffalo. others with equal likelihood held that it was an abbreviation of "bulldog," and had been won by the grit and grip that never let go when he had closed with an enemy. but whatever the origin of the term, all agreed that either definition was good enough to express the courage and power and tenacity of the man. force--physical force, mental force, moral force--was the supreme characteristic that summed him up. in his college days, ten years earlier, he had been a tower of strength on the greatest football team that had ever worn the blue, and the part he played in its triumphs was still a matter of college song and story. it was the day when mass play counted heavily, when the "guards back" and the "flying wedge" were the favorite formations; and the blue would never forget how, after a series of line plunging, bone-breaking rushes, he had dragged himself over the enemy's goal line with the whole frantic eleven piled on him, while the blue stands went stark raving mad over the prowess of their champion. that famous goal had won him an undisputed place on the all-american team for that year and the captaincy of his own team the following season. his reputation clung to him after he had graduated, and even among his business associates he was commonly and affectionately referred to as "bull." the same qualities of courage and tenacity that had marked his student days had followed him into the broader arena of business life, and he had speedily become prosperous. but the tug of the old college had drawn him back for more or less time every year to help "lick the cubs into shape" and renew the memories of the past. this year the call had been particularly insistent, owing to two bad seasons in succession, when the blues had been forced to lower their colors to their exulting rivals who had so many defeats to avenge. a hurry call had gone out for the very best man available to stop the "tobogganing" of the team; and as this by universal consent was "bull" hendricks, he had, at a great sacrifice, laid aside his personal interests and come to the rescue. a few days on the ground had been sufficient to show him that he was "up against it." a herculean task awaited him. the material he had to work with was none too good. the line was lacking in "beef" and the backs in speed. there were exceptions, notably at center and full and quarter; and here his falcon eye detected the stuff of which stars are made. but it takes eleven men to make a team and no individual brilliancy can atone for a lack of combination work. "a chain is no stronger than its weakest link," and, in a modified sense, a team is no stronger than its weakest player. that one weaker player would be unerringly "sized up" by the sharp-eyed scouts of the opposition and they would plunge against him like a battering ram. usually, at the beginning of the fall season, there would be an influx of promising candidates from the leading academies and preparatory schools. fellows who had starred at andover and exeter and lawrenceville, some of them giants in bulk or racehorses in speed, would come in as freshmen and give the sophs or juniors a tussle for the team. but "nothing succeeds like success," and the failure of the blues for two seasons in succession had tarnished their prestige and turned toward other colleges the players emulous of football glory. the "greys" and "maroons" had "gobbled" the most likely "future greats" and the blues had been replenished by a number limited in quantity and mediocre in quality. of his veterans, the right guard and left tackle had graduated that summer, and their places in the line would be hard to fill. not that the coach felt discouraged. he didn't know the meaning of the word. it simply meant that he would have to work the harder. like napoleon, the word "impossible" was not in his dictionary. it was said once of a famous educator that "mark hopkins at one end of a log and a student at the other would make a university." with equal truth it could be declared that "bull" hendricks on the coaching line and eleven men on the field would turn out a 'varsity team. his task was the more difficult just now because he was practically alone. it was too early in the season for the "old grads" to put in an appearance. by and by they would come flocking in droves from all quarters of the compass, eager to renew their youth, and to infuse into the raw recruits some of the undying enthusiasm that they felt for their old alma mater. then every separate player on the team could have the benefit of the advice of some famous former player in his own position, who would teach him every trick and turn by which he had won his own reputation. but at present most of the work devolved on him. he had to teach the backs how to kick, the ends how to run down under a punt, the guards and tackles how to interfere; and into all he had to infuse the deathless determination to win that is the very heart and core of the game. like a new atlas, he was carrying the football world on his shoulders, alone. no, not quite alone. there was "reddy." and that sorrel-topped individual was a host in himself. not one fellow out of ten could have told his real name. he was simply "reddy" and they let it go at that. his flaming mop of hair to which he owed his nickname covered a shrewd if uneducated mind. for many years he had been connected with the college as head trainer, and in this capacity he had turned out so many winners that he had become famous in the athletic world. he had supreme control of the physical training of all the teams turned out by the college--track, baseball and football--and none excelled him in sending their men to the post in superb condition. he had an unerring eye for an athlete and knew how to bring each individual to the very top of his form. whatever was in him he brought out to the full. he was a universal favorite in the college. all the boys swore by him, although at times perhaps--for his temper was as red as his hair--they were tempted to swear _at_ him. but if they ever did, it was under their breath, for reddy was an autocrat, and in his own domain ruled with an iron hand. just now, he was, as he himself put it, "as busy as a one-armed paperhanger with the hives." dinner was over and the football candidates, scrub and 'varsity alike, were getting into their togs and undergoing the searching scrutiny of reddy. there were bad knees and ankles and shoulders galore. he began at the soles of the feet and went up to the crown of the head. "take off those shoes, kincaid," he commanded. "the soles are worn so thin that you can't help feeling the cleats through them. before you know it, your feet'll be so bruised that you'll be wanting a crutch." "those phony ankles again, eh," he remarked, as he noticed a slight wobbling on the part of anderson. "here," to an assistant, "give me that tape." and with the skill of a surgeon he applied strips of adhesive tape along each ligament, leaving a narrow space down the instep free from bandaging to allow free circulation of the blood. and when he got through, the "phony" ankle was so protected that it was practically impossible for it to turn under its owner. so, step by step, he went up the human frame that he knew so well. shin guards were handed out to the forwards to help them against the fierce hammering that they would have to meet. pads were strapped below the knee and left loose above to give free play to the joints. the thighs were protected by fiber, and large felt pads covered the hips and kidneys. then with shoulder and collarbone pads, topped by a head guard, the costume was complete. then reddy stood in the door that led to the presence of the coach and not a man went through until the trainer's critical eye pronounced him ready for the fray. "don't hurry," he said goodnaturedly, as some crowded past him. "'tis quick enough ye'll be getting in there, i'm thinking," and his eyes twinkled, as he thought of the castigation that awaited them. to tell the truth, they did not hurry. there were no bouquets awaiting them. they knew that they were due for a raking fore and aft and that they deserved it. no one could tell which one or how many would be "fired" back into the scrubs. more than one of them, on waking in the morning, wondered what made his heart so heavy, until with a qualm the thought of "bull" hendricks came to enlighten him. that thought had persisted all through the morning hours, and, if they were distrait in the recitation rooms, the reason was not far to seek. even tom's irrepressible spirits were somewhat tamed, although he had less to fear than some of the others. "gee," he whispered, "it's like a funeral." "don't cheer, boys, the poor devils are dying," murmured bert. "they piled the stiffs outside the door, there must have been a cord or more," quoted dick. the subdued way in which the boys filed in gave the coach his cue. "nice little flock of sheep," he purred. "little bo-peep will miss you pretty soon and come down here looking for you." "there was a time," he flashed, "when a blue football team was a pack of wolves. but you're just sheep and the 'greys' and 'maroons' will make mutton of you, all right." "a football team!" he went on scornfully. "why, you don't know the rudiments of the game. you're a bunch of counterfeits. you can't tackle, you can't interfere, you can't kick, you can't buck the line. outside of that, you're all right. "now this kind of work has got to stop. as a comic opera football team, you're a scream. if the 'greys' or 'maroons' had seen you yesterday, they'd have laughed themselves to death. but no blue team has ever been a joke in my time, and you're not going to get away with it, if i can pound any brains into your heads or any strength in your muscles. if nature hasn't done it already, i don't know that i can, but i'm going to try. the team i'm going to send into the field may be licked but it shan't be disgraced. it's going to be an eleven made up of men--not female impersonators. and i'll get them if i have to rake the college with a comb." from generals he came down to particulars, and his rasping tongue spared no one, as he went over the plays of the day before and described their sins of omission and commission. the men writhed beneath the lash and their faces tingled with shame. but they were game and stood the "lacing" with what grace they might, the more so as they realized that the criticism, though bitter, was just. his whip tore the flesh and he rubbed vitriol into the wounds, but behind it all was his immense passion for victory and his pride in the old college that they loved and wanted to serve as ardently as he did. it was a wry dose and they swallowed it with a gulp, but it braced them to new endeavor, and deep down in their hearts was forming a resolution that boded ill for the scrubs, who had been gloating while the 'varsity "got theirs." "now," the coach concluded, "i'd about made up my mind to fire half this gang of quitters back into the scrubs, but i'm going to give you one more chance. do you get me? just one more. for the next hour, you'll practice tackling and passing and interference. then when you've limbered up your poor old joints, i'm going to line you up against the scrubs. i want you to rip them up, eat them alive, tear them to pieces. and heaven help the 'varsity man that falls down on the job." the boys saw some real practice that day. the coach was merciless. they flung themselves against the dummy tackle until they were bruised and sore. they ran down the field under punts until their breath came in gasps. they practiced the forward pass until they were dizzy and seemed to see ten balls flying over the field instead of one. but no one complained or shirked, although every separate bone and muscle seemed to have its own particular ache. a short respite, the 'varsity and scrub faced each other as they had the day before. but the hour had struck for the scrubs. they faced their doom. to be sure, they faced it gallantly, but it was doom none the less. from the beginning they never had a chance. all the pent up rage of the 'varsity that had accumulated while they were being flayed by the coach was poured out on the devoted heads of their opponents. they wiped out the stigma of the day before and paid their debt with interest. it was a "slaughter grim and great," and before their furious attack the scrub line crumpled up like paper. in vain morley yelled to his little band to stand fast. they might as well have tried to stem niagara. warren and hodge tackled like fiends. dick at center and tom at quarter worked together with the precision of a machine. bert's mighty kicks were sure to find caldwell or drake under them when they came down, and three times he lifted the pigskin over the bars. then as the play was most of the time in the scrubs' territory, the kicking game gave place to line bucking. bert was given the ball, and through the holes that boyd and ellis made for him in the enemy's line he plunged like a locomotive. there was no stopping them, and the game became a massacre. they simply stood the scrubs "on their heads." their own goal line was not even threatened, let alone crossed. touchdown followed touchdown, until when the whistle blew, the 'varsity had rolled up a score of 54 to 0 and their humiliation had been gloriously avenged. "well, morley," taunted drake, as the panting warriors left the field, "how about that 'false alarm' stuff?" "who's loony now?" crowed tom. "only a spasm," countered morley, with a sickly grin. "we'll get you yet." "bull" hendricks said never a word as the fellows filed past, but, as he turned to leave the field, his eyes encountered reddy's, and he favored that grinning individual with a drawing down of the right eyelid that closely resembled a wink. and when he was alone in his own quarters, he indulged in a low chuckle. "pretty strong medicine," he said to himself as he lighted his pipe, "but it worked. i guess i'm some doctor." chapter iii a thrilling exploit a pleasant surprise awaited the boys that evening as they went from the training table to their rooms. under the elms in front of their dormitory, two men were pacing up and down. the close resemblance between them indicated that they were father and son. as they turned toward the boys there was an instant recognition, and they hurried forward in eager greeting. "mr. quinby--ralph," they cried in chorus. "we can't tell you how glad we are to see you," said bert. "what lucky wind blew you so far from california?" "business, as usual," responded mr. quinby, evidently pleased by the warmth of his welcome. "i had to attend a meeting of directors in new york, and while i was so near, i thought i'd take a day off and run down here for a look around." "that's what he says," laughed ralph, "but, as a matter of fact, dad gets hungry to see the old college every once in so often, and i think he fakes up the 'business' talk just as an excuse." "impudent young cub, isn't he?" said mr. quinby with mock severity. "but i refuse to say anything in defense, on the ground that i might incriminate myself. anyway, i'm here, and that's the main point. how are things going with you fellows?" "fine," was the response. "but come right on up to our rooms. we're not going to let you get away from us in a hurry, now that we've laid hands on you." "we'll surrender," smiled mr. quinby. "lead on macduff." and they mounted to the rooms that bert and dick occupied together, a floor higher up than tom. a flood of memories had swept over bert at the unexpected meeting. two years had passed since they had been closely associated and many things had happened since that time. yet all the experiences of that memorable summer stood out in his mind as clearly as the events of yesterday. mr. quinby had been the owner of a fleet of vessels plying between san francisco and china. needing a wireless operator on one of his ships, he had applied to the dean of the college and he had recommended bert, who was pursuing a course in electricity and making a specialty of wireless telegraphy. tom and dick had made that trip with him, and it had been replete with adventure from start to finish. at the very outset, they had been attacked by a malay running amuck, and only their quickness and presence of mind had saved them from sudden death. soon after clearing the harbor, they had received the s.o.s. signal, and had been able thereby to save the passengers of a burning ship. a typhoon had caught them in its grip and threatened to send them all to davy jones. his flesh crept yet as he recalled the tiger creeping along the deck of the animal ship after breaking loose from his cage. and, traced on his memory more deeply perhaps than anything else, was that summer evening off the chinese coast when they had been attacked by pirates. sometimes even yet in his dreams he saw the yellow faces of that fiendish band and heard the blows of the iron bars on their shaven skulls, when old mac and his husky stokers had jumped into the fray. how large a part he had played in that repulse he seldom allowed himself to dwell upon in thought and never referred to it in speech. but the country had rung with it, and his friends never tired of talking about it. and none knew better than mr. quinby himself that he owed the safety of his vessel and the lives of all on board to the quick wit of bert in sending the electric current from the dynamo into the wires and hurling the screaming rascals back into their junks. his first words, after they were settled comfortably in their chairs, showed of what he had been thinking. "have you run up against any more pirates lately, bert?" he asked. "not of the yellow kind," was the laughing response, "but it looks as though we might meet some white ones before long. they say that the 'greys' and 'maroons' are flying the skull and crossbones and threatening to give no quarter, when they stack up against us on the gridiron." "threatened men live long," said mr. quinby drily. "i've heard that talk before, but i notice that the blues usually give a good account of themselves when it comes to an actual fight. it was so in my own college days. there'd be all sorts of discouraging rumors afloat and the general public would get the idea that the team was going around on crutches. but when the day of the game came, they'd go out and wipe up the field with their opponents. so i'm not worrying much for fear you'll have to walk the plank." "you'd have thought so if you had heard the way the coach waded into us to-day," broke in tom. "since i heard him, i've had a new respect for the english language. i never knew it had such resources." "there was a certain honeyed sweetness about it that was almost cloying," grinned bert. "'twas all very well to dissemble his love, but why did he kick us downstairs?" added dick. mr. quinby laughed reminiscently. "i've heard coaches talk," he said, "and i know that some of them are artists when it comes to skinning a man alive. they'd cut through the hide of a rhinoceros. but that is part of the game, and if a man is over-sensitive, he doesn't want to try to make a football team. i'll wager just the same that it did you fellows good." "we licked the scrubs by 54 to 0," answered tom. "we felt so sore that we had to take it out on somebody." "sure thing," commented mr. quinby. "just what the coach wanted. he gets you fighting mad, until when you go out you are 'seeing red' and looking for a victim. i've been there myself and i know." "did you ever play on the football team while you were an undergrad?" asked tom. "no, i wasn't heavy enough. they needed beef in those days more than they do now. you wouldn't think it, perhaps," with a glance at his present generous girth, "but i was a slender young sprout at that time, and i had to content my athletic ambitions with track work and baseball. but i was crazy over football, and i was always there to root and yell for the team when the big games were pulled off. and many a time since i've traveled from san francisco all the way to new york to see a thanksgiving day game. sometimes, the result has made me want to go away somewhere and hide, but more often the good old blue has come out on top, and then i've been so hoarse from yelling that i haven't been able to talk above a whisper for a week. of course it wouldn't be a good thing for the game if one team won all the time, and as long as we cop about two out of three, i'm not doing any kicking. it isn't often that we lose two years in succession, and i'm looking for you fellows now to come across with a victory." "we'll do our best not to disappoint you," said bert. "it's a sure thing that we haven't as heavy a line as we've had in other years, and for that reason we'll have to play more of an open game. but we've got a dandy new shift that will give the other fellows something to think about when we spring it on them, and probably hendricks has one or two aces up his sleeve. i heard him tell reddy the other day that he was planning a variation of the forward pass that he thought would be a corker." "well," said mr. quinby, "we'll hope so. it's almost as hard to forecast results in football as it is in baseball. the game's never over until the referee blows his whistle. i've seen teams touted as certain winners go all to pieces on the day of the game. then, again, there have been times when the team didn't seem to have as much of a chance as a blind man in a dark room hunting for a black cat that wasn't there. but they'd go out just the same and stand the other fellows on their heads." "you must have seen a lot of sparkling plays in your time," remarked tom enviously. "i surely have," assented mr. quinby. "perhaps the best of all was one that thrills me now when i think of it, although i didn't enjoy it so much at the time, because it did the blues out of a victory just when they thought they had it tucked away safely." "tell us about it," came in a chorus from the boys. "well, it was this way," and he lighted a fresh cigar as he settled back for a "fanning bee." "the 'greys' came up to meet us that year with one of the best teams they ever turned out. they seemed to have everything, weight and strength and speed, and, on the 'dope,' we didn't have a chance in the world. they had gone through their schedule with the smaller colleges like a prairie fire, and the scores they piled up had been amazing. their goal line hadn't been crossed all season, and all the newspaper writers tipped them to slaughter us. "we had a dandy captain that year, though, and he, together with the coaches, had done wonders with the material on hand. the old blue spirit that never knows when it is licked was there too. the game was on our grounds and although the 'greys' had an immense delegation in their stands, we outnumbered and outyelled them. say, maybe we didn't give the boys a send-off when they trotted through the gates and began passing and falling on the ball in practice. if we felt any doubts, that yell didn't show it. "from the time the ball was kicked off it was a fight for blood. and you can imagine whether we fellows went crazy when we saw that our team was winning. we got off to a flying start, and, instead of having to defend our own goal, we took the offensive and kept the ball in the enemy's territory most of the time. we scored a goal from the field, and although the 'greys' fought desperately, we seemed to have their number. "it was the same in the second half. we downed them when they tried to rush us, blocked when they kicked, and stopped them in their attempt to skirt the ends. it was near the end of the last half, and there was only five minutes left to play. it looked as though it were 'all over but the shouting,' and you can bet that we were doing enough of that. the blue stands were a good imitation of a lunatic asylum. "but here fate took a hand, and two minutes later we wanted to die. the ball was in our hands, halfway down the field. as we had already made one score, while the 'greys' had nothing, all we had to do was to play safe and the game was ours. "peters, our captain, was a splendid fellow and a 'dead game sport.' it seemed to him a little like 'babying' to fritter away the few minutes remaining in safety play. the more generous instinct prevailed, and he 'took a chance.' he shot the ball back to the quarter. he in turn passed it to the back, who got in a perfect kick that sent it far down the field and close to the enemy's goal. one of the 'greys' made a grab at it, but it was one of those twisting deceptive punts and bounded out of his hands down toward the southern line. one of his mates was just behind him and, quick as lightning, he caught the ball on the bound, tucked it under his arm and scooted down the field toward our goal line. "our forwards of course had run down under the kick and had got past the ball, expecting to pick it up when they saw that it had been muffed. so the 'grey' runner was well past them before they could stop their momentum and turn in their tracks. the back who had kicked the ball was near the northern side, too far away to interfere, and lamar, the runner, covering the ground like a deer, hugged the southern line. "there were only two men in his way, and they made the mistake of keeping too close together, so that, as lamar neared them, he made a superb dodge and slipped by both of them at once. now he had a clear field before him, but with forty yards yet to go. "how he ran! he had lost some time in the dodging and twisting, and now the whole blue eleven were thundering at his heels. he could hear their panting as they sought to close in on him. the nearest one was not more than five feet away. he let out a link and fairly flew. the white lines of the field fell away behind him. one more tremendous effort by pursuer and pursued, and just as eager hands reached out to grasp him, he flashed over the goal line for a touchdown. suddenly, brilliantly, inconceivably, the 'greys' had won the game. "were we sore? we felt like draping the college buildings with crepe. to have had victory right within our reach and then to have had it snatched away in that fashion! poor old peters was fairly sick over it. i suppose to this day he has never forgiven himself for that sportsmanlike instinct. "but nobody blamed him. the crowd took their medicine. strictly speaking, i suppose it was foolish. as was said of the charge of the light brigade that 'it was magnificent but it was not war,' so, no doubt, many thought of peters' move that although generous it was not football. still the finest things in human life are often the 'foolish' things. at any rate, it enriched the history of the game with one of the most dashing and spectacular plays ever made. "those pesky 'greys'," he mused. "they were always doing things like that. they had a fellow once that was always starting the fireworks. poe was his name--a relative, by the way, of edgar allan poe. i remember once, when with just one minute left to play and the ball thirty yards from our goal line, he dropped back for a kick and sent the ball sailing over the line for the goal that won the game. you've heard no doubt the song that the gloating 'greys' made to immortalize a run down the field that he made on another famous occasion: & never mortale manne shall knowe how ye thynge came about- but from yt close-pressed masse of menne ye feet balle poppeth oute. & poe hath rushed within ye breache- towards erthe one second kneeled- he tuckes ye balle benethe hys arme, & saunteres down ye fielde. ye elis tear in fierce pursuite; but poe eludes yem alle; he rushes 'twixt ye quyvverynge postes & sytteth on ye balle. but arthur poe hathe kyckt ye balle (oh woefulle, woefulle daye.) as straighte as myghte dewey's gunnes upon ye fyrste of maye." "they're foemen worthy of our steel, all right," laughed dick. "all the more credit in licking them," chimed in tom. "the percentage is on our side, after all," added bert. "we've won about two-thirds of all the games we have played together." "some funny things happen in the course of a game," went on mr. quinby, who in this congenial company was feeling the years drop away from him and was enjoying himself immensely. "i remember once when our boys played trinity in hartford. at that time, the woolen jersey was part of the regulation football suit. this made tackling too easy, as one could get a good grip on the jersey, especially after it had been stretched in the course of the game. there had been some talk of substituting other material for it, but nothing had been done. you can imagine our surprise then when, on the day of the game, the trinity men came out on the field in a full uniform of canvas. it was stiff and shiny and you couldn't get a good grip on it to save your life. that was bad enough, but, in addition, the trinity boys had covered their uniforms with grease. our fellows didn't tumble to it until after the game was under way and the enemy were wriggling away from us like so many eels. it was a time for quick thinking, but the blues rose to the occasion. they sent out a hurry call for a bag of sand, and when it came, they grabbed handsful of it and so were able to get more or less of a grip on their slippery opponents. a rule was made later on forbidding the use of grease. the canvas uniforms, however, proved so much superior to the older style that it was officially adopted and has been in use ever since." "how did the trick work?" asked ralph. "did they get away with the game?" "no, we beat them all right, but by a close score and it certainly played hob with our tackling and interfering. "speaking of tricks, i remember one played by the carlisle indians. in addition to being crack football players, those 'noble red men' are about as smooth propositions as you'll find anywhere. the bland ah sin was a piker compared with them. you have to keep your eye peeled all the time. they were playing harvard and the indians got the ball on a kick off. there was a scrimmage, and when the crowd was untangled, the ball had disappeared. suddenly, dillon, of the indians, darted out and made for the harvard goal. but he didn't have the ball under his arm, and, after starting in pursuit, the harvard boys thought it was a mere feint to draw them after him and turned back to see who really had it. dillon went 105 yards down the field, running like the wind, and crossed the harvard goal for a touchdown, and then they saw that he had the ball. and where do you think it had been all the time? tucked up the back of his jersey. it had been enlarged especially for that purpose before the game began, and the first chance they had they worked the trick. the harvard fellows raged, but there was nothing in the rules to forbid it and the touchdown counted. since then the rules have been amended, and now the ball has to be in sight outside the clothing." "he must have had a hunch that he would win," murmured tom. "yes," assented mr. quinby. "a hunch on his back and a hunch in his heart. the harvard boys had to stand for an awful joshing on the way they had been outwitted by 'lo! the poor indian with untutored mind.' "but brain work and quick thinking aren't confined to the redskins. i recall a game played between the army and navy. you know there's always a fierce rivalry between those branches of uncle sam's service, and this game was being played for all it was worth. the army had the ball and the fullback punted it to the center of the field. the navy quarter tried to make a fair catch, but it slipped from his fingers. the army center had run down under the kick and was close to the ball when it fell to the ground. the navy men were so close behind that they would have piled on top of him if he had stooped to pick up the ball. so he kicked the ball ahead of him, following it up and ready to reach down and pick it up the minute he had the chance. but the navy was so close that he had to keep dribbling it along and he kept this up until with one last kick he sent it over the goal and fell upon it for a touchdown. it was a new wrinkle in the game, and one of the hardest things in the world to get away with. they've tried it repeatedly since, but that feat of the army man still stands as the star play of the 'dribbling' game. "a good deal of the rough stuff has been cut out of the game and i'm glad of it, but in my college days almost everything 'went,' provided the referee wasn't looking. there was a lot of slugging and jiu-jitsu work, and more fellows had to be taken out of the game because of injuries than at present. often a concerted effort was made to 'get' some especially efficient man on the other side, and they weren't always scrupulous about the way they did it. i remember one time we were playing a big game, and 'butch' allaire, the best player on the blue team, had his knee badly hurt. we were short of good substitutes, and he felt that he had to continue playing, if it were at all possible. so, after a short wait, he came limping out again to his position, with a white bandage tied round his knee outside his uniform. to the other side, that bandage was like a red rag to a bull. they lunged against him, piled on top of him, and in every scrimmage they pressed heavily on that wounded knee. but, despite all their efforts, he played out the game, and we came out winners. after the excitement was over, the captain said to him: "'great work, butch, but why in thunder did you wear that bandage on your knee? they knew just what to go for.'" butch grinned. "i tied it round the well knee," he said. the boys laughed. "well," remarked dick, "some of the prize-fighting tactics may have been rooted out of the game, but i'll bet the coaching is just as rough as it used to be." "i'm not at all sure about that," said mr. quinby dubiously. "i'll admit that 'bull' hendricks is a finished workman when it comes to the use of pet names, after he's been stirred up by some bonehead play. but, after all, he doesn't use the paddle." "paddle!" came the exclamation in chorus. "that's what i said. paddle. in my day it was used by almost all the coaches, as an aid to quick thinking. some advocate it even yet. the coach would take up his position right behind some line man when the ball was about to be put into play in practice. "'now, my son,' he would say, 'the minute the ball is snapped back i'm going to give you a fearful whack with this paddle. it's up to you to jump so fast that the paddle won't find anything to hit.' "did it work? i should say it did. sometimes the paddle would catch him and sometimes it wouldn't, but after a few days of that the slowest of them would be off like a flash the instant the ball was snapped back. after that it wouldn't be necessary. they'd got the habit of a quick start. and you fellows know that that is the secret of good football, as it is of almost everything else--to get the jump on the other fellows. "nowadays, the methods are more often mental than physical. one coach i know works it something like this: "'i want you to imagine that i have a loaded shotgun in my hand and that i am going to pull the trigger when the ball is snapped, and that you must get out of range before i fill you full of shot.' "no doubt both methods help in the development of speed, but as between the two, my money goes on the paddle. "but now," he said, as he made a motion to rise, "i'll have to go. i've had a bully good time with you fellows, but i'm keeping you from your studies and then, too, there are one or two of the old profs i want to see before i turn in. i'll see you again before i go and i'll be there with bells on where the big games are pulled off. good luck," and although they urged him to stay longer, he and ralph took their leave. "great old sport, isn't he?" said tom, when they were left alone. "all to the good," replied bert heartily. "let's hope that last 'good luck' of his was prophetic," remarked dick. "it's up to us to make it so," said bert thoughtfully. "of course there is such a thing as luck, but i've usually noticed that luck and pluck go together." "o, i don't know," said skeptical tom. "sometimes a 'jinx' follows a man or a team, and everything goes against them. you've heard of the man whose horse went dead and his mule went lame, and he lost his cow in a poker game, and a cyclone came on a summer day and blew the house where he lived away. then an earthquake came when that was done, and swallowed the ground that the house stood on. then a tax collector, he came round and charged him up with the hole in the ground." "some hard luck story, sure enough," grinned bert. "heaven forbid that any such hoodoo get after us. but, somehow, the result of the game to-day and mr. quinby's talk have braced me up, and i feel a mighty sight more hopeful than i did yesterday." "same here," acquiesced dick. "i've a hunch that we're due to give the 'greys' and 'maroons' a great big licking. at any rate, if we lose, they'll know they've been in a fight, and we'll try to take our medicine gracefully." "spoken like a sport, old man," cried bert, clapping him on the shoulder. "god loves a cheerful giver, but the whole world loves a cheerful loser." chapter iv breaking the rules "yes," remarked tom, following up a conversation he and his two comrades had been engaged in for some time, "there's certainly something radically wrong with martin, and personally i believe he's hitting the booze, or something just as bad. there's always some explanation when a fellow goes all to pieces the way he has, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred the answer is 'red-eye.'" "i wouldn't be surprised if you were right, tom," agreed bert soberly, "and it's too bad, too. martin has always been such a good scout that i hate to see him going back. what he needs is to have somebody give him a heart-to-heart talk and point out the error of his ways to him. but likely even that would do little good, anyway. when drink once gets a hold on a man it usually takes more than talk to break him of the habit." "you can bet your hat it does," put in dick. "i guess nobody who hasn't actually fallen a victim of the liquor habit and then broken himself of it can have any idea of the struggle necessary to do it. the only safe way is to let the 'stuff' strictly alone." "right you are," said bert earnestly. "everybody thinks that liquor will never get a grip on him. oh, no! but what most people never take into account is the fact that every drink of whiskey taken weakens the will just a little, and makes it just so much harder to refuse the next drink. so it goes on, in increasing ratio, until it becomes next to impossible for the victim to break himself of the habit. my idea is, don't monkey with a red-hot poker and you won't get hurt. if you do, no matter how careful you may be, you're apt to get hold of the hot end, and then it's too late to wish you hadn't." "my, bert, you could get a job as lecturer for the w. c. t. u.," laughed dick. "but just the same," he continued more seriously, "there's not a doubt in the world but what you're dead right. but the question is, if martin, as we have reason to believe, has started drinking, what can we do to help him? not only for his sake, but for the sake of the college. without him on the team, we'd be so badly crippled that we wouldn't have a chance in the world to win the championship." "i don't know what we can do, i'm sure," said bert with a perplexed frown; "about all we can do is sit tight, and hope he'll see the error of his ways before he gets so bad that reddy will have to fire him from the squad." the others had no suggestions to offer, and after a little further discussion of the problem they gathered up their paraphernalia and went to their respective rooms. the foregoing conversation took place on a monday evening, and all the next day the three comrades saw comparatively little of each other, all being "up to their eyes in work," as tom expressed it. but on wednesday morning they happened to meet on the campus after the first lecture period, and tom proposed that that evening, after supper, they take a ramble through the town after they had prepared their work for the following day. "i'm beginning to feel stale," he complained; "reddy won't let us go to a theater, of course, because that would keep us up too late. but i guess he'd have no objection to our taking a walk like that, provided we got back early." "all right," said bert. "i was just going to propose something of the kind myself. you'll come, won't you, dick?" "surest thing you know," agreed that personage promptly. "what time do you want to go? about seven o'clock?" the others were agreeable to this, and so the matter was settled. they talked a few minutes more, and then hurried away to the classrooms. in accordance with this plan, they met at the appointed time in bert's room, and sallied merrily forth. and indeed, it seemed as though these three needed no other entertainment than they could give each other. what with jokes, laughter, and "monkey-shines" the time passed very quickly, and they soon found themselves on one of the main thoroughfares of the town. they sauntered along, extracting amusement from everything they saw, and were about to return to the college, when bert's laughing face suddenly grew grave. they were approaching a brilliantly lighted saloon at the time, and bert halted his companions with a gesture. "what's up, bert?" inquired tom and dick in surprise. "i may be mistaken," replied bert, "but i'm sure i saw martin go into that place. and i should think, by the way he was walking, that he'd absorbed a few drinks already. what do you think we ought to do about it?" "we might wait around until he comes out, and then give him a talking to," suggested dick. "no, i think that the best thing we can do is to go in and catch him red handed," said bert. "it may make him so ashamed of himself that he'll cut out such things in the future." "well, perhaps that would be best," said dick, and as tom seemed to think so too, they decided to follow this course of action. accordingly, they made their way through the swinging doors, and found themselves in the brilliantly lighted interior of the saloon. rows of glasses behind the polished mahogany bar sparkled in the light, and many mirrors reflected it, so that at first their eyes were almost dazzled. nevertheless, they had little difficulty in locating martin. he was leaning up against the far end of the bar, a whiskey decanter in front of him, and a glass a third full of the liquor in his hand. even as the boys watched him he raised the glass to his lips, and emptied the contents at two gulps. he was starting to pour out another portion when bert walked swiftly up to him and laid his hand on his arm. "come on along out of this, martin," he said; "we're all going back to the college now, and you'd better come back with us." martin turned toward him, but hardly seemed to recognize him. he was about to speak when the bartender, who saw a good customer being taken away from him, interfered. "aw, let de gent alone, can't youse," he said, in a belligerent tone; "he's got a right to take a drink or two if he wants to, ain't he? he don't look like no kid to need a guardian." "you keep out of this," said bert, with a steely glint in his eyes, "this is our business, not yours, and if you want to steer clear of trouble don't try to mix in." the bartender seamed inclined at first to try the efficacy of force, but as dick and tom ranged up alongside bert, he thought better of it. "awright," he grumbled, "awright. take the guy along wid youse, an' i wish you joy of him." martin at first refused to move, but at last, by dint of much persuasion, the three comrades prevailed on him to go with them. bert and tom supported him on either side, guiding his uncertain footsteps to the best of their ability. "i only hope we don't meet any one we know," said dick fervently. "we'd better take a roundabout course going back, so as to take as little chance as possible of that happening." "it wouldn't be a bad idea," said tom, "and i think it would be a good stunt for me to go on ahead and do a little scouting. i could meet you at the east gate and let you know if the coast is clear. if possible, we want to get mart to his room without anybody getting on to the state of affairs." "all right, go ahead," acquiesced bert, "we'll get there as soon as we can." accordingly tom set off at a round pace, and soon came within sight of the college towers. fortunately, there was a swimming contest going on in the natatorium, and many students who ordinarily would have been apt to be wandering about on the campus were indoors watching the swimmers. there was hardly a soul to be seen, and tom prayed that the favorable conditions might last until bert and dick arrived with their unfortunate charge. he hurried to the appointed meeting place, and strained his eyes through the darkness in search of the trio that he knew must be pretty near by this time. sure enough, in less than five minutes they emerged from a neighboring street, and tom walked swiftly up to them. "we're in luck," he said, in a low tone. "everybody's in the natatorium watching the swimming meet, and we've got the campus practically to ourselves. i'll walk in front of martin, and the chances are we'll get him to his room without anybody getting wise." bert and dick accordingly hurried martin forward as fast as possible, and, as tom had predicted, found everything favorable to them. they hurried across the deserted campus, and entered the dormitory in which martin's room was located by a side door. by the greatest good fortune they met no one in the corridors, and in a very few moments had the "high life" exponent safely in his room. "well, that's about all we can do to-night," said bert, as they were leaving the room. "i think the best thing will be to let him sleep off the effects of his carouse, and then give him a talking to to-morrow." "i think we'd better leave that to you," said dick, after exchanging glances with tom. "probably if we all got at him at once, it would only make him obstinate. you do the talking for all of us, bert. show mart what bad medicine he's been mixing, and maybe he'll come around to your point of view." "well," agreed bert, but with evident reluctance, "i suppose that would be the best way to do it. i'll get hold of him some time to-morrow, and talk to him like a dutch uncle." accordingly, the next day he was on the lookout for the backslider. several times in the course of the day he saw him, but martin always managed to avoid him, more by design than accident, as bert thought. at last, however, after the last recitation period, he cornered him in a secluded corner of the campus. "i guess you know what i want to say to you, don't you, mart?" he inquired gravely. "oh, yes, i guess i know, all right," the other replied sullenly, "but there's no use your preaching to me about the evils of drink, or anything like that. i've tried to cut out the stuff, and i can't, that's all. i'm going to reddy to-night and resign from the team." "you're not going to do anything of the kind," said bert gravely, "you're going to keep right on being the best halfback the college ever had, but i'm going to ask a personal favor of you on behalf of myself, and also trent and henderson." "i think i know what you mean," said martin suspiciously, "but fire away and ask it." "we want you to go to reddy and make a clean breast of it, ending up by promising to do your best to cut out the 'stuff,'" said bert. "will you do it? don't say no now," as the other started to shake his head, "don't give me an answer now, if you don't want to. think it over. i'm mighty sure if you think hard enough you'll do what we want you to." "i'll do it!" exclaimed martin, suddenly thrusting out his hand, "and i'll let the booze alone in the future if it takes a leg. you and the others have done me a bigger service than you'll ever realize, probably." "well, you know the way you can best repay it," said bert, with a hearty smile, and after another strong handclasp they parted. bert went straight to dick and tom, and told them what he had accomplished. "i think he'll keep his word, too," he finished. and as it proved, he, was right. from that day forward martin reported regularly for practice, and kept strictly to training table regulations. in less than a week he was back to his old time form, and became as he had been before, one of the mainstays of the team. chapter v tackling the army "this looks like a case of bearding the lion in his den," remarked dick, as the stately steamer on which they had embarked at new york that morning swept up to the landing at west point, and the boys were gathering up their traps to go ashore. "it's certainly a stiff contract to tackle the future leaders of the united states army," replied tom. "but we're the boys to do it, and to lick them, too. if that be treason, make the most of it." "don't you be too sure of that," admonished bert. "from all i hear, they're a husky set of brutes, and we're likely to have our hands full. they've never been easy picking and we'd better postpone our jubilee till after the game." "punk philosophy," countered tom. "let's have it now and make sure of it." he was clearly a hopeless case, and they gave up the task of subduing his levity, and started for the gang plank. it was a large party that had come up the river on that glorious day in early october, to test the prowess and mettle of the cadets. the team itself with the substitutes numbered over thirty, and there was a small army of rubbers and other attendants. to these were added several hundred of the college boys, and these were further reinforced by a host of "old grads" who sniffed the battle from afar and couldn't resist the temptation to "come on along," and root for the youngsters on their scalp-hunting expedition. the game with the army was always one of the events of the football season. although not ranked with the "big three," they followed close behind, and once in a while gave the "top-liners" a hard struggle to avoid defeat. only the year before, they had held the blues to a 6 to 0 score, and on a muddy field had played a tie with the "maroons" after a homeric contest. they were not "easy meat" for any one, and the coaches of every team had learned not to hold them lightly. this year, disquieting rumors had leaked out from west point as to the strength of the team. they were said to have the heaviest aggregation behind the line that they had had in twenty years, and it was freely predicted that here, if anywhere, the blues might find themselves overmatched. the fullback was a new recruit who weighed close to two hundred pounds, and despite his weight was said to be as fast as greased lightning. the two halves were both veterans, and one of them the previous season had been picked for the all-american team in his position. in addition they had a powerful set of guards and tackles, and it was universally acknowledged that their quarterback was one that it would be hard to match on any of the big teams. still the blues were not greatly stirred up by this advance information. if they were to be "licked," it would have to be by actual speed and muscle on the field, and not by "dope" that might prove fallacious. "they can't come too big or heavy to suit," philosophized drake. "the bigger they are the harder they fall." there was a stiff wind blowing when the rival teams came on the field, and in the toss for position the army won. as the teams lined up for the kick-off, there was a tremendous outburst of cheers from the army supporters who, of course, vastly outnumbered the loyal blues who had accompanied their team. what the latter lacked in numbers, however, was made up by the enthusiasm with which they cheered the wearers of the blue colors, that had waved triumphantly over so many hard-fought fields, and which, they hoped, was now to add another trophy to their list. since the blues had lost the toss for position, they were entitled to the kick-off. bert took careful aim and lifted the ball far and high. ordinarily it would have been good for at least fifty yards, but the wind limited it to thirty-five. caldwell was down under it like a flash, but birch, of the army, made a fair catch and kicked back for twenty yards. drake got possession of the ball, and the blues had it on the army's forty yard line. a forward pass, superbly engineered by tom, gave them twelve yards. they gained eight more on two successive downs, but were penalized five yards for off-side play. on the next play they gained their distance, but on the next, in attempting to skirt the end, axtell dropped the ball, and the army left pounced upon it instantly. it was now the army's ball, and they immediately started to try a plunging game. the blue line held like a rock, however, and then the army tried one of their favorite formations. they lined up as though for a kick, but the back who had dropped behind as if for that purpose, either tried a forward pass or made a quick dash around the ends. to complicate the play still further, it was sometimes passed to still another back before the attempt was made. it was a clever "fake," and against a weaker or slower team might have worked. but the blues had practiced many a weary hour in breaking up just such a combination, and they met it and smothered it so effectually, that before long the army recognized its futility and fell back on straight football. and here for the first quarter they fairly held their own. mcalpin, their giant fullback, proved a tower of strength, and when he was given the ball plunged through the line like a thunderbolt. there seemed to be no holding him, and his team backed him up so powerfully that he made his distance easily on the four downs. the ball was still in the army's possession when the referee's whistle announced the end of the first quarter, and the field was swept by the cheers of the cadets at the gallant way in which their favorites had made a stand against the most famous team in the country. in the short rest between quarters, there was a hurried council of the blues. "buck up, fellows, for heaven's sake," urged bert. "we mustn't let these army men outplay us. what'll the boys at home think of us? they've already got the bulletin of this quarter, and they're wondering what on earth is the matter with us. get a move on now and show them some real football. just go in and eat them up." this was an eminently desirable thing from the blue standpoint, but the cadets refused to subscribe to such a cannibal programme. they were not ready to glut anybody's appetite. on the contrary, their own was whetted by their sturdy resistance so far, and their ambition was rapidly growing. they had really not had much idea of winning at the outset. it would have been almost more than they dared to hope to hold these doughty warriors to a tie. failing that, they hoped possibly to cross the enemy's goal line for at least one score or perhaps more. but their wildest hopes had hardly soared so high as to count on actual victory. now, however, that they had locked horns with their adversaries and found to their delight and surprise that they were holding them on even terms, they were fired with a mighty determination to win. nor did the second quarter dim their hopes. the blues had not yet found themselves. there was a cog missing somewhere in the machinery. technically, their playing was not open to much adverse criticism. their passing was accurate and their tackling fair, but they were too mechanical and automatic. they needed something to wake them up. that something came more quickly than any one expected. out of a scrimmage on the forty yard line of the army, a flying figure emerged, with the ball tucked under his arm. twisting, dodging, ducking, he threaded his way through the field, bowling over caldwell, eluding axtell's outstretched arms and bearing down upon the blue goal. as he neared bert, who was running in a diagonal line to head him off, he swerved sharply to the right in an attempt to pass this last obstacle between him and a touchdown. but in a twinkling bert had launched himself against him, gauging the distance unerringly, and they both came heavily to the ground on the blue's ten yard line. it was the army's ball with only ten yards to go! the stands went frantic as the teams lined up for a last desperate trial of strength. the blues were thoroughly awake now. all their apathy was gone at this moment of deadly peril, and they swore to themselves to hold that precious ten yards if they died in doing it. the jubilant army men called on mcalpin, their giant fullback, to buck the line. he went into it like a maddened bull, but dick at center refused to give an inch. he tried again at left and made two yards through ellis. a hole made by his guards between axtell and martin yielded three more. five yards yet to go and only one chance left! once more he braced and hurled himself savagely against the right side of the line. but bert was crouching there in readiness, his six feet of bone and muscle instinct with power and resolution. he went into mcalpin like a human pile driver, and threw him back for a loss of four yards. the goal was safe and the ball belonged to the blues on their ten yard line. it had been a close call, and a murmur of disappointment went up from the army partisans, while the blue stands rocked with applause. the elevens lined up and tom snapped the ball to dick, who passed it to bert, five feet behind the line. the ball rose from his toe like a bird and soared down to the forty yard line. from there the blues rushed it down to within thirty yards of the army goal before the whistle announced the end of the second quarter. it was a different crowd that gathered in the blues' dressing rooms in the interval that followed. that threat against their goal line was the electric spark that was necessary in order to shock them into action. they were worked up to fighting pitch. their eyes were blazing, their features grim, and "bull" hendricks, who was primed to lash them to the bone with his bitter tongue, wisely forebore. he saw that they were fairly fuming with eagerness for the fray, and after making some minor changes in the line-up--ellis having sprained his ankle and caldwell broken a finger--he sent them out with the single exhortation to "hammer the heart out of them." it wasn't as classic as wellington's "up, guards, and at them," but quite as effective. against that electrified and rejuvenated team, the army didn't have a chance. their highly raised hopes went glimmering before the raging onslaught of the blues. every man worked as though the outcome of the game depended upon him alone. they plunged into the crumbling lines of the army like so many wild men. their opponents fought back nobly, furiously, desperately, but to no avail. the "class" was with the blues, and as this fact was driven home to the spectators, deep gloom settled over the army stands, while from the opposite side the old college song went booming down the field. the blues were bent on massacre. they charged hard and played fast. dick plunged through the line again and again like a battering ram for tremendous gains. tom did some dazzling running back of punts. drake hit the forwards hard and often, and axtell tackled with deadly accuracy, laying out his victims all over the field. as for bert at fullback, no such demon playing had been seen at west point for a generation. his handling of the forward pass was a delight to the eye, and even the hostile stands were stirred at times to involuntary applause. twice he carried the ball over for a touchdown--once by straight bucking and again by a spectacular run of fifty-five yards through a broken field. the quarter ended with a result of 15 to 0 in favor of the visitors. from that time on, it was only a question of the size of the score. the battle had become a rout. in the last quarter the ball was in the army territory all the time. there was no necessity now for tricks to further befuddle the demoralized cadets. by "straight football" the blues pursued their victorious course down the field and added two more goals before the game was called, with the ball on the fifteen yard line, and destined, had the play continued two minutes longer, to make a final touchdown. it was a dashing victory, gallantly won after an inauspicious start. the weary players drew the first long breath they had permitted themselves since the start of the game. the cadets, game as pebbles, gave their conquerors the rousing army cheer and the blues responded vigourously. the rival teams fraternized for a while and then the blues retired to their quarters to dress and make their "get-away." naturally, despite the immense fatigue that weighed them down, they were tingling with exultation. it was the first time they had been pitted against a really big team, and they had clearly outclassed them. the contests with the smaller colleges had been little more than practice, and in most cases the scrub could have won as certainly if not as overwhelmingly as the 'varsity. and the victory to-day had been won not by a "fluke," but by clearcut playing. to be sure, the memory of the first part of the game kept rising up like banquo's ghost to make them uncomfortable. but they had redeemed that so royally in the final half as to silence the most captious critic. moreover, they had come through that crucial contest in good shape. there had been no serious accident to weaken the team. the injuries to ellis and caldwell were only trivial and in a week they would be as well as ever. of course there were minor wounds and bruises galore, but they were incident to the hardening process and were of no consequence. the mere fact that they had won, satisfying as it was, counted for little compared with the enormous benefit of the game in welding the team together. it had taken eleven stars and molded them into a team. no individual brilliancy, however great, can atone for the lack of team work. to-day they had tested each other, supported each other, played into each other's hands, forgotten that they were anything but parts of one great, smoothly moving, swiftly running machine. and, having so tested his fellows, each one would play with the confidence and self-forgetfulness that alone can win a championship. for all these reasons, it was a very hilarious bunch that foregathered in the dressing rooms and tumbled into their clothes, after the soothing ministrations of shower and rubdown. "i guess we're poor, eh, old top," chuckled tom, as he poked bert in the ribs. "ouch," responded that worthy, "haven't i been punched enough to-day without you soaking me? i'm black and blue all over." "i don't wonder," put in dick. "the way that big mcalpin lammed into you was a crime. he piled on me in one of the scrimmages, and i thought the flatiron building had fallen." "he's a tough bird, all right," said drake, "but he ran up against a tougher one when he tried to go through bert for that last down in the second quarter. i never saw anything prettier than the way bert flung him back as though he had been a lightweight. i caught the bewildered look on his face as he went over. he didn't know for a minute what had hit him." "it was the only thing that saved us from being scored on," said martin. "it's the tightest place we've been in so far this season." "well, a miss is as good as a mile," said bert, slipping on his coat. "but hurry up, you fellows, and let us tackle some eats. i'm so hungry that it hurts." he had struck a responsive chord and in a few minutes they were on their way to the mess hall of the cadets, who had insisted that they should be their guests at supper. to reach the dining hall they had to cross the baseball field, abandoned now in the early fall, but the scene of fierce diamond battles earlier in the season. to bert and tom and dick it brought back the memory of the great game they had played there two years before--a game that had gone into extra innings, and had been won by a wonderful bit of playing on the part of tom who was holding down third. "remember that game, tom?" asked bert. "o, no," mocked dick. "he doesn't remember. a man who has made a triple play unassisted never thinks of it again." "he's blushing," exclaimed drake. "look at him, fellows. what a shrinking violet." tom made a pass at him. "a mere bit of luck," he countered. "you fellows give me a pain." but there had been no luck about it. the game had been bitterly fought, and at the end of the ninth the score was a tie. the blues had got a man round in the tenth, and the cadets went in to do or die. before long the crowds were on their feet and screaming like maniacs. there was a man on third, another on second, nobody out, and the heaviest slugger in the nine was at the bat. amid exhortations to "kill it," he caught the ball squarely on the end of his bat and sent it whistling toward third about two feet over tom's head. he made a tremendous leap, reaching up his gloved hand, and the ball stuck there. the batter was out, but the man on third, thinking it was a sure hit, was racing like mad to the plate. as tom came down he landed squarely on the bag, thus putting out the runner, who had by this time realized his mistake and was trying desperately to get back. in the meantime, the man on second, who had taken a big lead, was close to third. as he turned to go back to second, tom chased him and touched him out just before he reached the bag. the game was won, three men were out, and the bewildered spectators were rubbing their eyes and trying to make out just what had happened. they had seen a "triple play unassisted," the thing that every player dreams of making, and one of the rarest feats ever pulled off on the baseball diamond. "we've certainly got the edge on uncle sam's boys in both baseball and football," commented dick, in discussing the incident, "but it's only an edge. they always make us extend ourselves to win." they had a royal time at the mess hall and afterward at the barracks, where both the vanquished and victors mingled on terms of the most cordial good fellowship. but the demands of training were not to be set aside, and all too soon they were forced to tear themselves away and repair to their hotel. by ten o'clock they were in their beds, lights were out, and they were sleeping as only a college team can sleep after a day of such storm and stress. after reddy had made his rounds and assured himself that all his charges had retired, he joined "bull" hendricks for a chat and smoke over the day's happenings. few things had escaped their keen eyes during that crowded hour, when conditions and formations changed with the swiftness of a kaleidoscope. and now that it was all over, they could recall every play, every gain, every fumble, every pass, with a precision that would have been astounding to any one less versed than they in every turn and angle of the game. their mood was one of deep, if quiet, satisfaction. a long and bitter experience had made them cautious in prediction. they were by no means ready to admit yet, even to themselves, that they had a team of "world beaters." there were still a host of faults to be corrected, of raw edges to be polished off, of plays to be developed. but, on the whole, the boys had done surprisingly well. the dogged way in which they had held the enemy when their goal was threatened was worthy of the best "bulldog" tradition. and the slashing, ding dong way in which they had worked the ball down the field in the last half had been gratifying beyond words. it showed that the "never say die" spirit, that they had tried so hard to instill, was there in abundance. there was still another cause for congratulation. they had not been forced to uncover any of the new tricks that they were holding in reserve for the championship games. at one point, in the early part of the game, they had feared this might be necessary, but the quick recovery later on had enabled them to depend upon straight football. the scouts for the "greys" and "maroons," several of whom had been "spotted" in the stands, had had "their trouble for their pains," and the coach was greatly elated in consequence. "they'll go home with an empty bag from this day's hunting," he chuckled. "they sure will," assented reddy, as he filled and lighted his faithful cob. "and i'm thinking 'tis a little bit shaky they are, after seeing the way we ripped up the army line." "that boy wilson is certainly a hummer," commented hendricks, flicking the ash from his cigar. "i haven't seen such plunging and line bucking since the days of heffelfinger. you could no more stop him than you could a runaway horse." "he's all there, full sixteen ounces to the pound," was reddy's emphatic endorsement. "i've seen some crack fullbacks in my time, but none to top him. he's got the weight, he's got the speed, and as for nerve, begorra! did ye note the way he toyed with that big rhinoceros, mcalpin?" "what he did to him was plenty," laughed hendricks. "i guess that's one position we don't need to worry about any longer. and i'm feeling pretty good, too, about trent and henderson. they worked together at quarter and center like a pair of shears. axtell tackled like a tiger, and if he keeps it up, we can count on him as a fixture. and drake, too, did some dandy work at end. did you see the way he got down under wilson's punts? johnny-on-the-spot, every time the ball came down." "for them five positions there's nothing better in sight," said reddy. "i rather think so," acquiesced the coach. "there's only one weak spot in the back field, and that's at left half. martin, for some reason, isn't playing his game. he's too slow in starting, and he doesn't tackle as hard and fast as he ought to. then, too, he's a little bit thick when it comes to the signals. he got mixed up twice to-day, and he was all at sea on that 'fake' pass in the second quarter. he needs more blackboard work, and i'm going to see that he gets it. "but it's in the line that we've got to make some changes. most of the forwards to-day would have been 'pie' for the 'greys' or 'maroons.' i can excuse caldwell for not playing his best, since he broke his finger in the beginning of the game and nobody knew it until twenty minutes later. plucky of the youngster, but he ought to have told us. ellis is all right, but that's the second time his bum ankle has given way, and i don't know whether he can stand the strain of a big game. hodge has got the weight and the strength, but he leaves too much of the work to trent. as for boyd, i'm afraid he lacks sand." "i saw him flinch to-day, when mcalpin piled into him," mused reddy. "i'm going to try out warren a little longer," went on hendricks. "there's good stuff in that boy, but i'm afraid there's hardly enough beef. but he's trying all the time, and never lets up till the whistle blows. perhaps i'll let him change places with martin and see how it works. he's quick as a flash and an expert at dodging, and he may make a better back than he is a tackle. we'll shift him there for a tryout. "i'll have to keep quite a bunch of them 'under suspicion' for some time yet, and we may have quite a different line up by november. but, take it all in all, i'm not kicking at the way we're going along, so early in the season. as a matter of fact, i wouldn't let them know for a farm how good i really feel over their showing. i'd like to get a line, though, on the other teams. by the way, i saw you talking with bushnell, the old 'grey' quarter. did that irish blarney of yours get anything out of him?" "niver a bit," mourned reddy. "i did me best, but he was as close-mouthed as a clam. i ran across a reporter though, who's been down that way lately, and he says they're going great guns in practice." "they're the fellows we've got to beat. that agrees with everything i've heard from that quarter. we're heavier and i think we're faster than the 'maroons' this year. but from all accounts the 'greys' have got everything, and then some. they'll take a lot of beating." "hivin send that they take it instead of giving it," ejaculated reddy; and with hendricks' grunted indorsement of this pious wish, the captain and first mate of the football craft parted for the night. chapter vi reddy's recollections in spite of the trainer's autocratic rule, the life of the team while in training was not just one long grind, without any recreation to break the monotony. reddy, it is true, prohibited theaters and kindred amusements, because they necessarily meant late hours, and late hours, as the trainer well knew, meant decreased efficiency, both physical and mental. nevertheless, he had no objection to the athletes playing quiet games of an evening, provided they were well up in their studies, and sometimes even contributed to the general enjoyment by spinning some yarn culled from his own vast store of "past performances." whenever the members of the squad found him in a reminiscent mood, all other amusements were suspended, and they would listen attentively to the little trainer's reminiscences of victories won on field and track. in his day reddy had taken part in almost every branch of sport, and could tell stories about them all. for some time this particular evening he had not uttered a word, however, and had sat listening to the conversation of his charges with a faraway look in his twinkling blue eyes. the boys had been talking of motorcycling, and had been discussing bert's record-breaking run across the continent. in a lull of the conversation he spoke up. "motorcycle racing is all right in its way," he said, "but for real sport on two wheels give me the old bicycling days. why, we had more fun then at one meet than you guys have now in a whole season. i call to mind one time----" reddy stopped to light the pipe that he had been carefully packing with rather rank tobacco, and there was a general movement toward him while he was taking the first few puffs. feet and chairs scraped, and by the time he had his pipe pulling satisfactorily there was a ring of interested faces gathered about him. "i suppose you think i'm going to spin ye a yarn now, ye good-for-naughts, don't ye?" he inquired, with a ferocious glance around the circle. "if you back out now, reddy," laughed bert, "after getting us worked up this way, we'll all swear to throw the next game we play, just to get even with you." "well, i suppose i'll have to satisfy you, that bein' the case," said reddy, his assumed ferocity of demeanor melting down into a broad grin, "although 'tis not much of a tale at that." "'twas in the palmy days of the bike, when everybody that could possibly scrape the price together owned one. a bicycle race in them days meant somethin', let me tell you, and people for fifty miles around would organize parties to go see it. "well, i had the fever just like everybody else, and after a while, when i'd saved up enough, me and a friend bought a tandem machine. it cost a pretty penny all right, but it was a well-built machine, and had better stuff in it than most bikes you see nowadays. "my partner, whose name was barney keogh, and myself took many a long spin on it, and many a time had sprints with other 'speed boys' out on the road. we got so we could hit it up at a pretty hot clip, but neither of us ever thought of going into the racing game. "but one fine sunday there was a big meet to be held at the old newark track, in new jersey, and we made up our minds to go see it. we started out bright an' early and took it easy along the road enjoyin' the scenery and the fresh, mornin' air. 'twas in the early spring, i remember, and we both felt like two colts that had just been turned loose in a big pasture. "we just took it easy though, for we had quite a long pull ahead of us, and we was enjoyin' ourselves too much to want to hurry anyway. we got to the track a good hour before the first race was slated to start, and after puttin' our bike in a safe place we meandered around, seein' if we could locate anybody we knew. we hadn't gone far when i heard someone callin' my name, and when i turned i saw a feller named robertson, a man i'd worked for once. i introduced barney, and we hadn't talked very long before robertson informed me that he was one of the committee in charge of affairs. 'come on around with me to the judges box,' he invited, 'an i'll get you a couple of good seats.' "o' course that was pretty soft for us, so we trailed along with him and he located us in fine seats not far from the judges box. of course we thanked him and then he shook hands and hurried off. "well, the first events passed off all right, although they were rather tame, and then came the big race, which for that day happened to be a tandem race. there was a big purse offered for the winner, and there were several entrants. but for some reason there was a long wait, and first thing we knew there was robertson coming toward us, his face red and perspirin' and his collar wilted. "he rushes up to us, and leans over and whispers: "'say, reddy,' he says, 'you can help us out if you want to. we're shy an entrant. one of the teams hasn't shown up, and according to the conditions of the race no less than six entrants can start. we've only got five, and if the race isn't ridden the crowd will go wild. here's a chance for you and your friend to help us out of a bad fix and at the same time maybe win a nice piece of money for yourselves.' "well, at first barney and me was knocked flat, an' then we turned down the proposition cold. but robertson wouldn't take no for an answer. "'it can't hurt you any, can it?' he said. 'an' if you should win, think of the coin you'd pull down. why, you've got everything to win and nothing to lose.' "well, to make a long story short, he finally talked us into it, and we beat it around and got our machine. by the time we got on the track the crowd was getting pretty impatient, and robertson hustled us around to the starting line. "'do your best, boys,' he says, 'it's a ten mile race, so don't put all your steam into it at once. let one of the others set the pace and then you come up at the end.' "it sounded easy all right, but i guess both barney and i were more than a little doubtful about that 'coming up at the end' business. but it was too late to back out then, so we lined up in front of the starter's stand, and when the pistol cracked made a pretty fast getaway. "we weren't in it with some of those professionals though, and before we'd hit our speed at all they had several yards lead over us. but we were feeling pretty strong at that. i was steering the bike, and i could feel barney pushing along like a steam engine. but at first it was all we could do to hold our own, no matter how hard we pedaled. pretty soon i began to feel mighty tired i can tell you, and i guess barney must have, too, because we began dropping behind. but we kept on pushing like mad, and pretty soon we began to get our second wind. and then we certainly made that old tandem hum! we burned up that track for fair, and before very long were on equal terms with the last team. we crept steadily past them, and before the end of the sixth mile our front wheel was even with the back wheel of the leaders. "well, by that time the crowd had begun to sit up and take notice, and before we had covered another mile everybody was on their feet, cheering like mad and waving flags. but no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't seem to draw up even with the leading machine. by that time the blood was beating through my head fit to burst it, and i suppose barney must have felt the same way. but neither of us was exactly what you might call a quitter, so we kept on. and by the end of the ninth mile they hadn't more than the length of one wheel's lead over us! as we started the last lap i could feel the old bike shove forward, and i knew that barney had some reserve strength left. that kind o' put heart into me, too, and i put everything i had into that last mile, believe me. between us we pretty nearly lifted that tandem off the ground at every stroke, i guess. anyway, we crawled up on the leaders inch by inch, and managed to cross the finishing line a scant foot ahead of them. "well, i don't think i ever saw a much more excited crowd than that one. they swarmed down onto the track, and it was only by makin' a mighty quick sneak that we managed to get away from them. we weren't feeling like being made heroes of just then, let me tell you. we were just about all in." "believe me, i'd like to have been there," exclaimed bert, as reddy finished; "it must have been a real race for fair. i should think that after that you and your friend would have gone into professional bicycle racing." "we did try to," confessed the trainer with a grin, "but we could never seem to do as well again, and after a few attempts we gave it up in disgust. but we found the prize money very welcome, for we were both hard up at the time. "but now," he continued, "i've kept you up too late as it is, so off with you. vamoose!" chapter vii the lion's escape "fellows, i've got an inspiration," said dick one evening when several of his companions, including tom and bert, had gathered in the latter's room. "well, well," said bert, "old dick's got an inspiration, boys. i wonder what it is? the last time dick had an inspiration, that one about taking a cow up onto the roof of the recitation hall, we all pretty nearly got into trouble, including the cow. i think any other inspiration from the same source will have to come with first-class references and a letter of introduction. otherwise i, for one, refuse to recognize it at all." "if you're quite through," said dick, with elaborate politeness, "perhaps you'd be so kind as to let me get in a word edgewise, and enlighten an expectant world regarding this inspiration. just because the cow fell down a flight of steps that time and made everybody think there was an earthquake in progress doesn't prove that it wasn't a good idea. accidents will often spoil the best laid plans." "i notice something almost always does happen to plans of that kind," laughed bert. "but go ahead and tell us your scheme. what is it? kidnapping the dean, or just burning down one or two of the buildings." "well, that wasn't what was in my mind," confessed dick. "but now that you speak of it, either one might be worth trying. but the particular idea simmering in my massive intellect at the time i was so rudely interrupted by a certain low character, was this: there's going to be a circus in town to-morrow, and i for one feel a whole lot like going to see it. i haven't been to a circus for the last five years and i'm just honing to see this one." "that's an inspiration as how _is_ an inspiration," said tom; "it's funny how really first-class ideas originate in unbalanced minds at times. dick comes out real strong once in a while." "thanks for your valued approval," said dick sarcastically; "how do the rest of you fellows feel about it? want to go?" there was a general chorus of assent, and dick gravely declared the proposition carried by a unanimous vote. "i think it starts around half past two," he said, "and i guess we can all be there by that time, can't we?" it appeared that everybody could, and after discussing incidents of circuses they had seen in the past the group dispersed to their respective rooms. the next day was clear and bright, and at the appointed time the merry group met on the campus and took their way in high spirits toward the center of the town, where the circus had pitched its tents. many others were going the same way, and numerous were the jokes and furious the repartee exchanged between the different groups. in a short time they reached the "big top," and after inspecting the grounds and gazing in mock wonder at the portraits of bearded ladies and wondrously thin "living skeletons," made for the gorgeously decorated ticket wagons and secured their tickets. "it's more fun, of course," said tom, "to crawl in under the canvas, but i'm afraid that wouldn't be quite dignified enough for me. the rest of you can go in that way if you like, however. don't let me interfere with your pleasure." "if you get off much more of that stuff we'll show the crowd a 'christian martyr' stunt by feeding you to the lions," threatened bert. "maybe the animals could appreciate you better than we can." "yes, i've heard that in many respects animals are wiser than men," retorted tom, "and i wouldn't be surprised at that. i don't see how they could have much less sense than some people i know." "i wonder if he means us?" inquired bert seriously. "it hardly seems possible, does it?" "oh, no, i wasn't thinking of you at all," said tom. "i was thinking of the faculty when i said that." "well," said bert amid a general laugh, "in that case we'll forgive all your past offenses and start you off with a clean slate. your sentiments regarding the faculty do you credit." by this time the group found themselves opposite the beginning of the row of cages containing the menagerie, and started out on a tour of inspection. there was a big crowd and progress could only be made at a snail's pace. by the time they had reached the elephants it was close on to the time set for the show to begin, and after feeding the big brutes a few peanuts they hurried into the main tent. they secured seats near the top of the high tier of loose planks placed on trestles, and settled themselves to enjoy the performance. before ascending to their places they had amply provided themselves with popcorn and peanuts, without which, as one of the fellows remarked, a "circus wasn't a circus." the circus was one of the smaller variety, but had a reputation of giving a first-class exhibition, and in the opinion of some of the spectators was more satisfactory to watch than one of the big shows, where the very multiplicity of attractions made it difficult for the spectator to really enjoy anything. the onlooker's attention is drawn by a burst of applause in some distant line of seats, and while he is trying to make out what is going on there he misses, most likely, the act that is being performed near him. this circus had only two rings, but the acts presented were of a high character and our friends enjoyed everything from the opening parade to the final act, in which a man "looped the loop" on a bicycle. at the conclusion of this feat, dick leaned over toward bert. "why don't you try that stunt on a bicycle some time, bert?" he inquired, "it ought to be a cinch for you." "too easy, too easy," laughed bert, "give me something hard while you're about it. just the same," he added more seriously, "it is a mighty hard stunt, and requires nerve and skill of the highest sort. personally, i'd rather make a living some other way." by this time they were able to make their way through the throng to the main entrance, and were just passing through into the outer tent when they were startled by hearing shouts and screams from the direction of the animal cages. there was a wild flurry and commotion in the crowd in front of them, and suddenly they saw a great tawny form flying through the air. the people in the path of the beast scattered wildly to left and right, and the brute landed on the sawdust floor without doing any damage. he stood there a moment glaring about him, swishing his tail angrily back and forth. meanwhile there was a mad scramble for the exits, and many persons were thrown down and trampled in the crush. the group of collegians had stood stupefied for a few minutes watching the escaped lion, for such the animal proved to be. the big brute seemed bewildered by the crowds and the shouting, and knew not what use to make of his new-found freedom. but suddenly he emitted a deep roar, and bounded toward the main exit, in which a struggling, shouting crowd was now solidly packed. suddenly bert sprang into action. "head him off! head him off!" he shouted and, suiting the action to the word, started diagonally toward the entrance. tom and dick were close after him, followed by the more courageous of their companions. by this time several of the animal keepers and trainers had also struggled through the press, and were hot in pursuit of the fleeing lion. but they were too far behind to be of any good, and the lion would surely have dashed headlong into the packed mass of humanity had not bert and the others with him intervened. they waved their hats and shouted, and the lion, somewhat taken aback, halted for a second. then he gathered himself together and, with a mighty bound, leaped clear over their heads. with another spring he cleared the crowd at the entrance, and was free. he hesitated a moment, looking this way and that, and then, just as one of the keepers, a rifle in his hand, reached the tent entrance, bounded swiftly forward and disappeared around a corner. the trainers started out in hot pursuit, accompanied by bert and his friends. "i don't want to shoot him," panted the man with the rifle as he ran, "he's worth five thousand dollars. he's one of the finest lions in captivity, and his loss would mean a bad blow to the outfit. but if i get a crack at him i'll shoot, just the same. we can't run the risk of trying to capture him alive." it was not difficult to trace the lion's path, although not once did they actually catch sight of him. distant shouts and cries told of the beast's progress, and their path was lined by closely shut doors and pale faces peering from upper windows. soon they reached the outskirts of the town and then, in the more open country, were able to catch a glimpse of their quarry. he was about half a mile distant, and evidently making directly for a dense piece of woodland just ahead of him. soon he disappeared among the trees, and the man carrying the rifle, who was evidently the head trainer, called a halt. "how far do those woods extend?" he asked bert. "not very far," replied bert. "i should say there's not more than a square mile of woodland, at most." "well, then," said the other, "the chances are ten to one that leo will stick to the trees, and not come out unless he has to. in that case, all we have to do is surround the place to see that he doesn't get away. then i don't think we'll have much trouble recapturing him." as this seemed to be the opinion of his assistants, too, their leader sent one of them back to the circus to make a report and bring out reinforcements, and then made plans to surround the strip of woods. by this time quite a crowd had collected, and the animal trainer selected volunteers to set up a guard about the trees and give warning if the lion attempted to break cover. "all you have to do," he explained, "is to climb a tree near where i post you, and if you see anything of the lion, sing out. he can't climb a tree, of course, so you'll be perfectly safe." there was no lack of volunteers, and our three comrades were among the first to proffer their services. "this is a little more than we had counted on," laughed tom; "we expected _some_ excitement for our money, of course, but nothing like this." "well, we won't kick now that it is handed to us," remarked bert; "it begins to seem like old times again. only that time we were up against a tiger instead of a lion." "yes, that's so," agreed dick, "but i hope we don't have as close a shave this time as we had then. that was getting a little too close to the undertaker to suit me." "no, we won't go looking for trouble the way we did that time," said bert. "if that lion wants us, he'll have to climb a tree to get us. i'm not anxious for a fracas with a big healthy lion. i'll leave that pleasure to some one else." by this time twilight had begun to set in, and it was with the greatest caution that the volunteers and circus men began to skirt the edge of the patch of trees. the head trainer went with them, and at intervals stationed one of the band in a convenient tree. "just keep your eyes peeled until it's too dark to see," he instructed them, "and by that time we'll have torches from the circus. then we'll form a ring of fire around the woods, and keep the brute inside it until daybreak. then we'll get him, dead or alive." in this way he made the circuit of the woods, until his last helper had been stationed to his satisfaction. tom, bert and dick were stationed in succession at a distance from each other of two or three hundred yards, and accommodated themselves as best they could among the branches. they kept a sharp lookout below them, but all remained quiet and undisturbed, and it seemed hard to believe that there was lurking death in the midst of the quiet woodland. no sound reached their ears save an occasional distant shout, probably of command or direction from the head trainer. time wore on slowly, after the first excitement had passed, and the watchers began to get thoroughly chilled in the crisp autumn air before they saw a host of twinkling lights approaching from the direction of the town. the lights grew rapidly nearer, and the watchers knew that this was the squad of men of which the trainer had spoken. soon they reached the fire where the head trainer had made his headquarters, and after a brief halt started to surround the woods. each man of the party held a flaring, smoking gasoline torch, and their combined strength gave a brilliant illumination. in their progress they stopped at the trees where the watchers were stationed, and one after the other relieved them. bert, dick and tom were soon on the ground once more, and were glad to get an opportunity to stretch their cramped muscles. "well, what's the plan now?" bert asked one of the men. "oh, there's nothing we can do till daylight," he answered, "we'll just hang around and make sure that the lion doesn't get out of these woods. then we'll capture him some way, and hustle to catch up with the rest of the outfit." "why, have they gone on without you fellows?" asked tom in surprise. "sure," replied the other; "we're due in the next town to-morrow, and a little thing like a lion getting away can't stop us. nothing much less than an earthquake could, anyway." and indeed, it was very much as the fellow said. a circus simply must meet its engagements on time, or else go out of business. its agents go on days in advance of it, advertising and pasting bill posters over the surrounding landscape, and if the show isn't on time all the cost of this is wasted, besides the loss of prestige to the circus, not to say anything of the loss of the day's gate receipts. therefore, the circus from which the lion had escaped struck its tents and traveled on exactly as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. to be sure, it was hindered by the fact that so many of its men had to be assigned to capturing the lion, but in spite of this it was hardly an hour late in starting. after the volunteer watchers had been relieved, burton, the trainer in charge of the proceedings, thanked them for their services, but told them that there was nothing more they could do, so that they could feel at liberty to go home if they were so inclined. a few did, but the majority elected to stay and "see the show through," as tom expressed it. "it isn't often you get a chance to see a lion hunt in a quiet college town," he said, "and i, for one, am not going to miss it merely to get a little sleep. i can sleep 'most any old time." "yes, but there probably won't be anything doing until morning, anyway," said burton with a smile; "you could get your sleep, and come back again." but the three comrades were of one mind, and resolved to spend the night around the camp fire, so as to miss nothing of the novel experience. fortunately, the next day was saturday, and, as it happened, none of them had any recitations on for that day. this left them free to do about as they liked, and it did not take them long to make up their minds. they settled themselves around the fire, and soon had good reason to feel glad that they had decided to stay. the last arrivals had brought food and coffee in plenty, and this was soon passed around, everybody making a hearty meal. then pipes were lit, and those of the circus men who were not on duty began swapping tales of adventures and experiences while following the "game," that were teeming with interest to the boys. many of the men were fairly well educated, and told what they had to tell in a very interesting way. every once in a while those about the fire would leave to replace some of their companions who had been watching some time, and the men thus relieved would have a new batch of stories to relate. around the crackling, roaring fire it was very warm and comfortable, and time flew by faster than the boys realized. they had never felt more wide awake in their lives, and they were much surprised when the first faint streaks of dawn in the eastern sky told of approaching day. as soon as it became light enough to see, two carpenters started constructing a wooden cage out of lumber they had brought with them, and had soon built a cage large enough and strong enough, it seemed to the boys, to hold an elephant. when the work was completed, several men lifted the cage and carried it to the very edge of the woods. then, having located the place where the lion had entered, they placed the cage directly across the trail. it had been provided with a door that slid up and down, and this was fastened open with a stout cord. by the time these preparations were finished mr. burton hurried up, and carefully inspected the work. he had just returned from a trip around the trees, and reported everything quiet so far. "now, boys," he said, "get a move on, and we'll carry this trap a little farther in. old leo might not want to come out this far for his breakfast, even though he's probably pretty hungry by this time. lively's the word, now!" the cage was lifted by willing arms, and carried well into the shadow of the trees. "all right, here's the place," said mr. burton, when he judged they had penetrated far enough, "set it down here. have you got the meat with you, bill?" the man addressed produced a large bundle, which on being unwrapped proved to be a large piece of juicy raw meat. "that will do fine," said burton, approvingly and, taking the meat from the other, placed it well inside the cage. "all right," he said, when everything was arranged to his entire satisfaction. "all hands get into the trees now, and we'll wait for leo to come for his breakfast. i'll take the rope into my tree, and spring the trap. hustle. the brute's apt to come around most any time now." even as he spoke a loud roar echoed through the woods, so close at hand that for a moment every heart stood still. then there was a wild dash for the nearest trees. dick and bert and tom made for a large oak near at hand, and went up it faster than they would have imagined possible. they had barely reached a place of safety in the lower branches, than with another roar the lion leaped into the clearing. for a few minutes he stood motionless, with the exception of his tail, which swished angrily back and forth. soon he located the boys in their tree, and made an angry dash toward it. by this time, however, they were high up in the branches, and the lion seemed to realize that they were beyond his reach, and after giving vent to another roar, walked away. then he saw others in the surrounding trees, and made a circuit of inspection, gazing eagerly upward at the tempting human beings so close to him and yet hopelessly beyond his reach. finally, he seemed to dismiss them from his mind and, going over to the cage, sniffed eagerly at the meat inside it. he had had nothing to eat since the preceding noonday, and was ravenously hungry. but he seemed to suspect some trap to curtail his new-found liberty and, hungry as he was, for more than half an hour he refused to enter the cage. he made numerous attempts to hook the meat with his claws, but found it always a little beyond his reach. at last, with an angry growl, he made up his mind and stepped inside the cage. he had hardly commenced to gnaw the meat, however, when burton released the cord that held the sliding door open. with a crash it slid closed, and the great beast was a prisoner once more! the lion whirled like lightning and dashed himself madly against the restraining bars, but the cage had been built with an eye to emergencies, and stood the strain without any sign of weakening. finally the lion's ragings subsided, and the head trainer concluded it was safe to descend and complete the work. he expressed himself accordingly, and everybody swarmed down to the ground, and surrounded the cage, taking care, however, to keep at a respectful distance. "all right, boys, get busy," sang out mr. burton. "let's get this cage up against the wagon as soon as we can. we're behind our schedule as it is." long poles were thrust under the cage, and with a good deal of heaving and tugging the lion was lifted through the air and his temporary cage placed alongside the animal wagon. when it had been securely fastened, the door was opened, and leo was at liberty to enter his old abode. at first he seemed disinclined to do so, but after much coaxing and prodding he was persuaded. the door of his old cage was slammed shut, and the capture had been effected. "well!" exclaimed the trainer, drawing a long sigh of relief, "that's a good job well done. and i want to thank you lads," he continued, turning to where our three friends were standing; "the circus owes you a big debt of gratitude, and that's a fact. if ever any of you should be out of a job, there'll always be one waiting for you with our outfit." "thanks," smiled bert, speaking for his comrades and himself, "if we ever do, we'll let you know. we've had quite an adventure out of this, anyway." "i should say you had!" said mr. burton; "the chances are you'll never be in another lion hunt as long as you live." after a few more words the trainer turned away, and the party proceeded in the direction of the town. at its outskirts our three comrades said farewell and made off toward college. on the way they discussed the exciting happenings of the previous day and night, but as they reached the campus bert said: "well, fellows, i hadn't noticed it much before, but now i come to think of it, i'm mighty tired. i think i'll turn in and sleep until about supper time." the others also expressed themselves as "all in," and sought their beds, where slumber was not long in coming. chapter viii on the toboggan "misfortunes never come singly," groaned tom. "it never rains but it pours," added dick gloomily. "o, cut out the croaking, you fellows," admonished bert. "or, if you're dead set on proverbs, remember that 'it's no use crying over spilt milk.' we're up against it good and plenty, but that's all the more reason to get together and try to kill the 'jinx.'" there certainly was room for disquietude, if not despair, in the present condition of the football team. the "blues" were in the throes of a "slump." and that misfortune, dreaded like the plague by all coaches and trainers, had come on them suddenly, like "a bolt from the blue." from the heights of confidence they had fallen to the depths of hopelessness. the superb machine, evolved and developed with infinite pains, now seemed headed straight for the scrap-heap. only the saturday preceding they had been lined up against dartmouth--always a fierce proposition--and to the delight of hendricks had "run rings around them." they had played with a dash and fire that made them seem simply unbeatable. the ball had been in the enemy's territory three-fourths of the time and, after the first quarter, it was simply a question as to the size of the score. when at last the game was over, they had run up thirty-two points, and the ball had never once been within twenty yards of their own goal. the criticisms on the game in the sunday papers had dwelt upon the impregnable defense and slashing attack of the "blues." on the same saturday the "greys" and "maroons" had also met redoubtable antagonists, and although they won, the scores were small and the playing by no means impressive. the general consensus was that on the form already shown, the "dope" favored the blues in the great games yet to come. while admitting the wonderful work of some of the men who had starred in their positions, special stress was laid upon the smoothness and accuracy of the team work as a whole. this of course was balm to the coach, all whose efforts had been directed toward making individual work subordinate to the development of a coherent system of team play, and he began to see the reward of the untiring labors that he had given without stint for the six weeks preceding. reddy went about his work with a complacent smile, and the boys themselves were jubilant at the way they were rounding into form. then suddenly the blow fell, to be succeeded by others no less paralyzing. "have you heard the news?" exclaimed drake, as he burst in upon bert and dick on monday evening, as they were preparing their lessons for the following day. "what is it?" they cried in chorus. "axtell and hodge have been conditioned and forbidden to play until they get up with the rest of the class," was the answer. "no," said bert incredulously. "sure thing," affirmed drake. "i had it straight from the boys themselves not five minutes ago. they sure are in the doleful dumps." the three friends looked at each other in a perplexity and anxiety that they made no effort to conceal. "but it will break up the team," cried dick. "they're two of our very best men." "you're right there," gloomed drake. "there isn't a fiercer tackler than axtell on the eleven, and hodge is the heaviest man in the line. we haven't any too much beef at best, and man for man, the 'greys' average five pounds heavier." "just when we were getting into such dandy shape, too," groaned dick. "why in thunder didn't they keep up in their work," demanded drake fiercely. "they must have known they were falling behind, and there's too much at stake for them to take any risk." "there, there," soothed bert. "don't you suppose they're feeling worse about it than any one else?" just then there was a knock at the door and axtell and hodge themselves stalked in. "i see you've heard about it," said hodge, falling heavily into a chair. "i wish you fellows would take me out and kick me around the campus." "same here," echoed axtell despondently. "i'll pay for all the shoe leather you wear out doing it." "o, brace up, fellows," said bert cheerily. "things will come out all right yet. how bad is it anyway?" "it isn't so bad with axtell," replied hodge. "he's only got a condition in latin, and he can probably work that off in a week. but i'm stuck on mathematics and greek both, and i've got about as much chance as a snowfall in june of making them up before the big games." "i wonder if there's no chance of getting the faculty to let you put off making them up until after the games," pondered bert thoughtfully. "such a chance," said drake sardonically. "that stony-hearted crew hasn't any sporting blood. they'll insist that every t must be crossed and every i dotted before they'll take off the conditions." "i'm not so sure of that," replied bert. "there's benton. he used to be a star at left end, and i don't think he's forgotten how he used to feel about such things. i can't any more than fail anyway, and i'm going to take a hack at it. you fellows stay right here and i'll run over and see him." he found the professor at home, and received a cordial greeting. "i see you boys trounced dartmouth last week," he said genially. "i've seldom seen a better game." this gave bert his opening. "we hope that isn't a circumstance to what we'll do to the 'greys' and 'maroons,'" he replied. "that is, we did hope so up to this afternoon." the professor looked at him sharply. "why not now?" he asked. and then bert told him of the conditions of hodge and axtell, and the hope he entertained that some way might be found to make them up after the big games instead of before. he spoke with all the earnestness he felt, and the professor listened sympathetically. "it's too bad," he assented. "i'm afraid, though, there's no remedy. the rules of the college are like those of the medes and persians, not to be broken, even"--and his eyes twinkled--"for so important a thing as a football game. those matters anyway are in the province of the dean. you might see him if you like, but i fear that it is a forlorn hope." and so it proved. the dean had a warm corner in his heart for bert, but in this matter was not to be shaken. the college, he reminded his caller, was primarily an institution of learning and not a gymnasium. the conditions would have to be made up before the men could play, although he hinted slyly that the examinations would not be over severe. and with this one crumb of comfort, bert was forced to be content. he bowed himself out and returned to report the non-success of his mission. "what did i tell you?" said drake. "you're a brick anyway, bert, for trying," acknowledged axtell, "and perhaps it will make them go a little easier with us when we try again to show them how little we know. and now, old man," addressing hodge, "it's up to us to make a quick sneak and get busy with those confounded conditions. plenty of hard work and a towel dipped in ice water round our heads, with a pot of hot coffee to keep us awake, will help make up for our lack of brains. come along, fellow-boob," and with a grin that they tried to make cheerful, the two culprits took their departure. the next morning the campus was buzzing with the news. it jarred the college out of the self-complacency they had begun to feel over the prospects of the team. many were the imprecations heaped upon the heads of the hard-hearted faculty, and one of the malcontents slipped up to the cupola without detection and put the college flag at half-mast. the smile on reddy's face was conspicuous by its absence and hendricks chewed furiously at his cigar instead of smoking it. but when it came to the daily talk in the training quarters, he was careful not to betray any despondency. there was enough of that abroad anyway without his adding to it. like the thoroughbred he was, he faced the situation calmly, and sought to repair the breaches made in his ranks. "winston will play at right guard until further notice," he announced, "and morley will take the place of axtell." the two members of the scrubs thus named trotted delightedly to their places. for them it was a promotion that they hoped to make permanent. they knew they would have to fight hard to hold the positions if hodge and axtell came back, but they were bent on showing that they could fill their shoes. but although they worked like trojans, the machine that afternoon creaked badly. the new men were unfamiliar with many of the signals and made a mess of some of the plays that the old ones whom they supplanted would have carried out with ease. this, however, was to be expected, and time would go a long way toward curing the defects. the real trouble, however, lay with the other nine. they seemed to be working as though in a nightmare. an incubus weighed them down. their thoughts were with their absent comrades and with the altered prospects of the team. they played without snap or dash, and the coach ground his teeth as he noted the lifeless playing so strongly in contrast with that of three days earlier. just before the first quarter ended, ellis, in running down under a punt, came heavily in collision with farrar, of the scrubs, and they went to the ground together. farrar was up in a moment, but ellis, after one or two trials, desisted. his comrades ran to him and lifted him to his feet. but his foot gave way under him, and his lips whitened as he sought to stifle a groan. "it's that bum ankle of mine," he said, trying to smile. "i'm afraid i've sprained it again." they carried him into the dressing room and delivered him to reddy. he made a careful examination and, when at last he looked up, there was a look in his eyes that betokened calamity. "sprained, is it," he said with a voice that he tried to render calm. "it's broken." "what!" cried ellis as he realized all this meant to him. "are you sure, reddy?" asked hendricks, aghast. "i wish i wasn't," was the answer, "but i've seen too many of them not to know." to poor ellis the words sounded like the knell of doom. the pain was excruciating, but in the rush of sensations it seemed nothing. the real disaster lay in the fact that it put him definitely off the football team. all his work, all his sacrifice of time and ease, all his hopes of winning honor and glory under the colors of the old college had vanished utterly. henceforth, he could be only a looker on where he had so fondly figured himself as a contender. his face was white as ashes, and the coach shrank from the look of abject misery in his eyes. "come now, old man, buck up," he tried to comfort him. "we'll send for the best surgeon in new york, and he'll have you on your feet again before you know it. you may make the big games yet." but in his heart he knew that it was impossible, and so did all the pale-faced crowd of players who gathered round their injured comrade and carried him with infinite care and gentleness to his rooms. the rest of the practice was foregone that afternoon as, under the conditions, it would have been simply a farce, and the players made their way moodily off the field, chewing the bitter cud of their reflections. sympathy with ellis and consternation over this new blow to their prospects filled their minds to the exclusion of everything else. bert and tom and dick--the "three guardsmen," as they had been jokingly called, as they were always together--walked slowly toward their rooms. the jaunty swing and elastic step characteristic of them were utterly gone. their hearts had been bound up in the hope of victory, and now that hope was rapidly receding and bade fair to vanish altogether. apart from the general loss to the team, each had his own particular grievance. tom, as quarterback, saw with dismay the prospect of drilling the new men in the complicated system of signals, of which there were more than sixty, each of which had to be grasped with lightning rapidity. the slightest failure might throw the whole team in hopeless confusion. dick was ruminating on the loss of ellis, whose position in the line had been right at his elbow, and with whom he had learned to work with flawless precision on the defense. and bert would miss sorely the swift and powerful coöperation of axtell at right half. those two in the back field had been an army in themselves. "the whole team is shot to pieces," groaned tom. "the hoodoo is certainly working overtime," muttered dick. "it's a raw deal for fair," acquiesced bert, "but we're far from being dead ones yet. we haven't got a monopoly of the jinx. don't think that the other fellows won't get theirs before the season's over. then, too, the new men may show up better than we think. morley's no slouch, and there may be championship timber in winston. besides, axtell and hodge may be back again in a week or two. it's simply up to every one of us to work like mad and remember that the fellow worth while is the one who can smile when everything's going dead wrong. "you're a heavenly optimist, all right," grumbled tom. "you'd see a silver lining to any little old cloud. you remind me of the fellow that fell from the top of a skyscraper, shouting as he passed the second-story window: 'i'm all right, so far.' we may be 'all right so far,' but the dull thud's coming and don't you forget it." and during the days that followed it seemed as though tom were a truer prophet than bert. storm clouds hovered in the sky, and the barometer fell steadily. on wednesday they were scheduled to play a small college--one of the "tidewater" teams that ordinarily they would have swallowed at a mouthful. no serious resistance was looked for, and it was regarded simply as a "practice" game. but the game hadn't been played five minutes before the visitors realized that something was wrong with the "big fellows," and taking heart of hope, the plucky little team put up a game that gave the blues all they wanted to do to win. win they did, at the very end, but by a margin that set the coach to frothing at the mouth with rage and indignation. after the game they had a dressing down that was a gem in its way, and which for lurid rhetoric and fierce denunciation left nothing to be desired. but despite all his efforts, the lethargy persisted. it was not that the boys did not try. they had never tried harder. but a spell seemed to have fallen upon them. they were like a lion whose spine has been grazed by a hunter's bullet so that it can barely drag its deadened body along. in vain the coach fumed and stormed, and figuratively beat his breast and tore his hair. they winced under the whip, they strained in the harness, but they couldn't pull the load. and at length "bull" hendricks realized that what he had been dreading all season had come. the team had "slumped." there are over three hundred thousand words in the english language, and many of them are full of malignant meaning. fever, pestilence, battle, blood, murder, death have an awful significance, but in the lexicon of the coach and trainer of a college team the most baleful word is "slump." this plague had struck the blues and struck them hard. it was a silent panic, a brooding fear, an inability of mind and muscle to work together. there was but one remedy, and "bull" hendricks knew it. the next day a dozen telegrams whizzed over the wires. they went to every quarter of the continent, from maine to texas, from the lakes to the gulf. and the burden of all was the same: "team gone to pieces. drop everything. come." if one had looked over the shoulder of the telegraph operator, he would have seen that every address was that of some man who in his time had been famous the country over for his prowess on the gridiron, and who on many a glorious field had worn the colors of the blues. one of them was delivered in the private office of a great business concern in chicago. mr. thomas ames, the president--better known in earlier and less dignified days as "butch"--turned from the mass of papers on his desk and opened it. his eyes lighted up as he read it and saw the signature. then the light faded. "swell chance," he muttered, "with this big deal on." he turned reluctantly to his desk. then he read the telegram again. then he sighed and bit viciously at the end of his cigar. "nonsense," he growled. "there's no use being a fool. i simply can't, and that's all there is to it." he crushed the telegram in his hand and threw it into the waste basket. ten minutes later he fished it out. he smoothed out the wrinkles and smiled as he noted the imperious form of the message. he was more accustomed to giving orders than obeying them, and the change had in it something piquant. "just like 'bull,'" he grinned. "arrogant old rascal. doesn't even ask me. just says 'come.'" "off his trolley this time though," he frowned. "nothing doing." the pile of letters on his desk remained unanswered. his stenographer waited silently. he waved her away, and she went out, closing the door behind her. he lay back in his chair, toying idly with the telegram. the memory of the old days at college was strong upon him. a few minutes ago, engrossed in the details of a large and exacting business, nothing had been farther from his thoughts. now it all came back to him with a rush, evoked by that crumpled bit of paper. days when the wine of life had filled his cup to the brim, when "the world lay all before him where to choose," when the blood ran riot in his veins, when all the future was full of promise and enchantment. days when laughter lay so near his lips that the merest trifle called it forth, when fun and frolic held high carnival, when his unjaded senses tasted to the full the mere joy of living. days, too, of earnest effort, of eager ambition, of brilliant achievement, of glowing hope, as he prepared himself to play his part in the great drama of the world's life. glorious old days they had been, and although he had had more than his share of prosperity and success in the years since then, he knew that they were the happiest days of his life. in his reverie his cigar had gone out, and he lighted it again mechanically. the old place hadn't changed much, he supposed. that was one of its charms. world-weary men could go back to it and renew the dreams of their youth in the same old surroundings. a new dormitory, perhaps, added to the others, a larger building for the library, but, apart from these, substantially unchanged. the old gray towers covered with ivy, the green velvet of the campus, the long avenue of stately elms--these were the same as ever. he thought of the initials he had carved on the tree nearest the gate, and wondered if the bark had grown over them. and the old fence where the boys had gathered in the soft twilight of spring evenings and sung the songs that had been handed down through college generations. how the melody from hundreds of voices had swelled out into the night! there was the old "owl wagon," where the fellows late at night, coming back from a lark in town, had stopped for a bite before going to bed. there never were such delicious waffles as that fellow turned out. and there was pietro at the chestnut stand, always good natured under the teasing of the boys, and old john, the doughnut man---o, what was the use? he must get back to those letters. there was the "sugar eat" in the spring. that usually came in the latter part of march. the soft wind would come up out of the south, the snow would begin to vanish and the sap stir in the trees. that was the signal for the "hike." a scouting party would be sent out to make arrangements at some sugar camp five or six miles away. then the next morning the fellows would "cut" recitations, and the startled professors would find their rooms deserted, while the hilarious culprits were footing it out to the camp. the farmer's wife, forewarned in advance, would have the long rough tables under the trees prepared for the hungry crew. out from her capacious ovens would come great pans of hot puffy biscuits, while from the boiling caldrons the boys drew huge cans of bubbling maple syrup. and that sugar on those biscuits! ambrosia, nectar, food for the gods! he had dined since then in the finest restaurants in the world, and never tasted anything to be compared to it. what mattered the sarcastic and cutting remarks of the profs. on the following day? they had had their fling and were willing to pay the price. he came back to reality and the telegram that he was automatically folding and unfolding. "team gone to pieces." he stirred uneasily. that was certainly tough luck. it must be serious when "bull" talked like that. it had usually been the good fortune of blue teams to make the other fellows go "to pieces." now it really seemed as though the good old colors were in danger of being dimmed, if not disgraced. they hadn't been disgraced when he wore them, he remembered. how they had wound up the season in a blaze of glory the last year he had played on the team! he saw even now, the crowded stands, the riot of colors, the frenzied roars of the blues, when he had squirmed out of the mass piled on him, and grabbing the ball, had rushed down the field for a touchdown, with the enemy thundering at his heels. he felt still the thrill of that supreme moment when the fellows had hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him in triumph off the field. he half rose from his chair, but sank back. "if it wasn't for that confounded deal," he groaned. he had been so used to blue victories that their failure for the last two years had made him "sore." in his business associations and at his club he came in contact with many graduates from different colleges. he had usually been able to "josh" them good naturedly over the way the blues had "done them up." but lately the shoe had been on the other foot and they had delighted in getting even. he was not too thin skinned, and took their jibes smilingly, even though the smile was a trifle forced. they were entitled to their revenge. sometimes, however, he winced when they flicked him "on the raw." there was evans, for instance, an old princeton tackle. good fellow, evans--corking good fellow--but after the blues lost last fall, he had gloated a little too much. he had met him on the street and clapped him hilariously on the shoulder. "ha, ha, ames," he shouted, "how about it? we tied the can on the bulldog's tail, and we'll do the same next year." that had stung. his face flushed now as he recalled it: "we tied the can on the bulldog's tail, and we'll do the same next year." "they will, will they?" he roared, jumping to his feet. he pressed a button on his desk, and his confidential man came in. "thompson," said ames hurriedly, "i've been called east on important business. keep in touch with me by wire. i've just got time to catch the twentieth century express." chapter ix hammered into shape like a sheaf of arrows, the other telegrams sped over the country, and most of them went straight to the mark. a mining engineer in montana got one, and pulled up stakes at once. a rising young lawyer in minneapolis found it necessary to look up some data in the old college library. a guest on a houseboat down near jacksonville made hurried excuses and came north by the first train. others felt urgently the need of a brief vacation from their accustomed duties and acted promptly on the impulse. not a week had elapsed before ten of the dozen were on the scene of action. of the remaining two, one was up in the north woods and could not be reached, and the other was on his honeymoon. they had a royal welcome from the coach, who had not doubted for a moment that they would heed the call. he knew that the old war horses would "sniff the battle from afar" and come galloping to the fray. now that they were there, he felt the lightening of the tremendous load of responsibility he had been carrying since the beginning of the season. these men were not theorists, but from actual experience knew every point of the game from start to finish. now he could divide his men up into squads, each one presided over by an expert who could coach each individual player in the duties of his position, while hendricks himself could exercise a general supervision of the whole. "it was bully of you fellows to come," he said, as they gathered in his rooms, as full of life and ginger as so many two-year-old colts. "and, now that you are here, i'm going to give you plenty of work to do. heaven knows there's enough to keep you busy if we're to have a ghost of a show to win this fall." "what's the seat of the trouble?" asked ames. "are they shirking? are they too light? many accidents? come, get it off your chest. tell us the sad story of your life." "it wasn't so sad until lately," grinned "bull," "and up to a week ago i didn't feel the necessity of weeping on any one's shoulder. in fact, i was beginning to think that the team was the real goods. they walked all over the army, and what they did to dartmouth was a sin and a shame. then somebody must have wished a hoodoo on us and things began to happen." and he narrated in detail the unexpected way in which three of his best men had been whisked off the team, and the results that followed. "the fellows simply got in the doldrums," he went on, "and, with a few exceptions, have played like a lot of schoolboys. they seem to have forgotten all that they ever knew. now you fellows know as well as i do that when a team slumps in that fashion there's only one thing to do. we've got to have new blood, new faces, new tactics. that's the reason i sent for you fellows. the boys know you by reputation. they've heard of the big things you did when in college, they look up to you as heroes----" "spare our blushes!" exclaimed hadley. "and it will give them a new inspiration," went on the coach, not heeding the interruption. "they'll forget their troubles and play like fiends to justify your good opinion, and to show you that the honor of the old college is safe in their hands. i want you to teach them all you ever knew, and then some. "i'm not asking you to make bricks without straw," he continued. "the stuff is there for a crackerjack team. we're a bit short on beef, and i'd like to have an average of five pounds more in the line. but i've got the finest back field in the country, bar none. wilson at full is simply chain lightning, and the whole country will be talking of him by november. axtell is one of the most savage tacklers i've ever seen, and if he can only get his conditions worked off soon, we won't have to worry about right half. morley, the man i put in his place, is a dandy, but doesn't come up to axtell. henderson at quarter is as quick as a cat and as cunning as a fox. trent at center and drake at right end are as good as they make 'em. those fellows i've named are stars. the rest are good, but i've seen as good and better on many a blue team. "now that's the way i size them up, and i want you fellows to go to it. there are just about enough of us to take a man apiece. do what you like with them. i'll stand for anything short of murder. work them till their tongues hang out. knock it into them if you have to use an axe. every day counts now. do you realize that the game with the 'maroons' is only three weeks off? if it were to-morrow they wouldn't leave anything of us but a grease-spot. and the 'greys' wouldn't leave even that." "leave it to us," answered ames, grimly voicing the general sentiment. "we'll give 'em medicine in allopathic doses, and it will be a case of 'kill or cure.'" and promptly the next afternoon they proceeded to make good their threat. they went at their men hammer and tongs from the start. and the boys responded at once to this drastic treatment. there was a general brace all along the line. a new factor had been injected into the situation. the listlessness of a few days back gave place to animation, and before half an hour had passed the coach was delighted at the way his plan was working. in order that the newcomers might get a line on their style of play, the whole team was put through the fundamentals. the tackling dummy was brought out, and the players in turn launched themselves against it to the accompaniment of stimulating cries: "harder." "you're too low." "that was a love tap." "batter it." "above the knees." "slam the life out of it." "too ladylike." "once more." "murder it." and there was no let up until the tackling was as savage as even the most exacting of the visitors demanded. then followed practice in falling on the ball in such a way as to shelter it with hands and knees, while avoiding having one's breath knocked out by the fall; running with it tucked under the arm so securely that no grab of the enemy can dislodge it; getting down under kicks fast enough to take advantage of any fumble by the enemy in trying for a "fair catch;" getting a quick start the moment the ball was snapped back, and a dozen other elemental features that constitute the alphabet of the game. the boys had practiced these things a hundred times before, but they can never be done too often or too well; and to-day under the new stimulus they outdid themselves. each tried to surpass his fellows and worked as he had never worked before. after an hour of this, they were lined up for two ten-minute sessions with the scrubs. the play was sharp and snappy and every move was followed by keen and critical eyes that nothing, however trivial, escaped. by the time the team had rolled up twenty points and held their opponents scoreless, the volunteer coaches knew pretty well the defects that would have to be corrected, and just what work was cut out for them. the coach was immensely pleased. once more he saw daylight ahead. "what do you think of them, butch, now that you've clapped your eyes on them?" he asked, as they strolled off the field. "all to the good," said ames, sententiously. "of course it's far from being a finished team as yet, but you've got some first-class material to work on. you're a little weak at the end of the line, and right tackle can stand a lot of improvement. but all the fellows seem willing, and that goes a long way. i didn't see one that appeared to be holding back." "that fullback of yours is a peach," broke in hadley. "he comes pretty near to being a team in himself. if he once gets a start, there's nothing that can ever catch him." "he's the fastest man in college," replied hendricks. "he's the fellow that carried off the marathon at the olympic games in berlin. and he's as game as he is speedy. you ought to have seen the way he stood mcalpin on his head when we played the army. that fellow was as big as a house and as full of grit as a gravel path, but he wasn't one-two-three with wilson. if all the boys were like him i'd have the championship won right now." "what made a hit with me," commented lawrence, "was that classy bit of dodging when he went down the field for sixty yards toward the end of the game. at least six of them tried to stop him, but he slipped by them like a ghost. and yet he ran almost in a straight line. all the dodging was done by the swaying of his hips and shoulders. a man that can do that comes pretty near to being the king of them all." "you haven't any kick coming on your center and quarterback either," broke in allen. "jove, they're a pair of dandies. they work together like a well-oiled machine. they're playing with their heads as well their feet all the time. they've got the snap-back and the forward pass down to perfection. and they're a stone wall when it comes to the defense." "two of my very best," assented hendricks, "and as sandy as the sahara desert. it's around those three that i've had to build up my team." "those three," all unknowing of the comments that were being made on their work, were at the moment engaged in getting their bath and rubdown, never more grateful than just now after their strenuous labors of the afternoon. "that was a course of sprouts for fair," remarked tom when they were putting on their clothes. "they certainly put us through our paces," assented dick. "i haven't been so tired since the army game." "just what we dubs needed," affirmed bert. "did you notice the snap and pepper in the team? it's the first time for a week that we've known we were alive. we're going to be a real football team after all. 'the cat came back,' and why shouldn't we?" "i suppose it was due to that lot of 'old grads' looking on," surmised tom. "gee, when i thought of all those fellows leaving their work and traveling hundreds of miles for the sake of the old college, it made me ashamed of myself. i felt like going through a knot hole and drawing the hole in after me." "same here," said dick. "and they can bully-rag me all they like. there'll be never a squeal from me. i'll work my head off to show them that we're fit to wear the blue." "hear! hear!" exclaimed bert. "that's the real tobasco. and i'll bet there isn't a fellow on the team that doesn't feel the same way." they were still stirred by this feeling of elation when, after a hearty supper, they reached their rooms. what was their surprise on opening the door to find axtell sprawled out in a chair, his feet upon the window sill. he grinned affably. "come right in and make yourself at home," he greeted. "what are you doing here, you old flunker?" laughed bert. "take back them cruel woids," demanded axtell. "flunker," he went on meditatively, "it hath a right knavish sound. beshrew me, if i fling it not back in the teeth of any caitiff knight that dare put such shame upon me." a great light dawned upon them. "what!" cried dick. "you old rascal. you don't mean to say that you've worked off your conditions?" "you speak sooth," was the reply, "albeit your wonder at the same pleasureth my pride but little. for less than that my sword hath ofttimes drunk the blood of churls." they fell upon him and pounded him till he was out of breath. "glory hallelujah!" shouted tom. "the best news i've heard since hector was a pup," declared dick. "now we've got a fighting chance," exulted bert. "by jove, old scout, you don't know how the team has missed you." axtell flushed with pleasure. "maybe i won't be glad to get back with the gang again," he ejaculated. "gee, for the last two weeks i've felt like a sneak. i can't forgive myself for getting in such a fix, just when we were in such good shape and going like a house afire. you bet that from now on my record will be as clean as a hound's tooth." "bully!" said bert. "i think you've done wonders though, to get rid of the conditions so soon. you must have worked like a horse." "i've worked all right," said axtell grimly. "it was the least i could do, heaven knows. some nights i haven't gone to bed at all. even at that, i felt a little skittish when i went up for my exam. but i was desperate and went in largely on my nerve. when the prof. looked over my papers i thought i heard him mutter to himself something that sounded like: 'all gaul is divided into three parts and you've got two of them.' but that may simply have been my guilty conscience. at any rate i got away with it, and the old sport gave me a clean bill of health." "it's like getting money from home," affirmed dick. "maybe 'bull' hendricks won't be tickled to death. he'll kill the fatted calf if he can find one straying loose around the training quarters." "o, he'll fall on my neck all right--with a club," remarked axtell drily. "when it comes to disguising his joy, 'bull' is a dandy actor." "don't you believe it," said bert. "but how about your accomplice in crime?" "o, hodge will be coming along soon," was the reassuring reply. "he's been working just as hard as i have or harder. but he's had two to make up, where i had only one. he's hired a tutor to coach him and is cramming away like mad. he told me this morning he thought he'd be ready to go into the torture chamber by the end of this week." "that'll be all to the merry," jubilated tom. "honest, axtell, we've been all at sea since you fellows have been away. winston has done fairly well at tackle, but he can't seem to start quickly enough when it comes to blocking. 'bull' has been trying out chamberlain in place of ellis, but he gets mixed on the signals. he plugs away like a beaver, but finds it hard to get them straight. morley is doing fine work at half, but he can't fill your shoes when it comes to tackling. of course i don't know what 'bull' will do, but i have a hunch that he'll take chamberlain out and put morley there permanently, as there isn't a chance in the world for ellis to come back in time." "poor old ellis," mourned bert. "game to the core, that boy. it nearly broke his heart when his ankle went back on him, but he never whimpers. he hopes to be out on crutches in time to see the big games. told me yesterday, when i dropped in to see him, that when it came to yelling for the boys we'd find his voice was all right even if his leg was on the blink." "plucky old scout," agreed axtell, "and one of the best men we had. but now i must be going. i'll toddle over and give 'bull' a chance to welcome back the prodigal son. it'll be an affecting greeting," he grinned. but if he had expected to be "skinned alive" for his shortcomings, he was agreeably disappointed. the coach was too delighted at the strengthening of the team to dwell too much or too sternly on the defection that had thrown it out of gear. he gave him a fatherly talk, pointed out the necessity of keeping his studies up to the mark from that time on, and put it up to him to "play the game" both in the classroom and on the field for all it was worth. then he dismissed him with an injunction to turn up early for practice the following day. the reinstated halfback went away with his eyes shining and his heart elate. once more "his foot was on his native heath." and the dignified "bull," after a cautious glance around to make sure that no one was looking, indulged himself in the luxury of an impromptu highland fling. chapter x in the enemy's country one afternoon, after practice, "bull" hendricks called bert aside and said: "i want you to stay a few minutes after the others have gone, wilson. reddy and i have something we want you to do." "all right," was the reply, and accordingly, after the other members of the squad had finished dressing and had left the dressing room bert lingered behind. in a few minutes the coach walked into the apartment, followed by reddy. "reddy and i," began hendricks, "have decided that we want something a little more definite than rumor concerning one or two of the rival teams. we have talked the matter over, and what we want you to do is this. next saturday afternoon, as of course you know, the 'maroons' and 'greys' are scheduled to play off the game that was postponed on account of bad weather. we want to get a line on the two teams, but both reddy and myself are too busy just at present to take the time off. but we thought you could go over and size things up about as well as we could. you understand the game thoroughly, and in addition i believe know how to use your head for something besides eating." "you compliment me more highly than i deserve," laughed bert. "but," more seriously, "i'll be glad to do anything you want me to that will be of any service in helping the team to win." "well, it will be a help," said the coach. "we hear one thing to-day, and the exact opposite to-morrow, so we never know what to believe. but if you go and see this game, you ought to be able to get a pretty fair line on the real state of affairs." "the only trouble is," worried reddy, "that the team will practically miss a whole afternoon's practice, because it's not much we can do without wilson." the little trainer would never have made this admission had he not been very sure of his man. but he knew bert's sterling character well enough to be sure that the remark would cause no case of "swelled head." "we'll get along some way," said hendricks, "and the team is in good enough shape now to afford taking it easy one afternoon. we'll just practice on signals, and they'll be all the better for a little let up." "in that case," suggested bert, "why couldn't i take dick and tom along with me? you know the old saying that 'two heads are better than one,' and on the same plan, three heads ought to be better than two." "at that rate you'd have the entire college going over there and giving the whole thing away," grunted hendricks, "but i suppose you might as well take them along. the chances are you won't be noticed in the crowd, and if you are there's no special harm done. there's no law against players from one team going to see another team play." "an' what's more," put in reddy, "i don't believe one o' them can think real well unless the other two is hangin' around somewheres close by. it sure beats the dutch, the way them three lads holds together." "well," said bert, "that 'holding together,' as you call it, has been a mighty good thing for each of us at one time or another. looked at in one light, it's a sort of mutual benefit affair." "whatever it is, it seems to work pretty well," remarked hendricks, "and it's results that always make a big hit with me." they then proceeded to arrange the details, and it was decided that the three boys should leave immediately after breakfast on saturday. when everything had been settled bert took leave of the coach and trainer and sought out his friends. after he had explained the plan to them, tom threw a book he had been studying into a far corner, and gave a shout of delight which was echoed by dick. "some class to us, all right," exulted tom; "it shows old hendricks must have some confidence in us, even though he'd probably be pulled to pieces before he'd admit it." "i suppose he must have," grinned dick, "although up to this time i will confess that i never suspected it." "well, we'd better not look a gift horse in the mouth," said bert. "the fact remains that we're in for an afternoon of good sport. it will certainly be a pleasure to me to watch somebody else play football for a change. and before the afternoon is over, you can take it from me i'm going to know all about the comparative strength of their teams and ours that there is to know." "well, you _may_ be able to learn something, seeing that i'll be along to explain the fine points of the game to you and see that you understand what is going on," said tom. "i suppose the coach realized that there wouldn't be much use in sending you over alone, and that's why he told you to ask us to go too." "you certainly hate yourself, don't you?" grinned bert. "however, i won't lower myself to answer you, merely remarking in passing that your words are only worthy of the deepest contempt." "is that so?" replied tom. "i'm afraid if you pull much more of that stuff i'll have to find a quiet nook for you in my private graveyard. i'd have done it before only that i find myself somewhat overcrowded even now." "say, cut out that nonsense, you two, and get down to business, will you?" interrupted dick. "what time are we supposed to leave here, bert?" he asked. "right after lunch," responded that individual. "i'll get a time table, and we'll see what will be the best train to take." "i know a better way to go than by train," said dick. "what's that--walk?" inquired tom sarcastically. "please don't be any more foolish than you can help," said dick with elaborate politeness; "what i was about to say was, that i think i know where i can borrow an automobile for the afternoon. how does that idea strike you?" "greatest ever," ejaculated bert, "but where in the world are you going to get the car?" "leave that to your uncle dudley," replied dick. "i met an old friend the other day. he's visiting relatives in the town for several weeks. he has all sorts of money, and sports two 'devil wagons.' he told me i could have the use of one any time i had a mind to ask for it, so i don't think i'll have any trouble on that score." "that seems too good to be true," said bert. "suppose you look up your friend this evening after supper and make sure of getting the car. it's better to know in advance what we can count on." "i'll do that," promised dick, "and if i get back in time i'll let you know if everything is all right. if i get back late i'll tell you about it in the morning." matters were left in this state, and it was not until the next morning that the boys learned of the success of dick's visit to the town. when they caught sight of him in the morning, bert and tom did not have to question him. "it's all right fellows," he said. "i fixed it all up, and we can have the car any time we want it. and the one we're going to use is a peach, too." "that's certainly fine," said tom. "we'll make the trip in tip-top style all right." "people will think we're regular swells, for fair," agreed bert. "i think we'd better pose as a rich man traveling with his chauffeur and valet," said tom. "i'll be the rich man, dick can be the chauffeur, and bert can be the valet." "all right," said bert, "but under those conditions, i insist on being paid in advance." "so do i," grinned dick. "i refuse to run that car a foot until i'm paid in full, a year in advance, cash down." "if you feel that way about it," grumbled tom, "i'll be forced to fire you both and run the car myself. all you fellows think of is money anyway, it seems to me." "well, if you can't pay us i suppose we'll have to pose as just three friends traveling together," laughed bert. "that's the only way out of it that i can see." "i'll have to let it go at that i suppose," said tom; and after a hearty laugh the boys dispersed to their recitation rooms. practice that afternoon was fast and hard, and it was a tired trio that met that evening in bert's room to make final plans for their trip the next day. they decided to walk to the garage where the automobile was kept, and dick showed them a written order his friend had given him authorizing him to take the car out. "your friend has certainly done everything up in fine style," commented bert; "he must be a good man to know." "he's a brick," said dick enthusiastically; "we used to be in the same class in school, and we were always good friends. i'd like to have you fellows meet him." "yes, i'd like to get acquainted," said tom. "it seems funny we haven't met him before." "well, you see, his folks moved west when we were both youngsters, and that's the reason," explained dick, "otherwise i suppose you would have." "well, probably we will before he leaves town," said bert. "but now, how about to-morrow?" "why, right after breakfast to-morrow," said dick, "we'll go straight from the training table to the garage. we won't have any more than enough time as it is. it must be a matter of a hundred miles or more, and we want to travel easy and allow for possible breakdown and delay." as there seemed to be no objection to dick's plan, the boys adopted it. immediately after the morning meal they set out for the town, and after a brisk walk reached the garage. here they sought the proprietor, and dick showed him the written order from moore, his friend. "oh, yes, that will be all right," said the garage man. "mr. moore told me that you would call for the car at about this time, so i've been expecting you. there she is, over in the corner, the big gray one there." he indicated a big gray touring car, and the three comrades walked over to it. it was, as dick had told them, a beautiful machine, and they piled in with many expressions of admiration. as dick had procured the car the honor of driving it naturally fell to him. he manoeuvred the big automobile skilfully out of the garage, and they were soon spinning smoothly over an ideal country road. the car behaved perfectly and dick was enthusiastic over it. "we could get twice the speed out of it that we are now," he exulted, "but i'm not taking any chances to-day. we owe it to the team to be careful." "right you are," agreed bert. "there's no use taking risks when we don't have to. at this rate we'll eat up the distance in mighty short order anyway." and indeed, it was no great time before they reached their destination and were bowling through the streets. they left the car at the local garage, and made their way to the field, guided thereto by a constant stream of chattering and laughing people evidently bound for the same place. they obtained good seats and sat down to await the beginning of the game. before long the "grey" players trotted out onto the field, and were shortly followed by the "maroons." both teams went through their preliminary practice with snap and "pep," and received enthusiastic applause from their admirers in the stands. then the actual play began, and the three comrades noted every play and formation with the greatest attention. they were resolved to justify the coach's confidence in them, and to be able to give him an accurate line of "dope" when they returned to their alma mater. the game was fast and furious, but at the end of the first half the "maroons" were leading by one touchdown. excitement ran high at the opening of the second half, and a battle royal began. but the "greys" fought fiercely, and by a splendid run down the field made a touchdown and tied the score. then, in the last three minutes of play, they forced the ball over for another touchdown, and the day was theirs. "well!" exclaimed bert as they filed out with the crowd, "both those teams have the 'goods,' but i think the 'greys' are just a shade better than the 'maroons.'" "i do, too," said tom, and this seemed also to be dick's opinion. they made their way to the garage, and as it was now almost dark, dick lit the lamps on the car. then they purred smoothly along the macadam road and after a delightful ride through the crisp autumn air delivered the car safely into its garage before midnight. the next morning they were received with an uproarious welcome when they made their appearance at the training table. the other members of the team had a pretty good idea of where they had been, and assailed them from every side with questions. but they kept their own counsel, reserving their information for the ears of the coach, and knowing that he would tell the team all that he thought fit. after the meal was over they repaired to the training quarters, where they found the coach awaiting them. "well," he said, "what luck?" speaking for his comrades, bert related the story of the game, and the coach listened attentively. when bert had finished, he asked a number of crisp questions of each of the three boys, and their answers seemed to satisfy him. "well," he growled, when at last he rose to go, "i can go ahead now with more certainty. you fellows have done better than i expected." which from hendricks was high praise. "we've certainly got our work cut out for us," said bert after the coach had departed. "i haven't a doubt in the world but what we can beat them, but just the same we'll have to do our prettiest to get the long end of the decision." "bet your tintype we will," said tom; "both those teams are a tough proposition for anybody to handle. but there will be all the more glory for us when we win." "that's the talk!" exclaimed dick, "there's no fun in winning a game where you don't get hard opposition, anyway." meanwhile hendricks had wended his way back to the training quarters, where he sought out reddy. he gave the red-headed trainer a brief outline of what the boys had told him, and reddy listened attentively, once or twice breaking in with a question or two. "so it seems," said hendricks at last, winding up his discourse, "that the team we've really got to look out for is the 'greys.' according to the report of our three boys, they are mighty strong on the attack, and nothing behindhand on their defense." "it looks that way," acquiesced reddy, nodding his head, "the lads did pretty well, don't you think?" "they did," agreed hendricks; "they got just the information that i was after. and what do you think," he added with a laugh, "they weren't content to go by the train or trolley, but borrowed an automobile and went in style." "sure, and it's like themselves," grinned reddy, "if i was runnin' a business i'd be afraid to give those byes a job. they'd be ownin' the plant in less than a year." "i believe they would," said hendricks. "they're natural born winners." chapter xi a desperate fight the day for the game with the "maroons" broke dark and lowering. clouds chased each other across the sky, the air was saturated with moisture and, although rain had not yet fallen, there was every prospect that it would before the day was over. the team had been "tuned to the hour." there was not a man on it that was not fit to put up the game of his life. each one had brought himself down to the weight at which he was most effective, their flesh was "hard as nails," and their lean bronzed faces betokened the pink of condition. if they were doomed to be beaten there could be no excuse put forth that they were not at the top of their form. not that they anticipated any necessity of making excuses. an air of quiet confidence was everywhere apparent. the old indomitable blue spirit was as much in evidence as their splendid physical condition. not that they underestimated their opponents. the "maroons," despite their defeat of the week before by the "greys," were formidable opponents and still full of fight. in fact, their loss of that game might be counted on to put them in a savage mood of retaliation, and nothing was more certain than that they would fight like demons to down the blues. but the latter welcomed the prospect of a bitter fight, and were fully convinced of their ability to give harder blows than they would have to take. "we've simply got to win to-day, fellows," said tom as they strolled back to their rooms after breakfast. "it's the only way we can have a clear title to the championship," remarked bert. "it won't do us much good to lick the 'greys' next week if we fall down to-day. in that case it will be 'even steven.' each team will have won and lost one and we'll be as much at sea as ever as to which has the best team." "then, too," added dick, "we're fighting to-day on our own grounds and next week we'll have to play the 'greys' on a neutral field. if we can't win now with that advantage it will be doubly hard to win then." "we'll cop them both," said bert with an air of finality. and this solution received the hearty approval and implicit faith of his companions. in one form or another every man on the team was swearing to himself that the prediction should come true, if it lay in human power to compass it. as the day wore on the town took on a festal air. flags and bunting fluttered everywhere. special trains drew in from every point of the compass and disgorged their thousands to swell the crowds. the streets resounded with the raucous cries of the fakirs, and their wares of canes and flags were soon sold out. groups of college boys accompanied by pretty girls wandered over the campus, and the walks under the elms resounded with song and laughter. from every city in the country "old grads" came down to renew their youth and shout themselves hoarse for their favorites. the clouded sky and threatening rain daunted them not at all. they were there to make holiday, and serenely ignored everything else. only an earthquake or a cyclone could have kept them from coming. it might rain "cats and dogs," rheumatism and pneumonia might hang out danger signals, but they cared not a whit. they were out for the time of their lives and bound to get it. the game was to begin at two o'clock, and after cleaning out all the restaurants in town, put to their utmost to feed the ravening horde of locusts that had swarmed down upon them, the throngs set out for the stadium. that gigantic structure could hold forty thousand people and, long before the time for the game to begin, it was crowded to repletion. on one side were the stands for the blues and directly facing them were those reserved for the "maroons." the occupants yelled and shouted and waved their flags at each other in good-natured defiance. at the upper end a band played popular airs that nobody cared for, and half the time in the din and tumult did not even hear. in front of the stands the cheermasters jumped up and down and went through their weird contortions, as they led the cheers and gave the signal for the songs. the blues were gathered in their training quarters, ready and anxious for the fight. they were like a pack of hounds straining at the leash. reddy and his assistants had gone over every detail of their equipment, and the coach had spoken his last word of appeal and encouragement. this he had purposely made short. there was little dwelling on the game to be played, nor any attempt to rehearse signals. the time for that was past. if they were not ready now, they never would be. he had done his utmost and now the result must be left to the team and to fate. at half past one a slight drizzle set in. old jupiter pluvius had lost patience and refused to hold off until the game was over. but the general hilarity abated not a particle. it would take more than rain to drive that crowd to cover. the field had been strewn with straw to keep the ground beneath as dry as possible. now, however, it was time for practice, and a crowd of assistants appeared and raked the straw away, showing the glistening newly-marked yard lines underneath. then a gate at the end of the one of the stands opened and the "maroons," in their gaily colored jerseys, trotted on the field. the "maroon" stands rose en masse and a torrent of cheers swept over the field as they gave the team a greeting that must have "warmed the cockles of their heart." the boys peeled off their jerseys and commenced punting and falling on the ball. they kept this up for ten minutes and then gave way to their rivals. out from the other side of the field scampered the blues. then pandemonium broke loose. the yells were simply deafening, and, as the home crowd let itself go, the fellows grinned happily at each other and their muscles stiffened with ardor for the fight. "seems as though they were glad to see us," laughed tom, as he sent the ball whirling in a spiral pass to bert. "you bet," answered bert, "and we must make them yell louder yet at the finish." the practice was short and snappy. there was ginger in every movement and bert's tries for goal elicited the unwilling admiration at the same time that it awakened the fear of the "maroon" supporters. then the signal was given and the captains of the two teams clasped hands cordially in the middle of the field and tossed a coin for position. the "maroons" won and, as there was not enough wind stirring to favor either goal, elected to take the kick off. the teams lined up on the "maroon's" forty yard line. miller kicked the ball thirty yards down the field and the game was on. martin made a fair catch, but before he could run back was downed in his tracks. the teams lined up for the scrimmage. dick plunged through left guard and tackle for a gain of five yards. axtell went through right for two more. then the ball was given to bert, and he went through the hole opened up by drake and boyd for eight more. they had gained their distance and the ball was still in their possession on the fifty yard line. their bucking had been so successful that they were still inclined to try the plunging game. but the "maroons" had braced. three successive downs failed to yield the coveted ten yards and bert dropped back for a kick. the ball was handled with superb precision by tom and dick, who made a perfect pass to bert. it was off from his toe like a flash, just escaping the "maroon" forwards as they broke through to block. miller made a great jumping catch, but axtell's savage tackle downed him where he stood. the ball was now in "maroon" territory on their twenty yard line. it was altogether too close for comfort, and the "maroons" made a gallant and desperate effort to get it further down the field. the blues, however, were no less determined. against the bull-like plunges of the enemy they held like a stone wall. three times in succession they refused to let their foes gain an inch. it was clear that other tactics would have to be resorted to. halliday, the "maroon" quarter, tried a forward pass. richmond at right end caught it and started down the field. warren tackled him, but slipped in the mud and richmond shook him off. his interference was good and he was off like a frightened rabbit. he had made twenty yards before bert caught and threw him heavily. but he held on to the ball and the "maroons" breathed more freely. the ball was still theirs, forty yards from their goal line. "never mind, old man," called bert cheerfully to warren. "a bit of hard luck, but don't let it get your goat. any one might have slipped in such muddy going." the narrow escape heartened the "maroons" and they fought like wildcats. they were on the defensive and the ball stayed in their territory. but the utmost efforts of the blues failed to make substantial gains, and when the whistle blew at the end of the quarter neither side had scored. by this time the rain was coming down in torrents. the stands were a mass of glistening umbrellas and shining raincoats. the flags and decorations no longer waved defiantly, but hung dank and dripping. the field beneath the rushing feet of the players had been churned into a sea of mud, and this was plastered liberally on the uniforms of the teams. in the minute's interval between quarters a host of trainers' assistants rushed from the side lines with sponges and towels and tried to get their charges in some kind of shape. when the next quarter started the play was fast and furious. the teams had sized each other up and got a line on their respective line of play. each side realized that the battle was for blood, and that it had in the other a worthy foeman. there would be no walkover for anybody that day. floundering and slipping in the mud, the blues steadily pounded their way down to the "maroon's" goal. morley made a successful dash around left end, netting twenty yards. on a forward pass caldwell fumbled, but tom made a dazzling recovery before the enemy could pounce upon the ball. bert found a gap between left and tackle and went through with lowered head for twelve yards before the "maroons" fell on him in a mass. then the blues uncovered the "minnesota shift"--one of "bull" hendrick's pet tricks--and they went through the bewildered "maroons" for twenty yards. another trial of the same shift was smothered and a daring end run by hudson of the "maroons" brought the ball to the middle of the field. four unsuccessful attempts failed to advance it and it went to the blues on downs. the ball was now on the "maroons'" forty yard line and there were only two minutes left of playing time. the "maroon" defence had stiffened and it was a practical certainty that line bucking could not avail in that limited time, so bert dropped back for a kick. tom snapped it back to dick, who with the same motion made a beautiful pass to bert. with all the power of his mighty leg he swung on it and lifted it far and high. straight as an arrow it winged its way toward the "maroons'" goal. a tremendous shout had gone up as the ball left his toe, but then followed a deadly silence as they watched its towering flight. would it go over the posts and score three points for the blues or would it go to one side just enough to give the "maroons" a new lease of life? now the ball had reached its highest point and was falling in a swift curve toward the goal. as it neared the posts it seemed for a moment to hesitate. then, as though it had made up its mind, it swooped suddenly downward and crossed the goal bar, just grazing it. the goal had counted and a groan went up from the "maroon" stands, while those in the blues leaped to their feet waving their flags and cheering like madmen. tom danced a jig on the field and threw his arms about bert, and the other fellows coming up swarmed around him with frantic congratulations. and just then the second half ended and both teams went to their quarters for the fifteen minutes' rest that marks the half of the game. here they changed quickly into fresh uniforms and braced themselves for the second and decisive half. naturally the confidence was on the side of the blues, but the lead was not large, and as yet it was anybody's game. "you've got them started," exhorted hendricks. "now keep them on the run. don't let up for a minute. hit them, hammer them, tear their line in pieces. i want you to roll up a score that will scare the 'greys' before we tackle them." the advice was good in theory and the will was not lacking to carry it out in practice. but the "maroons" had other views and from the moment they came on the field it was evident that they had taken a brace. they were yet a long way from giving up the ghost. after all, the field goal had only counted three points, and a touchdown would not only even this up but put the maroons in the lead. to get that touchdown they worked like fiends. berriman kicked the ball out of bounds and flynn fell upon it, sliding along in the mud and water as he did so. the ball was brought in at the blues' forty yard line and the teams lined up for the scrimmage. adams slammed through left tackle for five yards. gibbons with lowered head butted into center, but dick threw him back for a loss of two. hudson skirted left end, cleverly dodging caldwell and making twelve yards, before tom leaped upon him and downed him heavily. but the ball was under him and the "maroons" had more than made their distance on the four downs. once more they lined up, and now the blues were on the defensive. boyd had hurt his knee and chamberlain came running out to take his place. instead of reporting to the referee, he spoke first to one of his comrades, and for this violation of the rules the blues were penalized five yards. a moment later they lost five more through off-side play by warren. ten precious yards thrown away when every one was beyond price! and now the jubilant "maroons" were within fifteen yards of the goal, and their partisans were on their feet yelling like wild men. panting, crouching, glaring, the two teams faced each other. the "maroons" consulted for a moment. should they try a kick for goal, yielding three points if successful and tieing the score, or buck the line for a touchdown which would put them in the lead? the first was easier, but the latter more profitable if they could "put it over." they might never be so near the line again, and they thought that they saw signs of wavering among the blues. they decided then to try for the greater prize and buck the line. berriman, their halfback, bowled over chamberlain for a gain of four yards. richmond tried to make a hole between dick and tom, but was nailed without a gain. once more berriman ploughed in between warren and chamberlain, which seemed to be the weakest part of the defense, but, anticipating the move, bert had posted himself there and, meeting the rush halfway, dumped berriman on his head. as he fell, the ball slipped from his hands and tom, quick as a cat, picked it up and twisting, dodging, squirming, scuttled down along the southern line. burke flung himself at him in a flying tackle and grabbed one leg, but the runner shook him off and, with his momentum scarcely checked flew down the field, aided by superb interference on the part of drake and axtell, who bowled over the "maroon" tacklers like so many ninepins. he had made thirty-five yards and was going like the wind when, in eluding the outstretched arms of miller, he slipped in a pool of mud and water and went down, skating along on his nose for several yards, while the whole "maroon" team piled over him. but his nose guard had saved him from injury and, when the wriggling mass was disentangled, it was found that he still had the ball. he wiped the mud from his face and grinned happily while his mates gathered round him and billows of cheers swept down from the blue stands, frantic with delight at the brilliant run. "splendid, old boy!" cried bert, slapping tom on the back. "that was classy stuff. you went down the line like a shot from a gun." "it saved the goal line all right," panted dick. "jove! they were close. it looked for a minute as though they had us going." the ball was put into play again but just as the teams lined up time was called. the game was three-quarters over and the remaining fifteen minutes would tell the tale of victory or defeat. the boys stood around in groups scraping the mud from their uniforms and rubbing rosin on their hands to get a better grip in tackling. just as the breathing spell was over the sun suddenly burst forth in a blaze of glory. umbrellas went down like magic and even the "maroon" supporters, chagrined as they were, joined in the cheer that rose from the drenched spectators. it put new life into the players also. "look!" cried bert as the teams took their places. "the rainbow!" all eyes were turned in the direction he pointed, where in a magnificent arch of shifting colors the bow of promise curved over the field. "it's our rainbow," shouted tom. "we saw it first." "come off, you dubs," sang out halliday. "don't you see that it's over our goal?" "sure," retorted tom. "that's to show us where we've got to go." "it is, eh?" said halliday grimly. "you'll only get there over our dead bodies." "you're dead ones already," taunted drake good-naturedly. "you're only walking round to save funeral expenses." but in the furious battle that developed from the kick-off, it was evident that the "maroons" were very lively corpses. it was no use to play on the defensive. if they did that, they were beaten already by the three points that now loomed up in such tremendous proportions. nor was there any reason to keep any of their plays up their sleeves. for them it was the last game of the season and now was the time to uncover their whole "bag of tricks." so they threw caution to the winds and played with utter recklessness and abandon. their "wheel shift" was a new one on the blues, and the "maroons" had used it twice for a gain of thirty yards before the blues solved and checkmated it. then the forward pass was tried, usually without advancing the ball, though one clever skirting of the end gained fifteen yards. the ball was getting pretty well down into blue territory when a magnificent drop kick by bert sent it sailing to the middle of the field. in the momentary silence that succeeded the cheering, some wag from the blue stands piped out: "it's too bad that fellow wilson is lame." and everybody laughed. but the laugh of the "maroons" had a pang behind it. only five minutes of playing time were left, and the ball was in the hands of their enemies. they ranged up for the scrimmage with the desperation of men faced by advancing doom but bound to go down fighting. and go down they did before the savage and exulting onslaught of the blues. fighting, raging, blocking, charging, they were forced back toward their goal. drake and dick and axtell went ploughing through big holes opened up by their comrades in both sides of the line until, with two downs yet to go, the ball was in the hands of the blues twelve yards from the enemy's goal. everybody was standing now. flags were waving, voices yelling and the tumult was indescribable. it was the supreme moment, and bert was called on for the final plunge. "go to it, old man, the instant i snap it back," whispered tom. "for the sake of the old college," urged dick. bert stiffened. "watch me," he said. it was a perfect snap from tom to dick, who passed it to bert so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow it. at the same instant drake and axtell opened up a hole between left guard and tackle and bert ploughed through it like an unchained cyclone. the whole "maroon" team was on him in an instant, but the fearful headway of his charge had carried him through nine of the coveted twelve yards and the goal post loomed almost directly overhead. "buck up, fellows, buck up," screamed halliday wildly. "for heaven's sake, brace!" bert's head was buzzing with the impact of that mighty plunge, but his eyes blazed with the light of coming triumph. "not an inch, boys, not an inch," yelled halliday. "throw them back. it's their last down." but their hour had struck. once more the ball was passed and, charging hard and low, bert went into the line. the "maroons" hurled themselves savagely against him, but a regiment could not have stopped him. he crumpled them up and carried the fragments of the broken line on his head and shoulders, coming at last to the ground five yards over the goal for the touchdown. and the blue stands promptly went stark raving mad. bruised and dizzy but smiling, bert rose to his feet. at that moment he would not have changed places with an emperor. the ball was carried out to the twenty-five yard line and dick, lying flat on the ground, steadied it for the kick. bert took careful aim and lifted it unerringly over the goal. it had scarcely touched the ground when the whistle blew and the game was over. the blues had triumphed, ten to nothing, but only after a desperate battle that left the "maroons" vanquished, but not disgraced. their gallant foes gave them a rousing cheer that was returned by the victors with interest. then the crowds swept down like a tidal wave from the stands and submerged the doughty fighters. the blues, all muddy and disheveled as they were, were hoisted on the shoulders of their exulting comrades and carried from the field. and it was all they could do to get away from them and repair to their shower and rubdown, never before so needed or so welcome. the campus blazed that night with bonfires and resounded with noises that "murdered sleep." but all the pleading that the team might take part in the festivities fell unheeded on the ears of the two inexorable tyrants, hendricks and reddy. happy and exulting tyrants just then, but tyrants none the less. "not until they lick the 'greys,'" was "bull's" decree. "if they do that they can split the town wide open. until then the lid is on." there was no appeal from his decision, and by nine o'clock the weary warriors were tucked away in bed to dream of past and hope for coming victory. dick was just dropping off when a voice came from bert's bed: "say, dick, what's the greatest game in the world?" "football," was the prompt reply. "and, dick, what's the greatest team in the world?" "the blues," averred dick stoutly. "right," assented bert. "now go to sleep." chapter xii the coach robbery one morning bert received a letter that caused him to emit a wild whoop of joy, and then set off post haste to find tom and dick. he discovered them at last on the campus, kicking a ball around, and rushed toward them waving the open letter over his head. "say, fellows," he shouted when he got within speaking distance of them, "whom do you suppose this letter is from? bet you a million you can't guess right in three guesses." "from the way you seem to feel about it," grinned dick, "it must contain money from home. i don't know what else could make you feel as happy as you appear to be." "no, it isn't money," replied bert, "but it's something better." "come off," chaffed tom, "there 'ain't no such thing.' but tell us what it is and get it out of your system." "it's a letter from mr. melton," explained bert, "saying he's on his way east, and is going to visit us here. what do you know about that, eh?" "great!" exclaimed dick and tom in chorus, and dick asked, "when does he say he'll get here?" "monday or tuesday of next week," replied bert, consulting the letter. "either monday afternoon or tuesday morning. he's going to stop at the 'royal,' and wants us to be on hand to meet him. he says in all probability he'll arrive on the 7:45 monday evening. and just make out we won't be on hand to give him a rousing welcome, what?" "i rather guess we will," said tom, "and then some. i move that we hire a brass band and do the thing up right." "that's a good idea all right," laughed bert, "but i rather think mr. melton would prefer to dispense with the brass band. but we'll manage to make him know he's welcome, i have no doubt of that." "i'd deserve to be hung, drawn, and quartered if _i_ didn't," said dick with feeling. "he was certainly a friend in need if there ever was one." dick alluded to a never-to-be-forgotten time when mr. melton had, at the risk of his own life, rendered timely aid to bert and tom in rescuing dick from a band of mexican outlaws. the three comrades were not ones to forget such a service, and from that time on mr. melton had always occupied a warm place in their regard. in addition to his personal bravery he was genial and good natured, with a heart as big as himself. he had taken part in many enterprises, but was now a prosperous rancher in the northwest, calling many a fertile acre his own. he had traveled extensively and knew much of the world. his stock of experiences and anecdote seemed inexhaustible, and he was never at a loss for some tale of adventure when called upon to tell one. his bluff, hearty manner gained him friends wherever he went, and it was with feelings of the keenest anticipation that the three comrades looked forward to his coming. it was only wednesday when bert received the letter announcing his coming, so they had several days of inevitable waiting. however, "all things come to him who waits," and the day to which the boys looked forward with so much anticipation was no exception to the rule. they were at the station long before the train was due, and it seemed hours to them before they heard its whistle in the distance. "the chances are though," said tom pessimistically, "that something has happened to delay him and he won't be on this train at all, but on the one that comes in to-morrow morning." "that's the way it usually works out," agreed bert with a grin, "but somehow i have a hunch that mr. melton is going to be on this train. he said in the letter you know, that in all probability he would be on the earlier train." "yes, i know," said tom, "and i only hope that my fears are groundless. but we won't have to wait long now to find out at any rate." he had hardly ceased speaking when the train puffed into the station. they scanned the long line of cars carefully, and it was dick who first discerned the burly form descending the narrow steps of one of the rear pullmans. "there he is, fellows," he shouted and made a dash in the direction of the approaching figure, followed closely by bert and tom. mr. melton saw them coming and stretched out his hand. "well, well!" he exclaimed, after shaking hands all around. "i'm certainly glad to see you once more, my boys. you don't look as though the grind of college work has interfered much with your health," with a twinkle in his eyes. "no," laughed bert, "we're not actually wasting away under the strain. but as far as that goes," he continued, "you look pretty fit yourself." "yes, and i feel it, too," replied mr. melton. "i'm not quite as spry as i used to be, but i never felt better in my life. there's nothing like an open air life to keep a man young." while this talk was going on, the little party was making its way toward the hotel at which mr. melton had said he was going to put up, and were not long in reaching it. "well, boys," said mr. melton as they ascended the handsome flight of steps leading up to the entrance, "i don't suppose you've had supper yet, have you? if not i want you all to keep me company. it's on me, and the best in the house is none too good for us." "well," replied bert, "speaking for myself, nothing would give me greater pleasure. but we're all three slaves of the training table, you know, so i'm afraid you'll have to excuse us this time." "that's right!" exclaimed mr. melton in a disappointed tone, "for the moment i had forgotten all about that. but duty is duty, and far be it from me to put temptation in your path." "what i think we had better do," said bert, "is to see you safely installed here, and then hustle back to college and eat. then we can come back here and spend the evening with you." "i guess that will be the best plan," agreed mr. melton, "but you must promise me to get back soon." of course they all promised, and after leaving their friend to the tender mercies of the hotel clerk, hastened back to their alma mater. they were just in time for dinner, but in their excitement and hurry to get back to the hotel ate less than usual. in reply to reddy's query as to "what was up," they told him of mr. melton's arrival. reddy had heard of the mexican adventure and spoke accordingly. "he must be a good man to know," he opined, "and i'd like to meet him. go ahead an' make your call now, but don't get back late. i guess, from what i hear of this melton that he'll see that you leave in time anyway." "no, he's not the kind to persuade people to forget their obligations," said dick. "in fact, he's just the opposite. but of course our own well-known principles would make it impossible for us to be late," with a grin. "yes, i know all about that sort of stuff," said reddy. "see if for once you can live up to your own 'rep.'" "all you got to do is keep your eyes peeled, and you'll see us piking in here right on the dot," laughed tom. "come on, fellows. the sooner we get started the sooner we'll get back." "right you are," agreed bert, and the three comrades swung into a brisk stride. a twenty-minute walk brought them to the "royal," and they were immediately ushered up to mr. melton's room. in answer to their knock a hearty voice bade them "come in," and as they opened the door mr. melton met them with outstretched hand. "come in and make yourselves at home," he said genially. "if you want anything and don't see it, ask for it." "you seem to be pretty well fixed with about everything that anybody could want, now," commented bert, glancing about the luxuriously appointed room. "this place certainly looks as though it had had some thought and money expended on it." "yes," admitted the westerner, "it reminds me of the so-called 'hotels' we used to have out west in the early days--it's so different. the height of luxury there was in having a room all to yourself. as a rule you had to bunk in with at least two or three others. o yes, this is quite an improvement on one of those old shacks. i remember one of the pioneer towns where there was a fierce rivalry between the proprietors of the only two hotels in town. they were each trying to get the better of the other by adding some improvement, real or fancied. first the owner of the 'palace' had his shack painted a vivid white and green. then the owner of the 'lone star' hostelry, not to be outdone, had his place painted also, and had a couple of extra windows cut in the wall. so it went, and if they had kept it up long enough, probably in the end people stopping at one of the places would have been fairly comfortable. but before matters reached that unbelievable pitch, o'day, owner of the 'palace,' was killed in a shooting fracas. the man who plugged him claimed he was playing 'crooked' poker, and i think that in all probability he was. if he wasn't, it was about the only time in his life that he ever played straight." "what happened to the man who did the shooting?" asked bert. "well, o'day wasn't what you'd call a very popular character," replied mr. melton, "and nobody felt very much cut up over his sudden exit from this vale of tears. they got up an impromptu jury, but the twelve 'good men and true' failed to find the defendant guilty." "but how did they get around it?" asked tom. "there was no doubt about who did the killing, was there?" "not the least in the world," replied mr. melton with a laugh; "but as i say, popular sentiment was with the man who did the shooting, so the jury turned in a verdict that ran something in this fashion, if i remember rightly: 'we find that the deceased met death while inadvisably attempting to stop a revolver bullet in motion' or words to that effect. i thought at the time it was a masterpiece of legal fiction." "i should say it was," commented dick. "the quibbles and technicalities that make our laws a good deal of a joke to-day have nothing much on that." "that's a fact," agreed mr. melton; "some of the results of our modern 'justice,' so called, are certainly laughable. it's all very well to give a man every chance and the benefit of every doubt, but when a conviction is set aside because the court clerk was an hour behind time getting to court on the day of the trial, it begins to look as though things were being carried too far. mere technicalities and lawyers' quibbles should not have the weight with judges that for some reason they seem to possess." "i've no doubt," remarked bert, "that some of the rough and ready courts such as you were just telling us about meted out a pretty fair brand of justice at that." "yes, they did," replied mr. melton. "they got right down to the core of the argument, and cut out all confusing side issues. if, for instance, three witnesses all swore they saw a man steal a horse, and yet were unable to agree on the exact time of the stealing, the chances were ten to one that the horse thief would be strung up without further loss of time. and there was no appeal from the findings of a frontier jury." "it must have been an exciting life, that of the old frontier days," commented bert. "i guess nobody had to complain much of the monotony of it." "not so you could notice," replied mr. melton with a smile, "but there wasn't half as much shooting going on all the time as you might believe from reading the current stories in the magazines dealing with the 'wild and woolly west.' most everybody carried a gun, of course, but they weren't used so very often. every man knew that his neighbor was probably an expert in the use of his 'shooting irons,' too, so there wasn't much percentage in starting an argument. most of the scraps that did occur would never have been started, if it hadn't been for the influence of 'red-eye,' as the boys used to call the vile brands of whiskey served out in the frontier saloons. that whiskey bit like vitriol, and a few glasses of it were enough to make any man take to the war path." "i suppose you carried a gun in those days, too, didn't you, mr. melton?" questioned dick. "yes, i carried a pair of colt's .45s with me for years," replied the westerner, with a reminiscent look in his eyes. "why, a couple of guns were as much a part of a man's dress in those days as a pair of shoes. every one carried them as a matter of course." "did you ever have to use them?" asked bert. "only once," replied mr. melton. "i never went looking for trouble, and it has been my experience, when you don't look for trouble, trouble seldom looks for you. but the one time i did have use for my arsenal made up for lost time." "tell us about it, please," chorused the boys, and mr. melton smiled at their eagerness as he lit another perfecto. "well," he began, "it was back in the old days before the time of the railroads, when stage coaches were the only carriers known. i was traveling to fort worth on business, and was finding the journey anything but a pleasant one. the coach was old and rickety, and the way it lurched and rolled reminded me of a small boat in a rough sea. it was a terrifically hot day, too, and the stinging alkali dust got down your throat and in your eyes until life seemed an unbearable burden. we had traveled steadily all the morning, and along toward afternoon most of the passengers began to feel pretty sleepy, and dozed off. i was among the number. suddenly i was awakened by a shout of 'hands up!' and found myself looking full into the muzzle of a blue barreled colt, held in the hand of a masked man. "there was nothing for it but to obey, seeing he had the drop on us, so up went our hands over our heads. there were six other passengers in the coach, but if we had been sixteen we would have been no better off. "as we gazed in a sort of fascination at the ugly-looking revolver, another masked man entered the coach and commenced systematically to relieve the passengers of their valuables. i happened to be nearest the front of the coach, and so did not receive the benefit of his attentions at first. he had almost reached me when there was a commotion outside, and he straightened up to listen, all his senses on the alert. "he was between me and the door in which his companion was standing. for the moment the man in the door could not get at me except through his comrade, and i resolved to grasp the opportunity. in a flash i had reached down into the breast of my coat and grasped the butt of my revolver. before the desperado in front of me could get his gun in action, i had fired. at the first shot he dropped to the ground and, as he fell, a bullet from the man in the doorway took my hat off. i pulled the trigger as fast as my fingers could work, and he did the same. i have only a confused recollection of smoke, flashes of flame, shouts and a dull shock in my left arm. in what must have been but a few seconds it was all over. with my own gun empty, i waited to see what would happen. i knew that if by that time i hadn't killed the bandit, he had me at his mercy. and even with him disposed of, i fully expected to be plugged by the man outside who was holding the driver under guard. "but he must have had a streak of yellow in him, for when he failed to see either of his comrades come out of the coach he concluded that they were either dead or prisoners, and made off as fast as his pony could carry him. by that time we passengers had rushed out of the coach, and some of us began firing at the fugitive. but a revolver is not very accurate over two or three hundred feet, and i doubt if the desperado was even grazed. i was unable to shoot for, as i had realized by this time, my left arm was broken just above the elbow, and i was unable to load my gun. "well, finding that we could not hope to harm the fugitive, we returned to the coach. an examination of the two hold-ups showed that one, the man i had shot first, was dead. the other, who had guarded the door, was badly wounded and unconscious. one of the passengers had been bored through the shoulder by a stray bullet, but was not hurt seriously. "the driver bound up my arm after a fashion, and whipped up his horses. it was after dark before we reached fort worth though, and by that time my arm was giving me a foretaste of what hades must be. but there was a good doctor in the town, fortunately for me, and he fixed the arm up in fine fashion. and, believe me, i felt lucky to get off as easy as that." "i should think you would," said bert admiringly. "it must have taken nerve to pull a gun under those conditions." "well," replied mr. melton, "it was all on account of a watch i carried at that time. it was one i had had for years, and thought a lot of. the idea of losing that watch just made me desperate. i think if it hadn't been for that i would never have taken the chance." "and what happened to the man you wounded?" asked dick. "he gradually recovered," replied mr. melton. "the boys were going to hang him when he got well enough, but one night he broke jail and got away. they made up a posse and chased him through three counties, but never caught him. i imagine, though, that his liking for hold-ups suffered a severe check." "very likely," agreed bert, "but i'm glad you saved the watch, anyway." "so am i," said mr. melton with a smile. "here it is now, if you'd care to see it." he passed a handsome gold timepiece over to the boys, who admired it greatly. then the talk turned to other subjects, and before they realized it, it was time for them to go. before leaving, however, they made mr. melton promise to visit the college the following afternoon. this he readily did, and the boys took their departure after saying a hearty good night to their western friend. chapter xiii an unexpected meeting true to his promise, mr. melton made his appearance at the south end of the campus a little after three o'clock of the following day. the three friends were there to meet him, and they exchanged hearty greetings. "there's so much we want to show you that we hardly know where to begin," said bert. "what shall we show him first, fellows?" "let's start with the library," suggested dick, "that's one of the handsomest buildings. when he sees all the books he'll get the idea that we're very literary, and first impressions are lasting, you know." "i'm afraid it wouldn't do any good," said bert. "he'd just be getting that impression, and then tom would pull some of his low comedy stuff and queer the whole thing. we can never palm ourselves off as highbrows while he's around." "just because you're unable to appreciate the little gems of wit i offer you from time to time, you have to go and run them down," protested tom. "it isn't my fault that you haven't sense enough to laugh at them. it's your misfortune, that's all." "well, i'll do my best to bear up under the deprivation," laughed bert. "but here we are, mr. melton. what do you think of the outside?" while he and tom had been exchanging thrusts the little group had been strolling toward the library building, and by this time had reached the broad flight of steps that led up to it. there they halted while mr. melton examined the front of the building. "it is very handsome," he commented; "if its interior answers to its outer appearance it must be a beautiful place." "i think you'll find that it does," said bert; "but the best way to tell is to go inside." accordingly, they ascended the stone steps and, entering the massive doors, found themselves in a lofty hall, from which branched the various reading rooms. everything was in perfect harmony and taste, and mr. melton was outspoken in his expressions of admiration. leaving the library, the boys showed their friend all the college buildings--the recitation hall, the dormitories, the chapel and the gymnasium. mr. melton seemed attracted most of all by the latter, and examined the different athletic apparatus with the greatest interest. "you certainly have everything that modern science can furnish," commented mr. melton enthusiastically. he lingered long by the swimming tank, in which a number of athletic young fellows were disporting themselves. "how would you like to visit the engine room?" asked dick. "to my mind that's the most interesting place in the college." "i'd like it first rate," said mr. melton; "anything in the way of machinery can always be sure of getting a respectful hearing from me." the three friends accordingly guided him down into the engine and boiler rooms, sacred ground to which few visitors ever penetrated. here was machinery of the latest and most up-to-date patterns, and mr. melton listened attentively while the boys explained to him the uses of the various mechanisms. they were familiar with everything in the place, and their listener knew enough about machinery to readily understand everything that they told him. they spent over an hour altogether in the engine room, and when at last they emerged into the upper regions again mr. melton drew a long breath. "it's certainly a wonderful place," he said with enthusiasm; "and i envy you boys the chance you have of getting an education in a such a college. it's a privilege that you'll probably appreciate ten years from now even more than you do at the present time." "possibly," said bert with a note of doubt in his voice. "but i don't think we'll ever take any more pride in the old college than we do right now." "nope, can't be done," said tom flippantly; "any place that can give bert three such meals a day as he gets at the training table is sure to make a hit with him." "_i'll_ make a hit with a brick if you make any more comments of that kind," threatened bert; "and what's more, you'll be _it_." "i call you to witness, mr. melton," said tom, turning to that gentleman, who by now was laughing heartily, "this low person has threatened to land me with a brick if i make any further criticism of his bad habits. now, what i want to know is, is this, or is it not, a land of free speech? is a freeborn american citizen to be threatened and bullied by a----" but here his protest ended in a muffled roar, as dick and bert pounced on him and wrapped their coats tightly about his head. "it's the only way to make him quit," apologized bert to mr. melton. then, addressing the muffled tom, "will you promise to be good if we let you out?" the only answer was a series of wild plungings, that ended by landing the three in a tangled heap on the grass. at last tom managed to get his head free, and struggled to his feet. his laughing comrades also scrambled to theirs, and they stood facing each other. "well," said tom, smoothing down his rumpled mop of hair, "you knew you were tackling something, anyway." "it was quite exciting," laughed mr. melton. "if you boys play football in the same fashion you employed then, i don't see how your opponents ever have a chance." "they don't when they have me to deal with," said tom unblushingly; "it's only when the rival teams come up against dick or bert that they have an easy time of it." bert and dick passed this remark over with the silent contempt they felt it warranted, and asked mr. melton what he would like to do next. "anything you suggest will suit me," replied that individual. "i place myself entirely in the hands of my friends." "well, then," suggested dick, "why not go over and watch the boys practising football? there's always a few kicking the ball around, even when there's no regular practice on the programme, and sometimes they play sides. it won't hurt to go over and see what's doing, anyway." as mr. melton expressed himself as agreeable to this plan, they strolled over toward the campus, and were soon standing on the sidelines watching the practice. there was a goodly number out, and the air resounded with the smack of leather against leather as the pigskin was sent soaring high into the air, to be caught expertly as it descended swiftly toward the earth. a few of the regulars were out, and it was easy even for a stranger to distinguish them by the deftness and quick sureness of their actions. the others sometimes missed hard catches, but these veterans, with clocklike precision, were always in position to make the most difficult catches without even the appearance of effort. "looks easy, doesn't it?" said bert to mr. melton. "well, i wouldn't say that exactly," said mr. melton, "but i've no doubt it looks a good deal easier than it really is. i have had enough experience of life to realize that nothing is as easy as it looks. many people never realize that though, and the result is they never try hard enough, or at least, when they do realize it, find it too late to do anything." they watched the practice a short time longer, and then as the afternoon was getting well along, mr. melton looked at his watch and said he would have to get back to his hotel. they were just turning away when they came face to face with hendricks, who was hurrying toward the scene of activities. he and mr. melton had hardly glanced at each other when they each gave a shout and rushed forward with outstretched hands. "'bull,' you old reprobate, is it really you!" exclaimed mr. melton, pumping the coach's hand up and down like a pumphandle. "it certainly is, old timer," replied hendricks, "and you sure are a welcome sight to me. but how in the name of all that's good did you happen to get here?" "i came as a guest of our young friends here," replied mr. melton; "they mentioned your name, but i didn't think that it might be you. it's some years now since we were together last." while all this had been going on, the three boys had looked on wonderingly, but it did not take long to explain matters. it seemed that hendricks and mr. melton had once been members of a hunting party, and had scoured the rockies together in search of game. they had formed a friendship then that had never grown cold. through the years that had elapsed since their last meeting it had lain dormant, but now, at sight of each other, blazed up again brightly. after a little further talk, mr. melton insisted that the coach and the three boys come to his hotel for dinner and spend the evening there. "you can tell me what to order now," he said, cutting short hendrick's objections, which, to tell the truth, were not very strong. "i'll order exactly what you say, and it will be just the same as though you were eating dinner at the training table. that's satisfactory, isn't it?" "why, i suppose it will have to be," laughed the coach; "if you'll follow out that programme i'll consent. but you can bet your boots i wouldn't do it for everybody." "all right then that's settled," said mr. melton; "so make out your menu, and i'll hustle back to my hotel and make arrangements." hendricks fished out an old envelope and jotted down a list of edibles, starting with "beefsteak." this he gave to mr. melton, and then they shook hands and after saying good-by to the boys, mr. melton hurried away in the direction of his hotel. not long afterward the three comrades, accompanied by the coach, set out for the same destination. when they arrived they were greeted by a cordial welcome, and shortly afterwards dinner was served. it consisted of nothing but the plainest and most nourishing foods, and hendricks expressed himself as feeling perfectly satisfied. after the meal they repaired to mr. melton's rooms, and for a couple of hours the two old friends swapped yarns, while tom and bert and dick listened with the greatest interest. they told tales of adventure by field and forest, and the time passed like magic. but "bull" hendricks was not to be beguiled into forgetting the time, and shortly after ten o'clock he glanced at his watch and rose. "time to be going, boys," he announced crisply. "i'm sure it would be a pleasure to stay all night, but rules are rules, you know." "well, i'd like to have you stay," said mr. melton, "but far be it from me to try to urge you against your judgment. i hope, though, that there won't be as much time between our next meeting as there was between the last, old fellow." "so do i," responded hendricks heartily as they shook hands, "but so long till then, anyway." "good-by," said mr. melton, and then shook hands with the boys. "i'm afraid i won't see you fellows again this trip, although i'm going to make a desperate effort to stay east until the big game comes off," he said. "i've got to get a very early train for new york to-morrow, so i guess we'd better say good-by now until the next time." the boys shook hands with him warmly, and then started downstairs. mr. melton followed them to the door, and the last thing they saw as they looked back was his sturdy bulk outlined in the square of light formed by the open doorway. chapter xiv a plot that failed although reddy, in common with everyone else in the college, felt jubilant over the gallant victory of the blues, he relaxed not one jot of his vigilance. two days' rest was all that he allowed. by that time boyd had recovered from the injury to his knee, the strain of the contest had largely abated, and the team was once more in a condition to face the final test--the battle with the redoubtable "greys" in new york on thanksgiving day. but other and more baleful eyes were fixed on the condition of the team. football is one of the cleanest games in existence, and few sports are more free of gambling of every kind. nevertheless, it is impossible to control the actions of a few professional gamblers who grasp eagerly at every chance to ply their trade. naturally, the conditions of the different teams are of vital importance to them, and they make it their business, through spies and in every possible way, to be well informed on the subject. and the big football games of this season were no exception to the rule. the condition of every player was carefully noted and kept track of, and it is safe to say that the gambling clique had almost as accurate a line on these points as the different trainers themselves. during the practice games in the earlier part of the season the "greys" had seemed to have the "edge" on the other members of the "big three." consequently, they were picked by the poolmakers as the eventual winners, and large bets, amounting in some cases to practically the entire "bank roll" of the plungers, were placed on them to win. but the "blues" had of late been going at such a terrific pace that they had a most excellent chance of winning the pennant. and when this was accentuated by the splendid victory of the "blues" over the "maroons" it threw the "sports" into a condition closely bordering on panic. a week before the final game on thanksgiving day one of the most unscrupulous of the gamblers decided that if he could not win as matters then stood, he would have to resort to underhand methods to change them. accordingly, one evening he called a number of his henchmen about him, and when they and other plungers of his own stamp had assembled at a designated rendezvous, he broached his plan. "boys," he said, glancing from one to the other of the hard faces turned toward him, "there's no use telling you of the hole we're in. you know just as well as i do, i guess, that we stand in a fair way to lose about all we've got on account of the 'blue' team coming up the way it has lately. and according to donovan here, it's not just a flash in the pan, either. it looks as though they had hit their stride and meant to keep it up until the end of the season." "you can lay a stack of blues on dat," here spoke up the individual referred to as "donovan." "dose guys has got more pepper in dem dan a mexican stew. de way dey practice an' de way dey play sure has got me scared stiff. i knows a snappy football team when i sees one, an' you can take it from me dem guys has de goods, and plenty of dem." "well, you see how things stand," said their leader, when donovan had finished. "if we don't do something, and do it pretty quick, we'll be cooked--hashed--done brown on both sides." there were significant looks exchanged among his auditors, and at last one of them said: "well, what's your plan? do you think we could buy one of the 'blue' players? it would be worth our while to ante up something handsome, if you think it could be done." "no chanct in de world," spoke up donovan disgustedly, "dey're all straighter'n a string, an' i tink any guy what made a proposition like dat to one o' them would need a ambulance mighty quick." "that leaves us only one thing to do, then," spoke the leader; "if we can't buy one of them, we'll have to steal one, that's all. we'll have to pinch one of the players some way, and keep him until the big game is over. then we can let him go, and if we play our cards right nobody will ever get on to who turned the trick." if, as is altogether unlikely, there existed any lingering scruple among those present at taking part in any such project, the thought of the ruin impending over their heads quickly banished such thoughts. all that remained to be discussed was which player should be kidnapped, and there were various opinions on this point. but the voice of donovan decided the question. "de best man we can crimp," he said, "is henderson, de quarterback. he's de guy what gives de signals, an' it will stand de whole bunch on deir heads. besides," with a crafty grin, "he ain't quite as big as some of de other huskies, an' dere's no use makin' ourselves any more trouble dan we got to." "i'll provide a good safe place to keep him in," said bloom, the leader. "there's a place over mike's saloon, on the outskirts of the town, that will be just the thing, and there won't be any questions asked, either." so the plans for kidnapping the unconscious tom were finally settled and disposed of. bloom immediately set about perfecting his plans. he realized that he was confronted with a difficult problem. he knew that it would be necessary for him to capture tom at some time when he was not in the company of his two comrades, and from what his spy, donovan, had told him, he knew that the three were seldom separated for any length of time. but he finally evolved a plan, and without loss of time set about putting it in action. he secured the use of a powerful automobile, and put it in charge of one of his trusted lieutenants. the man was carefully instructed in the part he was to play, and was intrusted with a note that he was to deliver to tom at a certain time. thus the trap was laid, and bloom settled back to wait for the proper time to spring it. and fate seemed to play into his hands. toward dusk of the tuesday immediately preceding thanksgiving day bert and dick had occasion to go to town, and as tom had some studying to do, they left him in his room and set out on their errand. this was the time for which the gambler had been waiting. his spies immediately sent him word of the favorable condition of affairs. excitedly he slammed the receiver of the telephone on its hook and sent word to the man in charge of the automobile. the latter immediately cranked up his car, and a few minutes later the big limousine rolled quietly up to tom's dormitory. the driver, who was dressed in ordinary chauffeur's garb, mounted the stairs to the entrance, and when his ring was answered by the appearance of an attendant, requested him to deliver a letter that he handed him to "mr. tom henderson." a few moments later tom was interrupted in his studies by a knock on the door of his room, and on opening it was handed an unstamped envelope. somewhat surprised, he drew forth a yellow slip of paper that proved to be a telegraph blank. tom read the words scrawled across it, in careless, hasty writing. "dear tom," the message read, "am in town just for one evening, and want you to drop in and see me. i would visit you if possible, but have some friends with me, and so cannot. just to make sure of your coming i'm sending my car for you. please don't disappoint me." the letter was signed "dave." "why," thought tom, "that must be dave rutgers. i should say i would go to see him. i haven't laid eyes on the old sinner since i came to college." crumpling the yellow slip into a ball, he flung it into a corner of the room and hastily donned his coat and hat. as he was about to leave the room he hesitated a moment, and started back. but after a second he started out again, and slammed the door after him. "i'll be back in a couple of hours," he thought. "bert and dick probably won't return much before that, so there's no use writing a note telling them where i've gone." with this thought he dismissed the matter from his mind, and hurried down to the waiting auto. he stepped in, the chauffeur slammed the door, and the big machine glided noiselessly away, at a rapid gait. about ten o'clock that evening bert and dick returned, and on their way to their room pounded on tom's door. they received no reply, so concluded that he must be asleep, and passed on. but when they stopped at his room the next morning, as was their invariable custom, and received no answer to repeated summons, they began to feel uneasy. "perhaps he's stolen a march on us and gone down early," suggested dick. "possible," answered bert, "but more likely he's just 'playing possum.'" as he spoke he seized the knob to rattle the door, and the door swung open! "why, he's not in here," exclaimed bert, as he gazed about the room; "and what's more," he continued excitedly, "he hasn't been here all night, either. it's easy to see that the bed hasn't been slept in." "that mighty queer," said dick uneasily. "where do you suppose he can have gone?" "i haven't the slightest idea, i'm sure," said bert. "he didn't say anything to you about going anywhere, did he?" "not a word," said dick, "and i think if he had expected to be away any length of time he would have told one of us about it." "something might have come up unexpectedly," said bert; "but then he'd have left a note for us. i--but what's that over in the corner!" he suddenly exclaimed, "looks as though it might be a telegram." as he spoke he pounced on the crumpled ball that tom had tossed there the evening before, and hastily smoothed it out. then he and dick read the words written on it. "that explains why he went," said bert when they had mastered its contents. "but it doesn't explain where he went or why he didn't get back before this." they gazed at each other a few seconds, and each saw his own fears mirrored in the eyes of his friend. "there's something wrong somewhere," declared dick at length, "and it's up to us to find out what." "it looks that way," said bert. then he continued, "this isn't a regular telegram, you see. it looks as though the person writing it had just scribbled the message on the handiest scrap of paper he could find, which happened to be this." "it may give us a clue to the writer," said dick, as a sudden thought flashed across his mind; "there are several telegraph offices in the town, and probably if we showed that slip in any of them we could learn what office it came from. there must be some identifying mark on it. then the people in that office might be able to give us some clue as to who wrote it." "it's worth trying, anyway," said bert after a brief consideration. "and the sooner we start the better. i'm getting more worried every minute." with all thoughts of breakfast forgotten, they hurried from the college, and were not long in reaching the railroad depot where the main telegraph office was located. they showed the slip to the operator, asking him if he could tell them from what station it had been taken. "sure," he said, looking at a figure in the upper left-hand corner, "that came from station 'd,' on the corner of spruce and elm streets." the boys thanked him and hurried out. the address the operator had given them was nearly a mile away, and they broke into a run. as they went along they noticed that the houses lining the streets began to wear a very tumble-down aspect, and to thin out more and more. "this is a rotten neighborhood," panted bert; "we must be getting pretty near the edge of the town." they had almost reached their destination when, as they passed a particularly ramshackle building with a saloon on the ground floor, they became conscious of a terrific hubbub going on within. there was a sound of shouting and blows, and every once in a while the whole crazy building would fairly rock as some heavy body crashed against the walls from within. even as bert and dick stood watching in amazement, a muffled shout arose above the general uproar that they both recognized. "that was tom's voice for a million!" yelled bert, and without another word the two friends made a dash for the door that evidently led to the floor above. without hesitating to find out whether or not it was locked they crashed against it. their combined weight acted like a battering ram and the door, torn from its hinges, fell inward. they rushed up the rickety stairs in great bounds and, crashing through another door that barred their way, found themselves precipitated into the midst of a fierce struggle. on the floor four men were locked in a deadly grapple. the meager furniture of the room was splintered and broken, and the whole place looked as though a cyclone had struck it. with a yell bert and dick plunged into the struggle. and now the odds were more even. instead of three to one they were now three to three, and the tide of battle began to turn. bert and dick tore tom's assailants away from him and he staggered to his feet. he was battered and bruised, but still full of fight. "come on, fellows, wade into them," he shouted hoarsely. his tried and true comrades needed no second bidding, and now began a battle compared to which the other seemed mild. the three thugs who had been trying to overpower tom were brutal fighters, and withal were men of muscle. but it did not take long to decide which side would win. the three friends, every fighting instinct in them aroused, and the lust of battle hot within them, fought with a fury and concentrated power that nothing could withstand. slowly they forced the thugs across the room, planting blow after blow with deadly effect. their opponents gave ground steadily, unable to withstand the terrific punishment meted out to them. suddenly the one nearest the door made a dash for it, and the others followed suit. the three comrades started in hot pursuit, but reached the street only to see the last of their erstwhile antagonists disappearing around the nearest corner, and bert called a halt. "no use chasing them," he said, when they had gotten their breath a little. "they know the neighborhood and we don't, and the chances are we'd never catch them. we licked 'em good and proper though, didn't we?" "that was _some_ scrap, all right," said dick with a long whistle, "and we didn't get off scot free, either. my left eye feels as though a coal wagon had fallen on it." "it looks it, too," said bert with a wry grin; "we're all marked up a little, but i'll bet that bunch of roughnecks will remember us for a little while to come. but how did they come to get you, tom? tell us all about it." tom then told them about receiving the note, and getting into the automobile. "after that," he said, "there's not much to tell. it was dark, and i didn't notice what kind of a neighborhood that rascally chauffeur was taking me into. after a while he stopped and opened the door, telling me we had arrived at dave's house. as i stepped out those three 'bad men' jumped on me. one of them pressed a rag soaked in chloroform over my face, and i went to sleep almost before i had a chance to fight. when i came to i found myself in that room, with one lowbrow on guard. i waited until my head cleared a little, and then i sailed into him. the noise of the shindy brought up the other two, and then the argument got pretty hot. there's no doubt but what they'd have won the decision soon, too, if you fellows hadn't happened to butt in just as you did. i couldn't have held out much longer against odds like that." "yes, it is rather lucky," agreed bert; "we weren't a minute too soon." "how did you learn where i was?" inquired tom. bert then told him how they had discovered the slip of paper containing the note to him, and gave a brief outline of his and dick's actions after discovering it. "pretty good detective work," said tom admiringly. "sherlock holmes would better look out for his laurels." meanwhile they had been walking back toward the college, and with the aid of a street car were not long in reaching it. as they were crossing the campus, they met reddy. "for the love of hivin," exclaimed the trainer, as he caught sight of their swollen faces, "what in the world have you been doin' anyway? you haven't been lambastin' each other, have ye?" "not exactly," said bert, and then proceeded to give the trainer a detailed account of the recent happenings. reddy listened attentively, and when bert finished made no reply at once. after a thoughtful silence, he said: "well, it's something of a mystery, wilson, but one thing is certain--without henderson the team would have been so crippled that we wouldn't have had a chance in the world of winning, and i have an idea that the bunch connected with mike's place, where he was held prisoner, have a pretty big interest in our winning or losing, in a money way. and the two facts put together may come pretty near giving the correct answer." "i imagined it might be something of the kind," said bert; "i wonder what chance there is of bringing the scoundrels to justice." "you'll bet we'll do everything possible," said reddy grimly, "but now, you'd better pack henderson off to bed, and trent had better put a bit o' beefsteak on that damaged 'lamp' of his! this afternoon we start for new york, and we want everybody fit." chapter xv the dash for the goal "the day, the important day, big with the fate of cato and of rome," quoted dick. "it is the sun of austerlitz," chimed in tom, not to be outdone in quotation, as he drew aside the curtains of the hotel window and saw the bright rays streaming over the city roofs. "as long as it isn't waterloo, we'll have no kick coming," added bert. "i'm tickled to death to see that it's this kind of weather. i'd hate to play on as muddy a field as we had with the 'maroons.'" "the paper predicted rain yesterday," said tom, throwing up the window, "but from the bite in the air, it seems cold enough for snow. how would you like to play on a snowy field, fellows?" "not for mine," replied dick emphatically, "although the western teams do it often. only a few years ago chicago and michigan played in what was almost a blizzard." "i'll bet the teams kept warm enough," commented bert; "but it must have been tough on the spectators." "o, those dyed-in-the-wool football fiends don't care for a little thing like that," said dick. "we'll never play to empty benches, no matter what the weather. but hurry up now and come down to breakfast. we won't dare to eat very much at lunch and we'd better fill up now." it was thanksgiving day, and the blues had come up to new york the night before, so that they might have a good night's rest before the most important game of the season. the game was to be played at the polo grounds and public interest was so great that all the seats had been sold out long in advance. it was a foregone conclusion that the vast amphitheater would be crowded to capacity when the teams should come trotting out on the gridiron. the excitement was the greater because of the superb form shown by both teams all through the season. seldom had competitors been more equally matched. both had come through their schedules unbeaten, and the shrewdest followers of the game were hard put to it to pick a winner. even the games played by each with the "maroons" did not give much of a line. the "greys," to be sure, had made two touchdowns, while the blues had only tallied one. but, on the other hand, the "maroons" had scored on the "greys," while the blues had been able to keep their goal intact. the "dope" was perplexing and the wisest tipsters were all at sea. man for man, the "greys" had a slight advantage in weight. but the blues were admitted to have the finest backfield in the country, and wilson was "touted" as the greatest player seen at full for the last twenty years. all in all, it was a "toss up," and many predicted that neither side would score. but no such neutral tint shadowed the rosy dreams of the blues. they were full of fight, and brimming over with confidence. all their cripples had come back except ellis, who was just able to limp around without a crutch. but morley in his place had rounded to in great shape and there was scarcely a shade to choose between the two. boyd's knee, hurt in the game with the "maroons," was all right again and, best of all, good old hodge was back again at right tackle, having at last made up his conditions. he plugged up the only really weak place on the team, and made the line twenty per cent. stronger than it had been without him. for all these reasons the team felt itself unbeatable, and were eager for the hour to come when they might prove it. even dan, the old bulldog that served the team as a mascot, moved about with unusual alacrity and seemed to have caught the contagion. "he's actually smiling," declared tom, as he patted him affectionately. "it's up to you to bring us luck to-day, old fellow." hendricks and reddy, although delighted to see the way the boys were feeling, felt it incumbent to add a word of caution. "you're going to win, boys," said the former; "but you'll have your work cut out for you. those fellows are never easy, and there'll be something doing every minute. get the jump at the very start, and keep forcing the fight. go in for straight football until you feel them out, and don't resort to the 'fireworks' until you have to. and keep your eyes on that quarterback of theirs. he's one of the trickiest in the game and always liable to start something." "not forgetting the full," added reddy, "they say he's as big and strong as a bull elephant, and it's aching he'll be to stack up against you, wilson." "let him come," grinned bert. "i'll try to make it interesting." even new york, big and indifferent as it is to most things taking place within it, was agog with interest over the contest. the front pages of the papers were devoted to a review and comparison of the teams, and bulletin boards were prepared for the great crowds expected to gather about the offices during the progress of the game. broadway and fifth avenue were alive with flags and the college colors, and the lobbies of the hotels were packed with a swarming mob of undergraduates. tally-hos with merry parties and tooting horns rolled up the avenue, and hundreds of automobiles joined in the procession. the subways and elevated roads were crowded to the doors, and at one o'clock, although the game did not begin till two, there was not a vacant seat in the vast stadium, while thousands of deadheads seized every point of vantage on the bluffs that surrounded the grounds. the stands were a perfect riot of beauty and color, and the stentorian voices of the rival rooters, to which was joined the treble of the girls made the air echo with songs and shouts of defiance. after a light lunch the teams had been bundled into swift autos and hurried to the field, where they made their final preparations and underwent the last scrutiny of coach and trainers. both were in superb fettle and ready to present their strongest line-up, and when they tumbled out on the field, amid frantic roars of greeting, there seemed nothing to choose between them. the preliminary practice was sharp and snappy. the crisp tang of the air was a tonic to which all responded, and the inspiration of the huge crowds spurred them on to do their prettiest. bert attracted especial attention as he kicked goals in practice. his fame had preceded him, and the college men in the stands were kept busy at the behest of a sister--or somebody else's sister--in "pointing out wilson." other heroes of the gridiron also came in for their meed of admiration, and by the time the game was started expectation was wound up to the highest pitch. everyone felt, as the young gladiators faced each other, that the game would be "for blood." nor were they disappointed. from the moment the referee's whistle blew, the playing was of the most desperate kind. the "greys" had won the choice of goal and the blues had the kick-off. bert poised himself carefully and shot the ball down the field far and high. hamilton made a fair catch at the thirty yard line, but caldwell had gone down like a flash, and nailed him before he could run back. the ball belonged to the "greys." dudley went through left and tackle for a gain of five. hamilton gained two more on the other side of the line. again dudley tried between center and guard, but caught a tartar in dick, and was thrown back for a loss of three. the bucking game was not panning out and the ball was passed back to the giant fullback, livingston, for a kick. the snapping was good and the kick speedy, but bert burst through the line like a whirlwind and by a superb leap blocked it in mid-air. it was a rattling play and the blue stand shook with cheers. the teams lined up for the scrimmage on the "grey's" thirty-five yard line. hodge plunged through for seven with the whole "grey" team sprawling over him. a forward pass, beautifully engineered by tom, garnered eight more. martin skirted left end for a pretty run of fifteen yards, but was tackled so heavily by livingston that he dropped the ball, and felton pounced upon it. it was a close call for the "greys" and a sigh of relief went up from their partisans when on the next play a great punt by minden sent it whirling down the field and out of danger. a furious battle ensued, but fortune seemed angry at the blues for their disregard of her gifts, and the quarter ended with the ball in the middle of the field. nor, try as they would, could they gain in the next period against the stonewall defense put up by the "greys." perhaps the blue attack was somewhat more savage than their own, but they made up for that by superior weight in the line. their signals were working perfectly and they moved with the precision of a machine. twelve minutes of playing time had elapsed when, with the ball on the "greys'" forty yard line, bert suddenly dropped back for a kick. the "greys" burst through, but it got off perfectly. high in the air it soared like a hawk, headed straight for the goal. a groan rose from the "grey" stands, while those in the blue sprang to their feet, in a burst of frantic cheering. but, just as it neared the bar, a stiff gust of wind from the north caught it and deflected it from its course. it curved down and out, striking the post and bounded back into the field, where ensley fell upon it. the hearts of the blues went down into their boots, while their opponents capered about and hugged each other. "what's the use playing against such luck as that?" growled drake disgustedly. "it's tough, all right," agreed bert, "but they can't get all the breaks. it'll be our turn next." before the ball could be put in play the period ended, and the teams went to their quarters for the fifteen minute rest before the final struggle. "hard luck, boys," consoled the coach, "but things are due to change. wilson deserved that goal if he didn't get it, but that's part of the game. you've got their number. keep on hammering the line, and if you find that won't work, uncork that variation of the forward pass. go in now and eat them up." as the fellows filed out, they passed dan, the bulldog, dressed in a brand-new suit of blue in honor of the occasion. tom stooped and patted his head. "get on the job, old boy," he urged. "show those fellows that you are the real thing in mascots." dan barked reassuringly. but he took his time in thinking it over. and the hard luck of the blues still persisted. a fruitless attempt to buck the line by either team failing to yield the desired gain, there followed a kicking duel between the two fullbacks in which bert easily carried off the honors. but slips and off-side playing neutralized the advantage. on the "greys" forty yard line they tried out "bull" hendricks' new variation. the ball was passed to bert, apparently for a drop kick, but immediately on receiving the ball, he started on an end run as though the move had been a "plant" to draw in the end rush. thinking the whole thing a fake, the halfback at first hesitated to come in, but bert kept on parallel to the line of scrimmage until the half dared hesitate no longer, as it looked certain that bert was bent on a run around the ends. in the meantime the long run had given drake time to get down the field, and bert, turning swiftly, sent the ball to him in a beautiful spiral swing. it would have worked to a charm had not drake tripped as he started on his run and been savagely tackled by livingston before he could regain his feet. "another good thing gone wrong," groaned dick. and it certainly seemed as though "the stars in their courses" were fighting for the "greys." a moment's breathing space, and the fourth quarter opened up. with a strength born of desperation the teams went at each other hammer and tongs. the "greys" were heartened by the good fortune that had declared so steadily for them and they played like wild men. a brilliant run around left end netted them twenty yards, and a forward pass gained ten more. inspired by their success they "forced" their luck until they were on the blues fifteen yard line with the ball in their possession. but here the blues braced savagely. the crowds were standing now and crazy with excitement. the "grey" followers shrieked to their favorites to "put it over," while from the blue stands their football song came booming from twenty thousand throats: "steady, boys, steady. you're fighting for your father, you're fighting for your mother, you're fighting for your sister, you're fighting for your brother, you're fighting for the blue. hit them up, rip them up, tear their line in two. steady, boys, steady." panting, pale, determined, the team heard, and their muscles stiffened. livingston plunged in but was thrown back on his head. dudley tried and failed to gain an inch. the line was impregnable, and ensley dropped back for a kick. but like lightning, bert was on him so suddenly that the ball shot up and back over ensley's head. without checking his speed, bert scooped it up on the bound and was off down the field. such running! it was flying. its like had never been seen on a football field. on he went, like a bullet. down that living lane of forty thousand people, he tore along, his eyes blazing, his head held high, a roar like thunder in his ears, while beneath him the white lines slipped away like a swiftly flowing river. on and on he went, nearer and nearer to the goal. behind him came the "greys" like a pack of maddened wolves. but the blues were coming too. savagely they hurled themselves on the enemy, grasping, holding, tackling and brought them to the ground. then from the tangle of legs and arms emerged tom and dick, and running like the wind put down the field to the help of their flying comrade. victory! before him was the goal, but twenty yards away. behind him pounded his pursuers, who had made up ground while he was dodging. he could hear their panting and almost feel their breath upon his neck. one more tremendous leap, and like an arrow from a bow, he flashed over the line for a touchdown. he had made a run of ninety yards through a broken field in the last minute of play. * * * * * some days later when the "tumult and the shouting" had died away--when the "sound of revelry by night" had ceased--when the "lid" for a moment open was again "on"--when the snake dances and the bonfires and the toasts were over--bert, more than ever the idol of his college, together with tom and dick, were bidding good-by to mr. melton at the railroad station. "and remember," he called through the window as his train pulled out, "i'm going to hold you boys to that promise to come out to my montana ranch. i'll give you a corking good time." how "corking" a time they had, how full of dash and danger, adventure and excitement, will be told in "=bert wilson in the rockies.=" * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page 83, "althought" changed to "although" (broad grin, "although) page 138, "elllis" changed to "ellis" (poor old ellis) page 205, "pecipitated" changed to "precipitated" (found themselves precipitated) page 220, "yard" changed to "yards" (twenty yards away) "good-natured" is printed with the hyphen, without the hyphen and as one word (goodnaturedly) in this text. this was retained. the high school captain of the team or dick & co. leading the athletic vanguard by h. irving hancock contents chapters i. "kicker" drayne revolts ii. a hint from the girls iii. putting the tag on the sneak iv. the traitor gets his deserts v. "brass" for an armor plate vi. one of the fallen vii. dick meets the boy-with-a-kick viii. dick puts "a better man" in his place ix. could dave make good? x. leading the town to athletics xi. the "king deed" of daring xii. the nerve of the soldier xiii. dick begins to feel old xiv. fordham plays the gentleman's game xv. "we'll play the gentleman's game xvi. gridley's last charge xvii. the long gray column xviii. the would-be candidates xix. tom reade bosses the job xx. when the great news was given out xxi. gridley seniors whoop it up xxii. the message from the unknown xxiii. the plight of the innocent xxiv. dave gives points to the chief of police xxv. conclusion chapter i "kicker" drayne revolts "i'm going to play quarter-back," declared drayne stolidly. "you?" demanded captain dick prescott, looking at the aspirant in stolid wonder. "of course," retorted drayne. "it's the one position i'm best fitted for of all on the team." "do you mean that you're better fitted for that post than anyone else on the team?" inquired prescott. "or that it's the position that best fits your talents?" "both," replied drayne. dick prescott glanced out over gridley high school's broad athletic field. a group of the middle men of the line, and their substitutes, had gathered around coach morton. on another part of the field dave darrin was handling a squad of new football men, teaching how to rush in and tackle the swinging lay figure. still others, under greg holmes, were practicing punt kicks. drayne's face was flushed, and, though he strove to hide the fact, there was an anxious look there. "i didn't quite understand, drayne," continued the young captain of the team, "that you were to take a very important part this year." "pshaw! i'd like to know why i'm not," returned the other boy hotly. "i think that is regarded as being the general understanding," continued dick. he didn't like this classmate, yet he hated to give offense or to hurt the other's feelings in any way. "the general understanding?" repeated drayne hotly. "then i can tell the man who started that understanding." "i think i can, too," prescott answered, smiling patiently. "it was you, dick prescott! you, the leader of dick & co., a gang that tries to boss everything in the high school! "cool down a bit," advised young prescott coolly. "you know well enough that the little band of chums who have been nicknamed dick & co. don't try to run things in the high school. you know, too, drayne, if you'll be honest about it, that my chums and i have sometimes sacrificed our own wishes to what seemed to be the greatest good of the school." "then who is the man who has worked to put me on the shelf in football?" insisted the other boy, eyeing dick menacingly. "yourself, drayne!" "what are you talking about?" cried drayne, more angry than before. "don't be blind, drayne," continued the young captain. "and don't be silly enough to pretend that you don't know just what i mean. you remember last thanksgiving day?" "oh, that?" said drayne, contemptuously. "just because i wouldn't do just what you fellows wished me to do? "i was there," pursued captain prescott, "and i heard all that was said, saw all that was done. there was nothing unreasonable asked of you. some of the fellows were a good bit worried as to whether you were really in shape for the game, and they talked about it among themselves. they didn't intend you to over hear, but you did, and you took offense. the next thing we knew, you were hauling off your togs in hot temper, and telling us that you wouldn't play. you did this in spite of the fact that we were about to play the last and biggest game of the season." "i should say i wouldn't play, under such circumstances! nor would you, prescott, had the same thing happened to you." "i have had worse things happen to me," replied dick coolly. "i have been hectored to pieces, at times, both on the baseball and football teams. the hectoring has even gone so far that i have had to fight, more than once. but never sulked in dressing quarters and refused to go on the field." "no!" taunted drayne. "and a good reason why. you craved to get out, always, and make grand stand plays!" "i suppose i'm as fond of applause from the grand stand as any other natural fellow," laughed dick good-humoredly. "but i'll tell you one thing, drayne: i never hear a murmur of what comes from the grand stand until the game is over. i play for the success of the team to which i belong, and listening to applause would take my mind off the plays. but, candidly, what the fellows have against you, is that you're a quitter. you throw down your togs at a critical moment, and tell us you won't play, just because your fearfully sensitive feelings have been hurt. now, a sportsman doesn't do that." "oh, it's all right for you to take on that mighty superior air, and try to lecture me," retorted drayne gruffly. "i'm not lecturing you. but the fellows chose me to lead the team this year, and the captain is the spokesman of the team. he also has to attend to its disagreeable business. don't blame me, drayne, and don't blame anyone else-----" "captain prescott!" sounded the low, but clean-cut, penetrating voice of mr. morton, submaster and football coach of the gridley high school. "coming, sir!" answered dick promptly. then he added, to drayne: "just blame your own conduct for the decision that was reached by coach and myself after listening to the instructions of the alumni athletics committee." dick moved away at a loping run, for football practice was limited to an hour and a half in an afternoon, and he knew there was no time to be frittered. "oh, you sneak!" quivered drayne, clenching his hands as he scowled at the back of the captain. "it was you who brought up the old dispute. it is you who are keeping me from any decent chance this last year of mine in the high school. i won't stand it! i'll shake the dust from my feet on this crowd. i won't remain in the squad, just for a possible chance to sub in some small game!" his face still hot with what he considered righteous indignation, drayne felt better as soon as he had decided to shake the crowd. in an instant, however, he changed his mind. a sly, exultant look came into his eyes. "on second thought i believe i won't quit," he grinned to himself. "i'll stay---i'll drill---and i'll get good and square with this cheap crowd, captained by a cheap man! gridley hasn't lost a game in years. well, you chaps shall lose more than one game this year! i'll teach you! i'll make this a year that shall never be forgotten by humbled gridley pride!" just what phin drayne was planning will doubtless be made plain ere long. readers of the preceding volumes in this series are already familiar with nearly all the people, young and old, of both sexes, whom they are now to meet again. in the first volume, "_the high school freshmen_," our readers became acquainted with dick prescott, dave darrin, greg holmes, dan dalzell, tom reade and harry hazelton, six young chums who, back in their days in the central grammar school gridley, had become fast friends, and had become known as dick & co. these chums played together, planned together, entered all sports together. they were inseparable. all were manly young fellows. when they entered gridley high school, and caught the fine high school spirit prevailing there, they made the honor of the school even more important than their own companionship. in the first year at high school the boys, being mere freshmen, could not expect to enter any of the school's athletic teams. yet, as our readers know, dick and his friends found many a quiet way to boost local interest and pride in high school athletics. dick & co. also indulged in many merry and startlingly novel pranks. dick secured an amateur position as space reporter on "the blade," the morning newspaper of the little city, and was assigned, among other things, to look after the news end of the transactions of the board of education. the "influence" that young prescott secured in that way doubtless saved him from having grave trouble, or being expelled when, owing to dr. thornton's ill-health, abner cantwell, a man with an uncontrollable temper, came temporarily to the principal's chair. to everybody's great delight, at the beginning of this their senior year, dr. thornton had returned to his position fully restored to his former vigor and health. in "_the high school pitcher_" dick & co., then sophomores, were shown in some fine work with the gridley high school nine, and dick had serious, even dangerous, trouble, with mean, treacherous enemies that he made. in "_the high school left end_," dick & co., juniors, made their real entrance into high school athletics by securing places in the school football eleven. it was in this year that there occurred the famous strife between the "soreheads" and their enemies, whom the former termed the "muckers." the "soreheads" were the sons of certain aristocratic families who resolved to secede from football in case any of the members of dick & co. or of other poor gridley families, were allowed to make places on the team. as the group of "soreheads" contained a few young men who were really absolutely necessary to the success of the gridley high school football eleven, the strife threatened to put gridley in the back row as far as football went. but dick, with his characteristic vigor, went after the "soreheads" in the columns of "the blade." he covered them with ridicule and scorn so that the citizens of the town began to take a hand in the matter as soon as their public pride was aroused. the "soreheads" were driven, then, to apply for places in the football squad. only those most needed, however, had been admitted, and the rest had retired in sullen admission of defeat. two of the latter, bayliss and bert dodge, carried matters so far, however, that they were actually forced out of the high school and left gridley to go to a preparatory school elsewhere. the hostile attempts of young ripley, of dodge, drayne and others to injure dick & co. have been fully related in the four volumes of the "_high school boys' vacation series_." this series deals with the good times enjoyed by dick & co. during their first three summers as high school boys. these stories are replete with summer athletics, and a host of exciting adventures. the four volumes of this vacation series are published under the titles: "_the high school boys' canoe club_," "_the high school boys in summer camp_," "_the high school boys fishing trip_" and "_the high school boys' training hike_." this present year no "sorehead" movement had been attempted. every student who honestly wanted to play football presented himself at the school gymnasium, on the afternoon named by coach morton for the call, including drayne, who had been one of the original "soreheads." drayne afterwards returned to the football fold, behaving with absurd childishness at the big thanksgiving game, as our readers will recall. leaving coach morton, captain prescott hurried away to take charge of the practice. "come, mr. drayne!" called coach morton "get into the tackling work, and be sure to mix it up lively." "just a moment, coach, if you please," begged drayne. "well, drayne?" asked mr. morton "captain prescott has just been telling me that i'm to be only a sort of sub this year." "well, he's captain," replied the submaster. "huh! i thought it was all prescott's fine work!" sneered phin. "you're wrong there, mr. drayne," rejoined the coach frankly. "as a matter of fact, it was i who suggested that you be cast for light work this year." "oh!" muttered drayne "yes; if you feel like blaming anyone, blame me, not prescott. you know, drayne, you didn't behave very well last thanksgiving day." "i admit that my behavior was unreasonable, sir. but you know, mr. morton, that i'm one of the valuable men." "there's a crowd of valuable men this year, drayne," smiled the submaster. "on the strongest pledge that i can give you, mr. morton, will you allow me to play regular quarter-back this season?" begged the quitter of the year before. "i would give the idea more thought if prescott recommended it; but i doubt if he would," answered mr. morton slowly. "personally, drayne, i don't approve of putting you on strong this year. the quitter's reputation drayne, is one that can't ever be really lived down, you know." though coach's manner was mild enough, there was look of the resolute eyes of this famous college athlete that made phin drayne realized how i hopeless it was to expect any consideration from him. "all right then mr. morton," he replied huskily. "i'll do my best on a small showing, and take what comes to me." yet, as he walked slowly over to join the tacklers around the swinging figure, the hot blood came again to young drayne's face. "i'll make this year a year of sorrow gridley!" he quivered indignantly. "i'll hang on, and make believe i'm meek as a lamb, but i'll spoil gridley's record for this year! there was in olden times a chap who had a famous knack for getting square with people who used him the wrong way. i wish i could remember his name at this moment." drayne couldn't recall the name at the time, but another name that might have served drayne to remember at this instant was--benedict arnold. chapter ii a hint from the girls there had been nothing rapid in dick prescott's elevation to the captaincy of the eleven. back in the grammar school he had started his apprenticeship in athletics. during his freshman year in high school he had kept up his training. in his sophomore year he had trained hard for and had won honors in the baseball nine. in his junior year, after harder training that ever, he had performed a season's brilliant work, playing left end in all the biggest games of the season. so now, in his senior and last year at gridley high school he had come by degrees to the most envied of all possible positions in school athletics. the election to the football captaincy had not been sought by dick. in his junior year it had been offered to him, but he had declined it, feeling that wadleigh, both by training and judgement, was better fitted to lead the eleven on the gridiron. but now, having reached his senior year, dick was by far the best leader possible. coach and football squad alike conceded it, and the alumni association's athletics committee had approved. dick prescott had grown in years since first we saw him, but not in conceit. like all who succeed in this world, he had a good degree of positiveness in his make-up; but from this he left out strong self-conceit. in all things, as in his school life, he was prepared to sacrifice himself along whatever lines pointed to the best good. dave darrin, of all the chums, was nearly as well fitted as was prescott to lead, though not quite. so dave, with dick's own kind of spirit, fell back willingly into second place. this year dave was second captain of the eleven, ready to lead to victory if dick should become incapacitated. beyond these, any of the four other chums were almost as well qualified for leadership. ability to lead was strong in all the "partners" of dick & co. while they were on the field that afternoon all of the six worked as though football were the sole subject on earth that interested them. that was the gridley high school way, and it was the spirit that coach morton always succeeded in putting into worthy young men. once back in dressing quarters, however, and under the shower baths, the talk turned but little on football. as soon as they had rubbed down and dressed dick & co. went outside and started back to town---on foot. time could be saved by taking the street car, but dick and his friends believed that a brief walk, after the practice served to keep the kinks out of their joints and muscles. "what ailed old drayne this afternoon, dick?" asked tom reade. "why, he told me that he had hoped to play quarter this season." "regular quarter?" demanded dan dalzell, opening his eyes very wide. "that was what i gathered, from what he said," nodded dick. "well, of all the nerve!" muttered hazelton. "the star position---for a fellow with a quitter's record!" "i was obliged to say something of the sort" smiled dick, "though i tried to say it in a way that wouldn't hurt his feelings." "you didn't succeed very well in salving his feelings, if his looks gave any indication." laughed greg holmes quietly. "drayne went over to coach afterwards," added dave darrin. "mr. morton didn't seem to give the fellow any more satisfaction than you did, dick." "who is to be quarter, anyway?" asked harry hazelton. "why, dave is my first and last choice," prescott answered frankly. "but, personally, i'm not going to press him any too hard for the post." "why not?" challenged greg. "because everyone will say that i'm playing everything in the interest of dick & co." "dave darrin is head and shoulders above any other possibility for quarter-back," insisted greg, with so much conviction that darrin, with mock politeness, turned and lifted his cap in acknowledgment of the compliment. "then coach and the athletics committee are intelligent enough to find it out," answered the young football captain. "that suits me," nodded dave. "i want to play at quarter; yet, if i can't make everyone concerned feel that i am the man for the job, then i haven't made good to a sufficient extent to be allowed to carry off the honors in a satchel." "that's my idea, darrin," answered dick. "i believe you have made good, and so good at that, that i'm going to dodge any charge of favoritism, and leave it to others to see that you're forced to take what you deserve." "of course i want to play this season, and i'm training hard to be at my best," said reade. "yet when it's all over, and we've won every game, good old gridley style, i shall feel mighty happy." "yes," nodded harry hazelton, "and the same thing here." "that's because you two are not only attending high school, but also trying to blaze out your future path in life," laughed dave. "well, the rest of you fellows had better be serious about your careers in life," urged tom. "it isn't every pair of fellows, of course, who've been as fortunate as harry and i." "no; and all fellows can't be suited by the same chances, which is a good thing," replied prescott. "for my part, i wouldn't find much of any cheer in the thought that i was going to be allowed to carry a transit, a chain or a leveler's rod through life." "well, we don't expect to be working in the baggage department of our profession forever," protested harry hazelton, with so much warmth that dave darrin chuckled. tom and harry had decided that civil or railroad engineering, or both, perhaps, combined with some bridge building, offered them their best chances of pleasant employment in life. mr. appleton, a local civil engineer with whom the pair had talked had offered to take them into his office for preliminary training. because at the high school, tom and harry had already qualified in the mathematical work necessary for a start. no practicing civil engineer in these days feels that he has the time or the inclination to take a beginner into his office and teach him all of the work from the ground up. on the other hand, a boy who has been grounded well in algebra, geometry and trigonometry may then easily enter the office of a practicing civil engineer and begin with the tools of the profession. transit manipulation and readings, the use of the plummet line, the level, compass, rod, chain and staking work may all be learned thus and a knowledge of map drawing imparted to a boy who has a natural talent for the work. it undoubtedly is better for the high school boy to go to a technical school for his course in civil engineering; yet with a foundation of mathematics and a sufficient amount of determination, the high school boy may go direct to the engineer's office and pick up his profession. boys have done this, and have afterwards reached honors in their profession. so tom and harry had their future picked out, as they saw it. as soon as they had learned enough of the rudiments, both were resolved to go out to the far west, and there to pick up more, much more, right in the camps of engineers engaged in surveying and laying railroads. "you fellows can talk about us going to work in the baggage department of our profession," pursued tom meade, a slight flush on his manly face. "but, dick, you and dave are in the dream department, for you fellows have only a hazy notion that---perhaps---you may be able to work your way into the government academies at west point and annapolis. as for greg and dan, they don't appear to have even a dream of what they hope to do in future." "you fellows haven't been spreading the news that dave and i want to go to annapolis and west point, have you!" asked dick seriously. "now, what do you take us for?" protested tom indignantly "don't we understand well enough that you're both trying to keep it close secret?" as the young men turned into main street the merry laughter of a group of girls came to their ears. four of the high school girls of the senior class had stopped to chat for a moment. laura bentley and belle meade were there, and both turned quickly to note dick and dave. the other girls in the group were faith kendall and jessie vance. "here comes the captain who is going to spoil all of gridley a chances this year," laughed miss vance. "hush, jess," reproved belle, while laura looked much annoyed. i see you have a wholly just appreciation of my merits, miss jessie," smiled dick, as the boys raised their hats. "oh, what i said is nothing but the silly talk of him dra-----" began jessie lightly, but stopped when she again found herself under the reproving glances of laura and belle. dick glanced at one of the girls in turn, his glance beginning to show curiosity. laura bit her lip; belle locked highly indignant. prescott opened his month as though to ask a question, them closed his lips. "i guess you might as well tell them, laura," hinted faith kendall. "oh, nonsense." retorted miss bentley, flushing. "it's nothing at all, especially coming from such a source." "then some one has been giving me the roasting that i plainly deserve?" laughed captain prescott. "it's all foolish talk, and i'm sorry the girls couldn't hold their tongues," cried laura impatiently. "then i won't ask you what it was," suggested dick, "since you don't like to tell me voluntarily." "you might as well, laura," urged faith. "it's that phin-----" began jessie. "do be quiet, jess," urged belle. "why," explained laura bentley, "phin drayne just passed us, and stopped to chat when jessie spoke to him-----" "i didn't," objected miss vance indignantly. "i only said good afternoon, and---" "i asked drayne if he had been out to the field for practice," continued laura. "he grunted, and said he'd been out to see how badly things were going." "then, of course, laura flared up and asked what he meant by such talk," broke in the irrepressible jessie. "then---ouch!" for belle had slyly pinched the talkative one's arm. "mr. drayne had a great string to offer us," resumed laura. "he said football affairs had never been in as bad shape before, and he predicted that the team would go to pieces in all the strong games this year." "we have a rule of unswerving loyalty in the history of our eleven," said prescott, smiling, though a grim light lurked in his eyes. "i guess phin was merely practicing some of that loyalty." "none of us care what drayne thinks, anyway," broke in dave darrin contemptuously. "he wants to play as a regular, and he's slated only as a possible sub. so i suppose he simply can't see how the eleven is to win without him. but, making allowances for human nature, i don't believe we need to roast him for his grouch." "i didn't think his talk was worth paying any attention to," added laura. "i wouldn't have said anything about it, if it hadn't leaked out." jessie took this rebuke to herself, and flushed, as she rattled on: "i guess it was no more than mere 'sorehead' talk on phin drayne's part, anyway. mr. drayne said he had saved a good deal of his pocket money, lately, and that he was going to win more money by betting on gridley's more classy opponents this season." "there's a fine and loyal high school fellow for you!" muttered greg. "suppose we all change the subject," proposed dick good-humoredly. two or three minutes later dick & co. again lifted their caps, then continued on their way. "dick," whispered dave, "on the whole, i'm glad that was repeated to us." "why?" "it ought to put us on our guard?" "guard? against whom?" "i should say against phin drayne." "but he's merely offering to bet that we can't win our biggest games this year," smiled prescott. "that doesn't prove that we can't win, does it?" "oh, of course not." "any fellow that will lower himself enough to make wagers on sporting events shows too little judgment to be entitled to have any spending money," pursued prescott. "but, if drayne has money, and is going to bet, he won't be entitled to any sympathy when he loses, will he?" "humph!" grunted dave. "i'd like to have this matter followed up. any fellow who is betting against us ought not to be allowed to play at all." "oh, it was just the talk of a silly, disappointed fellow," argued dick. "i suppose a boy is a good deal like a man, always. there are some men who imagine that it lends importance to themselves when they talk loudly and offer to wager money. i'm not going to offer any bets, dave, but i feel pretty certain that drayne is just talking for effect." "his offering to bet against his own crowd would be enough to justify you in dropping drayne from the squad altogether," hinted greg holmes. "yes, of course," admitted dick. "but we had enough of football soreheads last year. now, wouldn't it make us look like soreheads if we took any malicious delight in dropping drayne from the squad just because he has been blowing off some steam?" "but i wouldn't trust him on the job," snapped dan dalzell. "i believe phin drayne would sell out any crowd for sheer spite." "even his country?" asked dick quietly. and there the matter dropped, for the time. had dick & co. and some other high school fellows but known it, however, drayne would have borne close watching. chapter iii putting the tag on the sneak anything that dick prescott had charge of went along at leaps and bounds. hence the football eleven was in good shape ten days earlier than coach morton could remember to have happened before. "your eleven is all ready to line up in the field, now, captain," announced coach, one afternoon not long after, as the squad came out from dressing quarters for practice. "i'm glad you think so, sir," replied dick, a flush of pleasure mantling his cheeks. "you have every man in fine condition. condition couldn't be better, in fact, for those of the men who are likely to get on the actual battle line. and all the work is well understood, too. in fact, captain, you can all but rest on your oars during the next fortnight, up to your first game." "hadn't we better go on training hard every day, sir?" inquired the young captain. "not hard," replied coach, shaking his head. "if you do, you'll get your men down too fine. now, there's almost more danger in having your men overtrained than in having them undertrained. your men can be trained too hard and go stale." "i've heard of that," dick nodded thoughtfully. "yes," continued coach, "and i've seen school teams that suffered from training down too fine. boys can't stand it. they haven't as much flesh in training down hard, and they haven't as much endurance as college men, who are older. captain, you will train your men lightly, three afternoons a week. for the rest, see to it that they stick to all training orders, including diet and hygiene and no tobacco. but don't work any of the men hard, with an idea of getting them in still better shape. you can't do it." "then i'd like to make a suggestion, coach." "go ahead, captain." "you never saw a school team, did you, sir, that understood its signal work any too well?" "never," laughed mr. morton. "then i would suggest, sir, that most of our training time, from now until the season opens, be spent on drilling in the signals. we ought to keep at practicing the signals. we ought to get the signals down better than ever a gridley team had them before, sir." "you've just the right idea, captain!" cried mr. morton heartily, resting one hand around dick's shoulders. "i was going to order that, but i'm glad you anticipated me." "hudson," called out prescott, "you head a scrub team. take the men you want after i've chosen for the school team." dick rapidly made his choice for the school team. he played center himself, putting dave darrin at quarter, greg holmes as left tackle and tom reade as right end. dalzell and hazelton were left out, but they understood, quite well, that this was to avoid showing favoritism by taking all of dick & co. on the star team for practice. "let me play quarter, hudson," whispered drayne, going over to the acting captain of the "scrub." "not this afternoon, anyway," smiled hudson. "i want dalzell." drayne fell back. he was not chosen at all for the scrub team. yet, as he had nearly a score of companions, out of the large football squad, he had no special reason to feel hurt. those who had not been picked for either team lined up at the sides. there was a chance that some of them might be called out as subs, though practice in signal work was hardly likely to result in any of the players being injured. drayne did not appear to take his mild snub very seriously. in fact, after his one outbreak before the team captain, and his subsequent remarks to the girls, drayne had appeared to fall in line, satisfied even to be a member of the school's big squad. the ball was placed for a snap-back, and coach morton sounded the whistle. "twelve-nine-seventeen---twenty-eight---four!" called dave darrin. then the scrimmage was on in earnest. as soon as the play had properly developed mr. morton blew his whistle, for this was practice only in the signal part. then hudson took the ball and dalzell called off: "nine---eight---thirteen---two!" again the ball was put in play, to be stopped after ten seconds. so it went on through the afternoon's work. the substitutes on the side lines watched with deep interest, for they, too, had to learn all the signal work. within three afternoons of practice dick had nearly all of his players so that they knew every signal, and were instantly ready to execute their parts in whatever was called for. but there was no danger of knowing the signals too well. captain prescott still called out the squad and gave signal work unceasingly. "the gridley boys never jumped so swiftly to carry out their signals before, captain," spoke mr. morton commendingly. "i want to have this line of work ahead of anything that tottenville can show next saturday," dick replied. "i guess you have the tottenville boys beaten all right," nodded mr. morton. tottenville high school always gave one of the stiffest games that gridley had to meet. this season tottenville was first on the list. prescott's young men knew that they had a stiff fight. it was to take place on the gridley grounds---that was comfort to the home eleven. the entire student body was now feeling the enthusiasm of the opening of the season on saturday. the townsmen of gridley had subscribed as liberally as ever to the athletics fund. there had also been a fine advance sale of seats, and the gridley band had been engaged to make the occasion a lively one. "you'll win, if ever the signs were worth anything, captain," remarked mr. morton to prescott, at recess thursday forenoon. "of course we'll win, sir," laughed dick. "that's the gridley way---that's all. we don't know how to be whipped. i've been taught that ever since i first entered the high school." "pshaw!" muttered drayne, who was passing. "don't you believe our chances are good, mr. drayne?" asked mr. morton, smiling. "i look upon the gridley chances as being so good, sir," replied phin, "that, if i weren't a member of the squad, and a student of the high school, i think i'd be tempted to bet all i could raise on tottenville." "betting is too strong a vice for boys, mr. drayne," replied the submaster, rather stiffly. "and doubt of your own comrades isn't very good school spirit." "i was talking, for the moment, as an outsider," replied phin drayne, flushing. "change around then, mr. drayne, and consider yourself, like every other student of this school, as an insider wherever the gridley interests are involved." drayne moved away, a half-sneer on his face. "i don't like that young man," muttered mr. morton confidentially to the young captain of the team. "i have no violent personal admiration for him," prescott answered. then the bell sounded, calling all the boys and girls back to their studies. at just about the hour of noon, a young caller strode into the yard, paused an instant, studying the different entrances of the high school building, then kept straight on and entered. "a visitor for mr. prescott, in the reception, room," announced the teacher in charge of the assembly room. bowing his thanks, dick passed out of the room, crossed the hall, entered a small room, and turned to greet his caller. a fine-looking, broad-shouldered, bronzed young man of nineteen rose and came forward, holding out his hand. "do you remember me, mr. prescott?" asked the caller heartily. "i've played football against you, somewhere," replied dick, studying the other's face closely. "yes, i guess you have," laughed the other. "i played with tottenville last year. i'm captain this season. jarvis is my name." "oh, i'm downright glad to see you, mr. jarvis," dick went on. "be seated, won't you?" "yes; if you wish. though i've half a notion that what i have to say may bring you jumping out of your seat in a moment." "anything happened that you want to postpone the game?" inquired prescott, taking a chair opposite his caller. "no; we're ready for saturday, and will give you the stiffest fight that is in us," returned jarvis. "but see here, mr. prescott, i'll come direct to the point. is 'thirty-eight, nine, eleven, four' your team's signal for a play around the left end, after quarter has passed the ball to tackle and he to the end?" dick started, despite himself, for that was truly the signal for that play. "really mr. jarvis, you don't expect me to tell you our signals!" laughed dick, pretending to be unconcerned. but jarvis called off another signal and interpreted it. "from your face i begin to feel sure that i'm reeling off the right signals," pursued the tottenville youth. "now, i'll get still closer to the point, mr. prescott." from an inside pocket jarvis drew forth four typewritten pages, clamped together and neatly folded. "run your eye over these pages, mr. prescott, or as far as you want to go." as dick read down the pages every vestige of color faded from his face. here was gridley's whole elaborate signal code, laid down in black and white to the last detail. it was all flawlessly correct, too. "mr. jarvis," said dick, looking up, "you've been a gentleman in this matter. this is our signal code, signal for signal. it's the code on which we relied for our chance to give your team a thrashing on saturday. i thank you for your honesty, sir." "why, i always have rather prided myself on a desire to do the manly thing," smiled captain jarvis. "may i ask how this came into your possession?" demanded dick. "it was in our family mail box, this morning, and i took it out on my way to school," replied jarvis. "you see, the heading on the first sheet shows that the document purports to give the gridley signals." "and it does give them, to a dot," groaned prescott, paling again. "so i showed it to our coach, mr. matthews, and to some of the members of the team," continued mr. jarvis. "i would have brought this to you, in any case, and i'm heartily glad to say that every one of our fellows agreed that it was the only manly thing to do." "you have won the gridley gratitude," protested dick. "this code couldn't have been tabulated by anyone but a member of our own squad. no one else had access to this list. there's a benedict arnold somewhere in our crowd," continued dick, with a sudden rush of righteous passion. "oh, i wish we could find him. but this typewriting, i fear, will give us no conclusive evidence. was the address on the envelope in which this came also typewritten?" "no," replied mr. jarvis. "i opened this communication on the street, while on my way to school. i tossed the envelope away. then i fell to studying this document." "you must have thought it a hoax," smiled dick wearily. "i did, at first, yes," continued the tottenville football captain. "in fact, i was half of that mind when i left tottenville to come here. but i was determined to find out the truth of the matter. mr. prescott, i'm very nearly as sorry as you can be, to have to bring you this evidence that you have a sneak in gridley high school." "i'd far rather have lost saturday's game," choked prescott, "than to discover that we've such a sneak in gridley high school. i'm fearfully upset. i wish i had any kind of evidence on which to find this sneak." "have you any suspicions?" "that would be too much to say yet." "of course, mr. prescott," continued the tottenville youth, "you'll now have to revise all your signals. it will be a huge undertaking between now and saturday. if you wish to postpone the game, i'll consent. our coach has authorized me to say this." "i think not," replied dick, "though on behalf of the team i thank you. i'll have to speak to our coach, and mr. morton is in his classroom, occupied until the close of the school session." "i'll meet you anywhere, mr. prescott, after school is over." "you're mighty good, mr. jarvis," murmured dick gratefully. "now, by the way, if we're to catch the sneak who has done this dastardly thing, we've got to work fast. we ought not to let the traitor suspect anything until we're ready to act. mr. jarvis, do you mind leaving here promptly, and going to 'the morning blade' office? if you tell mr. pollock that you're waiting for me, he'll give you a chair and plenty to read." "i'm off, then," smiled jarvis, rising and reaching for his hat. "i want to shake hands with you, jarvis, and to thank you again for your manly conduct in bringing this thing straight to me." "why, that's almost insulting," retorted jarvis quizzically. "why shouldn't an american high school student be a gentleman? wouldn't you have done the same for me, if the thing had been turned around?" "of course," dick declared hastily. "but i'm glad that this fell into your hands. if we had gone into the game, relying on this signal code-----" "we'd have burned you to a crisp on the gridiron," laughed jarvis. "but what earthly good would it do our school to win a game that we got by clasping hands with a sneak and a traitor? can any school care to win games in that fashion? but now, i'm off for 'the blade's office---if your mr. pollock doesn't throw me out." "he won't," dick replied, "i'm a member of 'the blade' staff." "don't go back into assembly room with a face betraying as much as yours does," whispered captain jarvis, over his shoulder. "thank you for the tip," dick responded. when young prescott stepped back into the general assembly room his face, though not all the color had returned to it, wore a smiling expression. he stepped jauntily, with his head well up, as he moved to his seat. for fifteen minutes or more dick made a pretense of studying his trigonometry hard. then, picking up a pen with a careless gesture, he wrote slowly, with an appearance of indifference, this note: _"dear mr. morton: something of the utmost importance has come up in connection with the football work. will you, without mentioning this note, and without doing anything that can sound the warning to any other student, meet me at 'the blade' office as soon as possible after school is dismissed? i shall go to 'the blade' office just as soon as i get away from here, and i shall await you in the greatest anxiety. "prescott."_ this note dick carried forward and left on the general desk. it was addressed to mr. morton, and marked "immediate." when the reciting classes returned, and the teachers followed, mr. morton read his note without change of expression. a moment later school was dismissed. "in a hurry, dick?" called dave, racing after his leader as the young men made a joyous break away from the school building. "yes," breathed prescott. "come along, dave. but i don't want the others, for i don't want a crowd." "why, what-----" "quiet, now, old fellow," murmured dick. "you'll have a big enough surprise in a few moments." they got away together before their other chums had a chance to catch up. "from the look in your face, i'd say that there was something queer in the air," guessed dave. "there is, darrin. but wait until the moment comes to talk about it." walking rapidly, the two chums came to "the blade" office. jarvis, who had been sitting at the back of the office, rose as the two gridley boys entered. dick quietly introduced dave to the young man from tottenville who greeted him cordially. "now, we're waiting for one more before we talk," smiled dick anxiously. at that moment the door opened again, and mr. morton entered briskly. "now, captain, what is your news?" called coach, as he came forward. "why, this is one of the tottenville team, isn't it?" "mr. morton, captain jarvis, of the tottenville high school team," replied dick, and the two shook hands. then dick drew the typewritten document from his pocket. they could talk here, for mr. pollock had been the only other occupant of the room, and that editor has just stepped out to the composing room. "captain jarvis received this in the mail this morning, sir," announced prescott, in a voice that quivered with emotion. coach glanced through the paper, his face showing plainly what he felt. then dick took the paper and passed it to dave darrin, who sat consumed by curiosity. "the abominable traitor---whoever he is!" cried dave, rising as though he found his chair red hot. "and i think i can come pretty near putting the tag on the sneak!" chapter iv the traitor gets his deserts mr. morton hesitated a moment, ere he trusted himself to speak. "yes," he murmured. "i fear we all suspect the same young man." "phin drayne!" cried dave, in a voice quivering with anger. "i didn't intend to name him," resumed the coach. "it's a serious thing to do." "to sell out one's school---i should say 'yes'!" choked darrin. "no; i meant that it is a fearful thing to accuse anyone until we have proof that can't be disputed," added mr. morton gravely, though his muscles were twitching as though he had been stricken by palsy. "listen," begged dick, "while mr. jarvis tells you all he knows of this dastardly business." the tottenville captain repeated his short tale. then coach morton asked several rapid questions. but there was no more to be told than dick prescott already knew. "i'm tremendously sorry about that envelope," protested jarvis. "i'd give anything to be able to hand that envelope over to you, but i'm afraid i'll never see it again." "we appreciate your anxiety to help, mr. jarvis, as deeply as we appreciate your manliness in coming to us without an instant's delay," replied mr. morton, earnestly. at this moment the office boy entered with the mail sack. "mr. pollock!" he bellowed, tossing the sack down on the editor's desk. then the office boy hurried to the rear of the building, intent on other duties. mr. pollock returned to his desk, opening the mail. the football folks in the further corner lowered their voices almost to whispers. "letter for you, dick," called mr. pollock, tossing aside an envelope. excusing himself, dick darted over to get his mail. in an instant he came back, with a flushed face. "here's something that may interest you all," whispered dick, shaking as though fever had seized him. mr. morton took the sheet of paper, from which he read: _"dear old gridleyites: if the enclosed is a fake, it won't work. if there's really a traitor in your camp you ought to know it. milton high school doesn't take any games except by the use of its own fair fighting devices. decker, captain, milton high school football team."_ "and here's a duplicate set of our signals, returned by our milton friends," went on dick, with almost a sob in his voice. "fortunately, mr. decker thought to preserve the envelope that contained our signal code. here is the envelope, addressed in some person's handwriting." coach morton seized the envelope, staring at it hard. he studied it with the practiced eye of a school teacher accustomed to overlooking examination papers in all styles of handwriting. "the writer has tried to conceal his handwriting," murmured the coach, rather brokenly. "yet i think we may succeed in tracing it back and fixing it on the sender." "oh!" growled dave darrin savagely. "i believe i know on whom to fasten this handwriting right now." "i have a possible offender in mind," replied mr. morton more evenly. "in a case of this kind we must proceed with such absolute caution and reserve that we will not be obliged to retract afterwards in deep shame and humiliation." "i think i've done all that i can, gentlemen," broke in mr. jarvis. "i think it is my place, now, to draw out of this painful business, and leave it to you whom it most concerns. but i am happy in the thought that i have been able to be of some service to you. i will now state that i am authorized to offer to postpone saturday's game, if you wish, so that you may have time in, which to train up under changed signals." "if you consent, sir," proposed dick, turning to the coach, "we'll go on with saturday's game just the same. there has been a big sale of tickets, the band has been engaged, and a good many arrangements made that will be expensive to cancel." "can you do it?" asked mr. morton, looking doubtfully at thee young captain of the team. "it's thursday afternoon, now." "i feel that we've got to do it, sir," dick replied doggedly. "yes, sir; we'll make it, somehow." so the matter was arranged. the gridleyites followed jarvis out to the sidewalk, where they renewed their assurances of regard for the attitude taken by tottenville high school. then jarvis hurried away to catch a train home. "now, young gentlemen," proposed mr. morton, "we'll go home and see whether we can engender the idea of eating any lunch, after this unmasking of villainy in our own crowd. but at half past two promptly to the minute, meet me at the high school. remember, we've practice on for half past three." "of all the mean, contemptible-----" began darrin, after the submaster had left them. "stop right there, dave!" begged his chum. "this is the most fearful thing we've ever met, and we both want to think carefully before we trust ourselves to say another word on the shameful subject." so the two chums walked along in silence, soon parting to take their different ways home. at half-past two both chums met mr. morton at the high school. the submaster led the way to the office, producing his keys and unlocking the door. they had moved in silence so far. "take seats, please," requested mr. morton, in a low voice. "i'll be with you in a moment." the submaster then stepped over to a huge filing cabinet. unlocking one of the sections, he looked busily through, then came back with a paper in his hand. "i think i know whom you both suspect," began coach. "phin drayne," spoke dick, without hesitation. "yes. well here is drayne's recent examination paper in modern literature. it is, of course, in his own handwriting." eagerly the two football men and their coach bent over to compare drayne's handwriting with that on the envelope that had come back from milton. "there has been an attempt at disguise," announced mr. morton, using a magnifying glass over the two specimens of writing. "yet i am rather sure, in my own mind, that a handwriting expert would pronounce both specimens to have been written by the same hand." "we've nailed drayne, then," muttered darrin vengefully. "it looks like it," assented mr. morton. "however, we'll go slowly. for the present i'll put this examination paper with our other 'exhibits' and secure them all carefully in my inside pocket. now, then, let us make our pencils fly for a while in getting up a revised code of signals." it was not a long task after all. from the two typewritten copies dick copied the first half of the plays, dave the latter. then coach morton went over the new sheets, rapidly jotting down new figures that should make all plain. "ten minutes past three," muttered coach, thrusting all the papers in his inside pocket and buttoning his coat. "now, we'll have to take a car and get up to the field on the jump." "but, oh, the task of drilling all the new calls into the fellows between now and saturday afternoon!" groaned dave darrin, in a tone that suggested real misery. "we'll do it," retorted captain dick. "we've got to!" "and to make the boys forget all the old calls, so that they won't mix the signals!" muttered dave disconsolately. "we'll do it!" it was coach morton who took up the refrain this time. and it was prescott who added: "we've got to do it. nothing is impossible, when one must!" it was just twenty-five minutes past three when the coach and his two younger companions turned around the corner of the athletic grounds and slipped in through the gate. most of the fellows were in the dressing quarters. phin drayne sat on the edge of a locker chest. one of his feet lay across the knee of the other leg. he was in the act of unlacing one of his street shoes when coach morton called to him. "me?" asked phin, looking up quickly. "yes," said mr. morton quietly. "i want to post you about something." "oh, all right; right with you, sir," returned phin, leaping up and following the coach outside. "what is it?" asked phin, beginning to feel uneasy. "come along where the others can't hear," replied mr. morton, taking hold of drayne's nearer elbow. phin turned white now. he went along, saying nothing, until mr. morton halted by the outer gate. "pass through, drayne---and never let us see your face inside this gate again." "but why? what----" "ask your conscience!" snapped back the coach. "you'd better travel fast! i'm going back to talk to the other fellows!" mr. morton was gone. for an instant phin drayne stood there as though he would brave out this assertion of authority. then, seized by another impulse, he turned and made rapidly for a town-bound street car that was heading his way. "what's up?" asked two or three of the fellows of dick prescott. perceiving something out of the usual, they spoke in the same breath. "oh, if there's anything to tell you," spoke prescott, suppressing a pretended yawn, "mr. morton may tell you----some time." but mr. morton was soon back. knocking on the wall for attention, he told, in as few and as crisp sentences as he could command, the whole story, as far as known. "now, young gentlemen," wound up the coach, "we must practice the new signals like wild fire. there's mustn't be a single slip not a solitary break in our game with tottenville. and that game will begin at three-thirty on saturday! "in reverting to drayne, i wish to impress upon you all, with the greatest emphasis, that this must be treated by you all with the utmost secrecy until we are prepared, with proofs, to go further! if it should turn out that we're wrong in our suspicions, we'll turn and give phineas drayne the biggest and most complete public apology that a wronged man ever received." "all out to practice the new signals!" shouted prescott, the young captain of the team. chapter v "brass" for an armor plate thursday night and friday morning more copies of the betrayed signals poured in upon captain dick. wherever these signals had been received by captains of other school teams, it soon appeared, these captains of rival elevens had punctually mailed them back. it spoke volumes for the honor of the american schoolboy, for gridley high school was feared far and wide on the gridiron, and there was not an eleven in the state but would have welcomed an honorable way of beating prescott's men. moreover, working on dick's suggestion, mr. morton busied himself with securing several letters that had been received from drayne's father. these letters were compared, friday evening, with the copies of the signals that had been sent to other elevens. under a magnifying glass these collected papers all exhibited one fact that the letters and the copies of the signal code had been struck off on a machine having the same peculiarities as to worn faces of certain types. it was thus rather clearly established that phin drayne must have used the typewriting machine that stood in his father's office. drayne was not at school on friday. instead, an excuse of illness was received from him. nor did mr. morton say anything to dr. thornton, the principal, until the end of the school week. just after school had been dismissed, at one o'clock friday afternoon, mr. morton called dr. thornton to the private office, and there laid before him the charges and the proofs. that fine old gentleman was overwhelmed with grief that "one of his boys" should have done such an utterly mean, wanton and dishonorable thing. "this can't be passed by, mr. morton," exclaimed dr. thornton brokenly. "if you will kindly leave the proofs in my hands, i will see that the whole matter is taken up officially." friday afternoon the football squad met for more practice with the new signals. friday evening each young man who was scheduled as being even likely to play the next day studied over the signals at home, then, under orders, burned his copy of the code. saturday morning the squad met for some more practice, though not much. "i believe all of us are in trim now, sir," captain prescott reported to the coach. "i am rather sure all of our men know the new signals by heart, and there'll be no confusion. but, of course, for the first game, the old snap of our recent practice will be missing. it has been a hard blow to us." "if we have to lose to-day's game," muttered mr. morton, "i'll be almost satisfied to lose it to tottenville, after the manly and straightout conduct of mr. jarvis!" "that same line of thought would make us content to go through a losing season, for all the fellows in other towns who received that betrayed code sent the information right back to us," smiled prescott. "but we're not going to lose to-day's game, mr. morton, nor any other day's. drayne's treachery has just about crazed the other fellows with anger. they'll win everything ahead of 'em, now, just for spite and disgust, if for no better reason." "sometimes anger serves a good purpose," laughed mr. morton. "but it was pitiful to look at poor old dr. thornton yesterday afternoon. at first i thought he was going to faint. he seemed suddenly to grow ten years older. it cut him to the quick. he loves every one of his boys, and to have one of them go bad is just as painful to him as to see his own son sent to the penitentiary." "is dr. thornton coming to the game this afternoon, sir?" "yes; he has never missed one yet, in any year that he has been principal of gridley high school." "then we'll make that fine old american gentleman feel all right again by the grand game that we'll put up," promised dick vehemently. "i'll pass the word, and the fellows will strain themselves to the last drop." orders were issued to the gate tenders to throw drayne out if he presented himself at the gate. drayne did put in an appearance, and he got through the gate to a seat on the grand stand, but it was no fault of the gate tenders. drayne had spent some of his spare money at the costumer's. with his trim, rather slim figure phin drayne made up rather well as a girl. he wore black---mourning throughout, perhaps in memory of his departed honor---and a heavy veil covered his face. in this disguise drayne sat where he could see what would happen. at the outset it was gridley's kick off, and for the next ten minutes tottenville had the ball, fighting stubbornly with it. but at last, when forced half way down the field between center and its own goal line, gridley blocked so well in the three following plays that the pigskin came to the home eleven. dick bent over, holding the ball for the snapback, while his battle front formed on each side of him. dave darrin, quarter-back, raced back a few steps, then halted, looking keenly, swiftly over the field. phin drayne drew his breath sharply. then his heart almost stopped beating as he listened. "thirty-eight---nine---eleven---four!" sounded darrin's voice, sharp and clear. "that's the run around the left end!" throbbed phin drayne. but it wasn't. a fake kick, followed by a cyclonic impact at the right followed. "they've changed the signals!" gulped the guilty masquerader behind the black veil. "then they've found out." with this came the next disheartening thought: "that's the reason, then, why the coach ordered me out of the field thursday afternoon. morton is wise. i wonder if he has told it all around?" gridley high school was doing some of its brilliant, old-style play now. prescott was proving himself an ideal captain, quick-witted, full of strategy, force, push and dash, yet all the while displaying the best of cool judgment in sizing up the chances of the hard battle. but that which phin drayne noted most of all was that every signal used had a different meaning from that employed in the code he had mailed to the captains of the other school teams. "it was all found out, and gridley wasn't hurt," thought phin, gnashing his teeth. "good luck always seems to follow that fellow prescott! can't he be beaten? we shall see! prescott, my fine bully, i'm not through with you yet." the first half ended without either side scoring. impartial onlookers thought that perhaps formidable tottenville had had rather the better of it, but no one could tell with certainty which was the better team. when neither side scores in the first half that which remains to be determined is, which side will show the bigger reserve of vitality in the second half. and now the ball was off again, with twenty-two men pursuing and fighting for it as though the fate of the nation hung on the result. dick, too, soon had things moving at a gait that had all gridley standing up and boosting with all the powers of lungs, hands and feet. all that remained to interest phin drayne was to discover whether his late comrades had sufficiently mastered their new signals not to fail in their team work. once in the second half there was a brief fluster. two gridley men went "woozy" over the same signal. but alert dave darrin rushed in and snatched a clever advantage out of momentary confusion. after that there was no more confusion. gridley took the game by a single touchdown, failing in the subsequent kick for goal. five minutes later time expired. feeling doubly contemptible now, and sick at heart, phin drayne crawled weakly down from the grand stand. he made his way out in the throng, undetected. he returned to the costumer's, got off his sneaking garb and donned his own clothing, then slipped away out through a back door that opened on an alleyway. not until sunday afternoon did drayne yield to the desire to get out of doors. his training life had made outer air a necessity to him, so he yielded to the desire. but he kept to back streets. just as luck would have it, drayne came suddenly face to face with dr. thornton. the good old principal had a fixed belief which followed the practice of american law, to the effect that every accused man is innocent until he has been proved guilty. in addition, the doctor had recovered a good deal from his first depression. therefore he was able to meet this offending pupil as he would want to under the circumstances. "good afternoon, mr. drayne," was dr. thornton's courteous greeting. "it is beautiful; weather to be out, isn't it?" "it is a perfect day, sir," drayne replied. once he had gotten past the principal the young wretch gave way to his exultation. "no charge has been made, then," he told himself gloatingly. "if i had been denounced, the prin. could hardly have been as gracious. well, hang it all, what are charges going to amount to, anyway?" at the high school monday morning, both before school and at recess, the members of the football squad cut drayne dead. "they suspect me, but they can't prove anything, anyway," chuckled the traitor to himself. "brass, phin, my boy! brass! that is bound to win out when the clodhoppers can't prove a blessed thing." as none of the students outside of the squad showed any especial inclination to cut him, phin felt almost wholly reassured. "it would be libelous, anyway, if the gang passed around a word that they couldn't prove," chuckled drayne. "so i guess those that may be doing a heap of thinking will have caution enough to keep their mouths shut, anyway," that afternoon, after luncheon, phin drayne took a long tramp over country roads at the back of the big town. it was five o'clock when he returned. "here's a note for you, on high school stationery," said mrs. drayne, putting an envelope in her son's hand. "it came some time ago." something warned the fellow not to open the envelope there. he took it to his room, where he read the letter. it was from dr. thornton, and said only: _"you are directed to appear before the board of education at its stated weekly meeting to-night. this is urgent, and you are warned not to fail in giving this summons due heed."_ in an instant phin was white with fear. his legs trembled under him, and cold sweat stood out on his neck, face and forehead. for some moments the young man acted as though in danger of collapse. then he staggered over to the tap at his washbowl, and gulped down a glass of water. he paced the room restlessly for a long time, and finally went over and stood looking out of the window. "young man," he said to himself severely, "you've got to brace, and brace hard. if you haven't any nerve, then getting square is too strenuous a game for you? now, what can that gang prove? they can suspect, and they can charge, but my denial is fully as good as any other man's affirmation. go before the board of education? of course i will. and i'll make any accuser of mine look mighty small before that august board of local duffers!" brave words! they cheered the young miscreant, anyway. phin ate his supper with something like relish. afterwards he set out for the high school building, in which the board had its offices. nor did his courage fail him until he had turned in through the gate. a young man, whistling blithely, came in behind him. it was dick prescott, erect of carriage, and brisk and strong of stride, as becomes a young athlete whose conscience is clear and wholesome. "hullo, prescott, what are you doing around here to-night?" hailed drayne. but dick seemed not to have heard. not a note did he drop in the tune that he was whistling. springing up the steps ahead, dick vanished behind the big door. "oh, of course he goes here to-night," thought phin, with sudden disgust. "prescott scribbles for 'the blade' and the board of education is one of his stunts each week." chapter vi one of the fallen for a few moments drayne hung about outside, irresolute. then his native shrewdness asserted itself. "not to go in, after having been seen here in the yard would be to confess whatever anyone wants to charge," muttered phin. "of course i'll go in. and i'll just stand there and look more and more astounded every time that anyone says anything. brass, phin---brass! oh, i'd like to see anyone down me!" so, with all the swagger he could put on, this young benedict arnold of the school stepped into the board room. as he entered, the clerk of the board hastened toward him. "step into this anteroom at the side, mr. drayne, until you're called," the clerk directed. "there will be some routine business to be transacted first. then, i believe, the board has a few questions it desires to ask you." left by himself, the young man began to be a good bit frightened. he was brave enough in matters requiring only physical courage. but in this instance the culprit knew that he had been guilty of a contemptibly mean act, and the knowledge of it made a moral coward of him. "what are they doing? trying to sentence, me to solitary confinement?" wondered the young man, when minute after minute went by without any call for him. in the board room he could hear the droning of voices. "and that dick prescott is out there, sitting at a reporter's table, ready to take in all that happens," muttered phin savagely. "won't he enjoy himself, though?" at last it seemed to phin as though a hush fell over those in the next room. but it was only that voices had been much lowered. then a door opened, the clerk looking in and calling: "mr. drayne, will you come before the board now?" phin passed into the larger apartment. seated in one chair was dr. thornton; in another chair mr. morton. and dick prescott was there, but gathering up his writing materials as though about to go. the chairman waited in silence until prescott had passed out of the board room. after the clerk had closed the door the chairman announced: "the board is now in executive session. dr. thornton, we will listen to the matter which we understand you wish to bring before us for consideration." composedly dr. thornton stepped to the edge of the table, standing there, resting his left hand on the table as he began to speak. in simple words, without any visible emotion, the high school principal stated what he understood of the receipt of copies of the football signal code by the captains of rival football elevens. next mr. morton took the stand, so to speak, and went much more into detail. he told what the reader already knows, producing several of the copies returned by the honorable captains of other school teams. then mr. morton put in evidence, with these copies of the code, copies of business letters received from drayne's father, and presumably written on the drayne office machine. "if you examine these exhibits, gentlemen, i think you will agree that the betrayed code and the business letters were written on one and the same machine. the use of the magnifying glass makes it even more plain." then mr. morton sat down. "now, young mr. drayne, what have you to say?" demanded the presiding officer. "why should i say anything, sir?" demand drayne, with an impudent assumption of swaggering ease. "then you admit the truth of the charges, mr. drayne?" "i do not." "then you must really have something to say." "i have heard a charge made against me. i am waiting to have it proved." "do you admit," asked the presiding officer, "that these copies of the code were written on your father's office machine?" "i do not, sir. but, if it be true, is that any proof that i made those copies of the signal code? is it argued that i alone have access to the typewriter in my father's office. for that matter, if i have an enemy in the high school and i must have several---wouldn't it be possible for that enemy, or several of them, to slyly break into my father's office and use that particular typewriting machine?" this was confidently delivered, and it made an undoubted impression on at least two or three members of the board. but now mr. morton broke in, quietly: "i thought some such attempt as this might be made. so i waited until i saw what the young man's line of defense might be. here is an envelope in which one of the copies was received by the captain of a rival football team. you will note that the sender, while understanding something about the use of a type machine, was plainly a novice in directing an envelope on the typewriter. so he addressed this envelope in handwriting. here is the envelope in question, and here is one of mr. drayne's school examination papers, also in his own handwriting. i will ask the members of the board to examine both." there was silence, while the copies passed from hand to hand, drayne losing color at this point. "be brassy!" he whispered to himself. "you'll pull through, phin, old boy." "i am sorry to say, mr. drayne, that the evidence appears to be against you," declared the chairman slowly. "it may, sir," returned the boy, "but it isn't conclusive evidence." "have you anything more to say, mr. morton?" asked the chairman, looking at the submaster. "plenty, mr. chairman, if the board will listen to me." "proceed, mr. morton." the football coach thereupon launched into a swiftly spoken tirade against the "brand of coward and sneak" who would betray his school in such a fashion. without naming phin, mr. morton analyzed the motives and the character of such a sneak, and he did it mercilessly, although in the most parliamentary language. nor did he look toward the boy, but phin was squirming under the lash, his face alternately red or ghastly. "for such a scoundrel," continued mr. morton, "there is no hope greater than the penitentiary! he is fit for nothing else. such a traitor would betray his best friend, or his country. such a sneak would be dead to all feelings of generosity. the smallest meannesses must envelop his soul. why, sir, the sender of these copies of the signal code was so mean, so small minded, so sneaking and so utterly selfish"---how phin squirmed in his seat!---"that, in sending the envelopes through the mail he was not even man enough to pay full postage. four cents was the postage required for each envelope, but this small-souled sneak, this ungenerous leech actually made the receivers pay half of the postage on 'due-postage' stamps." "i didn't!" fairly screamed red-faced phin, leaping up out of his chair. "i stuck a four-cent stamp on each envelope myself! i remem-----" of a sudden he stopped in his impetuous burst of language. a great hush fell in the room. phin felt himself reeling with a new fright. "then," demanded mr. morton, in a very low voice, his face white, "why did you deny having sent out these envelopes containing the copies of the code?" there was a shuffling of feet. two or three of the board laughed harshly. "oh, well!" burst almost incoherently from the trapped boy. "when you employ such methods as these you make a fellow tell on himself!" all his 'brass' was gone now. he looked, indeed, a most pitiable object as he stood there, his lower jaw drooped and his cheeks twitching. "i think you have said about all, mr. drayne, that it is necessary for you to say," interposed the chairman. "still, in the interest of fair play we will allow you to make any further statements that you may wish to make. have you anything to offer?" "no!" he uttered, at last, gruffly. at a sign from the chairman the clerk stepped silently over, took phin by one elbow, and led him to the door. phin passed on out of the building, stumbling blindly. he got home, somehow, and into bed. in the morning, however, even a sneak is braver. "what can they do to me, anyway?" muttered phin, as he dressed. "i didn't break any of the laws of the state! all anyone can do is to cut me. i'll show 'em all how little i care for their contempt." so it was not wholly in awe that phin drayne entered the general assembly room the next morning, a few minutes before opening time. several of the students greeted him pleasantly enough. phin was quick to conclude that the news had not leaked anyway, beyond the members of the football squad. then came the opening of the session. the singing books lay on the desks before the students. instead, however, of calling out the page on which the morning's music would be found, dr. thornton held his little gavel in his hand, after giving a preliminary rap or two on his desk. "i have something to say to the students of the school this morning," began dr. thornton, in a low but steady voice. "it is something which, i am happy to state, i have never before been called upon to say. "one of the most valuable qualities in any man or woman is loyalty. all of us know, from our studies in history and literature, many conspicuous and noble examples of loyalty. we have also, in our mind's eye, some examples of the opposite qualities, disloyalty and treachery. outside of sacred history one of the most conspicuous examples of betrayal was that of benedict arnold." every boy and girl now had his eyes turned fixedly on the old principal. outside of the football squad no student had any idea what was coming. phin tried to look wholly unconscious. dr. thornton spoke a little more on the meanness of treachery and betrayal. then, looking straight over at the middle of the third aisle on the boys' side of the room, the principal commanded: "mr. drayne, stand by your desk!" phin was up, hardly knowing how he accomplished the move. every pair of eyes in the room was focused on him. "mr. drayne," continued the principal, and now there was a steely glitter of contempt in the old man's eyes, "you were displeased because you did not attain to as high honors on the football eleven as you had hoped. in revenge you made copies of the code signals of the team, and mailed a copy to the captain of nearly every team against which gridley high school is to play this year." there came, from all parts of the room, a gasp of incredulous amazement. "your infamy, your treachery and betrayal, mr. drayne, were traced back to you," continued the principal. "you were forced to admit it, last night, before the board of education. that board has passed sentence in your case. mr. drayne, you are found utterly unfit to associate with the decent manhood and womanhood to be found in the student body of this high school. by the decision of the board you are now expelled from this school. you will take your books and belongings and leave instantly. you will never presume to enter through the doors of this school again. go, sir!" from phin came an angry snarl of defiance. he tried to shout out, to tell the principal and his late fellow students how little, or less than little, he cared about their opinions. but the words stuck in his throat. ere he could try again, a hiss arose from one quarter of the room. the hiss grew and swelled. phin realized, though he dared not look about him any longer, that the hissing came as much from the girls as from the boys. drayne did not attempt to bend over his desk. instead, he marched swiftly down the half of the aisle, then past the platform toward the door. "mr. drayne," called dr. thornton, "you have not taken your books, or paper or other desk materials." "i leave them, sir," shouted phin, above the tumult of hissing, "for the use of some of your many pauper students." then he went out, slamming the door after him. he darted down to the basement, then waited before the locker door until one of the monitors came down, unlocked the door, and allowed phin to get his hat. but the monitor never looked at him, or spoke. once out of the building, phin could keep back the choking sob and tears no longer. stealing down a side street, where he would have to pass few people, phin gave way to his pent-up shame. yet in it all there was nothing of repentance. he was angry with himself---in a fiendish rage toward others. afterwards, he learned that the books and other contents of his desk were burned in the school yard at recess, to the singing of a dirge. but, even for the purpose of making a bonfire of his books the students would not touch the articles with their hands. they coaxed the janitor to find a pair of tongs, and with this implement phin's books and papers were conveyed to the purifying blaze. behind the door in the privacy of his own room phin drayne shook his fist at the surrounding air. "i have one mission in life, now, anyway!" raged the boy. "i've got some cruel scores to pay. you, dick prescott, shall come in for a large share of the payment! no matter how long i have to wait and plan, or what i have to risk, you shan't get away from me!" chapter vii dick meets the boy-with-a-kick evil thoughts can never be cherished, day after day, without leading the more daring or brutal into some form of crime. phin, the first three or four times he tried to appear on main street, was "spotted" and hissed by high school boys. even the boys of the lower schools heard the news, and took up the hissing with great zest. so phin was forced to remain indoors during the day, which drove him out by night, instead. had he been older, and known more of human nature, he would have known that the hissing would soon die out, and thereafter he would meet only cold looks. at home, be sure phin was not happy. his mother, a good woman, suffered in silence, saying little to her son. phin's father, a hard-headed and not over scrupulous man of business, looked upon the incident of expulsion as a mere phase in life. he thought it "would do the boy good, and teach him to be more clever." gridley met milton high school and scored another victory, milton taking only two points on a safety that gridley was forced to make. and now the game with chester was looming up ahead. it was due for the coming saturday. three times a week, dick prescott had his squad out for drill and practice, though he was careful to follow mr. morton's suggestion not to get the young men trained down "too fine." early one evening in mid-week, dick sat at his desk in "the blade" office, "grinding out" some local copy. he was in a hurry to finish, for he was due to be in bed soon. every member of team and squad was pledged to keep early hours of retiring on every night but saturday. in another chair, near by, sat dave darrin, who dropped in to speak with his chum, and was now waiting until they could stroll down main street together. "i've just thought of something i want to do, dick," muttered dave suddenly. "i'll jump out and attend to it, now. walk down main street, when you're through, and you'll run into me." prescott, nodding, went on with his writing, turning out page after page. then he rose, placing the sheets on news editor bradley's desk. "i'm pretty sure you'll find it all right, mr. bradley," declared dick. "now, i must get home, for i'm due in bed in half an hour." "training and newspaper work don't go well together," laughed the news editor. "however, your football season will soon be over. this time next year you'll be through with high school, and i hope you'll be with us then altogether." "i don't know about that, mr. bradley," smiled dick, picking up his hat and starting for the door. "but i do know that i like newspaper work mighty well. when a fellow is writing for a paper he seems to be alive all the time, and right up to the minute." "that youngster may come to us for a while, after he gets out of high school," called mr. pollock, across the room, after prescott had, gone out. "but he won't stay long on a small daily. a youngster with all his hustle is sure to pull out, soon, for one of the big city dailies. the country towns can't hold 'em." dick went briskly down the street, whistling blithely, as a boy will do when he's healthy and his conscience is clear. a block below another boy, betraying the hang-dog spirit only too plainly, turned the corner into main street. it was phin drayne, out for one of his night walks. fearing that he might be insulted, and get into a fight with some one, drayne had armed himself with one of his father's canes. the stick had a crook for a handle. prescott caught a glimpse of the other boy's face; then he turned away, hastening on. "i'm not even worth looking at," muttered phin to himself. just as dick went past, phin seized the cane by the ferule end, and lunged out quickly. the crook caught neatly around one of dick's ankles just as the foot was lifted. like a flash prescott went down. one less nimble, and having had less training, might have been in for a split kneecap. but dick was too much master of his body and its movements. he went down to his hands, then touched lightly on his knees. phin laughed sneeringly as dick sprang up, unhurt. "keep out of my way, after this---you less-than-nothing!" muttered dick between his teeth. "i don't want to have to even hit a thing like you!" "you'll show good judgment, mr. big-head, if you don't try it," jeered drayne, menacing dick with the cane. the color came into dick's face. leaping forward, with all the adroitness of the born tackler, he caught that cane, just as it descended, and wrenched it out of phin drayne's cowardly, hand. crack! dick broke it in two across his knee, then tossed the pieces into the street. "you'll never be able to do anything better than a sneaky act," muttered dick contemptuously, turning to walk on. with a smothered cry phin drayne leaped forward to strike prescott down from behind. dick was around again like a flash, one fist striking up the arm with which the sneak had aimed his blow. "stand off, and keep away," advised prescott coldly. "i won't; i'll thrash you!" hissed phin. there was nothing for dick to do but put up his guard, which he did with great promptness. drayne danced around him, seeking a good point at which to close in. prescott had no notion of fighting; neither did he propose to take an assault meekly. "look out!" yelled drayne, suddenly rushing in. "certainly," mocked prescott coolly. he shot up phin's arm as easily as could have been desired. with his right he parried another blow. "get out of this, and go about your business," advised dick sternly. "think i'll take any orders from you?" snarled phin. "i'll-----" he continued to crowd in, hammering blows. dick parried, but did not attempt to retaliate. the truth was, he felt secretly sorry for the fellow who had fallen as low as phin. but drayne was no coward physically, when his blood was up. it drove him to fever heat, now, to see how easily the captain of the football team repulsed him. "i'll get your wind going, and then i'll hammer you for fair!" snarled drayne. "mistake there, somewhere," retorted dick coolly. but drayne was coming in, harder and harder. dick simply had to do something. so, after he had parried more than a score of blows the young football captain suddenly took a springy step forward, shot up phin's guard, and landed a staggering blow on the nose. phin began to reel. dick hit him more lightly on the chest, yet with force enough to "follow up" and send to his knees. "here, what's this?" called a voice, and a heavy hand seized dick by the collar behind, pulling him back. it was heathcote drayne, phin's father, a powerful man, who now held prescott. phin was quickly upon his feet and start forward. from across the street sounded a warning cry, followed by footsteps. "now, i've got you!" cried phin exultantly. he struck, and landed, on dick's cheek. "stop that, phin!" shouted his father, without letting go of dick's collar, however. phin, however, instead of obeying, aimed another blow, and would have landed, had not another figure bounded in and taken the blow, next hurling phin back against a brick wall. it was len spencer, "star" reporter of "the blade," who had thus interfered. and now dave darrin was dancing in front of heathcote drayne, ordering: "let go of prescott! what sort of fair play is this?" "mind your own business!" ordered mr. drayne. "i'm stopping a fight." not an instant did impulsive darrin waste in arguing the matter. he landed his fist just under heathcote drayne's left eye, causing that heathcote to let go of dick in a hurry. "you young scoundrel!" glared mr. drayne, glaring at dave. "opinions may differ as to who the scoundrel is," retorted dave unconcernedly. "my own notions of fair play are against holding one of the parties in a fight so that the other may hammer him." "i'll have you arrested for this assault," stormed mr. drayne, applying a handkerchief to the bruised spot under his eye. "both you and prescott---your ruffian friend for assaulting my son. "go ahead and do it," retorted dave. "as it happens, your son did all the assaulting, and prescott, who didn't care about fighting with such a thing, only defended himself. we saw it all from across the street, but we didn't come across to interfere until we had to." "i'll take some of your impudence out of you in the police court," insisted mr. drayne. "yes, i would, if i were you," broke in len spencer coolly. "i saw this whole business, too, and i'll take pleasure in testifying against you both. mr. drayne, you didn't see the start of this thing, and i did. but you, at least, know that your son is a moral leper kicked out of the high school because he was not decent enough to associate with the other students. i wouldn't be surprised if he gets some of his bad qualities from you, sir" "you'll sing a different tune in court," asserted heathcote drayne heatedly. "so will you," laughed len spencer. "by the way, i see a policeman down the street. if you want to prefer a charge, mr. drayne, i'll blow my police whistle and bring the officer here." spencer took a whistle from his pocket, moving it toward his lips. "do you want the officer!" challenged the reporter. but mr. drayne began to see the matter in a somewhat different light. he knew much about the nature of his son, and here were two witnesses against him. besides, one was a trusted staff writer for the local paper, and the whole affair was likely to result in a disagreeable publicity. "i'll think this all over before i act," returned mr. drayne stiffly, as he took his son by one arm. "come along, phin." as the draynes moved away each held a handkerchief to his face. "i don't think much of fighting, and i don't like to do it," muttered darrin, who was beginning to cool down. "but if heathcote drayne had had to do more fighting when he was younger he might have known how to train that cub of his to be more of a man." chapter viii dick puts "a better man" in his place of course dick heard no more from the draynes. he didn't expect that he would. phin, however, was noticed no more on the streets of the little city. then, in some way, it leaked out that his father had sent him to a military boarding school where the discipline was credited with being very rigid. "i guess papa has found that his little boy was none too much of an angel," laughed dave darrin when discussing the news with his chums. the first four games of the season went off successfully for gridley, though all were hard battles in which only fine leadership and splendid team work by all saved the day. two of these games had been played on the home grounds, two away from home. the fifth game of the season was scheduled to be played on the home grounds. the opponent for this game was to be hallam heights high school. the hallam boys were a somewhat aristocratic lot, but not snobbish, and the gridley young men looked forward to an exciting and pleasant game. it was the first game ever played between gridley and hallam heights. coach morton talked about the strangers one rainy afternoon in the gymnasium. "i believe you're going to find yourselves up against a hard proposition," declared coach slowly "these young men attend a high school where no expense is spared. some of the wealthy men of the town engage the physical director, who is one of the best men in his class. speight, who was at college with me, is engaged in addition as the football coach. i remember speight as one of the cleverest and most dangerous men we had at college. he could think up a whole lot of new field tricks overnight. then again, most of the hallam heights boys are young fellows who go away for athletic summers. that is, they are young fellows who do a lot of boating, yachting, riding, tennis, track work, and all the rest of it. they are young fellows who glory in being in training all the year around. speight writes me that he thinks he has the finest, strongest and most alert boys in the united states." "we'll whip them, just the same," announced dick coolly. "gridley will, if anyone can---i know that," agreed mr. morton. "you've won all four games that you've played this season. hallam heights has played five games and won them all. the hallam youngsters are out to capture the record that gridley has held for some time that of capturing all the games of the season." "bring 'em on!" begged darrin. "i wish we had 'em here to play just as soon as the rain lets up." "don't make the mistake of thinking that, because the hallam boys have rich fathers, they're dudes, who can't play on wet ground," laughed mr. morton. "if hallam sends forth such terrors," grinned dick, rising from the bench on which he had been sitting, "then we must get in trim for 'em. come on, fellows; some of the light speedy exercises. i'll work you up to all the speed you can take care of, this afternoon." for the next ten minutes dick was as good as his word. then, after a brief breathing spell, prescott ordered his men to the running track in the gallery. "three laps at full speed, with a two-minute jog between each speed burst, and a minute of breathing between each kind of running," called out dick. then, after he had seen the fellows started, he turned to the coach. "if i never learned anything else from you, mr. morton, i think i've wholly absorbed the idea that no man is in condition unless he can run well; and that nothing will make for condition like judicious running." "as to what you've learned from me, captain prescott," replied the coach, "i fully believe that you've learned all that i have to teach. i wouldn't be afraid to go away on a vacation and leave the team in your hands." "him!" smiled dick. "without you to back me up, mr. morton, i'm afraid some of the fellows might kick over the traces." "they wouldn't kick over but once," laughed the coach. "the first time any fellow did that you'd drop him from the team. and the fellows know it. i haven't noticed the young men attempting to frisk you any." "one did." "i know whom you mean," replied the submaster, his brow clouding. "but he got out of the team, didn't he?" "yes; but i didn't put him out." "you would have put him off the team if it had been left for you to do it." as soon as he thought the squad had had enough exercise to keep them in tone, dick dismissed them. "but every one of you do his level best to keep in condition all the time until we get through with hallam heights," urged the young captain. "that applies, too, not only to team members, but to every man in the squad. if the hallam fellows are swift and terrific, we can't tell on whom we may have to pounce for substitutes." this was to be a mid-week game, taking place wednesday afternoon. wednesday morning word reached school that hudson, who was down to play right guard, and dan dalzell, right end, were both at home in bed, threatened with pneumonia. in each case the doctor was hopeful that the attack would be averted, but that didn't help out the afternoon's game any. "two of our prize men out," muttered dick anxiously to dave at recess. "and it's claimed that misfortunes always travel by threes," returned darrin, half mournfully. "don't!" shivered prescott. "let us off with two misfortunes." afternoon came along, somewhat raw and lowering. rain might prevent the game. less than three quarters of the people who bought seats in advance appeared at the grounds. the sale of spot seats was not as brisk by half as it would have been on a pleasanter day. but the hallam heights boys came along early, bounding and full of fun and dash. they were a fine-looking lot of boys. the gridley youngsters took to their opponents instantly. "i wonder what's keeping dick?" muttered dave darrin, half anxiously, in dressing quarters. "anyway, we won't worry about him until we have to," nodded mr. morton. "our young captain is about the promptest man, as a rule, in the whole squad." "that's just why i am uneasy," grunted dave. hardly had he spoken when dick prescott came in---but limping slightly! and what a rueful countenance the young captain of the team displayed! "suffering ebenezer, man, but what has happened?" gasped dave. all the other gridley youngsters stopped half way in their togging to listen for the reply. "nothing much," grunted dick. "yet it came near to being too much. a man bumped me, as i was getting on the car, and drove me against the iron dasher. it was all an accident, due to the man's clumsiness. but it barked my knee a good bit." "let me see you walk about the room," ordered coach morton. he watched closely, as dick obeyed. "sit down, prescott, and draw the trousers leg off on that side. i want to examine the knee." while mr. morton went to work the other members of the team crowded about, anxiety written on all their faces. "does it hurt more when i press?" asked the submaster keenly. "ah, i thought so! prescott, you're not badly hurt for anything else; but your knee is in no shape to play this afternoon!" a wail of dismay went up from the team members. the rueful look in dick's face deepened. "i was afraid you'd bar me out," he confessed. "i never felt so ashamed in my life." "it wouldn't be of any use for you to play, for that knee wouldn't stand it in any rough smash," declared the coach, shaking his head solemnly. "it's all off with us, then," groaned one of the fellows. "we may as well ask hallam if they'll allow us to hand 'em a score of six to nothing on a platter, and then stay off the field." "hush your croaking, will you?" demanded dave darrin angrily, glaring about him. "is that the gridley way? do we ever admit defeat? whoever croaks had better quit the team altogether." under that rebuke the boy who had ventured the opinion shrank back abashed. "you're sure i'll be in no shape to go on, coach?" asked dick anxiously. "why, of course you could go on," replied mr. morton. "and you could run about some, too, unless your knee got a good deal stiffer. but you wouldn't be up to gridley form." "have i any right to go on, with a knee in this shape?" queried dick. "you certainly haven't," replied mr. morton, with great emphasis. "dave," called the young football chief, "you're second captain of the team. get in and get busy. put up the best fight you can for old gridley!" "aye, that i will," retorted dave darrin, his eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing. "i'll go in like a pirate chief, and i'll break the neck of any gridley man who doesn't do all there is in him this afternoon." "listen to the fire eater," laughed fenton. dave grinned good-humoredly, but went insistently: "all right. if any of you fellows think i take less than the best you can possibly do, try it out with me." then darrin came over to rest a hand on prescott's shoulder. "dick, you'll give me any orders you have before we go on, and between the halves, won't you?" "not a word," replied dick promptly. "dave, you can lead as well as ever i have done. if you're going to be captain to-day you'll be captain in earnest. i'll hamper you neither with advice nor orders." with so important a player as dick prescott out of the team dave had a hard task in rearranging the eleven. in this he sought direction from mr. morton. rapidly they sketched the new line-up. darrin himself would have to drop quarterback and go to center. for this latter post dave was rather light, but he carried the knack of sturdy assault better than any other man in the team after prescott. tom reade was called to quarter. shortly afterwards all the details had been completed. "as to style, you'll gather that from the signals," muttered darrin. "the only rule is the one we always have---that we can't be beat and we know we can't." there came a rap at the door. then a bushy mop of football hair was thrust into the doorway. "talking strategy, signals or anything we shouldn't hear?" asked the pleasant voice of forsythe, captain of the hallam heights boys. "not a blessed thing," returned dave. "come in, gentlemen." captain forsythe, in full field toggery, came in, followed by the members of the visiting team, all as completely attired for work. "we're really not intruding?" asked forsythe, after he had stepped into the room. "not the least in the world," responded dave heartily. "mr. forsythe. let me introduce you to mr. morton, our coach, and to mr. prescott, the real captain of this tin-pan crowd of pigskin chasers." "oh, i mistook you for prescott," replied forsythe, as he acknowledged the introductions. "no; i'm darrin, the pewter-plate second captain---the worst you've got to fear to-day," laughed dave, as he held out his hand. "why---what----anything happened?" asked captain forsythe, looking truly concerned. "captain prescott has had his knee injured, and two of our other crack men are in bed, sick," replied mr. morton cheerfully. "otherwise we're all quite well." "your captain and two other good men out?" asked forsythe in real sympathy. "that doesn't sound fair, for we came over here prepared to put up the very best we had against you old invincibles. i'm awfully sorry." "captain forsythe, we all thank you for your sympathy," dick answered, "but captain darrin can lead at least as well as i can. i believe he can do it better. as for the team that we're putting in the field to-day, if you can beat it, you could as easily beat anything we could offer at any other time. so, as far as one may, with such courteous opponents as you are, gridley hurls back its defiance and throws down the battle gage! but play your very best team, captain forsythe, and we'll do our best in return." chapter ix could dave make good? dave darrin, a good deal disheveled and covered with soil and perspiration on his face and neck, came striding in after time had been called on the first half. dave's generalship had kept hallam heights from scoring, but gridley hadn't put away any points, either. "you saw it all from the side lines, dick?" dave asked, as the chums, arm in arm, strolled into dressing quarters. "yes." "what are your instructions for the second half." "i haven't any." "your advice, then?" "i haven't any of that, either. dave, any fellow who can hold those young human cyclones back as you've done doesn't need any pointers in the game." "but we simply couldn't score against them," muttered darrin. "so i know there's something wrong with my leadership. what is it?" "nothing whatever, darrin. it simply means that you're up against the hardest line to get through that i've ever seen gridley tackle. why, yesterday i was looking over the record of these hallam boys, and i find that they've already whipped two college second teams. but you'll get through them in the next dave, if there's any human way of doing it. so that's all i've got to say, for i'm not out there on the gridiron, and i can't see things from the side line the same as you can on the ten-yard line. perhaps mr. morton may have something to offer." but the coach hadn't. "you're doing as well as any man of gridley could do, darrin," the submaster assured the young second captain. "of course, with prescott at center, and yourself jumping around as quarter-back the team would be stronger. but in prescott's enforced absence, i don't see how you can play any point of the line more forcefully than you've been doing." but dave, instead of looking puffed up, replied half dejectedly: "i was in hopes you could both show me where i'm weak." "you're not weak," insisted coach morton. "that throws me back on thinking hard for myself," muttered darrin. where a weaker man would have been pleased with such direct praise dave felt that he was not doing his duty because he had not been able to lead as brilliantly as dick had done in earlier games. "brute strength isn't any good against these hallam fellows," darrin told himself, as he returned to the field. "they're all a-1 athletes. even if gridley played a slugging game, it wouldn't bear these hallam boys down. as to speed and scientific points, they seem to be our masters. whatever we do against them, it must be something seldom heard of on the gridiron something that will be so brand new that they can't get by it." yet twice in the half that followed gridley barely escaped having to make a safety to save their goal line. each time, however, dave wriggled out of it. when there were but seven minutes left neither team had scored. gridley now had the ball for snap-back at its own twenty-five-yard line. the most that home boosters were hoping for now was that gridley would be able to hold down the game to no score. dave had been thinking deeply. he had just found a chance to mutter orders swiftly. fenton, little, wiry and swift, was to-day playing at left end, the position that dick himself had made famous in the year before. "eighteen---three--eleven---seven---nine!" called tom reade, crisply. the first four figures called off the play that gridley was to make, or to pretend to make. but that nine, capping all at the end, caused a swift flutter in gridley hearts. for that nine, at the end of the signal, called for a fake play. yet the instant that the whistle trilled out its command every gridley player unlimbered and dashed to the position ordered. only three men on the team understood what was contemplated. coach morton, from the side lines, had looked puzzled from the moment that he heard the signal. dick prescott, eager for his chum's success, as well as the team's, stood as erect as he could beside mr. morton, trying to take in the whole field with one wide, sweeping glance. as tom reade caught the ball on its backward snap, he straightened up, tucking the ball under his left arm and making a dash for gridley's right end. immediately, of course, hallam rushed its men toward that point. yet the movements of gridley's right wing puzzled the visitors. for all of dave's right flankers dashed forward, making an effective interference. surely, reasoned captain forsythe, tom reade didn't mean to try to break through by himself with the pigskin. that much was a correct guess. tom didn't intend anything of the sort. all in a flash reade, as prearranged, dropped the ball, punting it vigorously. up it went, soaring obliquely over gridley's left flank and far beyond. just a second before the ball itself started, little fenton had put himself in motion. by the time that the ball was in the air fenton was past hallam's line and scorching down the field. now forsythe and every hallam man comprehended all in a flash. fenton had caught the ball with a nicety that brought wild whoops from the gridley boosters, now standing on their seats and waving the gridley colors. "that little fellow looks like a streak of light," yelled one gridley booster. the description wasn't a bad one. fenton was doing some of the finest sprinting conceivable. before him nothing menaced but big harlowe, hallam's fullback. harlowe, however, was hurling himself straight in the impetuous way of little fenton. it looked like a bump. there could be but one result. fenton would have to go down to save the ball. harlowe reached out to tackle. fenton came to a quivering stop, just out of reach. then, almost instantly, the little left end dashed straight forward again. but the move had been enough to fool harlowe. of course, he assumed that fenton would spring to one side. harlowe imagined that it would be a dodge to the left, and harlowe leaped there to tackle his man. but fenton, actually going straight ahead, fooled the calculation of his powerful adversary and got past on the clever trick. harlowe dashed after his sly opponent. but fenton, still almost with his first big breath in his lungs, was running as fast as ever. a man of harlowe's size was no one to send after a greased mosquito like fenton. so nothing hindered. amid the wildest, noisiest rooting, fenton stepped it over hallam's now undefended goal line, reached down and pressed the pigskin against the earth for a touchdown. on the grand stand the noise was deafening. the whistle sounded and the flushed players of both teams came back to range up for the kick from field. dave, his cheeks glowing, took the kick. he sent a clean one that scored one more point for gridley. the cheering and the playing of the band still continued when the two elevens again lined up for play during the last five minutes of the game. the referee was obliged to signal to the leader to stop his musicians. forsythe looked hot and weary. his expectation of an easy victory had come to naught. unless he and ten other hallam boys could work wonders in five minutes. but they couldn't and didn't. the time keeper brought the game to a close. "gridley has handed us six to nothing," muttered forsythe, as he led his disheartened fellows from the field. "that puts us with the other second-rate teams in the state." "a great lot of orders you needed, didn't you?" was captain dick prescott's happy greeting as dave met him beyond the side lines. "you won that game for us, just the same," retorted dave. "i?" demanded dick, in genuine amazement. "yes; you, and no one else." "how?" "you refused to give me a hint. you threw me down hard, on my own resources. i saw all those hundreds of people demanding that gridley win," retorted dave. "what could i do? i had to make the fellows do something like what they've been doing under dick prescott, or confess myself a dub. i couldn't lean on a word from you, dick. so you fairly drove me into planning something that would either carry off the game or make us look like chromos of football players. you wouldn't say a word, prescott, that would take any of the blame on yourself! so didn't you force me to win!" "that's ingenious, but not convincing," retorted dick, as the two chums stepped into dressing quarters. "to tell you the truth, dave, i think a good many people now believe that you ought to be the regular captain." but darrin only grinned. he knew better. some of the fellows tried to praise fenton to his face. "quit! you can't get away with that," chuckled the fast little left end. "some one had to take that ball and drop it behind hallam's goal line. i was the one who was ordered to do it. if i hadn't, what would you fellows have said about me?" by the time that the hallam heights young men were dressed several of them came to the gridley quarters, forsythe at their head. "we want to shake hands," laughed forsythe, "and to make sure that you have no hard feelings for what we tried to do to you." dick and darrin took this in laughing goodfellowship. "if you call this your dub team to-day," continued forsythe, a bit more gloomily, "we shudder to think what would have happened to us had you put in your regular line-up." "there isn't any dub team in gridley," spoke dick quickly. "all of our fellows are trained in the same way, by the same coach, and we stake all our chances on any line-up that's picked for the day. it was hard on you, gentlemen, that my knee put me out for the day. darrin is twice as crafty as i am." "oh, darrin is crafty, all right," agreed forsythe cheerfully. "but, somehow, i like him for it." on some of the side streets gridley boys were allowed to light bonfires that evening, and there was general rejoicing of a lively nature. from the news that had come over concerning the hallam heights team there had been a good deal of fear that gridley would, on this day, receive a set-back to its rule of always winning. chapter x leading the town to athletics "mr. morton, we want a little word with you." "all right---anything to please you," laughed the submaster, looking at dick and dave as they came up to him in the yard at recess. "we've been thinking over a plan," dick continued. "it has something to do with athletics, then!" guessed the submaster. "yes, sir," nodded dave. "high school athletics, at that," continued mr. morton. "there you're wrong, sir, for once," smiled prescott. "mr. morton, we've been thinking of the high school gym. it's a big place. pretty nearly three hundred gymnasts could be drilled there at once." "yes; i know." "there's a fine lot of apparatus there," went on dick. "it cost thousands and thousands of dollars to put that gym. in shape." "and it's worth every dollar of the cost," contended mr. morton firmly. "mr. morton," challenged dick, "who paid for it?" "the city government," replied the submaster. "where did the city government get the money?" "from the citizens, of course." "now, mr. morton," went on prescott, "how many of the citizens get any direct benefit out of that gym.? only about a quarter of a thousand of high school students! couldn't the city's money be spent so that a far greater number would have the use of and benefit from the city's big investment!" "why," replied the submaster, looking puzzled, "the youngsters in the lower schools have their needs provided for, in some way, in their own school buildings." "true," agreed dick. "but what of the small army of clerks and factory employees of gridley? aren't they citizens, even if they haven't the time to attend high school? haven't our smaller business fry a right to the health and good spirits that come out of gymnastic and athletic work? haven't our typewriters, our salesgirls and factory girls a right to some of the good things from the gym.? aren't they all citizens, and isn't the gym. their property as much as it's anyone else's!" "excellent," nodded mr. morton. "but how do you propose to get them interested in the use of their property, even if the board of education will permit it?" "the willingness of the board of education can be dropped out of sight," argued dick. "the board is the servant of the people, and must do what the people want. what dave and i want to see is to have the high school gym. turned over to the young working people of the city in the evening time. say, two evenings a week for young men and two evenings for the young women. we believe it will result in big gains for gridley. when you put new life and brighter blood into the toilers, it increases the wealth of the whole city, doesn't it?" "i declare, i think it ought to," replied mr. morton. "but see here, how are two boys---or, let us say, two boys and a submaster---going to bring about any such result as this?" "by presenting it properly through the leading daily of gridley," replied prescott, with great promptness. "have you received any assurance that mr. pollock, of 'the blade,' will be for this big scheme of yours?" asked mr. morton. "when we've explained it all, i don't see how he can help being for it," rejoined prescott. "if 'the blade' takes hold and booms this idea, day in and day out, it won't be very long before evening gym. classes will be filled to overflowing. and the board of education would have to give way before the pressure." then dave took hold of the subject for a while, talking with great earnestness. mr. morton listened with increasing interest. "i think, boys, that you've hit upon an idea that will be of great service to our city," remarked the submaster. "yet what put all this into your heads!" "why, sir, it's our last year at the high school," replied dick, smiling though speaking with great earnestness. "after four years of the fine training we've had here, dave and i feel that it's our place to do something to leave our mark behind. we've been talking it all over, and we've hit upon this idea. will you stand by us in it?" "why, yes; all that i can, you may be sure. but just what do you boys expect me to be able to do!" "why, help us form the plans and back us up in them. you are really the leader in school athletics in this town, mr. morton," explained prescott. "i can quote you in 'the blade' as to the benefits that would result in giving gym. training to workers who can't attend high school. and, in the spring, after a winter in the gym., young men and women could form outdoor squads for running and other outside training. altogether, sir, we think we might make gridley famous as a place where all who possess any real energy go in to keep it up through public athletics. and such classes of young men and women could have the use of our athletics field." by the time that recess was over the submaster certainly had enough thoughts to keep him busy. that afternoon dick and dave took mr. morton around to "the blade" office. right at the outset mr. pollock jumped at the idea. "prescott," he cried, "you've sprung a big idea. 'the blade' will feature this idea for days to come. you may have a column, or a column and a half every day, and 'the blade' will also back it up on the editorial page. now, go ahead and get your stuff in shape. above all, have interviews with prominent men, especially employers, setting forth the benefit that ought to come to the young people and to the city at large. take as your keynote the idea that the city's duty is just as great to provide physical education as it is to supply learning out of textbooks. you'll know how to go ahead on that line, prescott." by the next day gridley had something new to talk about. by the time three days had passed the matter was being discussed with great seriousness. employers saw, and said that the time young men spent in a gym. would not be spent in billiard rooms or other resorts of a harmful or useless character. young women who went to the gym. would be home and in bed early, instead of staying up most of the night at a dance. all who entered the gym. classes would begin to think about their bodily condition and plan to improve it. improved bodies meant a better grade of work and increased pay. dick wrote splendidly on the subject. "the blade," editorially, gave dick & co. full credit for springing the idea. the board of education, at its next meeting, authorized the superintendent of schools to throw the high school gym., open evenings for the purpose indicated. it also voted mr. morton an increase of pay on condition that he take charge of the evening gym. classes for young men. one of the women teachers was granted a like increase for assuming charge of the evening gym. classes for young women. dick prescott, on behalf of the high school boys, guaranteed that the most skilled in athletics among the high school boys would be on hand to aid in training the young men, and in getting up sports and games for the gym. in winter, and for the athletic field in the spring. as soon as the classes were opened they were crowded to their utmost capacity. all of the younger portion of gridley seemed suddenly anxious to go in for athletics. "prescott and his well-known comrades of the high school appear to be leading in the very vanguard of athletics this year," stated "the blade" editorially. dick and his friends could not, however, give as much aid to the new scheme now as they intended to do later. they were in the middle of the football season, and that had to be carried through first of all. yet it was a big evening for dick, dave and their chums when the high school gym. was thrown open for the forming of the gymnastic class for young men. almost three hundred presented themselves for enrollment. scores of the leading citizens were also on hand to see how the new plan would take. among these latter was herr schimmelpodt, the retired contractor, who was always such an enthusiastic booster for high school athletics. "i tell you, bresgott, it vos a fine idea of yours," cried the big german, as he stood in a corner, looking on, while dick talked with him. "this vill keep young folks out of drouble, and put dem in health. it vill put gridley to being twice as good a town, alretty." "hullo, mr. schimmelpodt," called a young clerk, passing in trunks and gym. shoes. "don't you get into a squad to-night? this would do you a lot of good." "maype, if i go in for dis sort of thing, i crowd out some young mans who needs it as much as you do," retorted the german, blinking. "but don't you think you need it, also" laughed the clerk? "now, led me see," pondered the german. "young man, you think you gan run?" "i know i can," laughed the clerk, leaping lightly up and down on his soft gym. shoes. "i yonder if you could reach dot door ofer dere so soon alretty as i gan?" queried herr schimmelpodt. "will you run me a race?" grinned the clerk. "vell, you start, und ve see apout it." tantalizingly, the clerk started. then he glanced back over his shoulder. there was a great noise on the floor of the gym. herr sclhimmelpodt had started. he was so big that he made a good deal of noise when he traveled. but he was going like a streak, and the clerk began to sprint in earnest. it was all in vain, however. with a few great bounds herr schimmelpodt was close enough to reach out one of his big arms and lay hold of the fleeing clerk. that clerk stopped suddenly, with a jolt. "vy don't you go on running, ain't it?" demanded herr schimmelpodt. a crowd formed about them. the reason why the clerk didn't continue his running was a very good one. one of the german's big hands encircled the clerk's thin arm like a bracelet of steel. the clerk struggled, but he might as well have tried to break out of irons. "you vant me to bractise running, so dot i gan catch you, eh?" grunted the german. "you vant me to eat breakfast sawdust for a dyspepsia vot i ain't got, huh? you vant me to dake breathing eggsercises ven i can dake more air into my lungs, alretty, dan your whole body gan disblace? you vant me to do monkey-tricks mit a dumb-pell, yen i gan do things like dis?" suiting the action to the word, herr schimmelpodt grasped the clerk by one shoulder and one thigh. up over his head the german raised the unhappy young man. herr schimmelpodt's arms fell and rose as he "exercised" with the young man for a wand. everything in the gym. had stopped. all eyes were on this novel performance. roars of laughter greeted some new stunts that herr schimmelpodt performed with his human wand. the great german was the only one who seemed unconscious of the hurricane of laughter that he was causing. at last the german put his victim back on the floor. "yah, young mans, i am much oblige dot you show me how i need eggsercise. i feel much better alretty." red-faced, the clerk fled to the other side of the room, followed by the laughter of the other gymnasts. yet herr schimmelpodt's good-natured performance had great value. it taught many of the young men present how far this generation has fallen behind in matters of personal strength. mr. morton had easier sailing after that. chapter xi the "king deed" of daring "yes; that performance helped a lot." herr schimmelpodt was prevailed upon, by mr. morton, to come around on another evening to show some further feats with his great strength. around the waist-line the german was flabby; the fat rolled in heavy ridges. feeling aware of this defect in personal appearance herr schimmelpodt determined to devote some of his abundant leisure to getting his belt line into smaller compass. but the german would not do this before all eyes in the public, gym. so he and some other well-to-do business men who were conscious that the years had dealt too generously by them in the matter of flesh, hired a small hall and converted it into a private gym. it was all the doings of dick & co., just the same. the town was ripe, now, for performances in extraordinary athletics. fate willed it that there should be a chance. once a year an opera company of considerable prominence appeared at gridley for one evening. whenever this evening came around, it was made the occasion for a big time in local society. the women of the well-to-do families turned out in their most dazzling finery. this year "lohengrin" was to be sung at the local opera house. dick could have obtained, at "the blade" office, free seats for dave and himself for this friday night. but they were still in close training, and there was a game on for the afternoon of the day following. for that reason nine o'clock found both of the young men in bed and asleep. near the opera house the street was thronged with carriages. carriage after carriage drove up and discharged its load of handsomely dressed women and their more severely attired escorts. all of gridley that could attend the opera were in evening dress. during the evening a half gale of wind sprang up. while all was light and warmth inside, outside the wind howled harder and harder. by the time that the music lovers began to pour out, the blast was furious. leaning on the arm of her escort, as her carriage drove up to the door, one beautifully gowned woman stepped out. over her hair was thrown a black, filmy scarf in which nestled a number of handsome diamonds. just as she reached the curb, but before she could step into the waiting carriage, this woman gave a shriek of dismay. the gale had caught at her diamond-strewn head-covering. like a flash that costly creation was caught up from her hair and borne on the wind. others standing by saw the costly thing whisked obliquely up into the air. it was still ascending on the blast when it passed out of the range of vision. "o-o-o-oh! my beautiful jeweled scarf!" sobbed the woman hysterically. the crowd quickly formed about her. she was recognized as mrs. macey, the wife of a wealthy real estate operator. "it was careless not to have it fastened more securely, but it's no use to cry over what can't be helped now, my dear," replied her husband. "get into the carriage and i'll see if any trace can be found of the scarf." still sobbing, mrs. macey was helped into the carriage. then mr. macey enlisted the help of the bystanders. in every direction the street was searched. the fronts of the buildings opposite were examined; the gratings in the sidewalk were peered through. but there was no trace, anywhere, of the jeweled scarf. "it will be worth two hundred and fifty dollars for anyone to find it and return it to me," shouted mr. macey. that scattered the searchers more widely still. presently a woman friend drove home with mrs. macey, while her husband remained to push the search. he kept at it until two o'clock in the morning, half a hundred men and boys remaining in the search. then mr. macey gave it up. the gaudy, foolish trifle was worth about five thousand dollars. as the night wore on mr. macey began to have a pessimistic notion that perhaps some one had found the scarf but had been too "thrifty" to turn in such a precious article for so small a reward. "i guess it may as well be given up," sighed mr. macey, after two in the morning. "i'm going home, anyway." the readers of "the blade" that crisp october morning knew of mrs. macey's loss. there was much talk about the matter around the town. people who walked downtown early that morning peered into gutters and down through sidewalk gratings. then, at about seven o'clock a sensation started, and swiftly grew. one man, glancing skyward, had his attention attracted to something fluttering at the top of the spire of the methodist church, more than half a block away from the opera house. it was fabric of some sort, and one end fluttered in the breeze, though most of the black material appeared to be wrapped around the tip of the weather vane in which the spire staff terminated. "that's the jeweled scarf, i'll bet a month's pay!" gasped the discoverer. then, mindful of the reward, he dashed to the nearest telephone office, asking "central" to ring insistently until an answer came over the macey wire. "hullo, is that you, mr. macey?" called the discoverer, a teamster. "then come straight up to the methodist church. i'll be there. i've discovered the jeweled scarf." "how---how many jewels are left on it?" demanded mr. macey. "come right up! i'll tell you all about it when you get here." then the teamster rang off, after giving his name. the real estate man came in a hurry, in a runabout. his wife, pallid and hollow-cheeked, rode in the car with him. to mr. macey the teamster pointed out the barely visible bit of black fluttering a hundred and sixty feet above the pavement. "now how about the reward, mr. macey?" demanded the teamster. "that will be paid you, if you return the scarf to mrs. macey," replied the real estate man dryly. the teamster's jaw dropped. for the uppermost eighteen feet of the spire consisted of a stout flagpole. below this was the sloping slate roof of the top of the steeple proper. only a monkey or a "steeplejack" could get up there, and on a day like this, with a half gale still blowing, a steeplejack might be pardoned for declining the task. swiftly the news spread, and a great crowd collected. dave darrin heard of it right after breakfast, and hurried to get dick prescott. together the chums joined the crowd. "you'll have to get a steeplejack for the job, mr. macey," the chums heard one man advise the real estate operator. only one was known. his home was some forty miles away. mr. macey tried patiently to get the man over the long distance telephone. some member of the man's family answered for him. the expert was away, and would not be home, or available, for three days to come at least. "never mind, macey," laughed the friend, consolingly. "it'll wait. no one in gridley will take the scarf. it's safe up there." "huh! is it, though?" snorted the real estate man. "at any minute the strong wind may unwind it and send it whirling off over the town. or the gale may tear it to pieces, scattering the diamonds over a whole block, and not one in ten of the stones would ever be found." mrs. macey sat in the runabout, a picture of mute misery. herr schimmelpodt elbowed his way through the outskirts of the crowd and stood absorbing his share in the local excitement. "ach! i am afraid dere is von thing dot you gan't do, bresgott," smiled the german. "ach! by chimminy, though, i don't know yet." "i was wondering myself whether i could make a good try at steeple climbing," laughed dick eagerly. "the money sounds good to me anyway." "no; i don't know. i think it would be foolish," replied herr schimmelpodt. "i believe you could get up there, dick," muttered darrin, in a low voice. "then you could, dave." "i think i could," nodded darrin. "and, by crickets, if you were here, dick, i'd certainly try it." "try it anyway, then," urged prescott. "not unless you balk at it," returned darrin. "i'm not going to balk at it," retorted dick, flushing just a bit. "but you spoke of it first, dave, and i think you ought to have first chance at the reward." "tell you what i'll do," proposed darrin, seriously. "we'll toss for it, and the winner has the try." "i'll go you," nodded prescott. herr schimmelpodt, regarding them both seriously, saw that they meant it. "boys, boys!" he remonstrated. "don't think of it yet!" "why not?" asked dick. "you would be killed," remonstrated the big german. "is that the best opinion you have of us, after the way you've been praising us athletes for two years?" laughed prescott. "i'll toss you for it, dick," nudged dave. "what's this?" demanded mr. macey. "prescott and i are going to toss for it, to see who shall have the first chance to climb the spire and flagstaff," replied dave. "nonsense! out of the question," almost exploded mr. macey. "it would be like murder to allow either of you to try. that's work for a regular steeplejack." "well, what is a steeplejack?" demanded dick. "he's a fellow of good muscle and nerve, who can stand being in high places. either of us could climb a flagpole from down here in the street. why can't either of us go up there, just as well, and climb from the steeple roof?" "prescott, have you any idea of the strength of the wind up there?" demanded the real estate man. "it's blowing great guns up there!" "get some one to toss the coin, and either you or i call," insisted darrin. some one told mrs. macey what was being proposed. "oh, stop them!" she cried, leaning forward from the runabout. "boys, boys! don't do anything wildly rash like that! i'd sooner lose the scarf than have lives risked." "she needn't worry," sneered some one in the crowd. "the high school dudes are only bluffing. they haven't either o' them the sand to do a thing like that." both prescott and darrin heard. both flushed, though that was all the sign they gave. "herr schimmelpodt, you must have a cent," suggested dick. "toss it, will you, and let darrin call the turn." grumbling a good deal the german produced the required coin. he fingered it nervously, for a moment, then flipped it high in the air. "tails!" called dave. it came down heads. "oh, well, the best two out of three," insisted dick. "that fellow's nerve is going already," laughed some one. "he's anxious for the other fellow to get the honor." there was a grim twitching at the corners of prescott's mouth, but he said nothing. again the coin was tossed. this time dick called: "heads!" he won. "i'm ready," announced dick quietly. "i congratulate you, old fellow," murmured dave eagerly. "and i'm going with you to the base of the flagpole! the last climb is yours you've won it!" chapter xii the nerve of the soldier again mrs. macey sought to interpose. her husband, too, was at first against it. but, now that the die was fairly cast, herr schimmelpodt firmly championed the boys. "eider von of dem gan do it---easy!" declared the big german. "you don't know dem boys----vot? ach, i do. dey got der brain, der nerves und der muscle." "it's a crime to let such youths attempt the thing," shivered an anaemic-looking man in the crowd. "whichever one goes up that flagstaff will come down again faster. he'll be killed!" "cheer up some more," advised herr schimmelpodt stolidly. "it don't gost you nottings, anyway. if dick bresgott preak his neck soon, i gif him der bulliest funeral dot any boy in gridley efer hat." "but what good-----" began the nervous man tremulously. "talk ist cheap," retorted herr schimmelpodt, with a wink, "mid dot's all i haf to bay for dot funeral. dick bresgott ain't fool enough yet to preak der only neck he has." at this a jolly laugh went around, relieving the tension a bit, for there were many in the crowd who had begun to feel mighty serious as soon as they realized that dick was in earnest. some one brought the janitor of the church. a hardware dealer near by came along with two coils of rope, which he thought might be handy. mr. macey went inside with the janitor and the two chums. a score or two more would have followed, but the janitor called to herr schimmelpodt to bar the way, which the big german readily did. then the four inside began to climb the winding staircase to the bell loft. "go slowly, dick; loaf," counseled dave. "don't waste a bit of your wind foolishly." at the bell loft all four paused to look down at the crowd. now up a series of ladders the four were obliged to climb, inside the spire top. this spire top was thirty-six feet above the floor of the bell loft; but eight feet from the top of the spire a window let out upon a narrow iron gallery that ran around the spire. "i---i don't believe i'll step out there," faltered mr. macey, who was stout and apoplectic-looking. "i don't blame ye any," agreed the janitor. "it ain't just the place, out there, for a man o' your weight and years." "don't look down at the street, dick," begged dave. "why not?" asked prescott, deliberately disobeying. "if i couldn't do that without getting dizzy, it would be foolish to climb the pole." "prescott, you'd better not try it," protested mr. macey. "just listen to how strong the wind is at this height. i'm afraid you'll be dashed down to the ground. gracious! hear the flagstaff rattle." "i expected it," replied dick, sitting down, inside the spire top. "what are you doing?" demanded the real estate man. "taking off my shoes," dick replied coolly. "do you really mean to make the attempt?" "you don't think a gridley boy would back out at this late moment?" queried dick, in surprise. "ye couldn't stop these younkers, now, by force," chuckled the janitor. "i certainly wouldn't care to try force," remarked mr. macey dryly. "these young men are too well developed." dave was now on the floor, getting off his shoes. "what are you going to do, old fellow?" asked prescott. "going to follow you as far as the top of the spire," replied darrin quietly. "who knows but i may be able to be of some use?" dave stepped out first on the little iron balcony. the crowd below saw him, but at the distance could not make out clearly which boy it was. then prescott followed. "give me one foot," called dave, kneeling and making a cup of his hands. dick placed his foot, then started to climb the sloping surface of slate, darrin aiding. as dave straightened to a standing position dick reached up, getting hold of the base of the flagstaff. "hold on there, a minute," advised dave, as his chum stood on the little ledge at the top of the spire. "and don't be foolish enough to look down into the street." dave darted inside, picking up the lighter of the ropes. going out on the balcony again darrin tossed one end of the rope to dick, who made it fast around the flagpole. using the rope, dave went easily up and stood beside prescott. "there is a fearful wind here," muttered dick, as both swayed while holding to the stout, vibrating mast. "but you can make it, old fellow." it had been the original intention in building the church to use this mast as a flag pole. then some doubt had arisen among the members of the parish. a weather vane had been put at the top of the pole, and the question of connecting flag tackle had been left to be decided at a later date. had the flag tackle been there now dick could have made an easier problem of the ascent; yet, even with the rope, it would have been an undertaking from which most men would have shrunk. "i'm going to start now," said dick very quietly. "good luck, dick, old fellow!" called dave cheerily. "you'll get through." darrin still remained standing on top of the spire after dick had started to climb. the only way that prescott could move upward was to wrap arms and legs around the pole. how the wind swayed, jarred and vibrated it! once, when ten feet of the ascent had been accomplished, dick felt his heart fail him. a momentary impulse, almost of cowardice, swept over him. then he steeled himself, and went on and up. that staff must be more than a mile high, it now seemed to the boy, hanging there in momentary danger of his life. dave, standing below, looking up, knew far more torment. watching dick, darrin began to feel wholly responsible for the whole awful predicament of his chum. "i urged him on to it," thought dave, with a rush of horror that his own peril could not have brought to him. "oh, i hope the splendid old fellow does make this stunt safely!" it seemed as though thousands were packed in the street below, every face upturned. the breath of the multitude came short and sharp. two women and a girl fainted from the strain. in a window in the building across the street a photographer poised his camera. behind the shutter was a long-angled lens, fitted for taking pictures at a distance. just as dick prescott's arms were within two feet of the weather vane the photographer exposed his plate. dick, in the meantime, was moving in a sort of dumb way now. the keenness of his senses had left him. he moved mechanically; he knew what he was after, and he kept on. yet he seemed largely to have lost the power to realize the danger of his position. a-a-ah! he was up there now, holding to the weathervane! his legs curled doggedly around the flagstaff. he had need now to use all the strength in his legs, for he must use one hand to disentangle the black scarf, which lay twisted about the vane just over his head. but it was the right scarf. the glint and dazzle of the diamonds was in his eyes. how the extreme end of that flag pole quivered. it seemed to the boy as though the pole must bend and snap, what with the pressure of the heavy wind and the weight of his body! slowly, laboriously, mechanically, like one in a trance, dick employed his left hand in patiently disentangling the black web from the trap in which it had been caught. at last the scarf was free. most cautiously dick lowered his left hand, tucking the jeweled fabric carefully into the inner pocket of his coat. "i---i---guess---it safe---in there," he muttered, hardly realizing that he was saying any thing. dave, from below, had looked on, fascinated. now that he saw the major part of the daring feat accomplished, darrin did not make the mistake of shouting any advice to his comrade. he knew that any sudden shout might attract prescott's attention in a way to cause him to lose his head. slowly---oh, so slowly! dick came down. it seemed as though, at last, he understood his danger to the full and was afraid. the truth was, prescott realized that, with all the vibrating of the staff in the wind, his muscular power was being sapped out of him. dave darrin was down again, crouching on top of the spire, when dick reached him. "just touch your feet, dick!" darrin called coolly. "then stand holding to the pole until i get down into the balcony." dick obeyed as one who could no longer think for himself. this done, dave slipped down the spire's slope, by the aid of the rope, until his feet touched the balcony's floor. now he stood with upturned face and arms uplifted. "use the rope and come down, dick," hailed. darrin softly. "i'm here to catch you, if you need it." down came prescott, holding to the rope, but helped more by dave's loyal arms. "help prescott inside, you two," dave ordered sharply. then, after the men inside the spire top had obeyed, dave swung himself in. he left the rope fastened above, for whoever cared to go and get it. mr. macey, ashen faced and shaking, stared at dick in a sort of fascination. "i---i got it," said dick, when he could control his voice. "here it is, safe in my pocket." "i forgot to ask," rejoined mr. macey tremulously. "i'm sick of that bauble. ever since you started aloft, prescott, i've been calling myself all sorts of names for being a party to this thing." "why, it's all right," laughed dick, only a bit brokenly. "it was easy enough---with a fellow like dave to help." "did he go up the flagstaff, too?" demanded mr. macey, opening his eyes wider. "no," declared darrin promptly. "prescott did it." "but good old dave was right at hand to help," dick contended staunchly. "get yourselves together, boys. then we'll get down out of here," urged mr. macey. "i haven't done anything, but i feel as though i'd be the one to reel and faint." "take this scarf, now, please," begged dick, holding open his coat. the real estate man looked over the bauble that had placed two manly lives in such desperate jeopardy. the fabric was much torn, but all the precious stones still appeared to be there. mr. macey folded the scarf and placed it in one of his own inner pockets. "now, let us get down out of here," begged the real estate man. "this place is giving me the horrors." "you can start ahead, sir," laughed dave. "but we want time to put our shoes on." two or three minutes later the four started below, going slowly over the ladder part of the route. when they struck the winding staircase they went a bit more rapidly. down in the street it seemed to the watchers as though ages had passed since the two boys had been seen going inside from the iron balcony. but now, at last, herr schimmelpodt heard steps inside, so he threw open the heavy door at once. as dick and dave came out again into the sunlight what a mighty roar of applause and cheering went up. then herr schimmelpodt, advancing to the edge of the steps, and laying one hand over his heart, bowed profoundly and repeatedly. that turned the cheering to laughter. the big german held up his right hand for silence. "ladies und chentlemen," shouted herr schimmelpodt, as soon as he could make him self heard, "i don't vant to bose as a hero!" "that's all right," came with a burst of goodhumored laughter. "you're not!" "it vos really nottings vot i did," continued the german, with another bow. "true for you." "maybe," continued herr schimmelpodt, "you think i vos afraid when i climb dot pole. but i wos not---i pledch you mein vord. it is nottings for me to climb flagpoles. ven i vos ein poy in germany i did it efery day. but i will not dake up your time mit idle remarks. i repeat dot i am not ein hero." the wily old german had played out his purpose. he had turned the wild cheering, which he knew would have embarrassed prescott, into a good-natured laugh. he had diverted the first big burst of attention away from the boys, much to the relief of the latter. but now the crowd bethought itself of the heroes that a crowd always loves. hundreds pressed about to shake the bands of prescott and darrin. "get into my car! stand up in front of mrs. macey and myself until we can get out of this crowd," urged mr. macey, bustling the boys toward the runabout. mrs. macey, whitefaced, was crying softly and could not speak. but her husband, with the two boys standing up before him, honked his horn and turned on the power, starting the car slowly. a path was thus made for their escape through the crowd, though the cheering began again. "now, you can put us down, if you will, sir,", suggested dick, when they had reached the outer edge of the crowd. "not yet," retorted mr. macey. "why not, sir?" "you've a little trip to make with me yet." "trip?" "wait a moment, and you'll see." less than two minutes later mr. macey drove his car up in front of one of the banks and jumped out. "come on, boys," he cried. "i want to get that reward off my mind." "you run in, dick," proposed dave, on the sidewalk. "i'll wait for you." "you'll go with me," prescott retorted, "or i won't stir inside." so darrin followed them into the bank. "i'm so thankful to see you boys safely out of the scrape," declared mr. macey, inside, "that i'm going to pay the full reward to each of you." "no you won't," retorted dick very promptly. "you'll pay no more than you offered. dave and i'll divide that between us." "not a cent for me!" propounded darrin, with emphasis. "if you don't share the reward evenly, i won't touch a cent of it either, dave darrin," rejoined dick heatedly. dave tried to have his way, but his chum won. mr. macey made another effort to double the reward, but was overruled. so young prescott received the two hundred and fifty dollars in crisp, new bills, and as promptly turned half of the sum over to his chum. now that it was safely over with, it had not been a bad morning's work! chapter xiii dick begins to feel old despite the strain of what they had gone through dick and dave led the gridley boys through a fierce gridiron battle that same afternoon, and won again by a score of 13 to 5. but the people of gridley paid little heed to the score that day, or the next. the sensation that dick and dave had supplied was the talk of the town, to the exclusion of other topics relating to high school boys. mr. pollock bought a copy of the photograph showing dick close to the weather vane on his climb. a half-tone cut made from this photograph was printed in "the blade." "this young man is now a member of 'the blade' staff, reporting school and other matters," ran the comment under the spirited picture. "we believe that mr. prescott will continue to be a member of the staff, and to grow with 'the blade.'" "what about that, dick?" laughed darrin. "i've told mr. pollock and mr. bradley that i believe my plans will carry me a good distance away from 'the blade' office after this year," replied dick, with a meaning smile. "if they won't believe me now, perhaps they'll wake up later." the town had not been wanting in croakers at the outset of the football season, who had predicted that dick prescott and his chums would "drag down" the football team and its fine traditions from past years. but the eleven, mainly under dick and under dave's captaincy in two fierce gridiron battles, had gone right along winning games. the last three battles had been fought out to a successful finish in november. there now remained only the thanksgiving day game to complete the season. by all traditions each football team in the country strives to have its biggest fight take place on thanksgiving day. by another tradition, every team seeks to have this game take place on the home grounds. in the latter respect gridley lost this year. the game, which was against fordham high school, was scheduled to take place at fordham. enthusiasm, however, was at top notch. citizens hired the gridley band to go along with the young men and help out on noise. a special train in two sections was chartered, for some seven hundred gridleyites had voted in favor of an evening dinner on thanksgiving day; they were going along to see the game. fordham had lost two games, against exceptionally strong teams, earlier in the season, but had of late a fine record. fordham had dropped several of its original players, putting in heavier or better men, and a new coach had been employed. the fordham boys were now believed to be able to put up a strenuous game. "i hope you're going to win, prescott," said mr. macey, meeting dick on the street one afternoon not long before thanksgiving. "have you any doubts, sir?" smiled the captain of the gridley team. "well, you see, fordham was my native town. i run down there often, and i know a good deal of what's going on there. fordham's second coach has attended the last two games you played, and he has been stealing all your points that he could get." "he has, eh?" muttered prescott. "that's news to me. oh, well, it's legitimate to learn all you can about another team's play." "from the reports fordham has of your play the young men over in that town are certain that they're enough better to be able to bring your scalps into camp." "perhaps they'll do it," laughed dick pleasantly. "we'll admit that we're about due for a walloping whenever the crowd comes along that can do it." "i am only telling you what i hear from fordham," continued mr. macey. "and i'm glad you did, sir. we'll try to turn the laugh on fordham." "then you think you can beat 'em?" "no, sir. we never think we can. we always know that we can! that's the gridley way---the gridley spirit. we always win our battles before we go into them, mr. macey. we make up our minds that we can't and won't be beaten. it isn't just brag, though. we base all our positiveness on the way that we stick to our training and coaching, and on our discipline. mr. macey, this is the third year that i've been playing on different gridley high school teams. i remember a tie game, but no defeats." "i guess fordham will find it a hard enough proposition to down you young men," remarked mr. macey. "they're going to discover, sir, that they simply can't do it. gridley never goes onto any field to get beaten." "und dot isn't brag, neider," broke in a man who had halted to listen. "ven dese young men pack deir togs to go away, dey pack der winning score in der bag, too. ach! don't i know dot? don't i make mineself young vonce more by following dese young athletes about?" herr schimmelpodt looked utterly shocked that anyone should think it possible for another high school eleven to take a game from gridley. dick soon encountered dave and told him the news he had gleaned from mr. macey. "been sending their second coach over to watch our play, have they?" laughed darrin softly. "that seems to show how much they fear us in fordham." "i believe we are going to have a stiff game," muttered prescott. "hallam heights and fordham are the only two teams that think enough of the game to hire two coaches." "well, we have hallam's scalp dangling down at the gym.," laughed dave darrin. "and we'll have fordham's in the same way," predicted dick confidently. it barely occurred to the young captain of the team to wonder what it would mean for him if the game to fordham should be lost. dick would be the first captain in years who had lost a football game for gridley. it would be a mean record to take out of high school life. but dick gave no thought to such a possibility. "of course we're going to wallop fordham," he thought. "i wish only one thing. i'd like to see the fordhams play through a stiff game just once." it was too late, however, to give any real thought to this, for fordham's next and last game of the season was to be the one with gridley. "are you girls going to the game?" asked dick, when he and his chum met laura bentley and belle meade before the post office. "haven't you heard what the girls are doing, dick?" questioned laura, looking at him in some surprise. "i have heard that a lot of the girls are going to the game." "just forty-two of us, to be exact," laura continued. "we girls and our chaperons are to have one car in the first section. you see, we've arranged to go right along with the team. we have our seats all together at fordham, too." "my, what a lot of noise forty-two girls can make in a moment of enthusiasm!" murmured dave. "we can, if you give us any excuse," advanced belle. "oh, we'll give you excuse enough. see to it that you keep the noise up to the grade of our playing." "mr. confident!" teased belle. "why, you know, as well as we do, that we'll come home with fordham's scalp!" retorted, darrin. "you've heard some of the talk about fordham's confidence in winning, haven't you?" asked laura, a bit anxiously. "yes," nodded dick. "but that doesn't mean anything. you know the gridley record, the gridley spirit and confidence." "still," objected belle, "one side has to lose, and the fordham boys have all the stuff ready to light bonfires on thanksgiving night." "have you any particular friends over in fordham?" asked dave darrin, with a sudden swift, significant look. "no, i haven't," retorted belle hastily. "and i hope, with all my heart, that gridley gains the only points that are allowed. yet, sometimes, so much confidence all the while seems just a bit alarming." "i won't say another word, then, until after the game," promised darrin meekly. "and then-----?" "oh, i'll turn half girl, and say 'i told you so,'" mimicked dave good-humoredly. it would have been hard to find anyone in gridley who would have said openly that he expected the home boys to be beaten; but there were many who knew that they were more than a bit anxious. before the game, anyway, fordham's brag was just as good as gridley brag. "won't you be glad, anyway, when the thanksgiving game is over?" asked laura. "yes, and no," smiled prescott seriously. "when i come back from fordham i shall know that i have captained my last game on a high school team. that tells me that i am getting along in life---that i am growing old, and shall soon have to think of much more serious things. but, honestly, i hate awfully to think of all these grand old high school days coming to an end. i mustn't think too much about it until after the game. it makes me just a bit blue." "won't you be captain of the basket ball team this winter?" asked laura quickly. "no; i can't take everything. hudson will probably head the basket ball team." "why, i heard that you were going in hard for basket ball." "so i am. mr. morton is so busy, with the new evening training classes, that he has asked me to be second coach to the basket ball crowd. i'll undoubtedly do that." "oh, then you'll still be leading the athletic vanguard at the high school," murmured laura, and, somehow, there was a note of contentment in her voice. "i shall be, until i'm through with the high school," prescott answered. "but think---just think---how soon that will come around for all of us!" chapter xiv fordham plays a slugging game for half an hour before the first section of the special pulled out, the gridley band played its liveliest tunes. a part of the time the band played accompaniment to the school airs, which the crowd took up with lively spirit. there is a peculiar enthusiasm which attaches to the thanksgiving day game. this is due partly to the extra holiday spirit of the affair. then, too, there is the high tension that precedes the last game of the season. with a team that has won every game to that point, yet often with great difficulty, the tension of spirits is even higher. as the first section of the special rolled in at the railway station the part of the crowd that was "going" began to break up into groups headed for the different parts of the train. herr schimmelpodt went, of course, to the car that carried the team. the boys wouldn't have been satisfied to start or to travel without him. the big german had come to be the mascot of gridley high school. just before the train started herr schimmelpodt waddled out to the rear platform of the car. in his right hand he brandished a massive cane to which the gridley high school colors were secured. "now, listen," he bellowed out. "ve come back our scalps not wigs! you hear dot, alretty?" while the cheering was still going on, and while the band was crashing out music, the first section pulled out, making room for the second section. a run of a little more than an hour at good speed, and with no way stops, brought the gridley invading forces to fordham. at the depot, the local team's second coach awaited the players. he had two stages at hand, into which the team and subs piled. a wagon followed, carrying the kits of the gridley boys. there were two more stages for the band. all the other travelers had to depend on the street-car service. finding the stages rather crowded, dick nudged darrin, then made for the kit wagon. "i really believe we'll have more comfort, dave," proposed prescott, "if we get aboard this rig and ride on top of the tog bags." the suggestion was carried out at once. "i'll drive along fast, if you want," proposed the driver, "and get the togs down to the grounds ahead of your team." "if you please," nodded dick. "our boys will want everything ready when they reach the grounds." so the two chums were quickly carried beyond the noise and confusion. a few minutes later the wagon turned in at the fordham athletic grounds. the fordham high school boys were out in the field, practicing. as seen in their padded togs they were an extra-bulky looking lot. "great scott!" grunted darrin, half disgustedly. "each one of those fordham fellows must weigh close to a ton." "the more weight the less speed, anyway," laughed dick good-humoredly. "and, look! i wonder how old some of those fellows are," continued darrin. "i wonder if, in this town, men wait until they've made their fortunes and retired, before they enter high school. why, some of these fordham fellows must have voted for president the last two times." "hardly as bad as that, i guess," smiled prescott. "still, these fordham boys do look more like a college eleven than a high school crowd." dave continued to gaze over at the home team, and to scowl, until the wagon was halted before dressing quarters. here the teamster and another man made short work of carrying in all the tog-bags. a few minutes later the other fellows arrived. "say, which team is it we're fighting to-day?" demanded hudson. "harvard, or yale?" there was general grumbling comment. "i think," insisted tom reade, "that the fordham team wouldn't like to stand a searching hunt into the eligibility of some of their players." "they've surely brought in some who are not regular, fair-and-square high school students," contended dan dalzell. there was much more talk of this sort, some of the gridley boys insisting that fordham ought to be compelled to account for the size and seeming age of some of the home players. "we're up against a crooked line-up, or i'll give up," muttered greg holmes. "now, see here, fellows," laughed captain dick. "i don't believe in making any fuss beforehand. we'll just go ahead and take what comes to us." "it would be too late to make a kick after we've played," cried some one. "you fellows," continued dick, "make me think of what i heard mr. pollock say to wilcox, chairman of the campaign committee back home." "what was that?" demanded half a dozen. "why," chuckled prescott, "mr. pollock said to wilcox: 'now, see here, there's always a chance that the election will go our way. so never yell fraud until after the election is over.'" "i guess that's the wisest philosophy," laughed coach morton, who had taken no part in the previous conversation. "if that's the fordham team," continued dick, "it's one of pretty sizable fellows. but we'll do our plain duty, which is to pile out on to the field and proceed to stroll through any line that is posted in our way." just before the gridley youngsters were ready to go out for preliminary practice the big fordham fellows came off the field. "hullo!" piped dave, as the gridley boys strolled out to the gridiron. "you ought to feel happy, dick. there's a big section of west point over on the grand stand." nearly two hundred young men in black and gray cadet uniforms of the united states military academy pattern sat in a solid block at one point on the grand stand. "no, they're not west pointers," sighed dick. "see here, those fellows, of course, are students at the fordham military institute. they wear the west point uniform. and that's the military school that phin drayne went to." "the sneak!" grunted dave. "i wonder if he's over in that bunch, now." "i'm not even enough interested to wonder," returned prescott. "he's where he can't do us any harm, anyway." "but, if the fordham boys put anything over us, i'll bet drayne has things timed so that the military boys will do a big and noisy lot of boasting." "they will, anyway, if we allow them a chance," answered dick. "now, spread out, fellows," he called, raising his voice. in the next moment the ball was in lively play. the first time that a fumble was made a jeering chorus sounded among the military school boys. "i expected it," growled darrin. "we don't care, anyway," smiled dick. "let 'em hoot! i don't draw the line until they throw things." "if they knew phin drayne as we do, they'd throw him first," grimaced darrin. a minute later another hoot went up. it was plain that the military school boys had been primed for this. but the gray-clad youths, it was very soon evident, were not the only ones who had come out to make a noise. half of the fordham crowd present joined in the volleys of derision that were showered down on the practicing boys from gridley. "it's nothing but a mob!" declared darrin, his eyes flashing. "careful, old fellow," counseled prescott coolly. "they're trying to get our nerve before the game begins. don't let 'em do it." this excellent instruction dick contrived to pass throughout his team. thereafter the gridley boys seemed not to hear the harsh witticisms that were hurled at them from all sides of the field. just in the nick of time the gridley band began playing. that stopped the annoyance for a while, for fordham had neglected to provide a band. yet when the gridley high school song was started by the band, and the gridley boosters joined in the words, the answer from fordham came in the form of a "laughing-song," let loose with such volume that the gridley offering to the merriment was drowned out. "i hope we can give this rough town a horrible thumping---that's all," muttered dave, his eyes flashing. "don't let them capture your 'goat,' and we will," dick promised, as quietly as ever. the plain hostility of the home crowd was wearing in on more than one of the gridley boys. dick felt obliged to call his eleven together, and to give them some quiet, homely but forcible advice. coach morton followed, with more in the same line. yet it came as a welcome relief to the gridley youngsters when the referee and the other officials came to the field and game was called. dick prescott won the toss, and took the kickoff. that, of course, sent the ball into fordham ranks. in an instant the solid fordham line emitted a murmur that sounded like a bear's growl, then came thundering down upon the smaller gridley youngsters. there was a fierce collision, but gridley held on like a herd of bulls. the ball was soon down. for five minutes or so there was savage playing. fordham played a "slugging" game of the worst kind. several foul tackles were quickly made by home players, yet so quickly released that the referee could not be sure and could not inflict a penalty. sly blows were struck when the lines came together. the average football captain would have claimed penalties, and fought the matter out. but dick prescott let matters run by. he was waiting his opportunity. so hard was the "slugging," so overbearing and ruthlessly unfair was the fordham charge that, at the end of five minutes, gridley was forced to make a safety, losing two points at the outset. "yah!" sneered an exultant voice from the ranks of the military school. "that's the fine captain prescott we've heard about!" tom reade, in togs, was standing among the gridley subs at the side line. tom recognized, as did all the gridley boys, the voice of phin drayne. "yes!" bellowed tom, facing the gray-clad group. "and that last speaker was a fellow who was expelled from gridley high school for selling out his team!" it was a swift shot and a bull's-eye. the fordham institute boys had no answer ready for that. half of them turned to stare at phin drayne, whose guilty face, with color coming and going in flashes seemed to admit the truth of reade's taunt. "dick," growled darrin, as they moved forward, after the safety, to gridley's twenty-five yard line, "these fordham fellows are simply ruffians. they're fouling us every second, and they'll smash half our fellows into the hospital." "we'll see about that!" dick prescott's voice was as quiet and cool as ever, but there was an ominous flash in his eyes. chapter xv "we'll play the gentleman's game." at the next down dan dalzell held up his hand, making a dash for the referee. "i claim a foul!" he called. "captain, this is for you," announced the referee, turning to dick. "be quick, if you've any complaint to make." "come here, dalzell," called prescott. "what was the foul?" the fordham players crowded about, muttering in an ugly way---all except one man, who skulked at the rear. "there's the hoodlum," continued dan excitedly, one hand over his left breast. he pointed to the fordham player skulking at the rear. "that fellow deliberately gave me the elbow over the heart when we came together." "what have you to say, captain barnes?" demanded the referee, turning to the fordham leader. "it's not true," retorted barnes hotly. "daniels, come here." the matter was argued quickly and hotly, gridley accusing, fordham hotly denying. "can't you gridley fellows play with anything but your mouths?" snarled captain barnes. "we play a straight game," retorted dick coldly. "we play like gentlemen." "do you mean that we're not?" demanded barnes swaggeringly. "so far you've played like a lot of sluggers." "see here! i've a good mind to thrash you, prescott!" quivered barnes. "it's always the truth that stings," retorted dick, with a cool smile. "my fist would hurt, too." "that's what we're asking you to do---to save all your slugging and bruising tactics until after a straight and gentlemanly game has been played," retorted dick, with spirit. barnes clenched his fists, but the referee stepped squarely in between the rival captains. "cut it!" directed that official tersely. "i'll do all the talking myself. captain barnes, return to your men and tell them that slugging and tricky work will be watched for more carefully, and penalized as heavily as the rules allow. if it goes too far i'll declare the game forfeited to the visiting team." "this is a shame!" fumed barnes. "and the whole charge is a mass of lies." "i'll watch out and see," promised---or threatened---the referee. "back to your positions. captain barnes, i'll give you thirty seconds to pass the word around among your men." "that black-haired prize-fighter with the mole on his chin tries to give me his knee every time we meet in a scrimmage," growled hudson to dick. "if he carries it any further, i think i know a kick that will put his ankle out of business!" "then don't you dare use it," warned dick sternly. "no matter what the other fellows do, our team is playing a square, honest game every minute of both halves!" the referee had signaled them to positions. the gridley boys leaped into place. play was resumed. in the next three plays fordham, under the now more keenly watchful eyes of the officials, failed to make the required distance, and lost the ball. gridley took the ball, now. in the next two plays, the smaller fellows advanced the ball some twelve yards. but in the next three plays following, they lost on downs, and fordham again carried the pigskin. "the fordham fellows are passing a lot of whispers every chance they get," reported alert dave. "i don't care how much they whisper," was dick's rejoinder. "but watch out for crooked tricks." minute after minute went by. gridley got the ball down to the enemy's fifteen-yard line, then saw it slowly forced back into their own territory. now fordham began to "slug" again; yet so cleverly was it done that the officials could not put their fingers on a definite instance that could be penalized. bravely fighting, gridley was none the less driven back. from the ten-yard line fordham suddenly made a right end play on which the whole weight and force of the team was concentrated. in the mad crush, three or four gridley boys were "slugged" in the slyest manner conceivable. fordham broke through the line, carrying the pigskin over the goal line with a rush. fordham boosters set up a roar that seemed to make the ground shake, but the two hundred boys from the military school took little or no part in the demonstration. tom reade's reply to phin drayne had silenced them. swaggering like swashbucklers fordham followed the ball back for the kick for goal. it was made, securing six points, which were added to the two received from gridley being forced to make that safety earlier in the game. "of all the miserable gangs of rowdies!" uttered dave darrin, as the teams rested in quarters between the halves. "i have two black-and-blue spots to show, i know i have," muttered hudson. "we'll have some of our men on stretchers, if this thing keeps up," growled greg holmes. "what are you going to do about this business, captain?" demanded two or three of the fellows, in one breath. "as long as we play," replied dick prescott, "we'll play the same gentleman's game, no matter what the other fellows do. we may quit, but we won't slug. we won't sully gridley's good name for honest play. and we won't quit, either, until mr. morton orders us from the field." "you have it right, prescott," nodded the coach. "and i shan't interfere, either, unless things get a good deal worse than they have been. but the fordham work has been shameful, and i don't blame any of you for feeling that you'd rather forfeit the game and walk off the field." besides being coach, mr. morton was also manager. at his call the team would have left the field instantly, despite any other orders from the referee. it always makes a bad showing, however, for a team to leave the field on a claim of foul playing. "all out for the second half!" sounded a voice in the doorway. the gridley boys went, fire in their hearts, flame in their eyes. chapter xvi gridley's last charge "remember, captain barnes!" called the referee significantly. "why don't you talk to prescott, too?" demanded the fordham captain sulkily. "i don't need to." "you----don't---need to?" demanded barnes, opening his eyes in pretended wonder. "no; prescott and his fellows have a magnificent reputation for fair play, and they've won it on merit." "you're down on us," growled captain barnes. "i'm only waiting till i can put my finger on some slugging to stop the game and hand it to gridley," retorted the referee, with a snap. "be mighty careful, fellows; be clever," whispered the fordham captain to his most "dependable" men. "are we going to throw the game?" demanded the slugger who had so angered hudson. "no; but don't get caught at anything. better not do anything. we've got those milk-diet infants eight to nothing now. play their own kind of kindergarten game as long as we can hold the score without rough work." barnes's own instructions would have sufficiently stamped his team, had these orders been heard by anyone else. at the beginning of the second half fordham played a much more honest game, and gridley began to pick up hope that fairness might prevail hereafter. gridley's own game, in the second half, was as swift and scientific as it had ever been. by sheer good playing and brilliant dashes dick and his men carried the ball down the field, losing it once on downs; but after the first ten minutes of the half they kept the pigskin wholly in fordham territory. back and forth surged the battle. fordham, despite its greatly superior weight and bulk, was not by any means superior when under the utmost watchfulness of a referee avowedly anxious to penalize. yet, until the game was nearly over, fordham managed to keep the ball away from its own goal line. then, while the lines reformed and dick bent over to snap back, dave darrin called out a signal that electrified the whole gridley line. it called for one of their most daring plays, that prescott himself made famous the year before. while the start, after the ball was in play, seemed directed toward the right wing of gridley, the ball was actually jumped to little fenton, at the left end, and fenton, backed solidly by a superb interference, got off and away with the ball. in a twinkling he had it down behind fordham's goal line. then the ball went back for the kick. the band played a few spirited measures while the wearied gridley boosters suddenly rose and whooped themselves black in the face. the kick, too, was won. "oh, well." growled barnes, "we have two points to the good yet, and only four minutes and a half left for the game. don't get rough, fellows, unless you have to." as the gridley boys sprang to a fresh line-up their eyes were glowing. "remember, fellows, the time is short, but battles have been won in two minutes!" this was the inspiring message flashed out by captain dick prescott. with all the zeal of race horses the gridley high school boys flung themselves into their work. after a minute and a half of play, gridley had done so much that, just before the next snapback barnes let his sulky eyes flash about him in a way that was understood. fordham must rush in, now, and hold the enemy back, no matter at what cost of roughness---if the roughness could be done slyly enough. then it came, a fierce, frenzied charge. the ball was down again in an instant, and hazelton, a gridley man, lay on the field, unable to rise. physicians hurried out from the side lines. "broken leg," said one of them, and a stretcher was brought. "have we got to stand this sort of thing?" demanded hudson, in a hoarse whisper. "say the word, and i'll send two of their men after hazelton." "don't you do it!" snapped dick sharply. "it would disgrace our school colors and our school honor. don't let knaves make a knave of you." tom reade came out on a swift run from the side lines to take hazelton's place. "we ought to be allowed to carry guns, when we play a team like this one," blurted tom indignantly. "we'll pay them back in the score," retorted dick soberly, though his eyes were flashing. dave, in the meantime, was swiftly passing some orders dick had whispered to him. these orders, however, related to plays to come, and did not call for retaliation on hazelton's account. play was called sharply. "pay in the score," became the battle cry raging in every gridley boy's heart. four successive plays carried the ball so close to the fordham goal line that barnes and his followers were in despair. they still used whatever rough tricks they thought they could sneak in under the eyes of the game's officials, and some of these made the gridley boys ache. then came a signal beginning with "three" which stood for reverse signal. the numerals that came after the three called for the same trick that fenton had put through so splendidly. again the ball started toward the right wing. this time the fordham players were sure they understood---and like a flash massed their defense against gridley's left. but on that reverse signal the ball continued to move at the right. before barnes and his followers could comprehend, another touchdown had been scored by the visitors. and then came the kick for goal, and it was a splendid success. the kick came just at the end of the second half. that kick won the game for dick's sorely pressed team. gridley's score, won by a cleanly played game against bruisers, stood at twelve to eight! now, indeed, did the gridley boosters turn themselves loose, the band leading. barnes and his ruffians skulked back to dressing quarters, there to abuse the referee, the "gridley kickers" and everyone and everything else but themselves. it wasn't long before some of the fordham subs slipped out to find their cronies and sympathizers in the crowd that was slowly dissolving. then the word was passed around: "wait and be with us. barnes is going to stop the gridleys on the way to the station. barnes is going to make prescott fight for some things he said on the field! of course, if you fellows get generally peevish, and the whole gridley team gets cleaned out, there won't be many tears shed." so scores of the sort of rabble in whom such an appeal finds ready response hung about, eager to see what would turn up. chapter xvii the long gray column one small urchin there was, so small that he escaped notice as he hung about hearing the word passed. but that urchin was a gridley boy who had raised the money to come and see this game. the boy possessed the gridley spirit. as fast as his legs would carry him he raced to dressing quarters, and there told what he had heard. "thank you, kid!" said dick. "you're a good gridley boy," and then he continued: "so that's the game, is it they're going to mob us, are they i guess they can do it---but, fellows, keep in mind to pass some of the blows back! when we go down in the dirt be sure that some of the fordham fellows have something to remember us by for many a day! i'm glad hazelton has already been sent forward in an ambulance." as dick finished dressing and waited for the others, he saw one of the subs dropping a spiked shoe into an outer jacket pocket. "what's that for?" dick demanded sternly. "a weapon?" "yes," sheepishly admitted the other. "put it in your bag, then, and let it go on the baggage wagon. fellows, we'll fight with nothing but fists, and only then if we're attacked." "but those scoundrels will probably use brickbats," argued the fellow who had tried to drop the spiked shoe into his overcoat pocket. "no matter," rang dick's voice, low but commanding. "if we have to, we'll fight for our lives as we fought for the game---on the square! good citizens don't carry concealed weapons until called upon by the authorities to do it." "bully for you, prescott!" rang the voice of the coach. "you here, mr. morton?" cried dick, wheeling and seeking the submaster. "mr. morton, you're not a boy, and you don't want to be mixed up in such affairs. why don't you start-----" "my place, captain prescott, is with the team i'm coaching," replied the submaster. "and i think the signs are that we're going to need all the pairs of fists that we have, and, more, too." the baggage wagon came to the door. dick, dave and tom coolly loaded the baggage on. the wagon started off at good speed. then the two stages drove up to the door. "pile in, boys!" called one of the drivers. neither of the stage drivers was in the secret of what was likely to happen down the road. the start was made, the horses moving barely faster than a walk. by this time the athletic field was practically deserted. there was no sign of the presence of the fordham high school team, nor of the bad element that barnes had enlisted. it was not until the stages had proceeded nearly four blocks that dave, sitting beside dick on the driver's seat of the first stage, caught sight of some bobbing heads further up the road. "there they are," whispered dave. "lying in wait at the next corner. they'll jump out when we get there." "let them!" muttered dick. "they'll have to start it---but after they do-----!" the stages had almost reached the next corner. grinning, or scowling, according to individual moods, the roughs streamed out into the, street. gridley boys steeled themselves for a conflict, hopeless in odds of five to one! at this point a clear voice sounded in the distance. "a company, left wheel, march!" around another corner near by came a company of boys from the fordham military institute. it was followed by a second company, a third and a fourth. then, by a further series of commands, one company was sent, on the double quick, to march ahead of the first stage, while another company fell in behind the second stage, while the other companies formed and marched on either side of the stages. while these hasty maneuvers were being carried out the fine-looking young cadet major of the battalion lifted his fatigue cap to dick prescott. "captain," called the boyish major, "you gave us such a fine exhibition of gentlemanly football that we beg leave to show our appreciation by marching as your escort of honor to the station." the rough crowd in the street had fallen back to the sidewalks, a savage mutter going up at the same time. the military school boys were without arms, save those nature had given them, but they, marched in solid ranks and stood for two hundred pairs of fists! so barnes's last hope of vengeance vanished. even his own rough followers turned to eye him in disgust. before they left the grounds some of the military school boys had heard a whisper or two of what barnes planned. the soldier is drilled to fair play, and to detestation of cowardice. these young military students passed the word quickly. they left the grounds at once, but formed near by, on a side street near where they learned that barnes and his rough mob lay in ambush. "i declare, that's the neatest, most military thing i ever saw done!" laughed dave darrin. "and done by the boys you made fun of as sham west pointers!" laughed dick quizzically. "but i didn't mean it," protested dave, growing very red. "these are splendid fellows. evidently they think that they, too, are entitled to say a word or two about the good name of fordham." "you didn't like the first look of these fellows, dave, because they had started to cheer for fordham high school. but did you notice that they cheered no more for fordham after reade answered phin drayne so forcibly." "it's a fact that these men didn't boost any more for fordham," assented dave. "by the way, i have one clear notion in my head!" "what is it?" "that phin drayne isn't marching in these close gray ranks about us." phin drayne wasn't. at this moment phin was back at the military institute, his face twitching horribly as he packed his clothing in the trunk in which it had come. for, almost instantly after reade had called out, some of the military students around drayne had demanded of him whether there was a shadow of truth in what reade had said. phin drayne's "brass" had deserted him. he knew, anyway, that these comrades could dig up his past record at gridley very quickly. drayne knew that his days at fordham were over. "it was all my confounded tongue, too," muttered phin dejectedly. "if i had kept my tongue behind my teeth i don't believe any of the gridley fellows would have noticed me, or said anything. oh, dear! i wonder where i can go next!" in the meantime the gridley high school team and substitutes, escorted with so much pomp, attracted a great deal of notice in the streets of fordham. people turned out to cheer them, and to wave handkerchiefs and ribbons. for fordham wasn't all bad or rough; not even the high school. the roughest element in the school had captured football---that was all. some of these boys belonged to the wealthier families, and had been brought up to believe they could do as they pleased. this was the high school in which phin drayne naturally belonged. down at the railway station the gridley crowd and the gridley band awaited the coming of the team. the fine sight made by the gray military escort brought a hurricane of cheers from the gridleyites. just at the nick of time the leader of the band bethought himself, and signaled his musicians. as the stages drew up the band played, and the fordham military institute's battalion moved into line of battalion front. dick feelingly thanked young major ransom. "oh, that's all right, prescott," laughed young ransom. "if we hadn't shown up at all you fellows would have given a good account of yourselves. but we had to do it. fordham is our headquarters, too, and the honor of the town, while we live and study here, means something to all of us. don't gauge even the fordham high school by what happened to-day---or came near happening. there are some mighty fine fellows and a lot of noble girls who attend fordham high school. but barnes---he's the curse of the school population of the town." three or four days later dick asked darrin: "did you hear the outcome of the fordham affair?" "no," dave admitted. "i just heard it all up at 'the blade' office. the fact that the military school cadets escorted us in such formal manner to the railway station attracted a lot of attention in fordham. the principal of the high school there started a quiet investigation of his own. barnes and two other fellows on the fordham eleven have been suspended from school until the school board can take up their cases and decide whether they ought to be expelled. the fordham principal has also made it plain that next year's team will have to be scanned by him, and that he'll keep out of the eleven any fellows who don't come up to the tests. there's a jolly big row on in fordham, and barnes isn't having any sympathy wasted on him you can just bet." "it serves him and that whole football crew just right," blazed darrin. hazelton's injury kept him out of school only a fortnight. the supposed break in his leg turned out to be only a sprain. while school teams like that commanded by barnes are rare, they are found, now and then. yet the fate of rowdy athletes in the school world is usually swift and satisfying. other schools refuse to compete with schools that are known to put out "rough-house men." dick & co. had laid by their togs. they had said farewell to school athletics. in the winter's basket ball they did not intend to take part. for the baseball nine, that would begin practice soon after the new year, there was plenty of fine material in the lower classes. "i feel almost as if i had been to a funeral," snorted darrin, when he came away from the gym. after having turned in all his togs and paraphernalia. "it's time to give the younger fellows a show," sighed dick. "you talk as though we were old men," gibed dave. "in the high school we are," laughed dick. "we're seniors. in a few short months more we shall be graduates, unless-----" there he stopped, but darrin didn't need to look at his chum. both knew what that pause meant. chapter xviii the would-be candidates the big stir came earlier than it had been expected. every boy who has followed such matters in his own interest will appreciate what the "big stir" means. congressman spokes, representing the district in which gridley lay, had a vacant cadetship at west point within his gift, and also a cadetship at annapolis. _"on december 17, at nine a.m., at the town hall in wilburville, i will meet all young men who believe themselves to possess the other proper qualifications for a cadetship at either west point or annapolis."_ so ran the congressman's announcement in the daily press of the district. every young man had to be of proper age, height, weight and general good bodily condition. he must, of course, be a citizen of the united states. every young man was advised to save himself some possible trouble and disappointment by going, first of all, to his family physician for a thorough examination. if serious bodily defects were found, that would save the young man from the trouble of going further in the matter. but at the wilburville town hall there was to be another physical examination, which every young man must pass before he would be admitted to the mental examinations, which were to last into the evening. dick prescott read this announcement and thrilled over it. for two years or more he had been awaiting this very opportunity. every congressman once in four years has one of these cadetships to give to some young man. sometimes the congressman would give the chance to a boy of high social connections, or else to the son of an influential politician. a cadetship was a prize with which the congress man too often paid his debts. good old general daniel e. sickles was the first congressman to formulate the plan of giving the cadetship to the brightest boy in district, the young man proving his fitness by defeating all other aspirants in a competitive examination. since that time the custom had grown up of doing this regularly. it is true, at any rate of most of the states of the union. in some western and some southern states the cadetship is still given as a matter of favor. the young man who receives the appointment goes to the united states military academy at west point. he is now a "candidate" only. at west point he is subjected to another searching series of physical and mental examinations. if he comes out of them successfully he is admitted to the cadet corps, and becomes a full-fledged cadet. the candidate must report at west point on the first of march. if he succeeds in entering the corps, and keeps in it, four years and three months later the young man is graduated from the military academy. the president now commissions him as a second lieutenant in the regular army. thus started on his career, the young man may, in later days, become a general. while the cadet is at west point he is paid a salary that is just about sufficient for his needs and leaves enough over to enable him to buy his first set of uniforms and other equipment as an army officer. west point is no place for idlers, nor for boys who dislike discipline. it is a severe training that the cadet receives, and the education furnished him by the united states is a magnificent and costly one. it costs uncle sam more than twenty thousand dollars for each cadet he educates and graduates from the united states military academy. the same general statement is true regarding the united states naval academy at annapolis, maryland. in the latter institution, however, the cadet learns how to become an officer in the united states navy. now, here were both grand opportunities, offered together. while dick prescott had been waiting, hoping and praying for the cadetship at west point; dave darrin had been equally wistful for the chance to go to annapolis. "our chances have come, old chum!" cried dick, looking into the glowing face of darrin. "yes; and of course an army or navy officer should be a brave man. but now the chance has come, i find myself an utter coward," confessed dave. "how so?" "i'm in a blue funk for fear some other fellow will get it away from me," confessed darrin honestly. "and if i fail in this great ambition of my life, i'm wondering if i'll have the nerve to go on living afterwards." "brace up!" laughed dick protestingly. "now, honestly, old fellow, aren't you just badly scared!" dave demanded. "whisper, dave! i am," dick admitted. "well, there is nothing like having some one that you can confess everything to, is there?" muttered darrin. "i guess it has done us both good to own up," laughed dick. "but see here!" "well?" "i simply won't allow myself to be scared." "then you're as keen for west point as i am for annapolis," retorted darrin suspiciously. "dave, old fellow, you know what the gridley spirit demands? you know how we and the rest of the fellows managed to win eternally in athletics? just because we made up our minds that defeat was impossible." "that's fine," laughed dave. "but we'll probably have to buck up against more fellows than we do on an athletic field. and probably dozens of them go in with the same determination." "i don't care," declared prescott. "i want that west point cadetship. i've wanted it for years, and now the chance has come. i'm going to have it!" dave darrin gradually succeeded in working himself into the same frame of mind. yet there were many moments when he was tortured by doubts as to whether the "gridley spirit" would serve in bucking a long line of young fellows all equally anxious to get to annapolis. the first step taken by dick and dave was to get excused from the high school for the time. both boys had lists of the studies and standards required for entrance to the military academy or the naval academy. dick and dave, each in his own room at home, spent the next few days in "boning" as neither had ever "boned" before. "but we must get three hours in the open air each day, dave," dick insisted. "we mustn't go up for the trial with our nerves shattered by moping all the time indoors." only dick & co., and a very few friends, knew what dick and dave were planning. it was kept a secret. the date of the high school senior ball was set for december 17. "can you be back in time to go to the ball?" laura bentley asked prescott. "i'm afraid not, laura. besides, when i get back from wilburville, i'm afraid i'll feel pretty well tired out." "you're not afraid of failing?" asked laura anxiously. "i'm not going to allow myself to fail. yet, even if i win, i shall be tired out after the ordeal. wish the ball could come a couple of days alter the ordeal. i wanted to go to it and to dance with you, laura." "i'm sorry you can't go," sighed the girl. darrin, too, had given up all thoughts of attending the senior ball, and this was the first time that either lad had "skipped" the class ball. "it seems too bad to be away," grumbled dave. "but i know how i'll feel on that night. if i carry off the honors for annapolis, no mere ball could hold me! i'll need air and space. i'll be lucky if i don't get arrested on that night for building bonfires in the streets." dave next sighed dismally and continued: "if i don't carry off the annapolis prize, i'll feel so disappointed that i won't look anybody in the face! dick, dick! it's fearful, this waiting---and wanting!" "it won't seem like the class ball a bit without you two boys," declared belle meade, pouting, the next afternoon. "but if we get through," muttered dave, "think of the gay, splendid times to which we can invite you at annapolis and west point." "indianapolis and blue point are far away," murmured belle, purposely misnaming both famous places. "_ann_-apolis!" flared dave "_west_ point!" protested dick hotly. "don't mind belle," begged laura quietly. "she's the worst tease i know." "if i get the appointment to annapolis," continued darrin, "you'll be asking me, next, if i expect to be promoted, after a while, to he helmsman, or fireman, on some cruiser." "well, would you expect to be!" asked belle, with an appearance of great innocence. "don't, belle," pleaded laura. "the boy are too much in earnest. it isn't fair to tease them, now. wait until they've been at west point and annapolis a couple of years. then ask them." "what would be the use then?" asked belle dryly. "by that time our young cadets will have met so many girls that they would have to think back quite a while before they could remember our names." laura's pretty color lessened for an instant. "don't you believe it," broke in dick promptly. "just as soon as i have a right ask for cards for a west point hop i'm going to ask for cards for miss bentley and miss deane, and their chaperon." "the same here, for annapolis," promised dave solemnly. "so you see, girls, you'll have to be prepared to do some traveling in the near future. "but you won't get to annapolis, anyway, until june," replied belle, a bit more gently. "so you won't have any annapolis hops until next fall, will you?" "probably not," dave admitted. "but you won't go to annapolis, anyway," suggested laura, turning to prescott. "there may be some west point hops between then and june." "i feel pretty sure there will be," nodded dick cheerily. "and you girls may be sure of my keeping my promise." "and i'll keep mine for the very first hop that comes off at annapolis after i get there," darrin assured them. the laugh was on both young men, though neither they nor their fair young companions knew it. the poor "plebe," as the first year's man at either west point or annapolis is known, would be in for a terrible experience at the hands of his comrades if, during his "plebe" year, he had the "cheek" to seek to attend a cadet hop. he must wait until he has entered his second year before he has that privilege. this is a wise regulation. in his first year the poor "plebe" has so bewilderingly much to learn that he simply couldn't spare any time for the cultivation of the graces of the ballroom. in his first year, he has dancing lessons, but that is all that comes his way. greg holmes came to prescott with a wistful, rather sad face. "how are you coming on, dick?" greg asked. "meaning what?" "are you going to be well prepared for the examinations?" "as far as being able to pass with a decent percentage," dick answered, "i am not all uneasy. all that worries me is the fear that some other fellow may have a slightly better percentage. that would ditch me, you know." "oh, you'll win out," predicted greg loyally. "and i just wish i had a chance like yours!" "why don't you go in and try for it, then?" urged dick generously. "no use," uttered greg, shaking his head. "you can beat me on the scholastic examination, and i know it, dick. the best i could hope for would be an appointment as your alternate. and your alternate to west point isn't going to stand any show for a cadetship, dick prescott!" besides the candidate each congressman may appoint one or more "alternates." these alternates also report at west point. if the "principal" fails there, the alternate is given a chance to make good for the cadetship. but greg holmes, though he was wildly anxious to go to west point, felt certain that it would be useless to go there as dick prescott's alternate. "i hate to see you not try at all, greg," declared dick. "why don't you try? if you beat me out there won't be any hard feelings." "i couldn't beat you out, and i don't want to, either," responded greg. "but wait! i may have something to tell you later on." dan dalzell had much the same kind of a talk with dave darrin. dan felt the call to the sailor's life, but hadn't any notion that he could slip in ahead of darrin. "even if i could, dave, i wouldn't try it," declared dan earnestly. "i want badly enough to go to annapolis, and i admit it. but i believe you're just about crazy to get there." "i am," dave admitted honestly. "but the prize goes to the best fellow, dan. jump in, old fellow, and have your try at it." dalzell, however, shook his head and remained silent on the subject after that. to both dick and dave it seemed as though the next few days simply refused to budge along on the calendar. certainly neither of them had ever known time to pass so slowly before. "i hope i'll be able to keep my nerve up until the seventeenth," groaned darrin. "surely, you will," grinned dick. "you've got to!" "i've been studying until all the words on a page seem to run together, and i don't know one word from another," complained dave. "then drop study---if you dare to!" "i'm thinking of it," proposed darrin seriously. "actually, i've been boning so that the whole thing gets on my nerves, and stays there like a cargo of lead." "let's pledge ourselves, then, not to study on the fifteenth or the sixteenth," urged dick. "i'll go you, right off, on that," cried darrin eagerly. "and we'll spend those two days in the open air, roaming around, and trying to enjoy ourselves," added prescott. "enjoy ourselves---with all the load of suspense hanging over our heads?" gasped darrin. "well, we'll try it anyway." to most people in and around gridley the world, in these few days, seemed to bob along very much as usual. dick and dave, however, knew better. at last came the evening of the sixteenth! both anxious boys turned in early, though neither expected to sleep much. both, however, were soon in the land of nod. but dick awoke at half-past four on the morning of the fateful seventeenth. by five o'clock he knew that he wasn't going to sleep any more. so he got up and dressed. dave darrin was in his bath, that same morning, before four o'clock. then he, too, dressed, and wondered whether every other fellow who was going into the contest to-day felt as restless. the mothers of both boys were astir almost as early. mothers can't take these examinations, but mothers know what a son's suspense means. dick and dave met at the station a full twenty minutes before train time. chapter xix tom reade bosses the job "ugh!" shivered dave, as the chums met on the platform. "it's cold out here!" "come inside, then, and get warm. but you're a great athlete, to mind an ordinary december morning," laughed dick prescott. together they stepped into the waiting room. "what time does our train go?" asked dave, though he had known the time of this train for the last week. "seven-forty," replied dick. "and it's seven-twenty, now. whew, what a await!" "i could have stayed home a little longer," nodded dick. "only i told father and mother that i'd feel more like being started if i got down here this far on the way." "sure thing," nodded dave sympathetically. "my dad had to hold on to me to stop my leaving the house an hour earlier than i did." both boys laughed, though not very heartily. each was under a terrific strain---just from wondering! "if i get through, and win out to-day," muttered dick, "i know i shan't feel half as anxious when it comes time to take the graduating exams." "no," agreed dave. "then you'll know you have a chance; but to-day you can't be sure of that much." five minutes before train time the chums were astonished at seeing another of the chums walk into the station. it was tom reade, looking as jovial and contented as a youngster could possibly look. "hullo, tom!" came from dick. "howdy, tom, old man!" was dave's greeting. "hullo, fellows!" from reade. "where are you bound?" inquired dick. "wilburville?" "_what_?" "fact!" reade assured them. "going to the exams.?" dave demanded quickly. "yep." "why, you never said a word about thinking of west point," exploded prescott. "you were making fun of annapolis only the other day!" asserted dave, just as though making fun of annapolis were one of the capital crimes. "hang west point!" exploded tom reade. "oh! then it's annapolis you're after," grunted darrin. "sink annapolis!" exclaimed reade. "then what on earth are you after?" demanded dick. "have you any fool idea in your head, tom, that you can take an exam and stand a chance of getting congressman spokes's job away from him?" dave asked. tom threw himself into one of the seats, crossed his feet, thrust his hands down in his ulster pockets, and surveyed the pair before he answered: "i'll tell you what ails you two. you have a notion that the sun rises at west point and sets at annapolis. now, i know a heap better, and i haven't an eye on either place. can you fellows guess why i've taken the day off from school and why i'm going to wilburville?" "we surely can't," declared dave. "well, then, i'll tell you," promised tom amiably. "i knew you two good old chaps would be going to pieces with blue funk to-day. i knew you'd be chattering inside, and turning all sorts of colors outside. you'd try to cheer each other, but each of you is too badly scared to be of any use to the other. so i've come along to take up your minds, jolly you and stiffen your backbones alternately. that's my whole job for to-day." looking in some amazement at reade, the other two chums realized that good old tom was telling the truth. "of course, i'll admit," continued reade, "that, if i were going on the grill to-day, i'd be worse than either of you. but i'm not. i wouldn't live in west point, and i wouldn't be caught dead at annapolis, so i shan't have any scares or any nervous streak to-day. i'll look after you both, the best i can, and do what little lies in my power to keep your minds off your troubles." "well, who'd ever have thought of a thing like that but tom reade?" gasped dick gratefully. "it's mighty good of you, old chum," declared darrin fervently. "now, then,"`resumed reade, uncrossing his legs, "as i'm on the job to look after you, allow me to remind you that that is your train whistling at this moment." three very jolly boys, therefore, piled out of the station building and boarded the train. tom spoke to the conductor a moment before following the others to seats. "you see," spoke reade, "i'm even going to the trouble to make sure that this is the right train, and not a belated express." "i never though of that," muttered darrin, turning a bit pale. "great scott!" gasped dick. "i can feel the cold sweat oozing out at the bare thought. suppose we had been harebrained enough to get on the wrong train, and be carried so far past that we couldn't get back to wilburville by nine o'clock!" "drop all worry. don't think of anything alarming, or even disconcerting," chuckled tom. "i've taken charge of the whole job, and i guarantee everything. one of the little things i guarantee is that you'll both win out to-day." "in algebra," muttered darrin, "i hope they won't go too deeply into quadratic equations-----" "cut it!" ordered reade severely. "likewise forget it! say, i heard a rattling good story last night. it carries a dutchman, a poodle, a dude and an old maid. let me see if i can remember just how it runs." with that reade got started. he soon had his two friends started as well. they laughed until the brakeman at last thrust his head in and called: "next station, wilburville!" "stop and get out, young man!" called tom. "do you think we don't know our way?" then into another story plunged tom reade. he spun it out, purposely, until the train slowed up at wilburville. "'bus right up to the town hall!" cried a driver, sizing the trio up shrewdly. "thank you; that's our auto over there," nodded tom, pointing to a lunch wagon. reade started the chums at a brisk walk. of the first native they met they inquired the way. tom was still talking at forty horse-power when they came to the town hall. "that building holds our fate!" muttered dave, as they drew near. "stop that!" ordered tom. "anyone would think that annapolis was all the candy in the land. what are you worrying about, anyway? haven't i taken all the responsibility for this thing upon myself? haven't i promised you both that you shall find your little toy appointments in your christmas stockings? do you think i'm lying?" "but the exams!" groaned dave. "well, they're competitive," quoted tom cheerily. "that's just what ails 'em!" argued dave. "you make me think of my cousin, jack reade, of the militia," taunted tom. "he's a captain. now, jack wanted to be appointed assistant inspector general of rifle practice. he was ordered up for his exam. poor fellow spent three weeks, days and nights, boning for that exam. the family had the doctor in twice, for they were afraid jack was studying himself crazy. then the day came for the exam. jack went into the ordeal shivering. the examiner asked jack to write down his full name, the date of his birth, and the date of his entry into the militia. jack answered all three questions straight, and got a hundred per cent. for his marking. yet you fellows talk about exams as though they were really hard!" still laughing the three passed inside. dick prescott had firmly resolved to do no more talking about the ordeal. but darrin hadn't. so, after the boys had entered the building, and had climbed to the next floor, where the hall was, and had taken a look inside, dave drew back into the corridor. "great guns, did you look inside?" he demanded. "there are a million boys in there already." "cheer up," soothed tom. "most of 'em want to go to west point." tom fairly forced his chums inside. the boys already there, some three-score, at least, turned to regard the newcomers curiously. "the rest of you may as well go home," announced tom laughingly. "my friends have a first mortgage on the jobs you're after." presently, more fellows came in. then some more, and still more. "let's go down and stand by the door, where we can get more air," urged darrin. "yes," agreed tom. "and we'll throw out any of the rest that may have a nerve to try to step in here." hardly had they taken their stand by the door when the three chums received a shock. for the next arrivals were phin drayne, and his father, heathcote drayne. phin was now in attendance at the wilburville academy, and his father had come down, the evening before, to urge his son to try for west point. tom looked the newcomer over with especial disfavor. young drayne, like many another "peculiar" fellow, was an unusually good student. at any time drayne would have a very good chance of coming out even with, or just ahead of, either dick or dave. the draynes did not favor our three chums with any greeting, but walked on down into the hall. "excuse me a minute," murmured tom. "i want to find out how the land lies." tom thereupon walked boldly over to the draynes. "may i speak with you just a moment, mr. drayne?" asked tom. "go ahead," replied mr. heathcote drayne, not over-graciously. "it is important, sir, that i speak with you aside," tom went on. heathcote drayne scowled, then stepped to one side, turning and glancing down at reade. "well, young man, what is it?" "i thought it barely possible," continued tom coolly, "that i might be able to offer you a hint or two worth while." "worth whose while?" demanded heathcote drayne, suspiciously. "yours. has your son come here to compete for either the west point or annapolis cadetship?" "what if he has?" "then has phin his certificates of good character with him?" demanded tom, his blue eyes steely and cold as he looked straight and significantly at the elder drayne. "confound your impudence, reade! what do you mean?" "just this," continued tom readily. "only boys of good character are eligible for west point or annapolis. now, the fact is, your son was expelled from gridley high school for a dishonorable action. are you content to have your son try for a cadetship, with that record hanging over his head and enveloping his chances?" "who'll know anything about that record if you don't blab?" demanded mr. drayne. "why, your son would have to state where he had attended school, and furnish certificates of good character from his teachers," ran on reade. "now, honestly, do you think that dr. thornton, of gridley high school, would furnish a certificate on which congressman spokes could appoint your boy to west point or annapolis? because, if you think so," wound up reade, "go ahead and put phin in the running, to be sure." with that tom marched off back to his chums. "what have you been up to?" asked dick curiously. "i'm manager for you two half-witted fellows, ain't i?" queried reade. "what have you been saying to mr. drayne?" asked dave. "just watch father and son, and see how they seem to be enjoying their talk," chuckled tom. "there, what do you see now? i thought it would end like that." this was the first time it had occurred to the elder drayne that his son's character would be inquired into. in fact, mr. drayne had had half an idea that the united states military academy was a place that made a specialty of reforming wild boys and making useful citizens of them. chapter xx when the great news was given out at just nine o'clock congressman spokes came on to the platform followed by two other men. one of these latter was a town official, who, in a very few words, introduced the member of congress. congressman spokes now addressed the young men upon the vocations they were seeking to enter. he explained that neither the military nor the naval academy offered an inducement to boys fond only of their ease and good times. "at either school," warned the congressman "you will find ahead of you years of the hardest work and the strictest discipline. no boy whose character is not good can hope to enter these schools of the nation. it is not worth any boy's while to enter unless he stands ready to sacrifice everything, his own ideas and prejudices included, to the service of his country and his flag." congressman spokes continued in this line for some time. then he called for the boys who wished to try for west point to gather at the right side of the hall; those for annapolis at the left side. "this is the first time you and i haven't been on the same side in everything, old fellow," dick whispered smilingly, as he and dave darrin parted. what a hurried count the interested youngsters made! but tom reade, who didn't belong to either crowd, probably made the most accurate count. he discovered that sixty-two of the boys had voted for west point. forty-one favored annapolis. a few young men present, like tom, didn't care to go to either government school. "when i am ready to give the word," continued congressman spokes, "the young men who want to go to west point will file out of the door at this end of the hall. in the rooms across the corridor they will find the physicians who are making the physical examinations for west point. "the annapolis aspirants will file downstairs and enter through the first door at the left, where other physicians will make the physical examinations for annapolis. "the examinations by the physicians here will not be conclusive for the successful candidates. the final physical examinations, like the final scholastic examinations, will be made at west point and annapolis. "now, each young gentleman who passes the physical examination will receive a signed card with his name on it. such successful young men are then excused until one o'clock. at one o'clock sharp the young men who have certificates from the medical examiners may report for their scholastic examinations. do not come here, however, for the scholastic examinations. west point aspirants will report at the high school, and those for annapolis at the central grammar school. "now, at eight o'clock this evening you return here. at that hour, or as soon there after as possible, announcement will be made, from this platform, of the names of the successful young men and their alternates. now the young men for west point forward, the annapolis hopefuls downstairs!" inside of two minutes the town hall was bare, save for the presence of tom reade, who, with his hands in his pockets, walked about, whistling. in forty-five minutes dick, flushed an breathless, broke in upon tom, as the latter sat waiting patiently for his friends. "i've passed the doctors all right," announced dick, producing his card. "that's all right, then," nodded tom. "and the rest will be easier." twenty minutes later dave darrin join them. "i've passed---that part of the trial," he proclaimed. "then, until twelve o'clock, there's nothing to do but go out and kill time," declared reade. "twelve o'clock" repeated dick. "you mean one o'clock." "i mean twelve," retorted tom, with emphasis. "at twelve you eat; you don't gorge, but you chew and swallow something nourishing. then you'll be in fit shape for the little game of the afternoon." both of the chums had reason to realize the weight of their debt to jovial, helpful reade; who was banishing care and keeping their minds off their suspense. in fact time passed quickly until it was time for dick and dave once more to part, to seek their separate examinations. just forty of the boys who wanted to go to west point had passed the doctors as being presumably fit in body and general health. twenty-seven of the annapolis aspirants had passed the doctors. already three dozen disappointed young americans were on their way home, their dream over. tom reade chose to walk over to the local high school with dick. dave found his way alone to his place of examination. dick prescott and the thirty-nine other aspirants were assembled in one of the class rooms at the high school. on each desk was a supply of stationery. after the young men had been seated the examination papers in english were passed around. this examination dick thought absurdly easy. he finished his paper early, and read it through three times while waiting for the papers to be collected. history was a bit harder, but dick was not especially disturbed by it. not quite so with geography. dick had had no instruction in this branch since his grammar school days, and, though he had brushed up much of late on this subject, he found himself compelled to go slowly and thoughtfully. arithmetic was not so hard; algebra a bit more puzzling. it was after six o'clock when the examinations were finished, and all papers in. as fast as each examination was finished, however, the papers had been hurried off to the examiners and marked. faithful tom was waiting as dick came out in the throng. "congratulations, old fellow!" cried reade, holding out his hand. "you've passed," announced tom gravely. "why, the examiners haven't fin-----" "they don't have to," snorted tom. "i don't have to wait for the opinions of mere examiners. you've passed, and won out, i tell you. now let's go look for dave." it had been agreed that the three should meet, for supper, at the same restaurant where they had lunched. darrin was not there yet. it was nearly seven o'clock when dave came in, looking fagged and worried. but tom was up on his feet in an instant, darting toward darrin. "didn't i tell you, old fellow?" demanded. reade. "and my congratulations!" "if you hadn't been such a good fellow all day i might be cross," sighed dave. "whee! but those examiners certainly did turn my head inside out. don't you see a few corners of the brain still sloping over outside?" "cheer up," quoth tom grimly. "nothing doing. you haven't brains enough to overflow. in fact, you've so few brains that i'm going to do the ordering for your supper." "everything i can do, now, is over with, anyway," muttered prescott. "so i'm going to forget my troubles and enjoy this meal." dave tried to, also, but he was more worried, and could not wholly banish his gloom. tom succeeded in making the meal drag along until about ten minutes of eight. then he led his friends from the restaurant and down the street to the town hall. here, though most of the young men were already on hand, there was nothing of boisterousness. some were quiet; others were glum. all showed how much the result of the examinations meant to them. but the time dragged fearfully. it was twenty minutes of nine when congressman spokes appeared on the platform and rapped for order. he did not have to rap twice. in the stillness that followed the congressman's voice sounded thunderous. "young gentlemen, i now have the results from all the examiners, and the averages have been made up. i am now able to announce my appointments to west point and annapolis." mr. spokes paused an instant. "for west point," he announced, "my candidate will be-----richard prescott, of gridley. the alternate will be-----" but dick prescott didn't catch a syllable of the alternate's name, for his ears were buzzing. but now, for the first time, tom reade was most unsympathetically silent. "for annapolis, my candidate will be-----david darrin, of gridley. the alternate-----" neither did darrin hear the name of his alternate. dave's head was reeling. he was sure it was a dream. "pinch me, tom," he begged, in a hoarse whisper, and reade complied---heartily. "the young men who have won the appointments as candidates and alternates will please come to see me at once, in the anteroom," continued congressman spokes, who, however, lingered to address a few words of tactful sympathy to the eager young americans who had tried and lost. "come along, now, and let's get this over with as quickly as possible," grumbled torn reade. "this congressman bores me." "bores you?" repeated prescott, in a shocked voice. "what on earth do you mean?" "i don't like his nerve," asserted reade. "here he is, giving out as if it were fresh, news that i announced two hours ago." congressman spokes was waiting in the anteroom to shake hands with the winners. he congratulated the candidates most heartily, and cautioned the alternates that they also must be alert, as one or both of them might yet have a chance to pass on over the heads of the principal candidates. mr. spokes then asked from each of the young men the name of his school principal, the address of his clergyman and of one business man. these were references to whom mr. spokes would write at once in order to inform himself that the lucky ones were young men of excellent character. then the congressman wished the young men all the luck in the world, and bade them good evening, after informing them that they would hear, presently, from the secretary of war with full instructions for west point, and from the secretary of the navy for annapolis. "fancy phin drayne passing in his references for the character ordeal!" chuckled tom reade, as the three chums walked down the street. "what time does the next train leave for gridley?" suddenly demanded dave. "in twelve minutes," answered tom, after looking at his watch. "let's run, then!" proposed dave. "we can mope, and have five minutes to spare," objected reade. "let's run, just the same!" urged dick prescott. the three chums broke into a run that brought them swiftly to the station, red faced, laughing and happy. "oh, what a difference since the morning!" sang dick blithely. "say, just think! west point really for mine!" "bosh!" grunted darrin happily. "i'm going to annapolis!" then, as by a common impulse dick and dave seized tom reade by either hand. "tom," uttered dick huskily, "we owe you for a lot of the nerve and confidence that carried us through to-day!" "tom reade," declared darrin. tremulously, "you're the best and most dependable fellow on earth!" "shut up, both of you," growled reade, in a tone of disgust. "you're getting as prosy as that congressman---and that's the most insulting thing i can think of to say to either of you." the train seemed fairly to fly home. it was keeping pace with the happy spirits of the young men, who, at last, came to realize that the great good news was actually true. neither dick nor dave could think of walking home from the station. they broke into a run. by and by they discovered that tom reade was, no longer with them. "now isn't that just like old tom?" laughed darrin, when he discovered that their friend was missing. "well, anyway, i can't wait. here's where our roads branch, dick, old fellow. and say! aren't we the lucky simpletons? good night, old chum!" dick fairly raced into the bookstore conducted by his parents. he almost upset a customer who was leaving with a package under his arm. "dad!" whispered dick, leaning briefly over the counter and laying a hand on mr. prescott's shoulder. "i passed and won! i'm going to west point!" a look of intense happiness wreathed his father's face and tears glistened in his eyes. but dick raced on into the back room, where he found his mother. "all the luck in the land is mine, mother!" he whispered, bending over and kissing her. "i won out! i go to west point when the month of march comes!" mrs. prescott was upon her feet, her arms around her boy. she didn't say much, but she didn't need to. after a moment dick disengaged himself. "mother, laura bentley will be glad to know this news. she's at the ball of the senior class to-night, but i'll see if i can get her father on the 'phone, and tell him the news for her." but presently it was laura's own sweet voice that answered over the wire. "you?" demanded dick. "why, i thought you'd be at the ball!" "did you think i could be happy all the evening, wondering how you were coming on with your great wish?" asked laura quietly. "say, oh, dick! how did you come out?" chapter xxi gridley seniors whoop it up "oh, so many, so many congratulations, dick!" came the response to prescott's eagerly imparted information. "and so you missed the dance just because you could sympathize with some one else's worry?" demanded dick. "but say! the evening is still young, as dances go. couldn't you get dressed in a little while? then we could both go and celebrate my good luck." "i'm dressed," came the demure answer. "what? oh---well, now, that's nice of you-----" "i have been expecting this good news," laughed laura. "and so i've been dressed all evening, on the chance." "and you'll go to the class ball if i come around quickly?" "it would be mean of you not to come and take me, dick!" "i'll have to change," declared dick. "but that never takes a boy long. won't i be around to your house in short order, though!" dick rang off and started to bound upstairs, but a new ting-ling sounded on the 'phone bell. "here's another party been trying to get you," announced central. "go ahead." "hullo, dick," sounded a low, pleased voice. "i hope you've called up laura." "just rang off, dave." "then you know that the girls didn't go to the class ball to-night, but just dressed and waited on the chance of hearing from us. i'm on the jump to dress, but i'll meet you there, dick." dick took only time to explain the change in his night's plans to his parents. then he bounded off upstairs, but soon came down again, looking a bit dandyish in his best, and very happy into the bargain. when dick arrived at dr. bentley's home an automobile stood in front of the house. dick recognized it, however, as the doctor's machine with the doctor's man at the lever. the instant that prescott put his finger on the bell button laura herself opened the door. she was radiant of face and exquisite in ball costume as she threw open the door and stood framed there, the light behind her. "oh, i'm so glad, dick, so glad!" came her ready greeting. "come in. i'm all ready but the wrap, but father and mother wish to be among the first to congratulate you." in the doctor's office stood dr. and mrs. bentley. they greeted dick cordially and expressed delight over his success. "but this is only the first ditch taken, you know," spoke prescott soberly, though in military phrase. "i have my chance now; that is all. i have more than four years of hard fight facing me before i am sure that the army can be my career." "you'll make it, prescott, just as you've made everything you've gone after at high school," replied dr. bentley heartily. "but, now that we've congratulated you, we mustn't keep you an instant longer from your classmates. i had just come in with my car, and laura told me, so i directed my man to wait. he'll take you both along the road in short order. good night, my boy!" laura brought her wrap, holding it out to dick. "if you're to be a gallant army officer," she teased, "you must learn to do this sort of thing gracefully." blushing, dick did his best. then the young people went out. dick helped his companion into the car, then seated himself beside her. "we're going to pick up dave and belle," laura explained, as the car moved swiftly away. "then we'll all go in together." one fellow had beaten them to the class ball, and that fellow was tom reade. how he ever did it no one will be able to guess, but tom flew home, got into his best, and had reached the ball before these young people appeared on the scene. the happy young candidates-elect went with their companions to the cloak room. then, laura on dick's arm, and belle clinging to dave, the two couples entered the ballroom. the strains of a waltz were floating out. abruptly the music ceased in the middle of the air, for reade, standing beside the director, had motioned him to cease playing. "classmates and friends!" bellowed reade, "it is my proud opportunity to-night to be able to be the first to announce to you some wonderful good news. to-day dick prescott, of ours, defeated all other competitors, and has secured the appointment from this district to the united states military academy!" "wow! whoop!" that announcement had them all going. there was one tremendous, increasing din of noise. but tom, jumping up and down, waving both arms and scowling fiercely, finally secured silence. "who's doing this announcing?" he demanded. "who's master of ceremonies, if i am not. you just wait---all of you! i'll give you the cue when to turn the noise-works loose. as i just stated, it's dick for west point, but or, and---it's dave darrin for annapolis at the same time. yes, dave is going to represent this district at annapolis!" the musicians were on their feet by this time. all with a rush the sweet, proud strains rang out: _"my country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee i sing!"_ instantly all stood at attention, the young men all over the hail holding themselves with especial erectness. not a voice was heard until the good old refrain was through. to the two happy chums "america" had a newer, stronger meaning. the spirited air came to them with a new meaning that had never been plain before. dick felt the tears in his eyes. foolish, o course, but he couldn't help it! and choky dave furtively wished that he dared reach for his handkerchief with all those hundreds of eyes turned on him. as the music came to an end the high school boys filled their lungs for a mighty cheer. quick as a flash, however, the leader of the orchestra tapped his baton, then swung it once more, and the instruments leaped on into: "_columbia, the gem of the ocean_!" that was for the navy, of course, and one didn't have to keep quiet, either. words of the song, and cheers, mingled with the musicians' strains. and then it wound up in a cheer and a mad rush of yelling that must have been heard for a mile. an impromptu reception and hand shaking followed, but to dick and dave, and their partners, it had more the look of a mob. it was a joyous and big-hearted mob, though, and in time it quieted down. after a very long interruption the dancing started again, and dick and dave were able to whirl away with their partners. as the next dance after that, started there was a sudden halt by many of the couples, and soon a roar of laughter ascended. for the orchestra had chosen, as the air, "the girl i left behind me." this air will always be associated with the united service---the army and navy. it is a rollicking, jolly, spirited old tune, as it needs must be for "the girl i left behind me" is the tune that is played when the country's defenders, in war time, are marching away for the front, after just having said the last goodbye to mother, sister and sweetheart. just now, however, the old air had none of the tragic connected with it. it was all in the spirit of fun. laura, blushing furiously, and belle striving to appear wholly unconscious, but striving too hard, lent all the more merriment to the moment. "it's that confounded old idiot, tom reade," muttered dave to his partner. "i wonder how many more such tricks he knows!" presently came "the army lancers," and that brought out a right royal good cheer. two numbers after that, came "a life on the ocean wave," and more cheers. it was after three in the morning when the gay affair broke up. but who cared for that? class balls come but once a year. right after "home, sweet home," which wound up the ball, the orchestra added a number, "the star spangled banner." both dick and dave reached home pretty thoroughly tired out, after having seen their girl friends home. neither boy rose much before noon the day following. dick and dave remained enrolled at high school until the christmas holidays, then dropped out, having ended the term. each boy had other studies with which he wished to busy himself---studies that would have a direct bearing on the stiff entrance examinations at west point and annapolis. the rest of their time, until they reported at their respective national academies, they intended to devote to these other studies to make doubly sure of their success. dick's notification from the secretary of war arrived on christmas morning. "the grandest christmas present. i ever had!" muttered dick, gazing at the single sheet, the words on which were couched in stiff official language. dave darrin fumed a good deal, for it was nearly a month later before he received his notification from the secretary of the navy. it came at last, however, and darrin knew what postponed happiness means. chapter xxii the message from the unknown with the christmas holidays phin drayne came home, to stay so far as school was concerned. after his unhappy experience at the fordham military institute, phin had found things almost as unpleasant at wilburville academy. for some reason the boys at wilburville hadn't taken to him. phin had come to the conclusion that he wasn't appreciated anywhere save at home, so back he came, disgusted with the idea of carrying his education any further. as a natural sequence, drayne took to lounging about the streets. high school boys and girls no longer paid any heed to him, so he did not fear slight or insult. two nights in every week dick and dave went faithfully to the high school gym. to help mr. morton with the new evening classes in training. one afternoon prescott and darrin encountered good old dr. thornton, the principal, who asked them how they were coming along. "we're pretty busy," dick admitted. "still, it does seem rather hard to us not to be connected with the high school any more." "why, you are with us yet, and of us!" cried the principal. "i carry your names on the rolls, with 'excused' written against your names. if you don't believe that you're still of my high school boys, then drop in any day and take your places, for an hour, or as long as you please, at your old desks. you will find them still reserved for you." "now, isn't that mighty decent of old prin.!" demanded dave, after the two chums had thanked dr. thornton, and had gone on their way. "so we still belong to old gridley high school?" "we always shall, i reckon," declared dick. "gridley high school has done everything for us, and has given us our start and most of our pleasures in life." "i'm going to drop in, one of these january days," murmured dave. "and so am i. but," added dick, with a smile, "don't let us be indiscreet and be roped into going into a recitation. we'll find the class has been moving ahead while we've been boning over west point and annapolis requirements." "at all events, none of them ought to be ahead of us when we've gone four years further," contended dave. "at west point or annapolis we have to grind in a way that is never required of mere college men. we ought to be miles ahead of any fellow who has just finished at high school and then has put in four years only at college." thus the happy young egotists always talked, nowadays. to them there was really little in life that did not come through the government military academies. phin drayne, lounging about purposely, with the shambling gait, often saw these happy chums, and scowled after them. "everything seems to come to them!" growled phin. "what rot it is to say that this is a square world, and that everyone has the same chance! why doesn't something good come my way?" the oftener phin looked in the direction of the chums, and more particularly of dick, the blacker did drayne's thoughts become. "prescott has had everything come his way ever since he entered high school," growled phin. "and now the mucker is going off to west point, and the government is going to stamp him 'gentleman.' a gentleman? pooh! i'd like to show him up, as a bumptious upstart. phin scowled fiercely for a moment, before he added: "and, by glory, i will do something to him! i'll take the conceit out of dick prescott!" at first it was only the purpose that formed in drayne's dark mind. but, by dint of much thinking, he began to feel that he saw the way of working to prescott's complete disgrace. dick, in the meantime, was still writing occasionally for "the blade." "i'm afraid you've slipped away from us, dick," declared mr. pollock, with a wry smile. "if you go to west point and pass the exams. there, then newspaper work is going to lose one of its bright, promising young men." "but i always told you that my plans would undoubtedly take me away from 'the blade' when my high school life was done with," prescott answered. "yes; but why do you want the life of the uniform? that's what i fail to understand? why don't you go into something connected with the pulsing everyday life of the country? here you are, going away to bury yourself in a uniform. you'll work, of course; the army is no place for loafers. but after all, you're only preparing for war, and you may be an old, white-haired officer before we have another war." "if that war does come in your life time," returned dick, "you'll know what we of the uniforms have been working for all along. you'll realize, then, that an army's biggest work isn't fighting, in time of war, but preparing in time of peace. and you'll thank every one of us when the time comes." "oh, yes, i suppose so," smiled the editor. "but it all seems so far away. now, here is something much more practical right at hand. take these burglaries that have been annoying the small merchants lately. the police don't seem to be able to catch the fellow. for the last three days i've taken len spencer off of all other work and set him to trying to run down the burglar. now, len isn't afraid of much, and he's one of the brightest young reporters going. yet len admits he's stumped. all the while the merchants are fearing that the burglar will bring about bigger losses. dick prescott, if you could catch that burglar, and see him sent off where he belongs, you'd be doing a vastly greater service to the community than you possibly could by helping the country prepare for a war that is thirty or forty years away." "i wouldn't mind having a crack at the burglar scare, either," laughed dick. "but the question is, how am i going to go about it to catch the fellow? he has baffled all the police, and even len spencer. what show have i for finding the rascal?" "just the same, dick, i believe you would catch him, if you'd set your mind and your energies to it. will you do it? will you put in a week trying to run down this burglar and give 'the blade' the first chance at the story? i'll agree, in advance, to pay you for whatever time you'll put in on it for a week, if even you are not successful in running him down." "i'll think it over," dick replied, with a quiet smile. "i'll talk it over with dave." "there's another mighty bright young fellow!" cried the editor. "now, why can't you get darrin to go into it with you? i'll pay darrin for his time, too." dave, when the project was sprung on him, gave his hearty assent. "it won't do any harm to have a try at it, anyway, dick," urged darrin. "it'll wake us up a bit, too. not that i've any real and abiding idea that we're going to catch mr. burglar." "if we're in earnest we're going to catch him," declared prescott. "that's the old gridley high school way, you know. what well start on we've got to put through." night after night, in that cold january week, dick and dave slipped out late at night, and prowled about through the business district of gridley. very often the chums ran across the police, but both were known well to the police, and were not challenged. indeed, the police soon learned that dick and dave were employed by "the blade" for the purpose of assisting in the efforts to capture the mysterious burglar or burglars. in that week two more "breaks" happened, and each time the thief or thieves got away with valuable booty. "you youngsters don't seem to be having any luck," remarked editor pollock. "but keep on the case a little longer. i know you'll land something sooner or later. keep ahead, just as if you had to score a touchdown before the half was over." so for two nights dick and dave kept out, with equally bad luck. one night at eleven o'clock dick answered the home telephone. he listened in amazement, then tried to find out who his informant was, but the latter rang off promptly. "i believe that is straight," muttered dick. "at all events, i'll look into this game for all it's worth. what if we are about to catch the thief red-handed?" snatching up a heavy walking stick, dick prescott hurriedly quitted the house. chapter xxiii the plight of the innocent if the information that had come over the wire from an unknown was correct there was not a moment to be lost in telephoning. it was a masculine voice that had sounded in the 'phone and the message was to the effect that the sender of the message had just observed two men forcing the rear entrance of kahn's drygoods store. "and hearing that 'the blade' is trying to catch the burglars i thought i'd just let you know," the voice had continued. "but i guess you'll have to be quick if you want a sight of the burglars. they'll probably get away in quick order." then had come the ring-off, just as dick had tried to get the name of his informant. now dick was sprinting toward the scene by the shortest route that he could think of. kahn's store was on main street, but the rear entrance, used for the receipt of goods opened in off an alleyway that ran parallel with main street. "there can't be much time to spare," muttered dick, looking hard for a policeman. at this late hour of the night the streets that dick traveled in his haste were bare of pedestrians. "i wish i had had time to get dave," though prescott. "but that would have lost at least five minutes more. and dave wasn't going to be ready to go out until he came around for me nearer midnight." dick was at the head of the alley, now, an moving cautiously, eyes wide open and ears on the alert. how dark it was down in here! dick wondered, a moment, at the keenness of vision that had enabled some neighbor to see what was going on over in this dark place. in his pocket, at the time of receiving the message, prescott had placed a pocket electric "search-light." this he thought of, now, but he did not deem it wise to go flashing the light about unless he had to. "the first point in my information is right, anyway," muttered dick. "the rear door of kahn's is open." moving in the shadow of the building, he had paused not far away from the door in question. "there were two of the fellows, the message said," muttered dick. "in that case, i should think one would have been left outside as a lookout. however, the lookout may be just a little way inside of the door. it won't do to use my light now. i'll see if i can slip in and get close to the lookout before the thieves know there's anyone around." a step at a time prescott softly reached the open door. he paused, listening intently. "i don't hear a sound in there. i guess i'd better take a few very soft steps inside, and see if i can discover where the rogues are. that is, unless they have already bagged their booty, and have gotten away again." just inside of the open door, dick halted again. he listened, but there was no sound. "these scoundrels are surely the original mice for soft moving," muttered the boy grimly. "what part of the establishment can they be in? hadn't i better slip out and get the police? i can't learn anything in here unless i use my light." yet prescott didn't want to turn on that flare. the light was much more likely to show him up to the burglars than to enable him to find men who were not making a sound. so dick penetrated a little further, and a little further, listening. as he moved he was obliged to grope his way. at last, however, he found himself confused as to the points of the compass. in this darkness, he was not even sure which was the way out. "i'll have to use the flash now," concluded dick. taking the long tube from one of his pockets, he pressed the button briefly, giving a flash that lasted barely a second. "what was that?" muttered the boy, with a start, as the light went out. clearly enough, now, he heard stealthy steps. he was almost certain, too, that he distinguished the sound of low whispers. "that flash has scared the rascals," throbbed dick prescott. "now, if i can only locate 'em, and get out first! i may succeed in getting the police to the scene before both get away. one of 'em, anyway, i ought to be able to floor with this heavy cane!" transferring the light to his left hand, dick took a strong grip of the cane. it did not eyed occur to him to be afraid in here. he was trying to trap the burglars as a piece of enterprise for "the blade," and that was all he thought about. suddenly there was a more decided step in the darkness. it sounded, too, right in advance of the boy who stood there guessing in the dark. "halt, where you are!" shouted dick. "and throw up your hands as high as you can, if you don't want to get drilled! don't try to use your weapons, for i have the drop!" it was sheer bluff, for the only thing with which prescott could claim the drop was his cane. yet, in such circumstances, a bold front is half the battle. prescott bounded forward, boldly, at the same moment turning on his light. the next moment, though he held the light, the cane dropped from his nerveless fingers. "we've got you, prescott!" roared a voice. "and you? of all the thundering big surprises. but we've got you! stop all nonsense and get in line to come along with us." it was the chief of police, backed by three of his men, whom dick now faced. they had thrown their lights on, too, so that there was now plenty of illumination. nor was this chief coy, one of dick's old time friends, but chief simmons, a new man appointed only a few months before. chief simmons was almost frantically anxious to catch the burglar or burglars, for their continued operations reflected upon his abilities as the new police chief. all in a flash young prescott took in the horrifying idea that chief simmons believed him to be the real burglar. "but i-----" began dick chokingly. "yes, you will!" retorted chief simmons. "you can't put up any fight, and you can't make any denial." "i-----" "take him, you men, and handcuff him." roared the chief. "then we'll go through the rest of the store, and see what we can learn." dick drew back, with a shudder, as two of the officers came toward him, intent on carrying out their chief's order. "you'd better submit, prescott," warned the chief sternly. "we're not in a mood to stand any fooling." "but won't you listen-----" began dick, gasping. "i'm not the trial judge," jeered simmons. "still, i'll listen to you all you want, later in the night. now, stand forward!" dick realized the folly and the uselessness of defying the police. he moved nearer to the chief, as ordered. and prescott began to understand how black the whole affair looked for him. but how had it happened? he would have given worlds to know. "hold your hands forward, and together," commanded chief simmons. quivering, flushing with the shame of the thing, young prescott obeyed. the officer who fitted the handcuffs to the boy's wrists felt ashamed of his work, for he had always been one of dick's friends. the click of the steel ratchets brought prescott back to a realization of things. "i'm not much of a catch, chief," muttered the boy. "you'd better not be content with me alone. leave me under watch and then the rest of you had better spread through this place. i think there are others here---the men you seek." "you've confederates here, have you?" demanded simmons, fixing his suspicious gaze on the boy. "judkins, you watch prescott---and mind you don't let him give you the slip. the rest of us will keep on going through this store. you say you think there are others here, prescott?" "i think so," replied the boy. chief simmons raised his voice. "if there's anyone here-----" he called. "there is!" came back in a tone that made dick prescott start and throb with alarm. "who---where---" asked chief simmons, excitedly. "right here!" came the voice. "hold your lights on me!" two flash-lights at once centered their rays on the speaker, and dave darrin bounded forward into the light. "so you two have been working this thing as side partners, have you?" asked chief simmons harshly. "great scott, how you've fooled us, then! like everyone else, we believed you two boys to be straight. tell me," commanded simmons dryly, "is editor pollock in this store-robbing gang, too?" "ask mr. pollock yourself," dave flung back. "i will, when i get time," retorted simmons. "grab darrin and put the irons on his wrists, too!" chapter xxiv dave gives points to the chief of police "you clumsy bungler!" spoke dave darrin hotly. "chief, i demand the right to speak to you for a moment." "after you're ironed and taken to the station house," snapped mr. simmons. "chief, you're not afraid to step aside with me and listen to about ten words?" demanded darrin scornfully. "and if you don't---if you go on in your bull-headed way---you'll be the scorn of the town by morning. why don't you hear what i've got to say, instead of letting precious seconds slip by. come! over this way!" there was something so commanding in darrin's voice and manner that simmons concluded to listen for a moment. keeping his flash-light turned on darrin, the chief of police followed dave. darrin whispered something in the big man's ear. in another moment the two were whispering together animatedly. "why didn't you come to the point before, darrin?" demanded the chief gruffly. "great scott, didn't i, as soon as i could postpone your mania for having me loaded down with police chains?" "yet how do i know you're telling me anything like the truth?" "if i'm lying, you can find it out very quickly, can't you?" demanded darrin. "but come along, or you'll be too late. oh, why do all the biggest slow pokes in creation get appointed to the police force?" "come along with me, delmar," ordered chief simmons, turning to one of his policemen. "the rest of you stay here---though you can pass on into the open air. then wait there for us." "don't you waste any time on worry, dick," dave called back. prescott laughed easily. whatever dave had discovered, or thought he had, darrin's chum was quite content now to await the result of all that enthusiasm. "we must not make much noise," cautioned darrin, as he led the way swiftly, though on tiptoe. "we don't want to scare the other people cold until we have them cooped so that they can't get away. but you'd better be ready, in case they're desperate enough to try shooting!" up the street, to the head of another alley way, darrin led the swift chase. "now, softer than ever," he whispered, over his shoulder, without halting. a moment later dave halted before two stone steps that led down to a basement junk shop. just as he did so a low voice inside could be heard, saying in barely audible tones: "i'm so anxious to know whether prescott fell into the trap that i can hardly wait another minute." "you'd better wait until morning, or you'll tumble into something with your eyes shut, and that will mean both of us nabbed," growled another voice. "do you think they found prescott---that they believed in the appearances against him?" "i can't say," came the other low voice. "and i can wait. i'm not crazy on the subject, as you seem to be." "explain this all over again, to us, won't you?" shouted the chief, pushing open the door of the junk shop and striding in, backed by the light and the revolver of officer delmar. "what?" screamed phin drayne, then sank to his knees in the extremity of his terror. "don't either of you try to put up any fight," warned the chief. "delmar, here are my handcuffs to put with your own. hand me your light, and then iron both of these fellows securely." the owner of the junk shop, a man under thirty, dirty and low browed, stood cowering back against a bench. the fellow looked as though he would have fought had there been any chance to draw a weapon. but he was gazing straight into the muzzle of the police chief's weapon. an instant later both prisoners had been handcuffed, and a pistol had been taken from the clothing of each. from the junkman, too, had been taken a ring of keys. "one of these fit your door?" demanded simmons. "yes," growled the scowling one. "the long key." "bring the prisoners along, delmar," ordered the chief. "i'll lock up here. we'll come back later for a search." out on the sidewalk phin drayne plucked up courage enough to find his voice. "for goodness' sake, let me go, chief," he begged, falteringly. "i haven't done anything, although things look against me." "i guess we'll be able to put things enough against you," retorted the police official mockingly. "think of my mother!" pleaded the wild boy. "think of our family---one of the most respectable in town. think of-----" "oh, you're enough to make one tired," broke in dave darrin, in deep disgust. "you thought of dick prescott when you put up the job to have him arrested as a burglar, didn't you?" "why, what do you mean? i didn't do anything to dick prescott," shouted drayne angrily, or affecting to be angry. "tell that to the marines," quoth darrin contemptuously. "it was through following on your trail, drayne, that i discovered the whole trick, and also knew just where to take the police to find you." an hour later chief simmons was well satisfied that he had laid the burglar scare in gridley. not that the new chief had had so very much to do with the result, either. the first move had been to get back to the kahn store, where dick prescott was promptly freed, with the chief's hearty apologies. over at the police station, by separating drayne from his accomplice, bill stevens, the junkman, and questioning each separately, the whole story had come out, chiefly through frenzied confessions. phin drayne, loafing about town, and with his pocket money nearly cut off by his father, had formed the acquaintance of stevens, who, besides being a junkman, was a very fair locksmith, though about the latter trade he had never bragged publicly. drayne had been ripe for any move that would place him in more funds. so, first of all, he and stevens had entered the commercial establishment of drayne, senior. there, thanks to phin's knowledge of the premises, they had made a very good-sized "haul." after that the pair had operated together frequently. stevens' junk shop had offered a handy pace in which to hide the plunder. then, as time went on, and phin heard, by chance, that dick and dave were trying to catch the burglars in behalf of "the blade,", a plan had occurred to phin by which he might ruin dick utterly in the eyes of the community. the whole plan had been carefully laid by stevens and young drayne. on this night, just after conklin's drug store had been closed for the night, stevens had slipped in a key that had opened a side door for him. then the door was left closed but unlocked. at that hour of the night no one was likely to notice anyone who went in or out at the side door. and conklin's was equipped with a public telephone. then down to the alleyway had stolen the evil pair. kahn's rear door had been opened with false keys and left ajar. then phin drayne stole back to the junk shop, while stevens, whose voice could not be recognized over the wire by dick, sent the message. next, back to where he could watch the alleyway, hurried stevens, and hid. stevens saw dick prescott slip into the alleyway, then go inside the store. that was enough for stevens, who had slipped back and into the drug store once more, getting the police station on the wire and 'phoning to the chief that gridley's burglars had just entered kahn's through the rear door. only a block and a half from kahn's was the police station. almost immediately the officers were on the spot, stalking---dick prescott. but, at the time when dick left his own home and went down the street so hurriedly dave darrin had been sauntering along, to call his chum out on their nightly quest for "the blade." seeing dick move so swiftly, darrin concluded that something most unusual was about to happen. so dave trailed swiftly in the rear. thus it was that darrin drew back just in time to see bill stevens slipping away from a hiding place at the head of that alleyway. "that does for prescott," chuckled stevens, half aloud. "oh, it does, does it?" silently murmured alert dave, and now he intently followed stevens to the drug store, and thence back to the junk shop. dave's next swift move was to rush back to kahn's with the result already known. "well, did you think the folks of gridley would continue to believe such a charge against young prescott?" demanded chief simmons of the sneak. "i knew some wouldn't, but i thought the whole affair would make such a row that prescott would never be quite able to hold up his head in gridley again," declared drayne huskily. "but i thought that it would stop his thinking of going to west point, anyway." "instead of which," muttered simmons dryly, "you'll get four years---or more, drayne at some place that won't be west point." "oh, my father won't quite stand for that," returned phin, a bit more loftily. "he has money and some family pride." "money doesn't help much for confessed burglars," rejoined chief simmons. at that moment heathcote drayne, who had been roused out of bed by a policeman, came in, so white faced that dick and dave felt sorry indeed for the unhappy parent. but dick didn't remain to see the meeting between father and son. prescott and his chum hastened around to "the blade" office. gladly enough would both boys have kept phin's disgrace from going before the public, but it was too big a story, locally, and was bound to come out. so dick wrote a straight account, after which he and dave hurried home to get the fag end of a night's rest. gridley merchants lost but little, in the end, through the series of burglaries. most of the plunder was recovered at the junk shop. bill stevens was sent to prison for a term of eight years. phin, being only seventeen, was allowed to plead his youth. in his case justice was satisfied with his commitment to a reform school until he should be twenty-one years of age. and so ended the story of the mysterious burglaries. chapter xxv conclusion one evening about a week after these events dick and dave were sitting in the former's room chatting, when greg holmes and dan dalzell, apparently in great good humor, broke in upon them. "when do you go to west point, dick?" queried greg. "i'm ordered to report to the adjutant there on the first of march," prescott replied. "mind my running up there with you?" demanded greg. "why, i'd be tickled to pieces, if you can afford the trip, greg." "oh, i guess i can," laughed the other boy. "dad is going to pay my freight bill." "see here, you fellows, you can't have been reading the newspapers much, since you two were appointed," broke in dan dalzell. "what have we missed?" challenged dave. "why, didn't you know a thing about senator frayne and his appointments?" went on dan dalzell. "the senator doesn't appoint from a single district. he appoints at large from the whole state. senator frayne announced, a while ago, two appointments-at-large, one for west point, the other for annapolis." "and we went up to the state capital yesterday," rattled on greg. "we went through the examinations. the winners weren't named until this morning. you'll find it in the evening papers, later to-day. i go to west point, and dan goes to annapolis." "what?" yelled dick, leaping as high as he could jump. "tell it to us again!" begged darrin huskily. "oh, it's all a fact, straight and right enough," greg assured them happily. then and there the four chums executed a war dance. it seemed too wonderful to believe. "but isn't gridley the whole show?" demanded dave presently. "four cadetships in the same year to one little city!" "well, we had to win 'em from other comers," retorted greg. "and none of us are out of the woods yet. we've got to pass at west point and at annapolis. "this is great!" quivered young prescott. "but wouldn't it be grand if only tom reade and harry hazelton had gotten in line, too, and gone along into the service with us? then all of the old dick & co. would have been enrolled under the battle flag." "but you know what tom told us," put in darrin. "he said he wouldn't live at west point, and he wouldn't be caught dead at annapolis. tom is all for becoming a great civil engineer---a builder of railroads and all that sort of thing." "well, harry hazelton is just as bad," said greg. "he's all for doing engineer stunts in the wilderness, too." "here they come now," announced dan dalzell. tom and harry were heartily glad, of course, to hear of the luck that had befallen greg and dan. "we were just wishing that you two had fallen into the same kind of luck, and that you were going into uniform with us," declared dick. reade glared at prescott. "humph!" muttered tom. "i thought you were a friend of mine!" "i judge it's a mighty good thing we don't all hunger for the same careers," laughed harry. "for instance, all young fellows can't go into the united service. there aren't jobs enough to go around. the united states army is just about big enough to find with a good magnifying glass. as for the navy-----" "be careful," warned darrin touchily. "as for the navy," continued hazelton, "congress has a lot of officers trained and then seems to think that one new battleship every other year or so ought to keep the country patient." "you fellows are going to be downright happy, i know," resumed tom. "but so are harry and i. we finish out our high school work, and then our chance is ahead of us." "to _find_?" queried dave. "no, sir! we've _got_ it," retorted tom. "it came to us only recently, and harry and i have been keeping a bit quiet, but now it is time to tell the news---just in the circle of dick & co." by dint of great hustling, and backed by recommendations from the local civil engineer, reade and hazelton had secured a chance, beginning in the coming july, to join as rodmen the engineering party that was laying a new railroad over the rockies, in colorado. just before the first of march, dick prescott and greg holmes slipped quietly away, and reported at west point. but what further happened to dick and greg---and there was a lot of it---must be reserved for the volumes of the new west point series. the first volume will appear under the title, "_dick prescott's first year at west point; or, two chums in the cadet gray_." later on dave darrin and dan dalzell left gridley and home for annapolis. their adventures will be followed up in the new annapolis series. the first volume in this series will be entitled: "_dave darrin's first year at annapolis; or, two plebes at the naval academy_." nor did tom reade and harry hazelton fail of some very extraordinary adventures in their chosen career of engineering. their career led them into some of the wild spots of the earth. it will all be told in the young engineer series. the first volume in this series will appear shortly under the caption: "_the young engineers in colorado; or, at railroad building in earnest_." how about the other gridley folks whose acquaintance has been so enjoyable? fred ripley? well, as to fred---when we first made his acquaintance, he was anything but an agreeable fellow, but he learned his lesson in time, and, under the wholesome influence of dick & co., but especially of dick prescott himself, fred had become a different boy. such is the effect of good example. as to the rest, many of them are bound to appear again, as we follow the fortunes of our gridley boys through the tales of west point, the annals of annapolis and the doings of the young engineer boys. so here we will leave them all for the moment, soon to renew the acquaintance of all who had any future share in the lives or thoughts of the six splendid young americans who were once known to their classmates as dick & co. the end [illustration: coots was downed by a fierce tackle on the part of shadduck.] the boys of columbia high on the gridiron or the struggle for the silver cup by graham b. forbes author of "the boys of columbia high," "the boys of columbia high on the diamond," etc. contents chapter i. out for practice ii. on the road to town iii. the strange history of ralph iv. treachery in the camp v. the signal practice vi. at the singing school vii. the abduction of "bones" viii. the line-up with clifford ix. a hard fought first-half x. a scene not down on the bills xi. clifford's last hope xii. dr. shadduck fears an epidemic xiii. the great marsh xiv. the dangers of the muck hole xv. frank turns chauffeur xvi. an unwilling pilot xvii. a desperate remedy xviii. matching wits xix. at the end of the circuit xx. frank's luck xxi. the lifting of the cloud xxii. how bellport bucked the line xxiii. won by four inches xxiv. the message from tokio--conclusion the boys of columbia high on the gridiron chapter i out for practice "oh, what a splendid kick!" the yellow pigskin football went whizzing through the air, turning over and over in its erratic flight. "wow! look at old sorreltop run, will you?" "he's bound to get under it, too. that's going some, fellows! oh, shucks!" "ha! ha! a fumble and a muff, after all! that's too bad, after such a great gallop. now clack's got the ball, and a clear field ahead for a run! go it, you wild broncho! say, look there, will you, tony; ralph west thinks he can tackle that flying tornado!" "will he? maybe, maybe not, fellows!" called out the ever-skeptical jack eastwick, as he watched the rapidly nearing figures. jack was on the regular team, but not playing that afternoon. "there, he's done it! wasn't that tackle a screamer, though? that man west belongs with the regulars. he's too good for the scrub team. mark my words, when we go up against clifford he'll be doing duty with columbia's eleven!" "bah!" sneered tony gilpin. "he's still only a greeny; never saw a football till he came here last year. bones shadduck taught him all he knows about the game. take him away from his teacher, and the little boy would be hopelessly foundered, and you know it, too, herman hooker." herman was columbia's "cheer captain." his sonorous voice aroused more enthusiasm among the struggling athletes when the prospects seemed dark and forbidding, than all other elements combined. as soon as it boomed out over a hotly-contested field, every columbia fellow seemed to take on fresh confidence, and in many instances that meant a new determination to win the victory. herman looked at the last speaker, and smiled broadly. it was well known among the students of columbia high school that tony gilpin still entertained great hopes of holding his place on the regular team; but his play was not up to the standard of the preceding year, and dark hints had gone abroad that in all probability he would be dropped, for "a dark horse." as this latter must of necessity be taken from the scrub team, it can be easily understood why tony showed so much concern over the playing of the newcomer, ralph west. "why ain't you practicing with your team this p. m., instead of loafing around here watching the scrub eleven do things." remarked charlie scott, one of the group. "it can't be possible that a seasoned veteran of two years' experience can pick up points from a come-on?" "i strained my leg a bit yesterday, and the coach advised me to give it a rest for a day. when i tackle i'm apt to go at a man without regard to consequences; and sometimes the jar is fierce," explained tony, sneeringly. "well, if you can beat that work of ralph west, you're going some, now; take it from me, son," commented herman, with fatherly interest, and simply a desire to see the best man on the regular team when the auspicious day dawned that lined columbia's eleven up against the warriors of clifford. tony made no verbal reply, but his brow grew dark, as he once again shot a look of hatred toward the player who had made that brilliant flying tackle. the big town of columbia was situated on the harrapin river, with clifford nearly four miles above, and the manufacturing town of bellport twice that distance down-stream. of course, as each of these bustling places boasted of a high school, the consequent rivalries of the students had blossomed out into a league. in various sports they were determined rivals, and the summer just passed had witnessed a bitter fight between the baseball clubs of the three towns, in which columbia won out after a fierce contest. among the columbia students there were also strivings after supremacy in many gymnastic feats, as well as between the several classes, each of which was jealous of the others when it came to giving spreads. many of the deeply interesting happenings along this line that marked the preceding winter and spring have been chronicled in the first volume of this series, called: "the boys of columbia high; or, the all-around rivals of the school." with the coming of the season for outdoor sports, there was baseball in the air from morning to night, in preparation for the carnival of games mapped out for the schedule between the three schools. what thrilling contests took place, and with what final results, can be found in the second story of this series, bearing the title, "the boys of columbia high on the diamond; or, winning out by pluck." when the glorious fourth came along, the river that flowed past the three towns was the scene of a most remarkable gathering; for the annual regatta between the boat clubs of the high schools had been set down for observance. to enjoy the humor of the tub races, and experience the thrills that accompanied the flight of the rival four-oared and eight-oared shells over the scheduled course, the reader must peruse the third volume, called: "the boys of columbia high on the river; or, the boat race 'plot that failed." and now vacation having ended, and school being once more under full swing, with the dropping of the highly-colored leaves from the woods along the banks of the picturesque harrapin, there was heard little save football talk on the campus, and wherever the sons of old columbia high congregated. a well-to-do widow, in memory of her boy, wallace todd, who had died the preceding year while a student at the high school, had offered a beautiful silver cup to the victor in the football contests, the winning team to hold it for an entire season. it was to be known as the wallace cup, and every day crowds stood before the window of the silversmith's store in columbia, admiring its magnificent proportions. squads of boys even came by trolley from bellport, and openly boasted as to their intention to carry that same trophy home with them after the struggles on the gridiron had been finished. the group of lads watching the work of the scrub team consisted of various types among the students and town fellows. presently, however, tony gilpin nudged another fellow and beckoned him away. he knew full well that asa barnes, now a senior, and a class ahead of him, had only bitter feelings for several in that scrub team, and chief of all the captain, bones shadduck. lately both tony and asa had taken a notion that they would like to join the delta pi fraternity. to their disgust, however, they were blackballed, some among the members objecting to receiving fellows with their known reputation for mischief and evil-doing. in some way they conceived the idea that bones shadduck was primarily responsible for their humiliation. they never accused him of it, but nursed their fancied grievance, and planned to have revenge in some fashion. tony was looking more than ordinarily ugly as he strolled away with asa barnes. the broad hint which one of his companions had advanced regarding his rather poor chances of holding down his position as a columbia half-back against the aspirations of ralph west, the boy from paulding, had fired his heart anew with a fierce desire to take matters into his own hands, and remedy them. "well, what's your opinion, asa?" demanded tony, as they sauntered along. "you said you'd be square with me. what d'ye think of that dub's playing? is he going to make it, and knock me off the earth?" asa barnes was nothing, if not a sneak. throughout his entire career at school he had been looked upon as a species of snake, and had few friends. even those who did go with him, on account of his having unlimited spending money, always kept a cautious eye out for treachery. "oh, you're going to get it where the chicken did--in the neck!" he replied cheerfully, with a grin that told of secret pleasure, for he liked to see others suffer. "no kidding now, but tell me the truth for once. is ralph west the wonder they make out? can he play half-back better than i do? i'm not from missouri, but, all the same, i want to know; for it's going to settle a question i've had in my mind a long time. cut in, now!" exclaimed tony, wrathfully. "he's all to the good," replied the other, grimly, "and when i say that, disliking the fellow as i do, you can understand it means something. i never saw a quicker half-back in my life; and when it comes to making a tackle, the fellow doesn't really know what fear is! if they put him on the regulars, there's going to be something doing among those long-legged chaps from clifford." tony growled like a bear with a sore head; he also cast a side look at his companion, as though questioning his sincerity. asa liked to see anyone squirm, and often did and said things just for that privilege. his companions had long ago declared that he was cut out for a surgeon--or a butcher, like his father. "once for all, do you mean that?" hissed the enraged boy, laying a quivering hand on his comrade's arm. "i certainly do. he's got the indian sign on you, tony, for fair. mark my words, when i predict that, _unless something unusual happens_ between now and next saturday, when we play clifford, ralph west is going to take your place at left half-back!" the other fairly glared at him. "well, you're awful plain about it, asa," he muttered. "you told me to be, and i'm giving you my honest opinion. but, all the same now, i don't think this disaster will happen," asa added, with a grin at the other. "oh, you don't, eh? what's going to prevent it?" demanded tony. "you are, unless i'm mighty much mistaken in your make-up," said the other boy, promptly. "remember what we agreed to do about that bones shadduck, for getting us knocked down with that measly old delta pi business? well, there's a pair of 'em now!" "do you mean it. will you stick with me if i try to knock west out, so he won't be able to play football again for weeks? are you game, or do you mean to egg me on to the last ditch, and then sidestep, leaving me to shoulder all the blame?" tony's face was eager, and the light in his eyes told of a fierce desire to do something mean that would accomplish the desire of his heart. his companion laughed as though it might be a joke. asa was so used to others suspecting his honesty of purpose that he never seemed to get offended when they doubted his word. another boy might have shown temper, but asa never did this. he might grit his teeth behind a fellow's back, and vow to get even for an insult; but to his face he was either smiling or sneering, as the humor seized him. "yes, i'll help you out. remember, it isn't because i feel for you," he said, quickly, as though he feared lest he should actually be considered as possessing any consideration for a comrade. "i've got my own little axe to grind, you see. the fellow happens to be sweet on helen allen, and once on a time she used to go with me to parties and the like. you understand, don't you, tony?" "sure. and there's nothing that burns so deep as that. then it's settled that we're going to lay for both ralph and bones at the very first chance, with some fellows we can depend on, and do them up? that's the programme, asa?" "i leave the particulars to you. meanwhile i'll drum up a few recruits to make the crowd. just now i know of three bully fellows who happen to have it in for either ralph or bones. you get as many, and then there's going to be some fun doing," and asa laughed in the cold-blooded fashion that made so many dislike him. "well, when a fellow is bruised to beat the band, not to speak of possibly a broken rib or two, he ain't going to play football in a hurry," grunted tony. the other cast a quick look at his companion. "you don't want to go too far, old chap. if he happened to be seriously hurt, we might be called on to explain before professor parke," he observed. so talking, they sauntered along the road again, having paused to exchange the significant remarks as to their intentions. hardly had they gone twenty feet away, than a head was cautiously raised above an old log that lay just within the edge of the woods, and a white face looked rather fearfully after the pair of plotters. chapter ii on the road to town "hello, ralph, through practice here? then walk home with me, and take supper at the house, won't you? i've got some things i want to talk over with you." "yes, we're done working, and i'll be glad to walk with you; but if i'm to sit down at your table, you'll have to wait for me to dress and clean myself. will we have time?" and ralph's face told how much he appreciated a chance to spend an evening at the home of frank allen, his friend and chum; for his boarding house room did look a bit cheerless at night time. "plenty of time, old fellow. how did the practice go to-day? getting in trim, do you think?" asked frank, who, as a senior, and the captain and full-back of the regular football squad, was supposed to have an intense interest in everything that took place on the practice field day by day. "oh, pretty well, i think. i'm not wholly satisfied with myself, but i believe i'm improving every day," replied the other, modestly. frank looked sideways at his friend, and smiled. he had just been talking with the coach, and heard what he had to say about the scrub team. it was already understood between them that two of the regulars must give way to better men who shone as stars on the scrub. columbia wanted her best sons in front, regardless of any favoritism. coach willoughby was back again, visiting at the home of buster billings' folks. he said the "lure of the leather" was too much for him, bringing back those dear old college days when he played on the princeton eleven, and carried the ball over yale's line for a hard-fought victory. and so he had consented to take charge of the columbia players, and help them get in condition for the work ahead, when they were to meet the brawny cohorts of clifford, and those others from bellport. frank and ralph had not gone more than fifty yards down the dusty road leading from the recreation field to the town center, perhaps a full mile away, when ralph felt a sharp tug at his arm. "hello! what's this?" he said, looking down at a small girl, who seemed so shy that her face was covered with blushes as she pulled at his sleeve. "please, mr. west, i'd like to say something to you," she said, hesitatingly. "why, it's madge smalling, mary's older sister!" exclaimed ralph, showing new interest. in the spring he had been instrumental in finding a little girl who had hurt herself seriously, in the woods. at the time, ralph was on his way to the recreation field, where he was expected to pitch a game against a rival school. still, as he could not think of leaving the child there to suffer, he had carried her to the mill where her father was employed. since that time, he had been a welcome visitor at the home of the smallings, and, of course, was well known to this girl of nine, who had been away at the time of mary's adventure. "shall i walk on," asked frank, with a wink, "because, you know, there are times when two is company, three none." "none of your joshing, now," said ralph, and then, turning to the child, he continued: "i hope nothing is wrong over at your house, madge?" "oh, no, sir. it wasn't that. i heard something about you, and i wanted to tell you right away, 'cause i'm afraid of that bad boy. once he threw water on me, and laughed when i cried. then he put a nasty cold frog in my hand, and made me hold it ever so long." ralph looked at his friend. "whoever can she mean, and what has that got to do with me?" he said, wonderingly. "the other boy called him asa," remarked madge, quickly. "oh, now i begin to see light. and was the second chap called tony?" ralph asked. "oh, yes, that was it. i saw them coming along the road, and i was afraid that he had another nasty frog. so i hid behind a log," the child went on, her face showing the deep interest she felt in her own recital. "say, frank, this grows exciting. tony and asa walking along with their heads close together means trouble for someone, perhaps even me. and this little girl, hiding behind a log, hears them plotting. now, what d'ye think of that for thrilling a fellow's nerve? what did they say, madge? can you remember?" he asked, looking down into the girl's face reassuringly, and stroking her tangled hair. "oh, i didn't understand it all, but they hated you, and said they must get some other bad boys to beat you, so you couldn't play ball again. if you only saw his face when he said that! it was so fierce i just shivered. i hope they don't do it to you, mr. west. it would be worse than a nasty, cold frog." again the two lads exchanged glances. "aha!" chuckled frank, "the plot thickens. tony feels the chill of coming events, and wants to make sure that you will never displace him on the regular team. i'm not so much surprised, though. it wouldn't be the first time a candidate has been marked for assault in the hope of putting him out of the running. an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure. and since we know now what is in the wind, we must be doubly on our guard. i suspected that some of them, lef seller and his crowd, perhaps, might have it in for me, but it seems that you are the goat, ralph." "well, i'm ever so much obliged to madge here for telling me. and next time i come out to her house i'm going to fetch along a box of candy to pay the debt," said ralph, kindly. "you always do that, anyway," declared the child, promptly, at which frank burst into another laugh. "oh, all your secrets will come out, one by one, old fellow. i think i'll have to post my sister helen on your double dealing. she might be jealous of mary and madge," he declared. "don't you worry. helen has walked out there with me more than once. they're all very fond of your sister, frank," declared ralph, blushing a little. "well, you don't blame them, do you?" asked the brother, promptly; which caused his friend to bend down to shake hands and bid the little maid good-by. as the two boys tramped along toward frank's home, they naturally talked again of the unpleasant news that had been brought to their attention in so singular a way. "i wish i knew just what to do about it," said frank, frowning with displeasure, "it's certainly a most unsportsmanlike spirit to show, knocking your school colors, because you can't play. i call that a rule-or-ruin policy. do you suppose, if we told the boys, it would put a stop to the nasty game?" "we have no proof, for they wouldn't be apt to take a child's word for much. so i'm afraid it wouldn't be just the wisest thing to tell it broadcast," answered the serious ralph. "anyhow, i mean to take a few of my special friends into council, and warn them what we're up against. from this time on you need a guardian squad, ralph," the other went on. "why me more than any other fellow?" asked ralph. "i'll tell you, though i meant to keep it until to-night. coach willoughby finally made up his mind, though nobody knows it but myself. he means to drop two fellows off the team to-morrow--tony gilpin and george andersen; the former because he fails to come up to the scratch, and george on account of that old injury to his leg, which is cropping up again. he was our star player last year, and we are going to miss him a heap." "yes, i supposed poor george would have to go, but expected tony would hold on," remarked ralph, quietly. "and the coach has decided that _you_ are to take the place of tony as left half-back. i'm awful glad of it! i purposely kept my hands off, because i wanted merit and not favoritism to bring the change about. shake on it, ralph!" "and i'm glad, too," remarked the other, his voice quivering a little with his emotion; "not that i like to supplant any other fellow, but i believe it's only right that every one of columbia's sons should cherish an earnest desire to make the best of what there is in him. i only hope the coach isn't making a serious mistake, that's all." "i know he isn't, and the other fellows will say so, too, when they hear. tony isn't a popular player at all, and when there is dissension in a baseball nine or a football eleven, it's going to make trouble. 'beware the worm i' the bud,' you know. but these cowards may find that they're up against a tougher proposition than they suspect, before they're done with it." frank was even more indignant at the possibility of peril overhanging the head of his chum, than if it had threatened himself. that is ever the way with generous souls. "three days more, and then comes clifford after our scalp," remarked ralph, desirous of dropping the unpleasant subject for the time being. "yes, and although bellport beat them last saturday 17 to 4, we mustn't imagine clifford is going to be an easy mark for us. perhaps they may fancy our style of play, and rub it all over us. nobody can say until we've met, and fought it out," was frank's sagacious remark. "i agree with you on that score," declared his companion: "clifford was unfortunate in many ways. she lost three of her best men through accidents, while bellport did not. then some people hint that her secret signals were given away, because the bellport players seemed to be ready to meet every sudden move clifford made." "yes, i heard that, too, and while i hate to believe any fellow could be so low as to betray his school to the enemy, it's been done before. we must be doubly on our guard against such a thing. i've been thinking up a little scheme that would upset anything like that. but we haven't started with signals yet, keeping that until to-morrow, when the real team as selected will come together." "i can guess what you've got in mind, frank, but i'm not asking questions. only i do hope nothing prevents me from going into that game. somehow, all my life i've just longed to be a football player. there's something about the game that seems to just stir me up, as even baseball couldn't. and yet nobody would call me a scrapper either," remarked ralph. "oh, it isn't that always. lots of good football players are quiet, modest fellows, ready to mind their own business, if let alone. i guess it must be something in a fellow's nature that makes him long to buck up against difficulties, and down them. and seeing that you've always been so quiet and unassuming a fellow, i hardly know how to apply that to you, either. it's just born in a man, that's what," and frank clapped his hand affectionately on his chum's shoulder. others were streaming along the road at the same time, homeward bound. "look out, here comes a vehicle back of us," said ralph presently, when they were about half-way to columbia center. they stepped to the side of the road, to allow the carriage to pass. "why, it's minnie cuthbert and a friend!" said ralph, suddenly. at that frank turned hastily, the color flying to his face like magic; for that same name always had a wonderful influence over him, since he and minnie had long been the warmest of friends. the pretty girl who held the reins urged her horse on. there was a look in her face that frank had never seen there before. she stared straight at him, as he took off his cap and bowed, but not by the slightest sign did she give any evidence of being aware that such a person as frank allen existed. it was the cut direct! ralph uttered an exclamation of amazement. quickly he glanced at his chum, to see that frank had gone deadly white, and his eyes glittered with sudden spasm of pain that seized upon him. he drew a long breath, and tried to get a grip on himself. "say, that hurt some, i tell you, ralph. i never expected to be cut by minnie cuthbert, that's sure," he said, between his set teeth. ralph was sorely puzzled. he remembered that minnie really owed her life to the wonderful presence of mind of frank, when a runaway horse had threatened to bring disaster down upon her. "what's happened?" he asked, eyeing his friend. "you know as much as i do. it's a mystery to me," returned frank. "perhaps lef seller could tell; he's just back of us, and i heard him laugh as he saw minnie drive past without speaking," suggested the other, meaningly. "i wonder now if history has a habit of repeating itself," ventured frank. "but what can i do but grin and bear it? sooner or later she'll find out the truth. i'll never ask for an explanation, knowing that i've done nothing to make her act so. now, forget it, and let's talk about your affairs, ralph." chapter iii the strange history of ralph "if you don't mind, frank, i'd like to go out of my way a few steps, so as to stop at the post-office. there's a late mail comes in after the last delivery by carrier," observed ralph, after they had reached town. "why, certainly," returned the other, quickly, as he glanced at ralph, who smiled half sadly and nodded. "i keep hoping to hear something from your uncle jim. it may come any day now, unless the very worst has happened, and they're all lost over in that big wild country," said ralph, drawing a long breath. "when did you hear from him last?" asked his friend, as they turned the corner into the main street of columbia. "a month ago. you know, from england they had gone to india. he wrote me from there that he had just missed mr. arnold musgrove and his widowed sister, mrs. john langworthy, who had sailed for china." "yes, i remember all that. the lady has always been a very great traveler, and something of an explorer. you told me she was intending to do something that few strong men had ever attempted," remarked frank, wonderfully interested in all that pertained to the strange history of this boy friend. ralph had been brought up as the son of the wests, living in the village of paulding. then there had come a letter by mail, accompanying bank notes to the extent of fifty dollars, and telling him that a friend, knowing of his great ambition to get an education above what the little country school could afford, wished him to accept this gift, which would be duplicated every month. ralph, with the assistance of his good friend, frank, had learned that the money came through a lawyer in new york, really an uncle of young allen. then, later on, it was found that ralph was only an adopted son of the wests, who had taken him from a poorhouse. by degrees, it came out that the man who had left this sum with the lawyer, mr. arnold musgrove, must be an uncle of the boy, who was, in all probability, a son of the rich widow. judge jim had immediately set out for europe, to confront musgrove, and tell the lady that her child was not dead, as she believed, but could be restored to her. and, as ralph had just said, the legal gentleman soon found that he was going to have the time of his life overtaking the energetic couple. "well," remarked ralph, in answer to the inquiry of his chum, "she and her brother actually started with a caravan overland across china, skirting thibet, and aiming to head northeast, so as to pass through a portion of siberia, and after that reach russia. they have been gone a long time now, and i wonder if i will ever see her face. sometimes it seems too good to be true." there was no letter at the post-office for ralph. he was getting used to this daily disappointment. still, frank could see the look of pain that flashed across ralph's fine face, though he tried to conceal it with a little laugh. arrived at his boarding place, the boys entered. it did not take ralph long to take a bath, and get into his ordinary clothes, after which they hurried to the allen home, where frank followed suit. although frank said nothing more about the strange actions of minnie, it was very plain to his friend that he felt the snub deeply. "if i thought he wouldn't be mad with me, i'd be tempted to try and find out from minnie what she meant," ralph was saying to himself, as he sat opposite his chum at the table, and noticed the little frown that occasionally came upon the open countenance of the one he had in mind. but he knew frank's ways, and that the other would not like any meddling in his own private affairs. "better let him settle it in his own fashion," was the conclusion ralph reached. "but if lef seller has had anything to do with it, i'm sorry for him, that's all. once frank makes up his mind that these pranks of lef have reached a limit, he's going to give him an _awful_ licking; and i know it." frank had been watching his sister helen at supper. he knew that there was something worrying her, too, and the strange thought came that perhaps it might be along the same lines as his own vexation. "i wonder, now, could that be possible?" was the question that kept confronting him. having once given way to this suspicion, he could not refrain from trying to find out the truth. helen had gone upstairs, on some small excuse. he was surprised to find her in her room, and with traces of tears in her beautiful eyes. "why, what's the matter, sister mine? has anyone been abusing you? i wonder if i could guess. is it about minnie?" he asked, gently, for frank was very fond of his only sister, but two years younger than himself. she looked at him in surprise. "why, frank, however did you guess?" she exclaimed. "because," he replied, steadily, "she gave me the cut direct when ralph and myself were heading home from the athletic field this evening. she and dottie warren were in the carriage, and minnie looked right through me when i bowed. whew! it gave me a shock, i tell you." "the mean thing, to carry it to you! i suppose i've said something or other to give her offense, although i tried in vain to remember any cause; but since she chooses to include all my family in her resentment, i'm not going to do the least thing in the way of an apology," exclaimed helen, warmly. "i'm of the impression that it's me who's to blame, though i don't know what i've done," said frank, immediately. "if i did, i'd apologize decently, and have it over with, whether she accepted it or not. but ralph suggests that perhaps it's the work of some outsider, who wants to make trouble between minnie and the allens." "oh, how mean! and from the way you talk, i can imagine who it is you have in mind. that wouldn't be the first time lef seller has been guilty of meddling!" exclaimed the girl, indignantly. "it was ralph who said that. he heard lef laugh when she cut me, as if it tickled him. if i could only get proof that he's been telling yarns about me, i'd soon settle old scores with him. but you won't try to make up, will you helen?" "certainly not! i'm the innocent party. minnie chose to give me to understand that she'd prefer to go out with dottie this afternoon. i just turned away and came straight home. i think she called out after me, but i wouldn't turn my head an inch. i shall decline to ever speak to her again until the time comes when she apologizes. there!" and helen stamped her little foot on the floor, for emphasis. frank sighed, and went back to the library, where ralph was chatting with mr. allen, always deeply interested in the strange life story of the boy from paulding. three times that evening frank went to the telephone and held a little confab with some unknown parties. each time when he came back he would be smiling in a way that mystified his friend, who wondered what the particular business could be that took up so much of his time. but then, a captain of a school football eleven, on the eve of a great struggle, must have no end of difficulties to straighten out; and doubtless frank found much to talk about with the various members of his team. helen had come down again, and showed nothing of the dreadful shock her feelings had sustained when her one particular chum so basely deserted her. she sang for ralph, and the three of them also joined their voices in many of the school songs dear to the heart of all columbia students. "ten o'clock, and time i was getting away to my little den," remarked ralph, at last; for even the best of evenings must come to an end. "wait just a few minutes," said frank, mysteriously. "what's all this? you're up to something or other," laughed the other. "i'm waiting, that's all," returned frank, calmly. "waiting for what?" "to hear the signal--there it is!" as three distinct knocks sounded on the outside of the house. "why, whatever does it mean, frank," asked the visitor, as he arose to get his cap: for they were again in the little den frank called his sanctum, where he kept all his beloved traps connected with the sports he delighted in, most of them decorating the walls. "they're all on deck, thank goodness! and now it's safe for you to go home," was the rather startling remark of the other. ralph looked at the speaker a moment, and then, as a light dawned upon his comprehension, he burst out into a genuine, hearty, boyish laugh. "say, you don't mean to tell me you've gone and got a bodyguard to escort me to my own dear little home, do you, frank? well, of all the pranks, this certainly takes the cake! what do you think, that they're already getting down to their fine little work, and mean to kidnap me?" he exclaimed, greatly amused. "no, but i know that crowd better than you do. when two sneaks like tony gilpin and asa barnes make up their minds to gather a bunch of skunks after their own stripe, and waylay a fellow they hate, they lose no time about it. there's only one more day between now and saturday, when we play clifford; and i saw them turning to notice whether we kept on together. they know you are here, sure." "but i might slip out the back way, and give them the merry ha! ha!" suggested ralph; "though i hate to crawl that way from such cowards, not one of them willing to face me outright." "but that isn't it. we have talked it over, and come to the conclusion that half of the fun would be lost unless those whelps were treated to a dose of their own medicine. they need a good sound licking, and i give you my word for it, they're due for one if they try to tackle you on the road home to-night," and frank, as he spoke, brought his fist down sharply on his knee. "who did you invite to the party?" inquired ralph, still laughing at the absurdity of his requiring a bodyguard. "let me see," replied frank. "there's lanky wallace, for one; buster billings, for the second, and paul bird, for the third." "three good men, and true. i see that i'll be well protected on my journey of half a dozen blocks!" cried ralph. "oh, that's only a beginning. each one of them agreed to get two other fellows belonging to the team, if possible; for they want all the practice they can get. so there will be nine in the bunch that follows after you; ten, counting myself!" "oh, splash! that's an army! why so many, frank, when i'd be willing to go anywhere with just you along for company," demanded the other. "thanks for the compliment; but, you see, everybody wanted to go, and bring others, and so i had to let 'em have their way. now, you'll probably never see a sign of our crowd as you walk along, whistling and seeming to be unsuspicious. but at the first sign of trouble, lift your sweet voice and sing out the rallying cry we all know, 'columbiad!' that will fetch us on the jump, ralph. hold them off as best you can for a dozen seconds, and then prepare to laugh." "all right, seeing that it's your joke. honestly, i don't think they'll pay any attention to poor me; but since coach willoughby believes i ought to play with the regulars, and any hurt to one is an injury to all, i'll accept the guard of honor; only _please_ don't tell anyone about it to-morrow, unless you want me to be the butt of ridicule for the whole school." "wait and see," was all frank would say; and with this ralph had to be content. the two friends separated at the door. frank rather ostentatiously bade his visitor good-night, and ralph sauntered down the walk to the gate, as the door closed. although he looked around once or twice, and thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of several flitting figures, ralph walked bravely on his way, whistling merrily, as though he had not a care or trouble in the wide world. when he had gone a couple of blocks, he came to a portion of the road when the shadows were densest. here the trees grew close to the thoroughfare, and this fact made it a splendid hiding place for anyone so inclined. there was a legend told of a peddler who had, once upon a time, been set upon by tramps at this point, and robbed and beaten, so that he died of his hurts. even bold people were wont to hurry their steps a trifle when passing this ill-omened place. ralph, however, kept on at his customary pace, still whistling one of the songs he had so lately sung with frank and helen allen. just as he was half-way past the shadowy spot, he heard a sudden shrill sound, not unlike a referee's whistle on the football gridiron. dark figures immediately sprang up close by, and the rush of many feet told that the danger anticipated by frank was about to materialize. ralph at once threw himself into a position of self defense, and at the same time shouted out the call for assistance so well known to all the sons of columbia high. chapter iv treachery in the camp "columbiad! columbiad!" it was the call for assistance, known to, and respected by, every boy who loved the name of columbia high school--a rallying cry in time of emergency, when the enemy had carried the ball down close to the home goal, and almost supernatural efforts were needed, in order to beat back the rising tide. never did the old familiar yell of "hey, rube!" appeal more positively to canvasmen connected with a traveling circus, when set upon by rowdies in some wayside town, than did this shout. ralph had no time for more. from three sides he found himself attacked by unknown foes. some had their hats drawn far over their faces, in order to conceal their identity, while others had gone still further, and tied handkerchiefs over the lower half, with the same purpose in view. a jargon of angry cries arose, each assailant seeming desirous of venting his especial method for showing dislike. "down him, boys!" "spank the cub!" "send him back where he belongs; we don't want poorhouse brats here!" "do him up! butt in, fellows! make a clean sweep of it now!" among all these outcries, only that one concerning the "poorhouse" stung the ears of the boy at bay. it was so cruel, so mean, so utterly uncalled for, that his whole body seemed to quiver with indignation, and a burning fire shot through his veins. he had thrown himself into an attitude of self defense, with his back against a tree. in this way he was able to avoid considerable punishment, since the attacking force could not completely surround him, the tree being an unusually big one. [illustration: he had thrown himself into an attitude of self-defense.] so far as he could see, there were at least half a dozen opposed to him. evidently tony and asa did not mean to take any chances when trying to put the new candidate for honors on the regular team out of the running. what with all the row connected with their rush, the cowardly assailants were themselves unable to hear the patter of swiftly-approaching footsteps, coming from the rear. they evidently shouted, in order to keep their courage up, and prevent ralph from recognizing any one particular voice. the beleaguered boy was himself fighting like a cat at bay. he had no positive assurance that friends were near, and with so many eager hands striving to reach his face and body, he had to retaliate, giving blow for blow. once he managed to dash his clenched fist into the face of a fellow who, in his eagerness, had rushed in too close. "wow!" bellowed the stricken party, and somehow it seemed to ralph that the voice was that of tony gilpin. more than once he was himself the recipient of blows, some severe and others of a glancing nature. for a brief period of time there was a constant maelstrom of hands flying back and forth, accompanied with shouts, jeers and grunts. "oh, you cowards!" called ralph, as a blow struck him on the back of the head, and almost stunned him for a second; one of the crowd, not daring to face the boy at bay, having crept alongside the tree to watch his chance. he could easily believe that this was asa barnes. immediately a mad desire possessed him to pounce upon that sneak and return the blow with interest. despite the array of threatening fists that formed a half-circle in front, ralph threw himself around to one side of the tree, eager to come in contact with the object of his especial contempt. so speedy were his movements that the treacherous one could not get out of the way, nor was he, anticipating such a bold act on the part of the boy who had been held up on the road. just as ralph pounced vigorously upon him, he caught sight of a number of dark figures jumping into the fray. at the same instant new shouts arose, a volume of sound that made the welkin ring, and brought satisfaction to the heart of the one in peril. he knew then that his call for assistance had been heard--that frank and his football comrades had reached the spot, and were in the act of practicing their gridiron tactics upon the unfortunates who had fallen into the very trap they had themselves set. "help! help! fellows, take him off!" shrieked the one against whom the angry ralph had collided; for both of them had gone down in a scrambling, kicking heap. fear caused the under dog to make frantic efforts to escape; and while ralph was able to get a little satisfaction out of his attack, he found it utterly impossible to hang on to the squirming figure, which, eluding his grasp, presently rolled over and over, bounded to his feet, and fled like the wind. meanwhile there was taking place a furious fight. the disguised crowd found itself outnumbered two to one, and while they struck back whenever possible, the one thought in their minds was escape. "cut it!" shouted the one who seemed to be a leader. "don't let them get away! take 'em prisoners!" whooped a tall lad, who was doing his share of the mauling. but that was easier said than done. the now sadly demoralized enemy scattered in every direction, some running wildly down the road, and others vanishing in the darkness of the wood. "they're gone!" cried lanky wallace, in disgust, as he found that the fellow he had embraced was no other than his fat friend, buster billings. "let me go, hang it! you've squeezed the last breath out of me! i'd had that dub, only for your interference. such rotten luck!" gasped the stout one, as he shook himself free from lanky's encircling arms. frank was at the side of the boy they had rescued just in time. "how is it, ralph, did they pummel you hard?" he asked, solicitously. "i gave 'em more than i took; but my head sings a bit from the nasty knock that sneak asa barnes gave me from behind!" replied the other. "from behind!" echoed lanky, indignantly; "well, wouldn't that jar you some now? but what else could you expect from that snake in the grass? he never fought fair in all his life. i hope you got one or two in back on him, ralph." "didn't you hear him howl for help?" replied the other, quickly. "that was when i nailed him. i guess his head rings about as much as mine does. but, boys, you came just in time. i was in a tight box. and i'm ever so much obliged for the help." "don't mention it, old chap. we really needed the exercise, and the only thing i complain of is that it all happened too fast. why, i don't believe i really got my windmill working freely when i was threshing the air. zip! and they were gone," and paul bird laughed heartily at the hasty way in which the enemy had vanished. "you're sure they didn't get you?" persisted frank. "i guess i'm all right," laughed the other, as he swung both arms back and forth, and bent his body to test his muscles; "you see, there wasn't time enough for them to do much damage. and they were all so mighty anxious to reach me they really interfered with each other." "as we came up on the run, i thought i heard one fellow give a whoop of pain, as if he had run up against something. was that your fault, ralph?" demanded lanky. "sure. and what's more, i expect it was tony. if he shows a black eye to-morrow, give me credit for one goal kicked, boys," replied the party addressed. bones shadduck was lighting a match. "hello! what's that for?" asked jack eastwick. "i picked up a hat just now, and the idea struck me that possibly there might be some more headgear lying around. we'd like to know who these pirates are, you see, and here's a chance to get a line on 'em," explained the other, as he bent low to scan the ground in the immediate vicinity. "matches--who's got any? pass 'em around, fellows!" called buster. immediately there was quite an illumination around that part of the road, half a dozen tiny torches burning at once, as eager eyes scanned the ground. twice cries of satisfaction announced that a find had rewarded the search, but the supply of matches gave out, and, besides, it seemed that there were no more hats or caps to be gathered in. "three times, and out, boys! now we'll be able to learn who some of the crowd must have been. i think i ought to nail this gay old cap. nobody but bill klemm ever dared wear such a screamer as that," announced lanky, holding the object of his derision aloft. "and this looks like the hat i turned over to jay tweedle the time i accidentally knocked his off in the river, and it sank. i know it is, fellows!" exclaimed frank, who had been one of the lucky discoverers. "well, we're getting a line on the bunch, all right," laughed jack. "if only ralph marked both tony and asa, and we've got the hats of three more, it looks good to me," chirped lanky. "fall in, fellows!" called bones shadduck, assuming the air of a drum major, as he waved an imaginary baton in the air. with considerable talking and laughter, the squad gathered around ralph. "here, what's all this mean?" laughed ralph. "want to make me a high muckamuck, a grand sachem surrounded by his valiant bodyguard? i object. i'm only a common worm, like the rest of you, and not fit for these great honors. take frank there, and put him in the center of the bunch; he's the captain of the crew!" "worms! hear him rant, fellows, will you? compares us to the lowly angleworm of commerce. and this is the reward we get for sacrificing our sleep to rescue the perishing! i call it base ingratitude, that's what!" cried one. "but just now you're the guest of honor, ralph; the one bright particular star that has attracted the attention of all the meaner ones. just hold your row, and let us run this funeral, will you?" declared buster. "oh, well, have it your own way, fellows. you're a good lot, anyhow, to pull my chestnuts out of the fire for me," concluded the one upon whom all these attentions were being showered. and so they marched through the streets singing one of their school songs. the good people of columbia were quite accustomed to such "stunts" on the part of the students, especially when there was a day of sport close by. at such times the thriving town on the bank of the harrapin was wont to assume all the airs of a college center, and enthusiasm run rampant. so, while many heads were thrust from doorways or windows as the procession trailed along, no adverse comments arose. many of those same men were old graduates themselves, and such patriotic songs only served to awaken the spirit that never could be wholly eradicated from their systems. in such fashion was ralph west conducted to his humble boarding place. and hearty were the "good nights" that accompanied the scattering of the band of defenders. frank and lanky walked home together. "that job's done, anyhow," remarked frank, with evident satisfaction. "and well done, too. only one more night to consider, and the glee club has its regular meeting then. we must keep a close watch on ralph. those chumps mean to get him yet if they can. i only hope i have just one more whack at some of that bunch. i never hit a follow with more vim in my life than to-night, when i came up against that chap with the handkerchief across his face." "i heard him grunt," observed frank, with a chuckle, "and really i felt sorry for him. i think you struck him with both fists together in the excitement. but it's a shame that columbia fellows are fighting among themselves just now, when we ought to be united, and showing a common front against the enemy." "oh, these represent only a tail-end fragment. don't count them as much. outside of possibly a dozen students, i firmly believe the school _is_ united, and that you posses the confidence of the whole town. this is our lucky year. i tell you we just _can't_ lose," and lanky emphasized his words with a smack of one hand in the palm of the other. "i feel the same way," said frank, "but, all the same, i'll be better satisfied when the game has been played. there's many a slip, you know. an accident might mar the finest play the gridiron ever knew. and then the treachery of these fellows always annoys me. an open foe i can meet boldly, but deliver me from the snake in the grass that steals up in the rear to upset your calculations." "never mind, it'll be all right, frank; but here we are at your gate, so good night," and lanky hurried on. chapter v the signal practice the next day was friday. and with that battle of the gridiron gladiators looming up just ahead, it can be readily understood that mr. amos wellington, not to mention mr. oswald, and the women teachers in columbia high school, found it a most difficult task to get any satisfaction out of the many classes before them that day. football was in the air! the very tang of the frosty morning seemed to suggest ideal weather conditions for the coming struggle. wherever boys congregated, on the campus before the morning session, or down in the lunch room during intermission, when they sampled the various types of sandwiches and pies supplied by mrs. louden, nothing was talked of but the chances of columbia against the seasoned players of clifford. "they're heavier than our men," one would lament. "but the day of weight in football is gone," cried another, quickly. "yes, for the game as played to-day calls for agility and pertinacity more than heft. and we've got the boys who can do stunts, believe me, fellows!" remarked a third deeply-interested student. "they practice for the last time this afternoon, don't they?" "yes, but mostly on signals, i understand. now the team has been selected, they want to work in harmony," remarked the fellow who seemed to know, because he had a big brother on the eleven, and that was a great honor for the entire family. "there's one weak spot," grumbled another prophet of evil. "name it, sandy." "yes, tell us where it is. i've gone over the whole bunch ever so many times, and with the new men i think it couldn't possibly be improved." "that's just it; you've put your finger on the sore the first thing. now, don't all jump on me at once, and say i'm knocking, for i'm not. i think a heap both of ralph west's playing and that of bones shadduck. they're cracker jacks, and far superior to the fellows they displaced." "then what are you kicking about, sandy?" demanded molly manners, the dudish student, who, while no athlete himself, always felt a decided interest in the accomplishments of his more muscular comrades. "lack of practice in common will bankrupt us. that's what worries me. you see, bones and ralph haven't worked with the rest, to any extent, at least. how can they fill their parts in the machine? i'm dubious, that's all, even while hoping for the best," went on the croaker. "well, now, don't let that keep you awake tonight. coach willoughby has been training the scrub just as he did the regular team. they know the same plays, and once the signals are decided on the whole thing will move along like a well greased machine. he's done wonders with the raw material. and if columbia wins this year, much of the credit belongs to the trainer, our old princeton grad." "hear! hear! three cheers for coach willoughby!" and they were given with a will. frank and ralph came together at intermission. while they munched a bit of lunch, they naturally fell into conversation, and, of course, their talk must be in connection with the stirring events of the preceding night. "have you met tony?" asked frank, with a chuckle of amusement. "no. you see, he's a junior and i'm only a soph, so we run in different grooves. what about him, frank?" asked the other, eagerly. "i was sent into miss condit's room with a message from mr. wellington, and, of course, i felt a little curious to know how tony looked. while i waited for an answer to the note i carried, i glanced over to where he sat. would you believe it, he had turned deliberately around in his seat, so that his back was toward me." "then perhaps i did put my mark on him?" suggested ralph, eagerly. "well, now, you certainly did. as i glanced further along i saw a mirror at the side of the room, and just then discovered that he was facing it. he turned fiery red when he caught my look, for i really couldn't keep from grinning, because, as sure as you live, my boy, our friend tony is nursing a most beautiful black eye!" "it serves him right. he had no business to bother me so. i only struck in self-defense, and everyone is entitled to that privilege," declared ralph. "well, i should say so," remarked his friend, quickly, "and i hope you did as well by that sneak of an asa. but he was wise enough to stay home to-day. when you get that fellow off his guard you can catch a weasel asleep." the ending of the recess brought their conversation to a close, but after school, ralph, possessed by a sort of fascination to behold his work, haunted the campus until tony appeared, surrounded by several of his set. the two rivals met face to face at the exit of the grounds. tony glared at the author of his woes, and his two chums made threatening gestures; but, of course, they did not dare place a finger on ralph at such a time. but, at any rate, frank had certainly not understated the facts, for tony was the possessor of a fine black eye. of course, it was easy for him to invent a plausible excuse for this mishap; he had run slap against a door when getting up in the dark. and, of course, nobody believed him, though only a select few understood the true origin of his damaged optic. ralph said never a word; but he could not keep from smiling a bit as he turned away; and this must have been gall and wormwood to the other fellow. an hour later and the chosen eleven, together with the substitutes, gathered on the field for their last instructions, and the trial of the signal code. frank and the coach were frequently in secret confab, and the others regarded this as having more or less significance. "what did your investigation result in, mr. willoughby?" frank was asking. "just what we expected. i have learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that the secret signals of clifford were given to bellport by some traitor. a dozen people i interviewed were positive in that belief. for while there is as yet no proof, they declare that on no other grounds could the bellports know just what play was coming every time the other captain called out his numbers," replied the coach, in a firm voice. "well, it is what may happen to us, unless we change backward at the last minute. that would confuse clifford, and set them on the wrong track," remarked frank. "just so, and the advantage would be with us. if they can down you boys squarely and fairly, i'll be the last one to knock, but this thing of trickery makes me angry. because they feel that they were fooled by bellport is no reason they should want to pass it along, and defeat you unfairly. i'm surprised that there is no clean-minded fellow on their team who will positively refuse to take advantage of such a mean game." "if cuthbert lee was still on the bellport team," said frank, "i'm sure he'd never have listened to such a thing. it would be just like him to go to the other side and tell them to change their signals, as they had been betrayed. he was a lover of clean sport." "then i only wish there were more like him, frank. the trouble is, too many boys, yes, and young men, too, believe that anything is fair that promises to bring the advantages to their side. love of school is all very good, but it should never step in the way of honest dealing," observed the princeton man, soberly. "then we'll go on with the signals as they have been used?" asked the other. "to-day, yes, but in the morning we'll get the boys together early, and change the whole order, so that things mean just the opposite of what they are now. you get my meaning, don't you, frank?" "yes, and think it a capital idea. i've always been told that the truly wise man is he who grapples with adversities, and makes them work to his advantage. and that is what you propose to do now. watch lanky; he's up to some mischief or other. i can tell it in his actions. there he goes after the ball that he purposely kicked into those bushes, i believe." "well, he's got it all right, and is calling to substitute buster that it's up to him to try for a field goal," commented the coach, smiling. "yes; notice, however, that lanky makes no effort to hold the ball for the kick, but has set it there on the ground," continued frank, who knew the joking propensities of his chum so well that he could quickly guess when the other had any lark coming. "i suppose lanky doesn't want to take chances of a bad kick, and, considering how near the game is, you can hardly blame him. perhaps he's had some experience with buster's kicking before. there he goes now!" "look at lanky, sir, with his fingers in his ears!" hardly had frank spoken when buster, swooping down, with all sail set, on the inoffensive oval, brought his right foot against the ball with a tremendous effort. the result was certainly astonishing, for there was a sudden heavy detonation, and the football arose about ten feet, in a sadly flattened condition, while the kicker sat down heavily on the ground, looking dazed. lanky had substituted some cleverly constructed gas balloon, placed in an old cover, for the genuine article, having previously hidden the fraudulent contraption in those bushes until the chance came to utilize the same. there was a brief silence, and then a shout went up from the husky band of players, who caught on to the joke. all but the dazed buster, who, still sitting there and gaping at the seeming remains of a once fine oval football, shook his head and turned appealingly toward the coach, called out: "say, that wasn't my fault, mr. willoughby. now, who pays for that ball, anyhow?" which remark brought out renewed shrieks from the others, some of whom fairly fell over with the violence of their merriment. when the joke was explained to the fat boy, of course he laughed heartily, for his nature could not take offense at anything. then the work began in earnest. the efficient coach drilled the players in all the various plays that were apt to come up during the course of the game. he expressed his pleasure at the masterly way these were carried out. "i'm satisfied that the changes i made have vastly strengthened the whole team," he said, as he and frank came together during a period of rest, after a fierce foray, in which every player worked systematically, and really clever passes and runs were made around imaginary hostile forces. in other days they had rubbed up against the scrub team, and practiced all their arts against real foes, but this last practice was to be in secret. signal work and the drilling of ralph and bones in their respective positions, must occupy much of the afternoon. to keep spectators away from the field, several dozen boys had volunteered to patrol the neighborhood, completely surrounding the open. thus it would seem that there could be no one close enough to overhear when the signal numbers were deliberately called by the captain. "still, i'm under the impression that there may be someone hidden in those bushes, or in a hollow tree, watching our work, and drinking in all we say. when fellows descend to such low practices as betraying their schoolmates to the enemy, they become very crafty. on the whole, it will be better to change the code just before the game to-morrow," remarked the coach, later on, during another rest. frank said no more. secretly, however, he was planning to find out, if it could be possible, that this idea of mr. willoughby had reason back of it. in other words, he had made up his mind that when the crowd of players went back to town, he would find some opportunity to drop behind, and keep watch over that field. for the third and last time, play was resumed. again did the coach follow the carefully arranged maneuvers. up to the present he had found it necessary to stop them in the midst of the play to start afresh, because of some inaccuracy. not once did this occur now. "well, sir, how was that?" asked frank, as, with disheveled hair and soiled clothes, he came out of the fracas and sought the side of the man who knew. there was hardly any need to ask. coach willoughby's bronzed face was all smiles. "fine! i never saw the thing executed better, even by the leading colleges. depend on it, my boy, if you and your men do as well as that to-morrow, and there's no treachery shown, you're going to mow clifford down far worse than she suffered at the hands of bellport. i congratulate you, every one, for the fine form you show. it does my heart good to see it. and now, home, lads, and see to it that you don't overeat to-night, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. that's all from me, and i feel that my work is well done!" the afternoon had worn away while they strained and labored, trying for the last time some of the plays by means of which they hoped to carry the ball into clifford territory during the coming game. each member of the team felt more or less weary when the coach declared that they had done enough, and dismissed them for the day. "don't forget the secret directions given for an early morning meet in the place selected, to go over the changed signals," was spoken in the ear of every fellow before they started back to town. frank held out behind the rest, pretending to be busy with a number of things that fell to his lot as captain of the eleven. he had whispered his intentions to lanky, and the latter, while laughing at his fears, promised to keep any of the others from returning to look for the leader, should they notice his absence. watching his chance, frank dropped behind some bushes. then, without wasting any time, he started to crawl back to where he might have a view of the wooded side of the athletic field. perhaps, after all, the fears of the coach had been groundless. he would spend a short time watching, and then, if nothing developed, he could hasten home. at the same time, the thought of how clifford had been deceived and beaten by the too free handling of their secret code, gave frank an uneasy feeling. when he had gained a position that would allow him to observe the ground he deemed most suspicious, he waited for developments. "what was that?" he asked himself in another minute; for it seemed to him that he had heard a sharp crack, as of a rotten branch giving way. then his attention was attracted toward a certain spot, where something had undoubtedly fallen to the ground. eagerly he riveted his eyes on the place, and in this way became aware of the fact that something was certainly moving up among the branches of the pine tree. then an object came heavily to the ground, rolled over once or twice, and scrambled half erect. though some little distance away, frank could see that this was no animal, but a human being, a boy at that, who was rubbing his elbow furiously, as though it had been smartly tapped in his fall. no need to put a label on this fellow to signify what his presence meant. frank knew that he was looking on a spy, who had been perched among the thick branches of that pine tree during the better part of the afternoon, making notes of the signal play of the columbia eleven! and he was now moving off, possessed of information that was of tremendous value to the clifford team! chapter vi at the singing school frank did not hesitate a minute. he believed that it was his duty, if possible, to overtake the spy, and not only learn his identity, but in some fashion make him promise not to reveal what he had seen and heard. he started as fast as he could, making allowances for the fact that he did not wish to alarm the fellow too soon. the shades of evening were not far away, since night comes early in mid-november, and try as he would, he found it impossible to decide as to whether the other was someone he knew or a stranger. as he ran quickly over in his mind the list of those who would come under the head of suspicion, he put them aside, one after another. it was certainly not lef seller or bill klemm; another look, and he was just as positive that it could not be either asa barnes or tony gilpin. perhaps, after all, this cunning spy might be some enthusiast from clifford, who, believing that his team had suffered through treachery on the preceding saturday, when bellport overwhelmed them, wished to even matters by picking up columbia's signals. "as if two wrongs ever yet made a right," said frank bitterly, as he continued to chase after the unknown. he was gaining rapidly. still, in order to do so, he had to keep his eyes fixed for the most part on the moving figure ahead, and in this way was unable to properly watch his footsteps. consequently, it was not at all surprising when he suddenly stepped on a stick that broke with a sharp twang. and, before he could dodge behind a tree, the fellow beyond had turned his head. frank knew instantly that he was discovered. he had stood perfectly still, in the hope that he might escape observation; but when he saw the other take to his heels, he realized that it was now destined to be a stern chase. so he, too, started to run at top speed, which meant a hot pace, since frank was something of a sprinter on the cinder path. at least, that turn on the part of the other had told him one thing--it was no columbia fellow who had played this miserable trick upon the football squad; so undoubtedly he must belong in clifford. despite the efforts of the school authorities, there was always more or less laying of wagers on these games. driven away from the racetracks by recent strict state legislation, it seemed that those who made books were seeking all manner of sports, in order to carry on their games of chance. so frank consoled himself in the belief that this might be some agent of these gamesters, rather than a clifford schoolboy intending to take a mean advantage of the rival team. he was outrunning the fugitive, and it looked as though, if the chase were continued five minutes more, frank was sure to overtake him. then the road leading north toward the river was reached. to frank's disgust, he saw the other drag a bicycle out of some bushes, and, while he made a swift rush, hoping to yet come upon the fellow before he got away, it was only to see his intended quarry spin off along the road. frank followed a short distance, still cherishing a faint hope that something might happen to upset the other, but gradually the figure of the fleeing spy began to vanish, and he had to give it up. the last he heard from the fellow was a sharp howl of derision. evidently his sudden coming on the scene had given the coward a great scare, and he was now rejoicing over his narrow escape. "too bad that he got away," thought frank, as he started across a field to take a short-cut that would save him considerable in his walk home. "i don't even know who he is. but, at any rate, this settles the question of signals. we wouldn't dare use the old ones now." he made direct for the home of buster billings, where coach willoughby was stopping, he being an old friend of the family. "hello, how did you make out?" was the way he greeted frank when the football captain was ushered into his room, where he was dressing for dinner. "you guessed right, sir," answered frank, gloomily. "then there _was_ a spy around to pick up our signals?" asked the coach, smiling. "he was hidden up in that big dense pine tree, and i guess he could see everything we did, as well as hear my signals. it's a shame that we have to go up against such trickery as that, sir," declared frank, warmly. "that's all right. remember what we concluded would come out of this thing. if those clifford players are small enough to take advantage of this find, let them, that's all. we'll fix it so that they'll make some tremendous blunders before they decide that honesty is the best policy. but i'm glad you found out. now, tell me all about it, frank," and the coach put both hands on the shoulders of the young athlete, in whom he had taken great interest. frank made a wry face. "there isn't much to tell. no _veni, vidi, vici,_ about this, for, while i came, and saw, i didn't conquer by a long shot. the fellow dropped down out of the tree, and made off, with me tagging behind. then he discovered me, and ran. i followed suit, and was rapidly overtaking him, when we reached the road that turns toward the one along the river bank leading to the clifford bridge." "yes, and then?" continued the coach, expectantly. "i lost him! he had a wheel hidden in the bushes, and pedaled away, giving me the laugh as he went out of sight. that's all, sir," concluded frank. "did you get a square look at the fellow?" inquired mr. willoughby. "enough to make sure that he didn't belong in columbia, so far as i could tell. i guess he came from clifford, all right, sir." "well, it makes little difference, so long as we know the signals are off. forewarned is forearmed, they say. forget all about it, my boy, and we'll fix matters so that we can profit from our seeming misfortunes." so frank went home to clean himself, and eat his supper. the consolation given by coach willoughby did much to cheer him up, and he managed to put the ugly business out of his mind. indeed, he had a host of other things to bother him. the game on the morrow, of course, meant much to an enthusiast like frank. then, again, there was that strange matter in connection with minnie cuthbert. frank thought a good deal of minnie, and they had been great friends for a long time. to have her cut him dead was bad enough, but to act as she did toward his sister helen seemed outrageous. "there is something wrong about it," frank said, as he dressed. "minnie isn't the kind of a girl to do such a thing unless she believes she has a mighty good excuse. well, i can't do anything to bridge the gap. it must go on until something happens to bring about an explanation. until then it is my policy to simply leave matters alone, and pay attention to my own affairs." but when he got to thinking of how lef seller had on one other occasion played a trick that, for a time, made trouble between minnie and himself, he shook his head wrath fully, and muttered threats that boded no good to that prank-lover, should he prove to be guilty in this present instance. helen, being a girl, knew how to disguise her feelings. she seemed quite herself, and frank could not help wondering if, after all, she had cared more for minnie than she did for flo dempsey, with whom she intended seeing the great game on the morrow. "going to the meeting of the glee club to-night, helen?" he asked, after supper. she looked at him with a smile. "why not? i'm just as fond of singing as ever. i hope you don't mean to stay away for any reason, frank?" came her quick reply. that decided frank. any hesitation on the part of his sister, and he meant to remain at home; for, somehow, he felt that he hardly cared to mingle with the crowd, where minnie must assuredly be, since she was one of the leading singers. "why, sure. i guess a little relaxation from the strain will do all of the team good. some of the other fellows are going to come in a bunch, with ralph and bones." "what is that for?" asked helen, who could see from the smile that crossed his face that there was a reason. "oh, it's just like the class spreads, where they want to break the jollification up by kidnapping the president; some fellows are after our two new recruits, that's all," he replied. "but this is different. why should any columbia boy want to kidnap ralph? it would spoil the game to-morrow, and perhaps defeat our school." "and that's just what these fellows would like to see. a case of sour grapes with them. but we're going to protect our men to the limit," declared frank. "how mean and contemptible of them! they ought to be ashamed of themselves." "well," said frank, soothingly, as he saw how the indignant girl took it to heart in connection with ralph, "never mind now, but go and get your things on. we might as well make a start now. you know, we don't practice to-night at the school, because they're fixing the ceiling in the assembly room. it's to be at dyckman's hall." "i promised that we would drop around and take flo with us," remarked helen, with a quick look upward, and a little smile. "oh, well, it doesn't matter; that is, it won't take us much out of our way," returned frank. "no, it isn't so far as the cuthbert's," and with this parting shot, helen ran upstairs, leaving frank to ponder over her meaning. the glee club usually met in the hall at the high school. it was connected with the educational department, in that the school authorities encouraged its existence, for the study of music was along the lines of the ordinary duties of the classes. of course, when fifty or more young people come together of an evening, they are bound to make merry. consequently there was always an air of jollity connected with these weekly singing society meetings throughout the winter months. both bones shadduck and ralph west were present. they showed up with a bunch of others, and secretly ralph reported to frank that they had seen no sign of the enemy while on the way thither. "but don't let that make you careless," retorted the other, "for these chaps are as cunning as indians, who always attack, they say, just before dawn, when the men on guard are apt to be sleepy. watch out, ralph. we need you too much to have you taking chances." but the evening passed quickly, with the customary songs and merriment. minnie was, of course, present. she had come with dottie warren, and once, when it chanced that she and frank met face to face, she looked annoyed because she had to speak. however, frank's nod was just as cold as her own. he sang with even more vim than customary, just to show her that he was not caring in the least. still, there were curious eyes that noted the breach, and more than one group of girls commented on the fact. "they've certainly had a falling out," said emily dodsworth, the primp, and she tried to look horrified, even while secretly pleased, because she was herself very fond of frank. "isn't it dreadful, girls? but then i thought their friendship was too sudden to last long. perhaps frank may understand now that 'old friends are sure, old ties endure.'" it was nearly ten o'clock, when the singing school was supposed to close. frank found himself wishing that it were over with. somehow, he felt very tired, though suspecting that his weariness might be more of the mind than the body. still, with that great game to be won on the morrow, he believed that he ought to get between the sheets as soon as possible now. it was just at this time he saw lanky wallace heading toward him. lanky was not in the least a diplomat. whenever he had anything worrying him, the fact seemed to stick out all over his face, bringing wrinkles to his usually placid brow. it was so now. immediately frank began to scent trouble, though, for the life of him, he could not understand just how it could come while the boys were still at the singing school. surely, none of those schemers would dare sneak into the hall and kidnap either of the two new recruits. he hastily glanced around and heaved a sigh of relief when his eyes fell on the figure of ralph close by, as he chatted with helen and flo. at least it could not be him. "what's ailing you, lanky?" he demanded, as the other rushed up to him. "it's bones--they can't find him anywhere, and i guess he's been carried off by some of those disgruntled chaps!" exclaimed the other, with a look of dismay. chapter vii the abduction of "bones" "what's that?" demanded buster billings, who happened to be nearby. "goodness, they are saying poor bones shadduck has been kidnapped!" exclaimed a shuddering girl, and the news was flashed all through the several groups. the singing for the evening was done. the columbia high school glee club had never before been so well attended. time was when it consisted of a baker's dozen of students, but there were an unusually large number of good voices in the various classes this year. frank was, of course, much worried by the news. "are you sure, lanky? perhaps he's just stepped out to saunter around with one of the girls, like some of the others have done," he observed. "well, we thought of that, and hunted high and low. why, even allie sawyer, who generally takes up so much of his time, hasn't seen him for ten minutes." "so long as that?" answered frank, with a smile; "but we must get busy, and learn if any one saw bones go out." "i did!" spoke up a girl just then. "when was this?" asked frank, turning on her quickly. "not more than seven or eight minutes ago. i was standing in the doorway, and had to move aside for him. and he spoke to me, too," came the reply. "and what did he say?" continued the other. "why, you know bones has a dog?" "yes, a bulldog named kaiser." "he brought him along to the hall to-night," continued the girl. "that's a fact, frank; for the ugly brute came near taking a hunk out of my leg when, by the merest chance in the world, i happened to rub up against him!" declared tom budd, the boy gymnast, who was constantly doing stunts, as though possessed of an insatiable desire to stand on his head, walk on his hands, or throw somersaults. "the dog was howling, oh, so mournfully," continued the girl. "i heard him, and it really got on my nerves. well, i guess it acted the same way with bones, for he said that he was going out and remonstrate with kaiser." frank and lanky exchanged glances. "told you so!" declared the latter, triumphantly. "well, it certainly looks as though there might be something in it. bones must have forgotten the warning, in his sudden desire to stop the howling of the dog. he went out, and as he hasn't come back, we'd better be looking after him. come along, some of you fellows. if they've carried him off, it's up to us to rescue our right guard!" there was an immediate rush made for the door of the hall. dyckman's was situated just on the outskirts of the town. it had once been some sort of church, and was now used for a variety of purposes connected with the life of the community, from political meetings to dancing classes. as the stream of boys poured out of the building, the howling of the bulldog nearby became more furious than ever. it immediately attracted the attention of the observant frank. "hark!" he said, holding up his hand to indicate that silence would be necessary if they hoped to succeed in accomplishing anything worth while. "what is it?" demanded lanky, eagerly; "do you see bones, or did you hear him shout for help?" "neither. i was thinking of his dog," was the reply. "what of old kaiser, frank? how does he come in this game?" asked buster. "you can tell from the way he's acting that bones has never been near him. more than that, i believe the smart dog knows that something has happened to his master, for he's just wild to get free!" declared frank. "sure as you live! just listen to him growl and bark. i never heard a bulldog do that before!" cried ralph. "oh, kaiser is only a half-breed mongrel, but looks like a full-blooded bull. but an idea just occurred to me, fellows." "then let's have it, frank. we're short of ideas at present, just as we are of a bully good football player needed in to-morrow's game. what is it?" asked molly manners, unduly excited by these strange occurrences. "perhaps the dog might lead us to where bones is!" said frank. "say, now, that's just a crackerjack suggestion. of course, he will, if someone could only hold him in by his leash!" exclaimed lanky, with the light of anticipation shining on his face. "come on, let's try it!" shouted another fellow. "but who's going to unfasten kaiser, and hold him?" asked frank, always practical, even at such moments as this. "here's buster, he knows the dog better than anyone else," said jack eastwick, pushing the fat boy forward. "oh, yes, i've had an intimate acquaintance with him. he's tasted of me three different times," declared the unwilling candidate for honors. "still, he knows you?" said jack, in a wheedling voice. "sure, and i think he likes me, which shows kaiser has good taste. but i'm willing to be the victim, if you'll all promise to see that my remains are gathered up and given a fitting burial. everyone who likes a good show, this way, now. the only and original dog-tamer is about to give an exhibition of how not to do it." kaiser was acting in a very ugly way, as they approached the spot where he had been tied up by his master, upon reaching the hall. he jumped up and out in a furious manner, always in the one direction, frank noticed. "you see, fellows, he pays no attention to us. his growls are for someone else, and he is trying to break loose, in order that he may chase after them. i shouldn't be surprised if we had some success, after all. do it, buster. the whole world is looking to you now as the hero of the occasion." buster gave frank a plaintive look, as he bent down, and began to speak soothingly to the furious dog. "listen to his soft soap talk, would you!" "buster knows how to lay it on; he's kissed the blarney stone!" "pat him, why don't you, old fellow; he likes the taste of you all right!" but to none of these suggestions did buster pay the least heed. he was working with the end of the rope all the time he talked so soothingly to the brute. frank suspected what might happen if this suddenly came free when the dog was making one of his frantic plunges. consequently, he made sure to be ready to seize hold, so as to assist the fat boy. it was just as he thought. only for the quick clutch he made, the dog must have sped away like the wind, and they would have been as badly off as before. but with the weight of the two boys on the rope, even the powerful kaiser was not able to go faster than the crowd could follow. "ralph, keep close beside me!" called out frank, who did not want a second disaster to overtake them while trying to remedy the first. it was really a curious sight to see that crowd of boys rushing over the territory adjoining dyckman's hall, following the pair who pooled their strength in order to restrain the wildly eager dog. frank quickly took note of a certain fact. "we're heading for the water, fellows!" he exclaimed, as well as he was able, while being tugged along by the erratic rushes of kaiser. nearly everyone knew what he meant. it was that the abductors of bones meant to duck him in the river, and treat him so harshly that he would be in no condition to play in the morrow's game. still, that did not surprise anyone. they might easily have expected just such an ending to the affair, knowing as they did what conscienceless scamps were in all probability engineering the kidnapping affair. the dog had led them in almost a bee line for the river. several hundred yards had already been covered, without the least sign being seen of those whom they fully believed must be ahead somewhere. "ain't this fierce?" gasped buster, as he held on to the rope with a desperate clutch; indeed, but for the sustaining hand of the more agile frank, the fat boy must have fallen flat on his face more than once as he tripped over obstacles in the way. "kaiser'll eat 'em alive if he gets half a chance! listen to him growl, will you? don't let him loose, frank, on your life, or he'll just murder some of them!" exclaimed jack eastwick, who was running alongside the two who gripped the leash. "if buster ever falls flat i'll never be able to hold on alone. be ready, somebody, to take hold!" was what frank cried in return, as he was dragged along by the furious rush of the dog, more eager now than before. but no one appeared to be particularly anxious to extend a helping hand. the appearance of kaiser was not at all reassuring, and none of the boys fancied being "liked," as buster admitted he was. "listen!" called molly manners, suddenly. everyone strained his ears. it required some effort to catch any sound from beyond. kaiser was making such terrible noises as he ran, and the rush of many feet over the ground rather deadened anything else. still, between times they caught what seemed to be boisterous laughter, accompanied by a loud splashing, as of somebody being cast into the river, to be hauled out again, only to have the operation repeated. "they're ducking bones, that's what!" coughed buster, in real indignation. just then he struck some sort of obstacle that caused him to fall flat on his stomach with a fierce grunt. of course, the rope was torn from his hands. and as the shock was too much for frank to stand, he, too, was compelled to release his clutch in order to save himself from a bad tumble. there was a furious burst of savage satisfaction from the tugging dog at the end of the leash, and then he vanished from their sight, running like mad! chapter viii the line-up with clifford "oh, won't they get it now!" cried jack eastwick. "keep on running, fellows. some of them may be half killed, if that dog gets hold of them! faster, boys; faster!" frank himself increased his speed. he had no love for the miserable cowards who, in order to gratify their private spite, would cripple their school team until the enemy must have an easy victory on the morrow. and yet he did not like to imagine what terrible things might follow if kaiser got in among the boys who were treating his master so shamefully. perhaps they deserved whatever befell them; but frank was himself a boy, and in a position to understand the true meaning of such a prank as was now being pulled off. there had come a decided change in the racket ahead. no longer was it hilarious shouting and jeering, such as indicated sport for the boys, but something else to the human frog. true, the sounds had even grown in volume, but they were of a more serious nature. "listen to 'em howl, would you?" cried lanky. "the shoe's on the other foot, now. wow! ain't they getting nipped hard, though?" shouted herman hooker, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or frightened. "faster!" gritted frank, between his teeth, for he did not like those shouts. possibly the boys had picked up clubs, and were trying to beat kaiser off, in order to continue their cruel sport of tossing poor bones into the water, and pulling him out again by means of a rope fastened around his ankles. now the runners were close upon the spot. "they're scattering!" called lanky, as the shouts appeared to come from various localities. "and i think bones has got hold of the dog. i can hear someone speaking to him, and trying to quiet the brute!" gasped paul bird, who was also a keen runner, able to "keep up with the procession" as well as the next fellow. "that's true. hold on to him, bones, old fellow!" frank managed to shout. a dozen seconds later, and they came upon the river bank. the half moon up in the western sky gave enough light to show them how matters stood. "hurrah! kaiser cleared the decks! the last of the pirate horde has fled!" cried amiel tucker, whose reading was always along the old-time romances. "and there's our friend bones, all to the good, fondling that bristly terror! i say, three bones for cheers!" shouted red huggins, known among his mates also as "sorreltop," and who, when greatly excited, often became twisted in his mode of speech. they clustered around, while kaiser growled deeply, and licked the face of his young master. jones was soaked to the skin, and already shivering, though possibly more from the nervous strain than the cold. frank immediately took off his own coat, and threw it over the shoulders of the boy who had been ducked again and again. "what happened to you, bones?" asked lanky, who always wanted to know the full particulars, for he expected some day to branch out as a shining light in the legal profession, and believed he ought to practice while young. "they jumped me, that's all," chattered the other, trying to laugh. "when you went out to quiet your dog?" "yep. i hadn't gone half way when they pounced on me. couldn't let out more'n a little peep when they covered my head with some sort of old horse blanket, and grabbed hold of me. after that it was all over. i heard good old kaiser carrying on to beat the band. oh, how i did wish he could break loose! wouldn't he have scattered the bunch, though!" observed bones, as he calmly accepted a second coat offered by another sympathizer. "which he did in the end, anyway. say, what did he do to those sharks?" demanded buster, coming panting up at this moment. "you missed the sight of your life. they were having a grand good time dousing me in the drink, you see, when, all of a sudden, kaiser burst among them. such whooping and howling i never heard in all my life! you'd sure thought a lunatic asylum had broken loose, boys," and bones laughed as well as he could between shivers. "and then what?" persisted lanky. "oh, they scooted like fun. some went one way and others tumbled into the river, they were so badly scared. i think kaiser nipped a few of the bunch before he ran over to lick my face, and i got a cinch hold on his collar. only for that, he'd have gone back again, and mauled a few that couldn't run fast enough. but how did you come to think of putting him on the scent, fellows?" "give frank here the credit for the bright thought," said paul. "yes, he's all to the good when it comes to a question of doing something in an emergency. the balance of us were jumping around like so many chickens with their heads off, when he suggested that kaiser would lead us to the place where you were. it was a grand idea, and it worked, too," remarked lanky, warmly. "oh, piffle! cut that out. if i hadn't thought of it, somebody else would have, in about a second. i just happened to get in first, that's all. but we must rush bones home in a hurry, before he takes cold. a chill just now would knock him out of the game to-morrow, and hurt our chances of a win," with which frank assisted the wet victim of the kidnappers to his feet. bones protested, but they would not listen to him. he was rubbed down with many willing hands, and patted and pounded in a way to start his circulation going at fever heat. kaiser hardly knew what to think of all this good-natured tussling, and many times growled his disapprobation, so that a word from his master was needed to influence him not to sink those gleaming teeth in the limbs of buster or lanky. all the while they were making for town. fortunately, bones did not live a great distance off, and by making haste, they presently reached his house. buster volunteered to remain over with him and see that he was properly looked after. "somebody explain to mattie king just why i can't get back!" he called out. "oh, don't bother yourself about that, buster," remarked jack eastwick, coolly, "for i'd already made up my mind to see her home." "you have? i've got half a notion--but, no, this once won't count. it isn't often you get a show, jack, so improve the shining opportunity," answered buster, from the stoop of the shadduck home. of course, as the crowd wended its way back to the hall where the glee club had met for this one occasion, while the assembly room in high school was being repaired, the talk was wholly upon the late "unpleasantness." "it certainly was that to those chumps," laughed lanky. "oh, how much we missed in not being on the spot! all buster's faults for stumbling when he did, and letting go of the rope. why under the sun didn't he hold on with a death grip?" demanded tom budd. "hold on? goodness gracious, that dog would have dragged him over every rock and stump for a mile. a pretty sight he'd have been after that. i think buster showed the finest judgment of his life in knowing when to _let go_!" said lanky. "yes, that's so. they say a stitch in time saves nine. think how many stitches would have been needed to sew buster up if he needed mending," spoke up sorreltop. when finally they arrived at the hall, the girls, and those among the boys who had failed to join in the hunt, were, of course, just wild to hear about what had happened. everything else was, for the time being, forgotten, as they clustered around and excitedly demanded that the facts be given. one told a portion, and another took up the recital. in this fashion, by degrees, the entire story was made known. nor were the boys at all backward about giving the credit for the ingenious thought to frank, who laughingly tried to declare that he deserved no more applause than the balance of the flock. "they're all good fellows, every one, and as much deserving of your praise. we are of the opinion that there will be several limps noticeable at the game to-morrow, so if you happen to observe any fellow making a face as he walks, just whisper one word in his ear in passing. do you know what that word is?" he asked. "kaiser!" they roared in concert. "oh, kaiser, don't you want to buy a dog?" sang jack eastwick, and amid much laughter and merry exchange of talk, the glee club disbanded for that evening. ralph walked home with frank and helen. others among the boys persisted in hovering near them, greatly to the annoyance of ralph, and the amusement of the girl, who thought it something of a joke. frank had flo dempsey on his arm, and seemed to be unusually merry. to tell the truth, though, considerable of this was assumed. he happened to know that just back of them, minnie cuthbert and her new friend, dottie warren, were walking, and undoubtedly they could hear much that was being said. that night, when alone in his room, frank seemed to lose much of his merry demeanor. his face took on the grave look that had characterized it of late, ever since that minute when minnie had given him the cruel cut direct. "i wonder will i ever know what is the matter?" he mused, as he undressed, preparatory to tumbling into his inviting bed; "or must it always remain a deep mystery. i never thought she could treat a fellow that way, cutting him out without giving him the least chance to explain. but i'm not going to complain. they say there are as good fish in the sea as ever yet were caught." with this philosophical reflection, he jumped into bed. having a good control over himself, frank was able to go to sleep. in this way, when he awoke in the early morning, he was refreshed and feeling splendid, so easily does youth recuperate. "anyhow, it's going to be a sharp day. that air feels like snow, only the sky is clear. great football weather! i wonder how it will all come out," and hustling into his clothes, he immediately went out to the place arranged for the secret meeting to practice signal work. the others were soon on hand, and under the coaching of the experienced old princeton graduate, they went through all their paces with a cleverness that caused their trainer to nod his head in satisfaction. "that's enough, boys," he said, warmly. "you've got your work cut out for you to-day, and it would be poor policy to tire you at this early hour. back to the house now, and eat a breakfast such as i laid out for you; nothing more, mind. everyone of you must consider himself at the training table now, until that game with bellport is over with on thanksgiving morning. that's all!" when, about ten o'clock, frank reached the athletic grounds, clad in his soiled suit and with his entire bunch of players along, he found that a tremendous crowd had swarmed over the big field, fully equal to any that had witnessed the hard-fought baseball battles during the preceding spring and early summer. it was an enthusiastic crowd, too, shouting until the sound was not unlike the roar of a tempest. thousands of miniature flags were waving, representing both schools. there were also many from bellport present, some to enjoy the game, others to get points with regard to the playing of the columbia eleven, against which their own team expected soon to be pitted. "ain't this the greatest sight ever?" asked lanky, as they came upon the field, and the waving flags and handkerchiefs made the grandstand look like a vast flower garden in a strong wind. "columbia! _veni! vidi! vici!_ to-day we swallow the rooster!" came a concerted shout, as herman hooker got his cheer band in working order. the emblem of the clifford school was a rooster, while that of columbia, like princeton, was the tiger. immediately the columbia fellows began booting an old ball about, and falling on it with reckless abandon, just as they had been taught to do by the coach. "look there, will you!" exclaimed a girl close to minnie cuthbert in the grandstand. "how nice and white the suits of clifford seem, while our boys are dirty. they ought to be ashamed, i should think. we have just as good a laundry in columbia as they have up above." but to those who knew more about such things there was an atmosphere of strictly business about the soiled suits of frank's team. they looked as though they were on the field for hard work, and not to show off, or "play to the gallery." and the wise ones took stock of this fact. some of the sporting men even began to hedge in their bets, and might have tried to even up all around, only that they happened to know of a secret upon which they were building great hopes. and that secret concerned the signal practice of the columbia eleven! the clifford boys were continually waving their hands to some people in the crowd they recognized. there was an air of assurance about them that seemed to loudly proclaim the fact that they anticipated no great trouble in putting the "indian sign" on columbia. on the other hand, the home team seemed to notice nothing, save the fact that the ball was there to be shot around, and tumbled on heavily. they had a grim look, too, and in vain did the girls try to attract their attention, for it was rarely that one of the eleven so much as turned a look toward the spectators. all of their time was taken up in play, and observing their rivals. "just wait, and we'll dirty those sweet white suits some," chuckled lanky, as he passed the ball like lightning to shadduck. minnie was watching one player intently. for the first time in a long while he did not look along the rows of faces until he saw her waving wildly, and doff his cap, or in this case, wave his hand, since he had no cap to lift. she trembled with secret delight as she finally saw frank raise his head when the ball was in another quarter. but when he made a motion with his hand, it was in a different direction entirely, and looking over, minnie saw that helen and flo dempsey sat there. "they're getting ready to line-up. see, the referee has the two captains over by him. it's going to be a toss for position," cried one eager spectator. "not much choice to-day, though, since the wind is light," returned another. "but there always is one side better than the other. the sun will be in the eyes of the fellows who lose. that may count for something. and the breeze may grow stronger as the game goes on. there, frank has won, for he's taking his men to the lower goal. but that gives clifford the kick-off. that looks bad." "oh, i don't know. it will only spur them on to working a little harder. wait and see. i've got a hunch that frank allen has a surprise or two up his sleeve for these gay white birds from up river. i'm not worrying. i've seen that boy on the baseball field, and on the river in the boat races. he is all there with the goods, and they're a full yard wide. you hear me!" and the enthusiast jumped to his feet, to flap his elbows as though they were wings, while he emitted a shrill crow that caused a laugh to break out in the immediate vicinity. "now we're going to see some fun!" called a fellow who was waving the colors of clifford with great vim. and under the eyes of thousands of eager spectators, the rival elevens took the places assigned to them to await the signal for play. chapter ix a hard fought first half although there might be changes at any time during the progress of a fiercely contested game, the line-up at the start was as follows: _columbia._ comfort. _f.b._ allen, captain. west. _r.h.b. l.h.b._ wallace. _q.b._ shadduck. oakes. harper. bird. daly. eastwick. morris. _r.e. r.t. r.g. center. l.g. l.t. l.e._ _clifford._ evans. mcquirk. roe. gentle. ross. adkins. smith. _l.e. l.t. l.g. center. r.g. r.t. r.e._ style. _q.b._ coots. wentworth. _l.h.b. r.h.b._ hastings, captain. _f.b._ clifford was to kick off. hastings, the big captain, stood there, poising himself for the effort, and every eye was glued upon his really fine figure. hastings knew it, and purposely lingered just a trifle longer than he would have done had there been no mass of spectators hedging in the field on all sides in a solid bank of humanity. there was a shrill whistle, the referee's signal, and it called into life the twenty-two motionless figures that stood about the field. big hastings ran forward, glancing sharply about to see that his men were on the alert, and the next moment his shoe made a great dent in the side of the new yellow ball. away it sailed into the air, far over toward columbia's territory. straight toward lanky wallace, the plucky little quarter-back, it came, and wallace was right under it. into his arms, with a resounding "pung!" the spheroid landed, and, like a flash, the quarter passed it to jack comfort for a return kick. comfort's toe found the pigskin as if his shoe belonged there, and back through space went the twisting oval, in a long spiral curve, while the cohorts of both teams loosed the yells that had been long on tap. "oh, wow!" "pretty work!" "that's the stuff, old man!" "fine footwork!" these cries of encouragement to both sides were soon lost in the riot of cheers and appeals to the teams to "go in and win!" big hastings once more had the ball, and booted down the field with a tremendous, smashing kick. lanky and oakes ran to get under it, with good intentions, but with misdirected energy, and collided forcefully, while the ball bounced from lanky's shoulder and rolled along the ground, a prize for whoever could first get it. "a miss!" "by jove, our fellows have lost the ball!" "get to it, columbia!" exclamations of dismay, and frantic appeals came from a thousand throats. like mad the whole twenty-two players darted for the yellow spheroid. there was a mixup, a confused mass of struggling forms, an indiscriminate whirlwind of waving arms and legs, and then, after the frantic blowing of the referee's whistle, and when, slowly, player after player crawled off the heap, frank emerged, somewhat bruised and dazed, but with the precious ball tucked under his arm. "oh, good!" "fine, old man!" "columbia's ball!" "frank's got it, all right! that's the stuff. did you see him slide right in front of ross, their husky right guard, and cover it? say, this is a little bit of all right--all right!" cried an enthusiastic follower of columbia. it was on columbia's twenty-five yard line now, rather closer to the goal than captain frank liked, but he resolved to get right into the play now, and called for the line-up. there was a whispered conference between wallace and allen, and then the quarter began calling the signal, emphasizing the first number. a thrill seemed to run through the clifford players, and when paul bird snapped back the ball to the captain, instead of to the quarter, who, all along, had acted as if he meant to take it, there was a sudden rush on the part of clifford, but it was too late. they had prepared for a play around their left end, but frank quickly passed the pigskin to ralph west, the left half, who sprang forward on the jump, and tore through a hole made between the unsuspecting right guard and tackle of columbia's opponents. through ralph plowed, heaving and plunging his way, aided by a splendid interference, knocking aside wentworth, the opposing right half, and struggling forward for a good gain. "oh, look at that, would you! look! look! he'll get a touchdown!" "touchdown nothing!" growled a disgusted cliffordite, "what's the matter with our fellows, anyhow, to be fooled like that?" "guess they read our signals wrong!" retorted the admirer of columbia high, with a chuckle. "oh, wow! look at that! hastings nailed him that time!" ralph had gone down under a fierce tackle by the big opposing captain, but the plucky left half had made a good gain, and, as he rose and held his hand on the ball until bird came up to take it, there was an outburst of cheers that warmed his heart. "good work, old man!" whispered frank, as he ran up. "we fooled 'em that time!" herman hooker led his gallant band of shouters in an impromptu war-dance back of the grandstand, their frenzied shouts of joy at the splendid play sounding loud above the other yells. then came quiet, while the players again lined up, and the calling of the signals could plainly be heard across the gridiron. it was useless for clifford to listen, if, perchance, she had sneakingly obtained a line on the play system of columbia, for lanky was using the changed code, and only he and his men knew it. slowly he called off. it was an indication for frank to take the ball, on a try around right end. back came the oval with a clean snap, and the next moment frank, with it firmly tucked under his arm, was circling around evans, while oakes, harper and shadduck had gotten into play on the jump, and had successfully pocketed their opposing end tackle and guard. forward leaped frank, with shadduck and oakes forming splendid interference for him. down the line they sprinted, while once more the frenzied shouts broke forth: "touchdown! touchdown!" "go it, old man! go it!" it began to look as if frank would score, for big hastings was the only man available to tackle him, as the other two backs had played in so far that they were now hopelessly in the mixup of tangled figures. "go on! go on!" "yes he will! wait until hastings tackles him!" this from a boastful clifford player. hastings was waiting for the man with the ball, but frank was running behind shadduck and oakes now, and they were on the alert. hastings made a dive between them, seeking to come at frank, and for one fearful moment there was fear in the hearts of his friends that the plucky right half would be downed. but oakes fairly threw himself at the big opposing captain, and the two went tumbling in a heap, thus ending any chance hastings had of tackling the man with the ball. amid such yells as were seldom heard on the gridiron, frank, accompanied by shadduck, whose interfering services were no longer needed, touched the ball down exactly in the middle of the line, behind the two posts, while the straggling clifford players straggled madly down the field, but too late. behind them came their leaping, dancing and exulting opponents. "touchdown! touchdown!" "oh, you, allen!" "great work, old man! great work!" and indeed it was a splendid run. such shouting and yelling as there was! herman hooker and his band of "indians" were hoarse with their efforts thus early in the game, but gallantly they kept at it. there was a little silence while the clifford players lined up back of their goal posts, and then ralph west kicked goal, the ball sailing true between the posts, and making the score six to nothing in favor of columbia. "that's the stuff! that's going some! keep it up, you columbia tigers, we're all proud of you!" hoarsely called a big man, stamping about and waving his cane adorned with columbia colors. he had graduated from the old school twenty years before, and he had never lost his love for it, nor for her sons of the gridiron. there was an exchange of punts on the next kick-off, and when that sort of playing was over, clifford had the pigskin on columbia's thirty-yard line. "now, fellows, go through 'em!" grimly called hastings, and style began to give the signals in a snappy voice. in another instant wentworth, the clifford right half, hit the line with a tremendous smash, going for a hole between eastwick and daly. their mates rallied to their support, but there was smashing energy in the attack of columbia's opponents, and hold as frank and his players desperately tried to, they were shoved back, and wentworth had gained four yards. "another like that!" called hastings. "go to 'em, now! eat 'em up!" once more a smashing attack, and three yards more were reeled off around shadduck's end. "this won't do, fellows!" said allen, seriously. "we've got to hold 'em!" "how's that? guess we're going some now, eh?" demanded a clifford admirer, who sat next to mr. allen. "yes, you have a good team," was the answer. "but our boys are only letting you do this for encouragement." "oh, ho! they are, eh? just watch." indeed, it looked a little dubious for columbia. her players were being shoved back for loss with heart-stilling regularity. there was no need for clifford to kick, and all of frank's frantic appeals to his men to hold seemed of no avail. there was somewhat of a bitter feeling when, after some tremendous line-smashing, coots, the left half, was shoved over the line for a touchdown, and that gave the cohorts of clifford a chance to break loose. they did not kick the goal, however, and that was some encouragement for columbia, since it left them one point to the good. once more came the kick-off, and then, when columbia had the ball, and had lined up, she went at her opponents with such smash-bang tactics, such hammer-and-tongs work, that she tore big gaps in the wall of defense, and shoved player after player through. frank was sent over for a seven-yard gain, then came a fine run on the part of ralph, netting eighteen yards, while the crowd went wild. there was grim silence on the part of the clifford adherents as the line-up came on the ten-yard mark, and then, amid a great silence, comfort smashed through for another touchdown. "oh, wow! how's that? going some, i guess, yes!" howled the big man, who had been a player in his youth. "oh, pretty work!" the goal was missed, for the ball had been touched down at a bad angle, but the score was now eleven to five in favor of columbia, and there were still several minutes of play left in the first half. there was only a chance for an exchange of kicks however, ere the referee's whistle blew, signifying that time was up, and the players, who were just ready for a scrimmage, with the ball in clifford's possession on her opponent's fifteen-yard line, dissolved, and raced for their dressing rooms. chapter x a scene not down on the bills columbia enthusiasm broke out louder than ever when the intermission between the two halves was called. their boys had thus far not only held their own, but scored more than twice as heavily as the enemy. still, the clifford enthusiasts did not appear to be downcast. "wait," they kept saying mysteriously on all sides, while shouts of encouragement went out to hastings and his doughty warriors. "what do they mean by that?" asked mr. allen, of the man from above, who sat near him on the bench of the grandstand. "well, clifford is a slow team to get started. they always do better in the second half of a game. that with bellport was a fake, because their signals had been given away. they learned this when the first half had been played. it made them savage. the result was bellport didn't score again, and clifford made a few points before the end came. they'll wake up presently!" was the confident reply. among the most enthusiastic of the vast crowd was minnie cuthbert. she waved her little banner and joined her voice in the general clamor, for the mad excitement had seized girls as well as boys and men. and yet all the while she seemed to have eyes for no one but the agile captain of the columbia team. wherever he happened to be, her gaze was either openly or covertly upon him. again she saw frank wave his hand cheerily, and looking in the direction where his attention seemed to be directed, she discovered that helen and flo dempsey were flourishing bouquets of flowers made up of purple and gold, to illustrate the school emblem. and, moreover, minnie understood full well that these had undoubtedly come from the conservatory of the allens. somehow, it pained her to know it. from that time on she resolutely set her eyes toward anyone on the field, so long as it was not frank. there was much consultation during the rest spell. coaches and captains had their heads together, trying to ascertain if it were possible to strengthen their teams by bringing in a fresh man as substitute. several had been more or less injured in the fierce mass plays, and were showing it, despite their efforts to appear natural. not for worlds would anyone of them express a desire to be taken out of the game. if the captain decided against their continuing, well and good, for he was the sole judge of a man's fitness; but each fellow believed he could still carry himself to the end. the general excitement was such that a man might be seriously hurt and not be aware of it, buoyed up, as he was, with the wild desire to accomplish glorious things for the school he loved. "how are you feeling, bones? any bad result from your immersion in the cool drink last night," asked lanky, as he and the right guard came together. "not an atom, glad to say. you fellows saved me by your prompt action, and the general rubbing down i had after the rescue. true, my left wing feels sore to the touch after that slamming i got when i went down with the ball over their fifteen-yard line, and a dozen fellows piled on top; but i don't think it's broken, and i haven't said anything to frank, because i'm afraid he'd yank me out." lanky carefully massaged the arm in question, eliciting a few grunts from the stoical player under the process. "only bruised, old fellow. by the way, have you noticed any limpers around this morning--among the spectators, i mean?" he remarked, whimsically. "sure, two of them, jay tweedle and bill klemm," laughed the other immediately. "they hustled away when they saw me looking, and it was all they could do to keep the agony off their faces. but it would have to be more than a mere dog bite to keep any fellow with red blood in his veins away from a scrap on the gridiron like this, though i reckon both of them are hoping to see clifford win, hands down." "well, there's another poor chap limping somewhere around the grounds--asa barnes. good old kaiser must have put his teeth in his calf pretty sound, for you can see the tear in his trousers' leg. that was a great time, and i envy you the privilege of having seen it. what a scattering of the boasters, and all on account of one dog!" "yes, lanky, but _such_ a dog! he thinks the world of me. why, i could hardly tear myself away from him this morning, he wanted to come with me so bad. after this you needn't ever think of giving me a guard; kaiser can fill that position up to the limit," said bones, proudly, as became the owner of such a wonderful canine. "time's nearly up. are we going to bring any new horse out of the stable? did any fellow make serious blunders? is anyone hurt?" asked lanky. "if they are, they keep it to themselves. but there's shay coming out, while eastwick goes to the seats. i was a little afraid that jack might prove too light as a tackler. why, twice he failed to bring his man down, and was carried more than a few yards before another fellow caught on. shay ought to be an improvement." "what do you think, so far, bones?" "we've about held our own, that's comforting," was the reply. "but the score isn't as big as i hoped it would be," expostulated lanky. "yes, but we owe that first touchdown and goal to the fact that clifford was confused with the signals you called. they thought they meant the old version, and rushed to meet the play. that gave us almost a clear field." "i guess you're right," returned lanky, thoughtfully. "now, see where we stand. they got a clear touchdown, and were over our fifteen-yard line when play was called. i tell you, we're going to have our work cut out to score again, and you can see that every fellow of the opposition is out for blood. to be licked by bellport hurt; a second drubbing is next to unthinkable with them. mark my words, they'll die hard!" "bones, you're right. we've got to do our level best in the second half. once let us develop a weak spot, and they'll aim for that every rush. there's frank calling to me again. five minutes more, and we'll be at it, hammer and tongs," and lanky hurried away to where the captain stood, with the very last word in the way of orders. the line of play had been decided on long before. this had been arranged in accordance with what they knew about clifford's line-up. just as lanky had declared, once let a weak place show, and from that minute on the opposition bends every effort toward pushing the ball in that quarter, until, finally, the defense gives way, and the oval is carried triumphantly across the line. gradually the players began to take their places again. clifford, too, showed a new face; hollingsworth being substituted in place of evans, as right end, the other having been injured in a scrimmage, thought not enough to get out at the time. it was columbia's kick-off this time, and jack comfort was the one to do the honors which would inaugurate the second half of the game. just as he stood there ready to make the first move, the picture was one that would never be forgotten by the thousands who witnessed it. every breath seemed hushed. a mighty silence hung over the wide field, as eyes were riveted on the crouching figures, whose faces, so far as seen, because of the disfiguring head harness, showed the earnestness that possessed each soul. it was at this critical moment that suddenly loud shouts arose. they seemed to come from behind the grandstand, and quickly swelled in volume, until it was a deafening roar that broke forth. frank called out something, and the referee instantly blew his whistle, to signify that delay was imperative until the cause of all this row could be ascertained and the noise quelled. it was simply impossible to continue the game while so much racket held, as the players would be wholly unable to hear the signals. but now the tenor of the wild cries began to be understood. players looked at each other in blank dismay. never before had they heard of a football game having been interrupted by such a strange and terrible cause. "mad dog! mad dog!" that was what the people were shrieking over and over. the entire mass of spectators seemed to be writhing as they leaped to their feet. faces grew white with sudden fear. women and children cried and shrieked, and hands were wrung in the abandon of despair. it was easy to discover the immediate scene of the disturbance, for there the lines swayed more violently than elsewhere. people crushed back against each other, forgetting all else in the frenzy of fear that possessed them. what could be more terrifying than the coming of a mad dog in the midst of such an assemblage of merrymakers, out for a grand holiday? "run, you fellows; he's heading out on the field! get a move on you!" roared a voice through a big megaphone. it was, of course, the wonderful cheer captain, herman hooker, who thus gave warning of the coming peril. indeed, his cry was hardly needed, for the two elevens could mark the passage of the terror by the swaying back of the lines upon lines of spectators, all of whom seemed to be possessed of a wild desire to climb up on the highest seats, so that the panic was fierce. then through the mass came the running beast, with his head close to the ground, and trailing a chain behind him. his actions were certainly queer, and well calculated to strike terror into the timid hearts of the helpless ones gathered there to witness the spectacle of a football contest, and not a mad dog hunt. and running valiantly after the brute came officer whalen, doubtless intending to attempt to shoot the animal when once he found a chance. suddenly the raging brute uttered a series of fearful sounds, and started directly for one of the players on the field, as though intending to attack him first. the vast crowd shrieked all manner of imploring directions, and unable to render assistance, just stood there and looked and prayed. but frank allen neither started to run nor moved to the aid of the threatened player for he had discovered that the one who stood there was bones shadduck, and in the leaping dog he had recognized the persistent kaiser! chapter xi clifford's last hope "why doesn't the fool run?" cried one man, quivering with suspense. "it's too late now! see, he's going to tackle the brute! he's got his hands out ready! gee! what nerve!" bellowed another, this time from clifford. a third laughed harshly, for the strain had been beat on everyone. "its all off, fellows. that's _his_ dog!" he shouted. "well, i'll be hanged! look at him jumping up to lick the boy's face, will you? did you ever? this takes the cake!" the crowd had by this time discovered that it was a false alarm, and by degrees the hysterical feeling wore off, though there were many who would not soon forget the awful sense of fear that had almost paralyzed their systems. kaiser had apparently broken loose long after bones had left home, and determined to find his beloved master, had trailed him to the football field. possibly the faithful animal believed that there might be further need of his services, and that there were more fellows in need of trimming. of course the game had to be delayed until bones could lead kaiser away, and secure him in a little room under the grandstand. the crowd howled and cheered as he went by, and shadduck grinned in his usual happy fashion, feeling that for once at least he was in the exact limelight--thanks to kaiser! once more the two opposing teams faced each other on the field. the rushers were crouched, ready to spring forward as soon as the ball had been put into play. comfort prepared to send in his best kick, after which the whole field would be in motion in the mad endeavor to urge the ball toward the goal of the opposing side. jack was a famous punter and also a gilt-edged drop-kicker. he had a peculiar spiral kick that was calculated to be exceedingly puzzling to the enemy. and since much depended upon how far he sent the oval into the enemy's territory, all eyes were eagerly glued upon him now. "plunk!" away sailed the ball with the most erratic motion the clifford men had ever seen in all their experience. some ran this way, and then suddenly changed their course, as they realized the deceiving nature of the ball's aerial flight. but the columbia ends knew just how the full-back would send the ball, and they shot for the spot, determined to reach there almost as soon as the enemy, and cut short his advantage for a run. coots managed to catch the ball, and darted back with it, but was downed, almost in his tracks, by a fierce tackle on the part of shadduck, who had slipped through the interference. "down!" howled coots, after he had recovered his wind. the players lined up, while style began calling off the signals. the columbia players braced for the attack they knew would soon come. and come it did. their line tottered and wavered under the smashing impact, but it held, and wentworth was hurled back for a slight loss. "that's the way to do it!" cried frank, in delight. "hold 'em again, fellows, and they'll have to kick!" once more clifford, in desperation, for she wanted to keep the ball, tried for another advance, this time around her opponent's left end. but morris and shay were on hand, and nailed the player before he had gone two yards. "they've got to kick!" came the cry, and indeed that was the only play left for clifford. still, it might be a fake one, and frank signalled this to his men, so that they might be on the alert. but comfort ran away back, and it was well that he did, for the ball was booted well into the columbia territory. the full-back caught it and managed to rush back fifteen yards before he was fiercely downed. "now's our chance, fellows!" called frank, while paul bird came up, took the pigskin and waited for lanky to give the signal. "i-m-p-o-r-t-a-n-c-e!" spelled out the quarter. instantly after the last letter was given, there was a sudden movement. the center had flashed the ball to allen, who started furiously around the outside of the clifford line. west was running diagonally, and passed him. many did not notice that as they crossed frank dexterously passed the ball to ralph, but kept on running and dodging as though he still held it. the trick was not a new one by any means, but when well done it was apt to deceive at least a portion of the rattled opposition; so that several of the clifford players were, for the instant, really in doubt as to which of the two half-backs carried the ball. thus in the beginning the force of pursuers was divided. ralph was a sprinter, and could avoid interference in a manner that was simply marvelous. he had the entire bunch against him, trying to block his play, but with wonderful skill managed to dodge each in turn, until when finally brought down he had reached the enemy's ten-yard line! a burst of applause from the eager spectators; then again absolute silence, for once more the heavily breathing players had gathered in battle array. again came a hot scrimmage. the ball was over the side lines now, and out of bounds. so it had to be brought in. clifford had it for a change, but the conditions were desperate with them now, with their home goal close behind. let a columbia player once get his hands on the oval, and the chances were he could carry it over the line for a touchdown. the man who did the thinking in this emergency knew his business. when the next scrimmage was on, many of the spectators were astonished to see a clifford player jump away from the melee with the ball in his grasp, and hurl himself deliberately across his own line. immediately the crowd gave expression to their feelings. some cheered, while others groaned, as the play was understood best. "why, that man is a traitor to his team!" exclaimed one indignant fellow. a columbia graduate, who happened to be sitting next to the speaker, gave him a look of contempt, as he remarked: "on the contrary he proved to have an exceedingly clever head on him. stop and think for just a minute. they were close up to clifford's goal. the chances were ten to one in that scrimmage that columbia would get the ball, and with the next play carry it across the line. that meant a touchdown. then if they could kick a goal, as is likely, they would count six. as it is now, columbia gets only two because that quick-witted fellow put it over his own line. more than that, the next play is back at the twenty-five yard line; so you see how easily clifford gets out of a bad corner." as little time as possible was lost getting in position again. so eager were both sides to accomplish things that they begrudged the fleeting seconds. the tide of battle surged back and forth. dozens of plays were pulled off that it would take many chapters to describe. but what cheered the enthusiasts of the home team was the fact that most of the work was being done on hostile territory! in between times when there was no need of silence the raucous voice of herman hooker could be heard, as he led his band around back of the crowd, and shouted again and again in unison the thrilling yell of columbia, with the intention of stirring the blood in the veins of each player, and investing him with renewed pluck and zeal. as if it were needed, when each one of those sturdy champions had already been keyed up to top-notch speed. time was slipping away, and despite the almost superhuman efforts of clifford they could not seem to get the ball over that strenuously defended line of their opponents. in vain did the rooters urge them on to renewed efforts. columbia seemed to have thrown up a stone wall in front of her goal lines, and no matter what strenuous plays were called off they were met with a stubborn tenacity that robbed them of results. only seven more minutes remained of the second half. columbia adherents were jubilant. they already began to discount a victory, and were winding up preparatory to making the air ring with their shouts. the wise ones kept close watch of the play. they had known occasions just like this when the winning team became over confident, and the last few minutes witnessed their utter rout. would it happen so in this case? clifford was exerting every effort to bring about such a happy condition of affairs. frank had warned his men against the slightest slackening of speed or vigilance. no game is won until the referee's signal announces that the end has come. now the determined clifford hosts had carried the ball over into the territory of their rivals. columbia was visibly weakening before these fearful plunges, and it seemed as though flesh and bone could not hold out against them. seconds counted now. how desperately frank and his backers fought to ward off the threatening evil. every lawful tactic that would bring about delay was brought into bearing. twice had the ball gone out of bounds, which necessitated a new alignment, and consequent passage of those precious seconds. columbia was on the defensive; but it was a splendid exhibition of harrying play they put up, thanks to the instructions of coach willoughby. on their fifteen-yard line they faced the clifford crew for the last struggle. despite the prediction of the man who had declared them a great second-half team, clifford had failed to add to their score during the half hour that had elapsed, that lone touchdown standing to their credit. "boys, we want a bigger score than this!" called captain allen eagerly, when time was taken out to enable some wind to be pumped back into style. "we've got thirteen points, and they have five. it's too close a margin. we've got time enough to make another touchdown." "if we can get the ball," added west. "we've _got_ to get it!" cried the captain. "it's the first down. hold 'em, and throw the man with the ball for a loss if you can. they may kick on the second down instead of waiting for the third. then we'll have 'em." the whistle blew and style came slowly back into the line. he was pale and weak, as the manner in which he gave the signals showed. there were anxious looks on the faces of his mates, and glances of eager expectation on those of his opponents. wentworth came smashing for a hole he expected would be opened up between daly and shay, but shay was ready and did more than his partner to block off the play. wentworth was hurled back, and there was a net loss of two yards to clifford. "look out for a kick!" warned frank. it came, for clifford was desperately afraid, and comfort got the ball. tucking it under his arm, with head down, he started for the goal line, well protected. the enraged clifford players managed to get at him, however, and he was downed after he had covered fifteen yards. but it was a good run back, and columbia had the ball, and there were still several more minutes to play. "at 'em now, fellows! tear 'em apart!" cried lanky wallace. he called for ralph west to take the ball around smith, as the quarter had noticed the weak defense the right end was putting up. around circled west, and he made a good gain before he was downed. again came smashing plays--several of them, columbia keeping possession of the ball. in vain did clifford brace and hold. it was useless. she was being shoved right up the field. her men were exhausted and discouraged. columbia's were eager and triumphant. "touchdown! touchdown!" came the insisting cries from the spectators. the ball was on clifford's fifteen-yard line. "touchdown it is!" declared wallace grimly. he called his signal with snap and vim. frank got the ball and made a desperate dive for a big gap that was opened up between roe and mcquirk. forward he staggered while shadduck and oakes managed to circle around to form interference for him. "he's through! he's through!" came the cry, and indeed the captain was through the clifford line, and legging it toward the goal. hastings started after him, but slipped and fell. then, like a flash, wentworth emerged from the tangle of players and set off after allen. he came on like the wind, and managed to slip past shadduck, but oakes was on the alert and tackled off the plucky clifford right-half. then it was all over but the shouting. with the fall of wentworth ended clifford's hopes of preventing another touchdown, while as for her own hopes of making one they had vanished some time ago. allen touched down the ball. amid frenzied cheers the goal was kicked, making the score nineteen to five in favor of columbia. there was preparation for another kick-off, but before it could be made the whistle blew; and the game had passed into history. chapter xii dr. shadduck fears an epidemic "there he is!" "cut him off; he's trying to dodge us!" "no you don't, frank; we're just bound to give you a ride around. these things don't happen every day. up with him, fellows!" fully fifty wild columbia students had gathered around the captain, effectually blocking his escape from the field. frank, suspecting some such design, had tried his best to slip off unobserved; but hundreds of eyes were on him, and even his fellow players showed treachery, handing him over to the crowd. he was immediately hoisted upon the shoulders of several brawny chaps, and with a motley crowd following, after they set out to parade the field, shouting the battle cry of the school, and singing the famous song that always thrilled the hearts of columbia's patriotic sons and daughters. those who had remained in the grandstand cheered as the procession swept past, and among these was minnie cuthbert. frank never looked that way once, she noted, and yet there had been a time, not so very far back, when he would have thought of her the first thing. and yet frank was perfectly conscious that she was standing there, leaning over the railing, and watching the fun with eagerness. sometimes it is possible to see without looking direct. when he could escape frank hurried home. he was of course overjoyed to realize that his team had won the game; but the strain of those last ten minutes had been simply terrific. what would it be with the bellport eleven, every member of which had undoubtedly been present, picking up points that would be useful in the big thanksgiving day game? of course there must a celebration that night. victory deserved something of the sort, and the boys were bound to make the fact known to every citizen of the town. fires would be blazing, horns tooting, firecrackers exploding, and a general hurrah taking place, with crowds of students, roaming around, and ringing the various college songs they loved so well. frank found a warm welcome at his home. his father declared he was proud of the fact that he had a boy so well able to manage affairs of great moment. it was a great day at the allen house, and helen, for the time being, even forgot her grief in connection with the unexplained desertion of her once fondly loved chum, minnie cuthbert. just after lunch frank was called to the telephone. ralph had dropped in to talk over matters connected with the game, which, of course, must be the one important topic of conversation among the columbia students until the concluding meeting came about that would settle the championship. "hello! who's this?" frank asked, as he picked up the receiver, and placed it at his ear. a laugh was the first sound he heard. "that you, bones?" he demanded, thinking he recognized a peculiarity about this chuckle that stamped the identity of the one who seemed so merry. "sure; that you, frank? say, it's an epidemic that's struck us!" called the one at the other end of the wire. "what do you mean. make it plainer; i'm all up in the air," answered frank, who knew bones was a great fellow for joking, and wondered what he had in hand now. "they had my dad guessing some, i tell you. he began to think it was his duty to warn the town authorities so that they could take proper precautions; for honest now, it did look like the whole place was overrun with frisky canines, snapping at every one they met!" "what's that you say?" asked frank, pricking up his ears at the mention of dogs; for the memory of several recent experiences was fresh in his mind. "why, you see, every one's getting bitten. it's the latest fad. my dad had just three come to him early this morning to have wounds cauterized to make sure!" "good gracious! you don't say?" ejaculated frank, waiting for further explanations, which he knew would not be long in coming. "yes, and the funny part of it is all of them were boys. the dogs seem to have taken a great fancy for the breed. guess you could give a close hazard about who they were. perhaps you know their limp, for they showed it plain enough at the game," went on bones, with another series of chuckles. "i saw bill klemm rubbing his calf and talking to jay tweedle; yes, and when they walked off i thought each of them seemed to have a stiff leg. how about that; were they to see the doctor?" asked the captain of the football team, eagerly. "sure as you live, and asa barnes ditto. asa said he was passing an empty lot last night when a brindle cur just deliberately jumped out and nabbed him. of course he kicked the beast away, and it ran off howling; but his father, on being told the circumstances this morning, thought he ought to have a little caustic applied so as to take no chances. think of it--a brindle cur, and that sneak kicked him! oh! my!" "and where did bill say he got his dose from?" "he's got a little bit of a poodle, you know. well, he had the nerve to declare the baby beast bit him! dad said he found it hard to believe, for judging from the marks of the teeth it was a jaw three times as big as tiny's that did the business. dad knows better now." "then you told him all about kaiser's work last night?" "sure; i had to. he was for putting off to warn the town police to look out for all brindle dogs, and shoot 'em on the spot--which spot i don't know. but you see, somebody had told him about kaiser acting that way at the field, and he was ready to order him massacred before he went mad too. so i had to relate the dreadful story of how bill and asa and jay got their little tattoo marks." "what did he say then?" asked frank, greatly amused. "nearly took a fit laughing over it. instead of being chloroformed or otherwise exterminated kaiser is going to get a new collar now, dad's especial gift. hurrah for kaiser! he's the whole circus every time!" "yes," said frank, quickly, "he came near getting his finish though to-day. old officer whalen was on his trail and meant to fill him full of holes, if he could ever get close enough. it was a narrow escape for kaiser." "a narrower one for the crowd. did you ever see officer whalen practice firing at a mark? well, i have. the man couldn't hit a barn door thirty feet off. can't you come over, frank? i've got something to propose to you. the afternoon is too fine and bracing to stay cooped up in the house. we'll soon have to hibernate, you know. come along!" called bones. "ralph is with me." "all right. bring him along. glad to have him." "look for us soon then. i've got something i want to ask you anyway. good-bye," and frank turned from the phone to explain to the wondering ralph just why he had been so overcome with merriment. of course ralph thought the joke a good one when he too heard the particulars of the sudden run upon the good doctor's supply of liquid caustic. "no wonder they limped after all that; the remedy was worse than the disease, i reckon. i don't suppose anything serious will come out of those bites now?" he said, after he had stopped laughing. "oh! hardly. thousands are bitten every year by angry dogs, and how few cases of hydrophobia you hear about. they'll limp around a little while and then forget all about it but bones wants us to come over to his house, so if you have no objections we'll just saunter across lots and see what he's got going." "just as you say." remarked ralph, rising immediately; "though unless you object i thought of dropping in at the post-office on the way. there's a mail in, and possibly a letter might come for me that i could get before the carrier came around." frank looked at him with pity in his eyes. he knew how secretly ralph was suffering all the pangs that can come with hope long deferred; and that each day seemed like an eternity to the boy who was yearning to feel the loving arms of a mother about his neck, a mother whom he had never known. "certainly; that's only a step out of the way. but be careful as you go, and if you see a brindle pup in a vacant lot run for your life! they're mighty dangerous, i'm told," at which both boys laughed again, and the cloud passed from ralph's rather pale face. as chance would have it, as they issued from the front door a vehicle passed the house, and in it were seated minnie cuthbert and lef seller, the fellow whom she had more than once declared she never meant to speak to again. it was lef's rig, and the object he had in view in thus deliberately passing frank's home was obvious. frank, after that one start, was prepared. he immediately doffed his cap with the most excruciating politeness. minnie turned white, then red. she hardly knew what to do under the circumstances; but found herself nodding her head as though she could not help it, even after cutting frank on the preceding day. frank saw the grin of triumph on the face of his rival, but though his blood was fairly boiling with indignation at his coming out of the way to let him see their renewal of friendship, he simply looked after the vehicle and smiled. ralph was chuckling as if amused. "sometimes girls' friendships are so quickly changed they make me think of that wonderful finnegan and his report of the accident on his section of the railroad. you know how his boss had taken him to task because he stretched things out so. when the old train had another wreck he just wrote out his report: 'off again, on again, gone again, finnegan.' yesterday it was you, to-day lef, and tomorrow--well, tomorrow hasn't come yet, so we won't anticipate. come along, frank," and linking his arm in that of his chum, ralph drew him away. and in the lively talk that followed frank soon forgot his bitter feeling at the strange actions of the pretty girl he had once thought so charming. chapter xiii the great marsh "glad to see you, fellows! say, by the way, i hear that clifford won the great football match against columbia!" was the way the way bones shadduck greeted them as they reached his door and rang the bell. "you don't tell me," said frank, with a smile; "when did it happen?" "oh! last night some time. it was a great victory. i'm told they nearly painted the town red over it," responded the other. "well, for my part i prefer to do the celebrating after the thing is over to shouting before hand. perhaps they celebrated too hard, and that might account for several fool plays that were made. i had an idea that several of clifford's best players looked rather red-eyed, as though they didn't get much sleep," remarked frank, as they entered. "and i shouldn't be surprised if you were right. i was told they had a dance and it was all hours of the morning when they went home," echoed bones. "but what did you want us over for in particular?" asked frank. "something to show you and then a proposal to make. i had a birthday to-day, and my dad's been mighty good to me. what do you think of that?" bones whipped out a beautiful shotgun from behind a case and handed it over to the others to admire. "looks like a dandy, all right. and i wager she'll do some good work when you get to looking over the sights. handles great, too. although i think i like my own gun a little the better, still that's only a matter of prejudice. you're lucky to have such a dad, bones," remarked frank, as he drew an imaginary bead on some object seen out of the window. "and now for my proposal. i'm just wild to try the new gun, and i had word from father's farmer, benson, that the ducks were in the old swamp that adjoins our big patch of ground over wheaten way. i can get our horse and the three of us might take a spin over to see what we can do," suggested bones, eagerly. "but i thought duck shooting was always done in the early morning?" ventured ralph. "it usually is; but in some localities there is apt to be a good evening flight. that happens to be the case over at the swamp. i've seen them come in there to spend the night by twos and dozens, until the air was thick with them. and i've had the best sport of my life in knocking them over on a runway, or rather flyway. say you'll go, frank?" pleaded the enthusiastic sportsman. "well," answered the one addressed, "it always appeals to me, and in this case i'd just as soon be away from town to-night, because the boys are going to do stunts, and they hinted that they might get hold of me to ride me around, something i object to seriously, on general principles. so far as i'm concerned i'll be delighted to go along, bones." "ditto here," exclaimed ralph; "only i shall have to go to be the pick-up, for i haven't got a gun. i used to handle an old one of mr. west's, but, of course, didn't bring it along with me." "oh! that's easily fixed. if you don't mind you can use my old one. she's a steady shooter. if you cover your bird you get him every time. and i've got plenty of shells. suppose you chase back and get your double-barrel, frank, while i see about the rig. ralph will stay with me and help, i know." it was speedily arranged and frank, on returning with his gun, found the others ready to make a start. just as he had said the arrangement pleased him first-rate, for he really did want to get out of town until a late hour that night. it was not at all to the liking of the football captain to be carried around on show, just as if he were a hero on exhibition; especially when he avowed that he deserved not one whit more honor for the victory than each other member of the team. "i hope they get lanky, and trot him around some to see how he likes it. he was scolding me for not behaving right to the boys to-day, when they grabbed me on the field after the game. i'd give something to see him wallowing around on a platform and made to bow to the right and to the left, over and over again." all of them laughed heartily at the picture frank conjured up. then they clambered into the vehicle and the start was made. they had been wise enough to hide the guns, so that while some of the boys who were on the streets saw them ride off, they had no suspicion that the one bright particular star of the intended celebration intended to be far away at the time. it was a ride of more than ten miles. the horse, while not a fast animal, could keep up a steady pace, and in good time they arrived at the farm which doctor shadduck owned. as the afternoon was passing, and night comes early after the middle of november, the three young sportsmen hastened to head for the swamp where they anticipated having an hour or so of pleasure before dark actually shut in. bones had often come up here on a similar errand, though this was his first visit this year. still, he kept things in such shape that there was little time wasted making the necessary arrangements. he had a few painted decoys that had seen much service and these they carried along with them from the house. seeing frank curiously examining one of the stools he carried, bones broke out into a hearty laugh. "wondering what peppered that wooden decoy so, eh, frank? i'll tell you, though you'll never enjoy the story as much as i did the actual thing. i had a cousin up here last winter. he was from new york city, and had never shot at real game, though he was a deadly marksman when it came to the trap, and could break bats and clay pigeons right along." "i've seen the breed," commented frank, with a grin. "well, when we came crawling out here i forgot that i had asked benson to put my little flock of decoys out for me. the first thing i knew i heard a bang close to my ear, and then a second shot, after which cousin hal jumped up shouting that he had knocked over the entire bunch. he had, but you ought to have seen his look when i sent him wading out to retrieve the game. still, he laughed himself at the joke, and begged me not to tell it till after he left." "i guess they'll float about as well as ever, even if weighted down with shot. have you got a boat up here, bones?" asked ralph. "sure i have, and a dandy one to shoot out of, being flat-bottomed and steady as a church floor. but i only use it to retrieve the game generally; because you see, we can shoot from the land as the ducks fly over to enter the swamp." frank had often heard of this style of shooting, and wanted to try it; so that he was very glad he had come. after the tremendous strain of the morning some relaxation of this kind would be a good thing too, for all of them. "i told my people not to expect me home to supper; and also that they might be having game tomorrow for dinner, if we were lucky," remarked frank. "and nobody will bother whether i show up or not," observed ralph, with a nervous little laugh. "never mind, old chap, i calculate that there's going to come a decided change in your condition before a great while. you're showing true grit in bearing up as well as you do. any day you may get the letter that tells you the ones you look for are on the way here. then your troubles will be all in the past. hello! how's this bones? have we arrived?" and frank looked around curiously when the guide came to a sudden halt. "here we are, fellows. you see that abrupt break in the heavy line of trees. it seems to form a sort of avenue, and the ducks in flying toward the swamp just naturally drive into it, following after each other as though it were really a road. in fact, few of them ever enter the swamp by any other way than this." "if we're going to shoot over a place like this, as the ducks come in, why the decoys?" asked ralph. bones laughed as he replied: "i generally keep them out here during the season, in a little shelter i have. nothing like making fellows useful, you know; and while we were coming i thought three could carry them better than one! sort of making you work your passage, see?" knowing the ground, and the habits of the waterfowl, bones quickly placed his two friends. then they anxiously awaited the coming of the first game. a sort of routine had been arranged. this was to prevent any waste of ammunition, through two of them shooting at the same quarry. "frank, you try the first chap, ralph the second, and i'll experiment with my new gun when the next pilgrim spins along. don't forget that they are swift customers right here, and the chances are you'll shoot back of them," said bones, as they stood at their posts. "there, frank!" exclaimed ralph, as a couple of dark objects suddenly burst into view, and sped past them. but frank was not taken unawares. he had shot ducks more than once before, and knew how to properly gauge their flight. beginning a little behind the pair he swept his gun forward so as to pass them; and at just the instant it covered the game in its swinging movement he pressed the trigger. one of the ducks fell, stone dead, and the other went on with diminished speed as though crippled. almost instantly the second barrel spoke, and this time down came the second bird. "fine!" exclaimed bones, who had never seen frank shoot before; "why, really, i'm ashamed to show my clumsiness before such a crack shot." "none of that, now. and don't believe i can do that sort of work right along. next time it may be a clean double miss. ducks are unreliable things. i've known the best of shots to miss, time and again. ralph, step up and toe the mark. you're next on the docket," laughed frank, as he hastily replaced the discharged shells with fresh ones. "better retrieve your game while the balance of us keep a lookout. otherwise we'll get things mixed, and perhaps lose some of it. did you mark the places?" said the host of the little hunt. "oh! yes, i always do that. it gets to be a habit with any fellow who hunts much. i think they fell dead, so i oughtn't to have much trouble," replied frank. "beware the oozy spots along the border of the marsh. i've had no end of trouble getting stuck instead of duck," called out bones, as the other moved away, carrying his gun along with him as a wise hunter always does. just as he retrieved the second victim to his accuracy he heard a single shot, and a heavy body fell not ten feet away. ralph had dropped his first duck also. "there you are," remarked frank, throwing the three birds down, as he returned to the rendezvous; "and they do certainly look fine and plump. reckon you have quite a few muskrats in this old marsh of yours, bones. i saw a lot of houses in the water, made of sticks and trash?" "i was told there were. of course i've seen the little varmints at times, when i've been hiding in a duck-blind; but they never trouble me, and i don't go out of my way to interfere with them. ah! there!" he threw up his gun, and a second later two shots rang out in rapid succession. quite a bunch of teal had swung into the avenue, heading for the marsh. they were just everlastingly hurrying, as ralph said, and while bones succeeded in knocking down a couple, one only wounded, which he never did find, he declared he ought to be ashamed for not doing better. "still, i like the feel of the gun all right. i'll do something worth while when i get used to the hang of it," he remarked, as he went off to look for his game. then frank had another chance. sometimes the ducks were higher up; then again they came at such speed that it was next to impossible to make a hit. so the fun went on for three-quarters of an hour. it was actually getting dusk, and the flight seemed about over. ralph had dropped a single duck, and gone off to try and find it, though bones said he doubted whether he would succeed, because of the gathering gloom. about five minutes afterwards, as he and frank were sitting there on the log, exchanging stories of former hunts, they heard ralph calling. "hello! what's the matter?" exclaimed frank, starting up. "i don't know, but i can give a pretty good guess," remarked bones; and then elevating his voice, he shouted: "what d'ye want, ralph?" "better drop over here, please!" came the reply. "he's in some sort of trouble," suggested frank, judging from the half apologetic tone of his chum. "yes, and i expect stuck in the ooze of the marsh, worse luck!" grunted bones. chapter xiv the dangers of the muck hole "where are you?" called bones, as he and frank pushed forward in the gathering dusk. "here! be mighty careful, fellows, or you'll get in too!" came the answer, not far away. "told you so," remarked the doctor's son, with a little laugh; "poor ralph; i pity him, because i've been there myself. when i come alone out here i always carry a short rope along. if i get stuck it helps me out." "a rope? how under the sun can that help?" demanded a voice close by; showing that they were very near the boy who was stuck in the ooze, and also that he was alive to the inconvenience of his position. "why, you see, in most cases there's a limb of a tree hanging over, and it's dead easy to throw the rope across it. after that, one can pull out, unless he's allowed himself to sink too deep. got a match with you, frank?" asked bones. "lots. i've found them handy on too many occasions lately to go without. here you are, bones. going to make a fire, are you?" and frank, bending down, commenced to assist in gathering some dead leaves together. "well," replied the other, "we ought to have some light to see how to work him free. it would be a tough joke if the whole bunch of us got stuck. i don't hanker after such an experience. things are pretty dry up here, so we must be careful not to let the blaze spread any." the fire was quickly a positive fact, and being fed with some small branches it leaped up grandly. in this fashion the entire neighborhood was illuminated. frank looked around. the sight was peculiar, and as the marsh ran into an actual swamp, he thought he had seldom seen a more weird effect. still, what interested him most of all was the picture of ralph, up to his knees in the soft slime that lay concealed under the dead leaves and green scum. "i've tried all i could to get out, fellows, but the worst of it is, when i lift one foot the other only goes that much deeper down. if a fellow could only get hold of enough stuff to make a sort of mattress he might roll over on it and do the trick that way. i'd be trying that if i had daylight, and was alone here," remarked the imprisoned boy, calmly. "say, i never thought of that. it's a clever idea, all right. next time i get stuck i'm going to see how it works," remarked bones. "why not now, since you haven't your rope along. here's just the ticket--some old fence rails lying in a heap. cheer up, comrade, we'll have you out of that in a jiffy now," sang out frank, seizing one of the long, cast-off rails, and dropping it on the surface of the muck. bones fell to along side, and between them they speedily formed a regular corduroy road out to where ralph stood, watching the building with interest. one of them got on either side. then, with the aid of other rails they pried ralph loose, so that he could crawl over to the "mattress," and get secure footing. after that nothing was needed but to walk ashore. "i'm a fine sight, mud up to my knees, my hands full, and i tell you, it isn't just as sweet as it might be," lamented ralph, as he started to scrape himself off with a splinter. "hold on, we'll play valet to you. take that leg, while i manage this one, frank," observed bones, who was really enjoying seeing some other fellow in the same mussy condition that had been his lot more than once. they scraped so well that presently ralph declared he felt quite presentable once more. "but i'll make sure to let nobody see me in this condition," he added; "and this pair of trousers will have to go to the cleaner's monday morning, you bet." "well, are we off now?" asked frank, as he started to make sure that the fire was extinguished to the last spark. "that's the ticket, frank," observed bones, approvingly, "i like a fire all right, but hate to see it burning up a marsh or a woods. had one little experience that i aint going to forget in a hurry. i guess she'll do now. let's shoulder our game and make tracks for the farmhouse. supper will be ready, i suppose." "supper?" echoed ralph. "why, sure. you didn't suppose i meant that we'd go hungry when i invited you to come up here for a little relaxation, after our big strain this morning? benson promised to have something for us. they're only plain country folks, you know, so don't expect much style, fellows." "style!" exclaimed ralph, with a snort, "do i look like i could put on a heap, with these mussed-up trousers? all i ask is a chance to wash my hands and face. but it was mighty good of you thinking of the grub part, bones." "i don't see how. i always eat with benson when i come up here for a shoot. it was only a case of selfishness. say, this is something of a load--four apiece all around, and they're heavy chaps, too. this one is so fat he actually burst when he fell." "but i have no use of any game. perhaps you'd better give the farmer my share, for his kindness," suggested ralph. "that's nice of you, old fellow. and i'll take you up on it, too. benson has no time to shoot, and i don't believe he knows how; but all the same he does like a taste of game, to sort of change the bill of fare. follow me, now, for the house." bones led the way, and presently they arrived at the farmhouse, a low-roofed building, where light gleamed cheerily in the small windows. benson had a wife and several small children. the table was set, country fashion, right at one end of the big kitchen, and the odors that greeted the hungry and cold boys as they entered certainly promised an appetizing repast. ralph was soon made happy with a tin basin and a bucket of water. he managed to repair damages pretty well, and was only too willing to respond to the farmer's hearty invitation to take a chair and "set-to." perhaps it was their sharp-set appetites that made them think the food tasted unusually fine. no matter, there was a great abundance, and by the time they got up from the table every fellow declared he could not eat another mouthful if he were paid for it. "i'll have your rig at the door in short order," declared benson, as he went out with a lantern. with a ten-mile drive, and a horse far from fresh, bones had decided that they would do well to start without any delay. he had tried out his gun, and was satisfied; while on frank's part, he rejoiced in the fact that he would be away from town while all the glorification was going on. "hold on, mr. benson, that's enough. eight is all we want to take back with us. ralph here is boarding and has no use for his share. so he asks you to accept it," called out bones, as the farmer started to toss the game in the back part of the doctor's buggy. "that's kind o' him, and i'm sure much obliged. we don't get any too much game up here, close as we are to the marsh. i'm too busy, you see, and then besides, i never was a great hand to shoot. in summer i pull in quite some fish at odd times, and that's all the sport i take." it was about eight o'clock when they finally left the farmhouse. the good wife and the three children called out good-bye, as bones chucked to the horse, and they were off. "it won't be so awful dark on the road, for there's a half moon peeping out up yonder behind those clouds," said frank. "glad of that," returned bones, who was doing the driving, "because you see, the road is pretty rough till we get on the main one, and if it was pitch dark we might stand for getting tumbled into a ditch alongside. there are same nasty places i've got to look out for. i know them pretty well though; ought to, for i've been in two of 'em." "we'll help you look out then. i wouldn't hanker after a tumble into a muddy ditch just now," laughed frank. "think of me, fellows! why, my lower extremities are still damp from one trip. that was bad enough, but think of going in head first! ugh! excuse me, if you please!" groaned ralph. they made out to get along with little or no trouble. the horse kept the middle of the road as a rule, and three pair of keen eyes were quite enough to pilot the vehicle along toward the junction of the two thoroughfares. when the firmer road was reached bones declared he was glad. "now we needn't worry, boys. get-up, strawberry; it's home for you and another measure of oats. i had the farmer give him only a small quantity. keep a horse a bit hungry if you want him to hustle for home," he remarked. "sounds reasonable at any rate, bones. and strawberry is doing pretty good hustling right now, considering the heavy condition of our weight, in the way of game. my folks will think i'm something on the shoot, i guess," remarked frank, humorously. "you really got seven--" began ralph, when his friend interrupted. "never mind about that. one fellow is always lucky above the rest. never knew it to fail. to-day it might be me, to-morrow you. so it goes. forget it, both of you." ralph said nothing more. he knew the nature of his chum, and that frank had not a selfish bone in his body. if there was any sport going around he wanted every one to have their full share of it, nor could he rest happy unless this were so. they had passed over several miles of the main road, and all of them were somehow feeling a bit drowsy from their unusual exertions of the day, when, without warning, the horse snorted and came to a full stop. "what's this mean?" demanded bones, in astonishment. "there's something on the road ahead of us," declared ralph, bending forward in order to see the better, for the shadows fell across the tree-bordered pike. "i'm not sure," ventured frank, "but it seems like some sort of vehicle to me. perhaps there's been an accident. wait while i jump out and go to see!" chapter xv frank turns chauffeur "don't you want your gun?" asked bones, in a low voice, that showed some trace of excitement; for, truth to tell, bones was inclined to be suspicious by nature, and there had been stories told lately throughout that section, of raids by thieving tramps. possibly that may have been one reason why bones was so desirous of having company on this little excursion up to the farm to try his new gun. "what for?" asked frank, surprised, as he dropped out of the vehicle. "oh! there's no telling. this may be just a trap to stop any travelers and make them hand over. it's been done before. i'd hate to lose my double-barrel the first thing." he was groping under the seat for the aforesaid article at that very moment, as though he would feel safer with it in his hands. but frank laughed scornfully. "don't you believe it, bones. ten to one this is some vehicle that has left the road and gone into the ditch. i'm only afraid i may find the driver badly hurt in being thrown out, that's all." he left the buggy as he spoke, and walked hastily forward toward the dark object that seemed to be half on the road and partly among the trees. "why, it looks like an automobile," said frank to himself, as he came closer; and five seconds later he added positively, "that's just what it is. i wonder what's happened now?" he soon knew. upon reaching the scene he found that the car must have suddenly swerved from the road and struck a tree, head on. it could not have been going at a very rapid pace at the time, for although some damage had been done to the hood, and one of the lamps seemed to be smashed, the machine did not appear badly damaged. some one was grunting close by, and as frank drew near he saw a figure crawling out from the bushes. "what's happened here?" he asked, promptly. the figure of a man started up, and as frank struck a match he saw that the other seemed to be decently dressed, although his clothes were somewhat torn after his headlong flight in among the bushes. "we had an accident," muttered the man, staring hard at him; and frank thought with a look not unlike suspicion on his scratched face. "i see you had," returned frank, at the same time noting almost unconsciously from the way the machine headed they must have been coming away from columbia at the time; "but you speak as if there might be another party along with you. did he get tossed out too when you hit the tree?" "i don't know. i wasn't seeing anything just then but a million stars. he don't seem to be in the car, does he?" ventured the other, who was rubbing himself all over as if trying to ascertain whether any ribs, or other bones, had been broken in his rough experience. "then he must be in the bushes, the same as you, though it's a miracle how he went out, being behind the steering wheel; and also how he missed hitting this tree. fortunately it happens to be a small one. let's look and see." as he spoke frank lit another match and started to examine the bushes alongside the stranded car and beyond. by the time he had used three matches success rewarded his efforts, for they found the man. "he's dead!" exclaimed the stranger, in horrified tones. "oh! perhaps not. he may only have fainted from the shock," and lying down, the boy put his head down close to the chest of the motionless man. "his heart is beating and that proves he is alive. take hold here and we'll carry him to the car. perhaps he'll come to his senses when i dash a little water in his face. lift his heels and i'll look after his head," and frank took hold of the broad shoulders as he spoke. in this fashion they managed to move the unconscious man to the road. he was laid down alongside the car. meanwhile, the other two boys had come up, bones urging the frightened horse along with the whip. "what is it, frank?" asked ralph, jumping out. "been an accident; a car rammed a tree. both passengers thrown out, and one of them is injured; anyhow he seems to have been knocked senseless. i'm going to get a little water in my cap and try to bring him to," with which frank darted to the other side of the road, where his quick ear caught the trickling sound of a small stream gurgling among mossy stones. he was back in less than a minute, and immediately started splashing some of the water in the face of the unconscious man. "he's coming around," said the other man, watching these operations with eager eyes; and who several times looked at the three boys as though wondering what they could be doing there on that lonely road at such a late hour, for it was now past nine o'clock. frank turned aside to see whether he could not light the remaining lamp of the car, which did not appear to have been broken, and had possibly only gone out through the sudden concussion, as acetyline burners often will. he found that it was readily made to shed light again, and once his work here had been done it was only natural for the boy who delighted in machinery of all kinds to take a hasty look at the car. "i think it might run still. nothing vital seems to be broken, anyhow," he said aloud, as he came back to the little group. the second man was recovering, but groaning more or less. "he ought to be taken to your house, bones, to let your father examine him. i'm afraid he may be badly hurt," said frank; "if you can help him into the tonneau of the machine i'll try and see if it will work." "say, can you run it?" asked the second man, eagerly. "i know something about cars; enough to drive this one, if it isn't damaged in its working parts. i couldn't guarantee to patch it up, though. wait and let me see." he bent over the car, and presently gave the crank a couple of whirls to turn over the engine. sure enough, there was an immediate response, and the whirring that followed announced that, strange to say, the machine had not been vitally injured in the smashup, though badly damaged with regard to looks. frank backed out, and with a few deft manipulations that proved the truth of his assertion that he could run a car, managed to head the machine once more toward columbia. neither of the men seemed to notice just what he was doing. the one who had appeared to frank first was bending down over his friend, and they were holding a whispered conversation. "put him in; now ralph," said the new chauffeur, quietly, "you and bones come along after, and leave my gun and the ducks at my house. i'll be home long before you get there, i reckon, unless this old machine takes a notion to be tricky again and dump us." still groaning, the man was lifted into the tonneau. "how do you feel, sir?" asked frank, solicitously; although, truth to tell, he could not say that he liked the looks of either of the parties, judging from what little he had seen of them by the light of the lone lamp. "pretty bum, boy. the trouble is, my right arm hangs down like it might be broken; and without it i can't handle the wheel, you see. my friend here don't know nothing about a machine, the worse luck. so i don't see but what we've just got to let you do the drivin' for us. it's nice in you proposin' it, too. ugh! that hurts some, i tell you!" the man accompanied his words with more or less vehement expressions that did not raise him the slightest in the estimation of frank. however, he was evidently in great bodily pain, and that might in some measure excuse his strong language. the second traveler got in alongside his friend, as though he feared he might be needed sooner or later, if the other started to faint again. "i'm going to get you to a doctor as soon as possible," remarked frank, as he started off. he heard the calls of his chums and answered back. then the car lost the slow-moving buggy on the road. frank did not dare drive very fast. he was not familiar with the machine; and besides, possibly it was acting freakish--at least the man declared that it had jumped aside straight at that tree without his doing anything. on his part frank accepted this version with a grain of allowance; for he had long since scented liquor around, and could guess the real reason for the accident. as he guided the car frank could hear the two men talking behind him. the murmur of their voices just reached him, though he could not make out anything they said. once the man who had come out of the mishap in better trim than his companion seemed to be groping around under the seats as if searching for something. "it's here, all right, jim!" frank heard him say, in a satisfied tone. a minute later he was asking about the road, where it led, and what the intentions of the boy at the wheel were. frank repeated what he had said before, to the effect that he thought the wounded man ought to see a physician with as little delay as possible, and therefore he was heading back to columbia so as to take him to dr. shadduck. "who?" exclaimed the wounded man, as the name was mentioned. "doctor shadduck, the father of one of my chums, who was with me duck shooting," replied frank, thinking it strange why the man while apparently suffering so much should care who attended him, just so long as he could get relief speedily. again the two men conferred in low tones. frank could hear the wounded one muttering again. perhaps his arm had commenced to hurt once more; or, it may have been something else that started him off. and even while frank was wondering who these parties could be anyway, with their strange actions and apparent unwillingness to return to columbia, which place they must have recently left, a heavy hand was laid on his arm, and a voice said: "say, look here, we don't want to go to columbia, and what's more, we ain't meaning to let you take us there! just ahead is a road that runs off from this. they told us it runs over to fayette. perhaps you don't want to go that way, but forget all that and turn off, because you've just _got_ to take us! no words now, but shove us along lively!" chapter xvi an unwilling pilot frank allen felt a sudden thrill shoot through his entire body when the gruff command to change his course was growled into his ear. he had not been at all inclined to look upon these two travelers in a favorable light; but this was the first intimation he received that they might be even worse than they appeared. of course he made no immediate reply. in fact, he was still dazed by this puzzling turn in the strange little adventure. he had believed that in helping the luckless victims of the accident he was furthering his own interests, in that he would reach home long before his chums. now it began to look as though he had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. he tried to collect his thoughts and reason out the case. why should these men so seriously object to returning to the town of columbia? had they been guilty of doing something unlawful that made the place dangerous to them? once before frank had become mixed up with a clique of men for whom chief of police hogg had warrants. he remembered the circumstance clearly, and wondered whether history could be about to repeat itself again. and then, why should the mention of doctor shadduck's name affect them both in that strange fashion? did they know the foremost physician of columbia, a man of considerable property interests, and said to be the wealthiest man in the county? "the car!" frank came near exclaiming these words aloud, so abruptly did they form in his mind! now he remembered why the automobile had somehow seemed familiar to him, and why bones had shown such interest in it. "bones thought it was an exact duplicate of the new machine his father bought last week; but i believe it's the doctor's own car! these men have stolen it for some reason or other," frank was thinking, even while he stared ahead at the white road over which they were moving at a fair rate of speed. his pulses throbbed with the excitement, even more than when clifford threatened columbia's ten-yard line with an irresistible forward rush that morning. hearing the men talking behind him he strained his ears to try and catch a few words, in the hope that he might discover what it all meant. "it's all your fault, bart," grumbled the injured fellow. "i don't see how you make that out, jim?" replied the other, gloomily. "i wanted to turn and head for fayette, but you said the other road was best," the heavier fellow went on. "i think so yet, but who'd expect that we'd have such a wreck? i tell you, man, we're mighty lucky to come out of it as well as we did," said the other. "that's easy for you to say, but my arm feels tough. i reckon she's broke sure enough. that means delay and trouble, just when things looked so bright. it's a shame, that's what. sure we didn't lose it in the accident, are you, bart?" the lighter man seemed to again feel down at his feet. "i tell you it's there safe and sound. given four hours, and we'll be where they ain't going to find us. keep up your nerve, jim. luck's still with us, i know," he went on. "is it? well, i'm beginning to suspect there's been a turn in the tide. when the machine took the bit in her mouth and slammed us up against that tree, it looked to me like we had run into bad weather. but we must be near that road, bart!" "reckon it's just ahead now; i remember that big tree we passed comin' out," replied the uninjured one of the precious pair. "all right. don't let the kid get past. seems to me he's some slippery. i seen his face somewhere before," grunted the sufferer. "course you did. he was the feller that captained them boys this morning in the game we watched while waitin' for our chance," said the other. "he was, hey? well, you want to keep your eye on that boy, then, mark me. they told me some high-colored yarns about him at the inn." frank was not in the least elated over hearing himself praised. in truth, just then he was wrestling with the puzzling problem presented by his strange situation. what "chance" did the man called bart refer to? who were these mysterious men, and what did they have in the bottom of the tonneau that seemed so precious in the eyes of the fellow who was badly hurt? he could, for the time being, forget his severe injuries to make inquiries concerning this package, hence it must be of considerable value. were they thieves? if this was indeed the new machine belonging to bones' father, it looked suspicious, to say the least. what could he do? they wanted him to take them somewhere, and in a hurry, too; were they in full flight, desirous of getting to a certain place before the pursuit became too fierce? if frank shivered while considering these momentous things, it could hardly be wondered at. the situation was one to give concern to the bravest man, and, after all, he was but a boy, though possessed of more than the average courage for one of his years. "there's the road on the left, kid!" suddenly exclaimed bart. "i see it, sir," replied the young pilot of the damaged car, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, in the hope that the two men might not suspect that he had guessed their secret. "be sure and turn in; and be careful not to upset us," continued the other. "yes," said the wounded fellow, quickly, "one accident is more'n enough for me, to-night. hey, that's a good sweep around, youngster; i see as you know your business all right. now, are we headin' straight for fayette?" "yes, sir," replied frank, readily. "how far is that away from columbia?" "twelve miles, about, sir, as the road goes," answered the new chauffeur. "we strike the railroad at fayette, don't we?" continued bart, eagerly. "there is one there, but not the same that comes to columbia," and when he said that frank was certain that one of the men chuckled; it must have been bart, for the wounded fellow was in no mood for merriment, what with his groans and grunts that signified pain. "that's right. and we're glad to hear it. wouldn't give a cent for a chance to ride back to your slow old town. new york's good enough for us, hey, jim." "it sure is, if i ever live to get there. wish there happened to be a doctor on this here road somewhere," said the second traveler. "what for?" asked his comrade, quickly. "i'd get him to take a look at this arm, that's what." "huh! dangerous business, jim. don't you think of it 'less it's just positively necessary. delays might cost us dear. there's going to be a big hello when our old friend gets out of that sleep." frank realized that the men were apparently getting to that point where they cared little how much he knew. they evidently meant to make such use of him as seemed necessary. once he thought that it might be a good thing if he pretended to lose control of the car, just as jim had evidently done. then he changed his mind, and for two very good reasons. in the first place, there was always the risk of being hurt himself in the consequent collision with a tree. frank could not forget that his duty was to keep himself in good condition, so long as his school looked to him to lead his team to victory in the triangular series of football contests. then, again, he seemed to feel that it would be cowardly to desert the post into which a strange accident had thrust him. better stick it out until something cropped up whereby he could make at least a try to defeat the purposes of these two rogues. he had heard enough to want to know more. probably they would not seek to injure him so long as he made no positive move toward interfering with their game, whatever that might be. they were talking again. once more he strained for hearing in the hope of picking up further clues that would enlighten him with regard to their aims. "it's the safest way, bart. if they can't get word to fayette till mornin', we can give 'em the laugh. you've just _got_ to do it," said the wounded man, with a degree of force that marked him as the head of the expedition. "all right, if you say so, jim. i'd a done it up the other road, if you hadn't banged us into that tree. say when," replied the other, who was moving about as though doing something. frank managed to take a swift look over his shoulder. it only puzzled him the more, for jim seemed to be fastening something about the lower part of his legs. what could he want leggings for? and what could it be that jim insisted he should do? "i know of a doctor about two miles further on here," frank said, thinking that it might delay matters some if they concluded to stop over; at least give him a chance to either escape, or render the machine useless for further flight. "you do, eh? well, tell us when we get there, and p'raps i might make up my mind to hold over a bit. are you ready, bart?" said the heavier man. "yes. as well here as anywhere," came the reply. "bring her to a stop, kid; here, alongside this telegraph pole. that's good. now, bart, do it!" frank felt more than curious to know what the men had in mind. as soon as the car came to a stand the lighter man, who had not been hurt in the accident, jumped rather clumsily from the tonneau. frank noticed this with surprise, for up to now he had looked upon the other as rather agile. could he have been injured after all, and was just beginning to feel the effect of his headlong plunge into the bushes? judge of his utter amazement when he saw bart at once seize hold of the nearby telegraph pole and begin to climb up with a series of sturdy kicks that apparently glued each foot in succession to the pole. frank no longer wondered, for he knew that the man had been strapping a pair of lineman's climbing spurs to his legs when bending down in the tonneau of the stolen car! chapter xvii a desperate remedy "all right, bart?" called out the man in the car, as the other seemed to have reached the cross-bars far up the pole, over the lower of which he threw a leg, after the confident manner of one accustomed to such antics. "sure. it was dead easy," came floating down from above. "then get to work, and make a clean job of it. look here, boy, don't you be thinkin' of leavin' us in the lurch just now. i ain't fit to run this shebang, so we need you, and need you bad. i reckon you know what this is, don't you?" and the fellow showed something that glistened like steel in the mellow moonlight. frank could not help feeling a little chill; still, he, was not given to showing the white feather easily. "of course i do. it isn't the first time i've seen a revolver," he managed to say, with a nervous little laugh. "all right, then; don't get gay, and make me ugly, or something might happen. hey! bart, why don't you get busy?" raising his voice again. there was a sharp click, and a clear "tang," as of a strained wire snapping. frank understood now what was doing. these men had fear of pursuit, and were cutting the telegraph wires in order to prevent direct communication between columbia and fayette! a second and a third metallic "pink" announced that the man up among the cross bars was indeed using his cutters with effect. at that rate he would have the entire sheaf of wires severed in another minute or so. the matter began to assume gigantic proportions to the boy, as he sat there in the car and listened. certainly these men must have desperate need for delay in the pursuit, if they went to such extremes in order to accomplish it. and they seemed to have provided against such a contingency, too, which would indicate that they were now only carrying out a part of a well-laid plan. what could he do? half a dozen ideas thronged into his brain, but they seemed so utterly useless that he discarded them as fast as they arose. he must in some manner get away from their company before arriving in the neighborhood of fayette; because if they were as desperate as they appeared the chances were they might see fit to tie him up, and leave him under some farmer's haystack, where he would not be found for hours. "that light ahead is the doctor's place," he said, finally. the man called bart had apparently severed the last of the wires. he was even then coming down the pole hastily, as though eager to be on the move. "it is, eh?" remarked the other, with a plain sneer, as though he guessed the sudden hope that had leaped into being in the heart of the boy; "well, seein' as how we've been held up here so long i reckon i'll have to let that chance get by me. seems like i can move that arm a little. p'raps she aint broke after all." bart jumped rather clumsily into the car. "hit her up now, kid. we ought to make up some for the time we put in here. been a preachin' to him, ain't you, jim? it's just as well that he knowed how things lie, 'cause we can't afford to have any foolin'?" he observed. "i warned him that we wouldn't put up with any hoss play. if he tries to run us into the bushes he's goin' to get himself into a peck o' trouble. likewise, keep a still tongue in your mouth when we go past the doctor's house; understand!" jim thought it good policy to accompany these last words with a vigorous prod between frank's shoulder blades; and there could be no mistaking the nature of the hard object with which he did this punching. to tell the truth frank had really thought of doing some shouting just when they were in front of the little house where the country doctor lived. his plans had been in a sort of chaotic state at best, for he could not see just how anything of this sort might avail to divorce him from the unwelcome company of these two rascals. "i'm not saying a word," he remarked, with another little nervous laugh, as the speeding machine passed the home of the medical man, perched on a little knoll. while he bent forward and seemed to be scanning the road ahead, so as to avoid a collision in case they met another vehicle coming the other way, frank was again doing his best to conjure up some wild plan that might promise him the desired chance to escape from the company of these two desperate men. he now had not the least doubt but that they were thieves of some sort. what he had heard them say with reference to some person who would not be apt to wake up for several hours, made him think again of doctor shadduck. the gentleman was a rich man, and accustomed to dealing in many enterprises that necessitated the employment of considerable means. possibly these men had managed to hoodwink the capitalist in some fashion, and when their opportunity came had run away with something valuable belonging to him. they may even have used some of the good doctor's chloroform, or other drugs, to put him in a condition whereby he could not give the alarm or start a pursuit for some hours. it was really thrilling; but frank had no desire to see anything further of his unwelcome companions. he wished he had the nerve to turn the car from the road; but the chances of being injured himself discounted this desire. surely there ought to be some other way whereby he could say good-bye in a hurry. they would not search long for him if he once got away. since jim admitted that his arm was feeling better perhaps he would try and guide the machine into fayette. meanwhile frank could be trying in some fashion to warn the authorities. the sound of their voices just reached him as he sat there thinking. they were talking low now, as if desirous of not letting him hear, but frank possessed keen ears, and could catch certain words, especially in jim's heavier tones. "it's just got to be did sooner or later. he could ruin all our game if he wanted to. i've risked too much now to take chances. don't you go to showing any of your squeamishness, bart; i won't have it," he was growling. they must be referring to the boy who sat at the wheel and guided the moving car. bart evidently said something more, for presently the voice of jim once more came to the listening ears of the one so deeply interested. "he ain't goin' to be hurted, i tell you. but his mouth has got to be kept closed, unless you want the hull county on our heels. i seen that feller play, and i know what he's capable of doin'. so just shut up, bart, and do what i says, hear?" evidently the other finally agreed to abide by the decision of his leader; for they both relapsed into temporary silence. "i _must_ find some chance to jump!" frank said over and over to himself, after having heard what had passed between the two men back of him. to do it then and there invited a dislocated shoulder when he struck the hard ground. and then again there was that ugly, shiny thing which jim had taken such deliberate pains to show him; he did not fancy being used for a target. "how far along are we now?" asked jim, close to his ear. "about five miles out of fayette, i think?" replied frank, who had frequently come over this some course on his wheel, and knew the country well. "huh! that's encouraging. keep her going like she is, bub. you seem to know how to run a machine, all right. steady! there comes something ahead. give 'em the horn, boy, and steer to the right, d'ye hear! not a peep as we pass, remember!" again came that wicked punch in the small of frank's back. "i'll remember," he said, hastily, as he turned as far out as the nature of the road permitted, and at the same time caused the horn to give a few croaks. it was another auto approaching, as the several lights announced. frank's heart seemed to be in his throat as the two machines rapidly approached each other. what would he not have given for a chance to shout out, and tell the parties who were in the other car that he was held under duress, and compelled to play the part of chauffeur to these fugitive rascals; but he dared not, with that desperate wounded man right at his back. judge to his astonishment when he saw that the other car held a number of columbia people, among the rest minnie cuthbert and her father. he only had a quick glimpse of them as the two machines passed; but it was enough to show him a look of sheer astonishment on the face of the girl, which told that she must have recognized him. "hello! frank!" came a voice booming after them, as the other car slowed down suddenly; and he believed that it must be mr. cuthbert who called, possibly influenced by minnie. "silence! not a word, do you hear?" exclaimed jim, emphasizing his words with a further display of significant pushes with that hard object. "and keep her going, kid, keep her going right along," added the other man, grimly. "are they turning around, bart?" demanded the stout party, savagely. "naw. nothing doing this time. there they start up again, and headin' the other way. it's all right, pard, all right sure." "lucky for them it is," grunted jim; though he sighed in relief because the peril had passed; "them fellers seemed to know you, son?" "yes, they are columbia people," replied frank, shortly, for he had experienced a bitter disappointment when he realized that this sudden little chance had slipped away without helping his forlorn cause a mite. three more miles or so had been passed over when suddenly there flashed into his mind a brilliant idea that promised results. just ahead was a bridge over juniper creek, quite a good sized stream that flowed into harrapin river above clifford. passing down the incline that led to the bridge, frank managed to make the car act wobbly, as though there might be something the matter. and as it ran on to the boards of the bridge itself, he brought it to a sudden stand. "what's wrong here?" demanded jim, angrily. the engine had stopped working. "i'll get out and see," observed frank, suiting the action to the word, and opening up the hood of the car. "don't you try to run away, son, if you know what's good for you," said the man, after frank had used a wrench on the engine. "try cranking her again, and see if she refuses to work. there--hold on, you fool--why, he's crazy, bart!" for frank had suddenly whirled around, and taken a plunge over the side of the wooden bridge into the cold waters of juniper creek! [illustration: frank had suddenly plunged over the side of the bridge.] chapter xviii matching wits "after him, bart! we mustn't let him get away!" exclaimed the stout man, as he hurriedly climbed out of the tonneau of the automobile. "not me! i ain't hankering after a cold bath just now," answered his companion, who had jumped out on the other side, and was running around. "run down to the bank and get hold of him, if you can!" continued jim, harshly. this seemed at least reasonable, and bart had no objections to trying to do something along such lines. "don't see anything of him here!" he announced a minute later, as he appeared below, and ran along the bank of the stream. the moon had gone behind a cloud, as though wishing to favor the escape of the unwilling chauffeur. "hang the luck! well, come up here then, and we'll put off. p'raps i might manage with my other arm. we can't hang around here, with time flying. the town's close by. hurry up, bart!" but when bart reached his side, he found the other breathing out threatenings in a fashion that denoted a new difficulty. "what's wrong now?" asked the slim man, who was panting from his exertions. "that clever little scamp has dished us, that's what; carried away the spark plugs of the machine with him, and without them we might as well try to move this bridge. i was a fool to trust him one second. we've just got to find him, bart, that's all there is to it! either that, or walk into fayette, and perhaps lose that train. come on back again. you take one side, and i'll look over the other. he's there, sure, unless he got drowned, and that i don't imagine is the case." bart was fully awake to the great necessity of finding the boy, after hearing what frank had done as he jumped from the car. each of them hurried around the approach of the bridge, and slipped down the bank. "any sign of him over there, jim," called bart, as he pushed his way into the bushes and reeds that bordered the creek. "don't see none yet, but keep on further down. like as not as he just drifted with the current a bit, and then crawled out. get him, if you find his tracks, i feel like i could do something to him for playin' this trick on us. hello!" "what's doing, boss?" called the other. "here's where he crawled out, all right," replied jim, excitedly. "how d'ye know it is?" demanded the other, across the water of the creek. "it's all wet. i'll follow it up, and nab him in a dozen winks. he can't have got far away, i reckon." "what d'ye want me to do, jim?" called his companion, after a wait. "go back to the bridge, and cross over here." "all right. keep right after him. the moon's going to come out again right soon. if you see him, give him a shot to make him stop!" and shouting in this vein, bart turned to retrace his steps back to the bridge. he was somewhat out of wind by the time he had half mounted the abrupt bank that served as the base for one end of the bridge. all at once he heard a sound that electrified him. it was the cranking of the car! "hi, jim! here he is! come back! he's going to leave us in a hole! head him off up the road there! hurry, jim, hurry!" the climbing man could hardly finish shouting, so short was he of breath; but perhaps it may have been the absolute necessity for prompt action that forced him to continue the balance of the sheer ascent. the answering cries of his companion welled up from somewhere down along the side of the stream, and the crash of his plunging footsteps could be heard as an evidence that he understood the danger menacing them. as bart pulled himself up alongside the approach to the bridge he saw a boyish figure spring into the fore part of the damaged car. then came a series of quick pulsations that announced the fact of the machine working, as if nothing had ever been the matter. "he's going off with it, jim! stop him! he's carrying our stuff with him! head him off! puncture a tire for him! give him a shot, jim!" howled to the thoroughly demoralized bart, starting to stagger after the retreating automobile himself, with his hands extended, as though he would fain seize hold upon it. "good-bye, fellows; your cake is dough!" shouted the one who sprawled in the front seat of the car and guided its destinies. frank had purposely thrown on considerable power in making his start, for he knew what if ever there was need of haste it was right then and there. jim was running ahead there, with the intention of cutting him off, and little though he had seen of the gentleman, he felt that he had no desire to prolong the acquaintance further. now the friendly moon could no longer hold back behind that floating black cloud, and with her first appearance frank turned an anxious face toward the spot where a violent agitation in the brush announced the presence of the running jim. "hold up there, boy! put on the brake, or i'll----" but the rest was unheard, for frank had dropped as low as he could in the front of the car, though still keeping his hands on that guiding wheel. he heard the sharp discharge of a weapon, thrice repeated. his heart seemed to come up almost in his throat, for this thing of being under fire was a new experience for the young athlete. perhaps the man had tried to simply puncture the tire, although this would in the end delay their departure. frank never knew the truth in connection with the firing. then, in another second or two, he realized that he had passed beyond the zone of danger, with a clear road ahead of him! "hurrah!" he could not help giving vent to his delight in this one shout. just half a mile further on another road branched off from the one he was flying over. he remembered that by a circuitous way it would eventually take him to columbia, passing through first the village of stagers, and then a larger place known as plattville. his pulses were bounding with triumph as he let the car out notch by notch. why, after all, the smash could have done no serious damage to the machine. what was fifteen miles when in such a splendid traveler as this new auto of the good doctor's? he made the turn, and presently dashed into the first village. here he stopped at a tavern long enough to make an examination, to ascertain whether his supply of gasoline might be sufficient to carry him home. he also wished to impress the fact of his having been there upon the hotel keeper. in case anyone tried to cast any doubts upon his story, it might be well to have evidence that he had visited stagers that night. and during his brief stop frank took occasion to look at the object lying in the bottom of the tonneau, and which had seemed to be especially valuable in the eyes of the two unprincipled men. it was a common variety of grip, made of some good leather. he did not bother opening the same, thinking that possibly doctor shadduck might be better qualified than himself for that task, but he placed it at his feet in front. once again frank was on the move. he really hoped that nothing would interfere with his reaching columbia safely, now that fortune had been so kind. the road was not the best possible for a machine, and often he had to slow up rather than take unnecessary chances for an accident. whenever he thought of the pair of rascals left behind, he laughed. he felt that he could afford to loosen up a little after such a strenuous time. but in his wet condition he found rapid traveling rather unpleasant. true, he had borrowed a heavy coat from the hotel man, to whom he had explained the case in a few sentences; but in spite of this protection, he soon began to shiver. this compelled him to reduce speed still more. when he reached plattville the road would be better, and besides, he might find a chance to get a drink of warm coffee or tea, if the eating-house were open at such an hour. cheered by this thought, he set his teeth together, resolved to stick it out to the end. but frank was not apt to forget that ride in a hurry. it was now a quarter to ten. he found this out by striking a match and looking at his watch, the moon having retired once more behind the clouds. but frank was under the impression that he must be close to the town now. "i believe i remember that windmill on the left, and the big water tank on the hill. yes, plattville must lie down there in the valley. now to slip along the down grade. just seven miles from home; but i wish i was there now," he was saying, as he passed over the crest of the elevation. yes, there were many lights in sight, and how they cheered him, after his lonely ride along the wretched road from stagers. he felt like shouting again, so buoyant had his feelings become. what would bones say when he learned the truth; and doubtless doctor shadduck would be pleased at getting his new car back, damaged as it was. so frank, running downhill, crossed a bridge, and came into the town of plattville. on ordinary nights, doubtless, the place would be quiet enough at this hour; but saturday was different. quite a number of persons were on the main street, and cast curious glances at the lone traveler who had entered the town. straight to the leading hotel frank went. he had been here before, and even taken a dinner once upon a time, when his club came over to play the plattville boys. a small-sized crowd stood around the door of the bar room. frank could see that there seemed to be some signs of excitement, though he did not suspect that it could have anything to do with him. hardly had he brought the car to a stop when some of the men crowded around, and one of them shouted out: "hi! sheriff, here's the identical car you was readin' to us about in that ere dispatch from columbia. and here's one of the thieves come right in to give hisself up! surround the machine, boys; don't let the feller escape; and look out, for they do say he's a desprit case! come out here, sheriff tucker!" chapter xix at the end of the circuit a tall man came running out of the hotel. "what's that you say, boys?" he was demanding, as he advanced eagerly. "here's luck for you--the very car you said was stolen over in columbia! see if it ain't, sheriff!" cried the fellow who had done all the shouting. "it's the same make car, as sure as you live. i wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be doc. shadduck's new one," observed the official, glancing at a yellow paper he gripped in his hand, and which, as he held it close to the one burning headlight of the car, proved to be a telegraph dispatch. "that's right, sheriff; it is doctor shadduck's car," said frank cheerfully, as he proceeded to alight. "hey! he's goin' to try and run for it, sheriff; nab him!" exclaimed the voice. "you admit that this is the car stolen from columbia this very night do you?" demanded the stern-faced man laying a hand on frank's shoulder. "of course i do, sheriff; but i'm shivering all over. i've been in jumper creek not long ago. come in with me while i get a cup of hot coffee, and i'll tell you the story. you ought to know me, sheriff; i'm frank allen. i've seen you in my father's store more than once." "what's that. well, i declare now if it ain't so! this is getting mighty interestin', sure. here, dobbs, you watch this car until i come out. now, my boy, come along with me," said the sheriff. "all right, sir; just wait a couple of seconds. there's something here in the car that jim and bart seemed to think a heap of, and so i wouldn't like to lose sight of it just now." saying which frank bent down and took hold of the little leather bag. he had been surprised before to find it quite heavy, a fact that had convinced him it must hold something which had been stolen from the doctor over in columbia. fortunately there was hot coffee to be obtained. while it was coming frank entertained the kindly sheriff with a rapid account of what had happened, commencing with the duck hunt, and the finding of the stranded car on the road home. "well, i never!" the other kept saying, as he sat there with his eyes glued on the face of the young speaker, and drinking in his words. when frank told of how he jumped over the railing of the bridge that spanned juniper creek, the sheriff brought his hand down upon his knee with a resounding slap. "beats anything i ever heard, i swan if it don't! and they tell me that you captained them boys as played the clifford football team to a stand this mornin'. i don't wonder at it; they ain't much as could stand up before such pluck! and so you went souse into the creek? ugh! it must a been a cold bath, frank. go on," he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "oh! that's about all. i crawled out below, and when they came down to hunt for me, because i'd fixed it so the machine couldn't be run, i just crawled up the bank, jumped aboard, and was off. jim banged away after me a few times, but he was hurt so he had to use his left hand, and i knew he couldn't hit a barn. that's all. here comes my coffee; i only hope i don't take cold." the elated sheriff watched the youth gulp down the hot drink, admiration in his eyes. "i'll see to it that you have a big fur coat the rest of the way. and i'm goin' along with you, boy, to be in at the finish. this is too good to lose. ain't had so much excitement in six months. jim and bart is loose on the community. i'll just have word sent around so they kin be pulled in if they try to get aboard any train." ten minutes later and frank again jumped into the captured car. he was now warmly clad in a heavy automobile coat that would defy the bracing air as they headed for columbia, just seven miles distant. "we'll make it in a quarter of an hour, easy," he remarked, as the sheriff took a seat beside him. "i reckon we oughter, frank. i'd sure like to be in your shoes for this. they'll think more of you in columbia than ever, i reckon," remarked the officer, as they made a flying start, amid a few cheers from the gathered crowd. "did you telegraph along the line about those men?" asked frank, desirous of seeing justice meted out to jim and his companion. "i did, and told the operator at fayette to pass the good word along everywhere. there's some reward out for the apprehension of them fellows, and its enough to make every chief of police keep busy in hopes of corralin' the same. now tell me what them men looked like. that job of cuttin' the wires was a cute one. i reckon that bart he's been servin' his time as a telegraph wireman, and knows all the dodges." frank could not decline, although he would have much preferred keeping silent as he drove the big car onward. the sheriff had been so kind to him that he felt as though he could not refuse to aid him in any way possible. so he described both men as nearly as he could, considering what few glimpses he had had of their faces. the seven miles proved a short ride. having more confidence in the machine now that the road was fine, and that hard object no longer prodded him in the back, frank let out quite some speed in places. "i wonder if bones and ralph have gotten home yet?" he was thinking, as the outskirts of columbia came in sight. turning several corners, he arrived in front of doctor shadduck's place. the house he saw was all lighted up. and standing in front was the vehicle he and his two chums had used in their little expedition after the ducks of the marsh. "that tells the story. bones has arrived ahead of me, after all. wonder if its struck him that he saw his father's new car, and me in it driving those two precious rascals off so cheerfully?" frank chuckled at the thought. just then there came a big shout, as a figure rushed down the steps of the house. "here's the car, dad! and sheriff tucker's got one of the thieves in custody, too! he's carrying your bag. hey, ralph, come out and see the fun!" of course it was bones, and since frank was bundled up in that great wolfskin automobile coat, with a hat pulled down over his eyes in place of the cap he had lost in juniper creek, it was not strange that the other failed to recognize his comrade. "halt! hands up, bones!" cried frank, throwing the little leather bag forward menacingly. "what! great smoke! if it ain't frank--and he's brought the car and the bag back home! ralph said he would, just as soon as he heard about it; but i was a doubter. i thought they'd just eat you alive, frank, old boy. where'd you get the coat, and how'd the sheriff happen on you? did he do the rescue act?" demanded bones, throwing his arms around the other, enthusiastically. "did he? not if he knew it, young man," replied the officer himself, with a shake of the head; "but let's get inside, and the whole story can be told while frank warms up again. your dad must see to it that the boy don't take cold, for he's been in juniper creek to-night!" "wow! now you have excited my curiosity some, mr. sheriff. hurry in, frank, and let's hear what happened after you left us. we just got home five minutes ago, and found the whole place upset. those slick scoundrels worked a confidence game on my governor--left him in a stupor in his private office, after supper, with the door locked, and skipped out with his new car and some valuables, including negotiable stocks worth a good many thousands, and all his expensive new surgical tools that he kept in that glass case, you remember, in his consulting room." and bones rattled this off at a tremendous rate. "oh! i see," exclaimed the sheriff just then; "so that's who jim and bart are. a couple of smart ones have been going around visiting doctors upstate this two months past, and stealing their instruments, to sell again in new york. i reckon we'll try to make this their last job, all right." "but your father--surely he couldn't have been lying there all this time?" observed frank, wondering how the news could have been wired or phoned over to plattville if this were so. "oh! no; mr. willoughby happened to drop over to ask dad something, and when they couldn't get any answer, he broke in the door of father's den. they found him just beginning to come out of his sleep, for, what do you think, those rascals had chloroformed him, as sure as you live," replied bones. "i understand now. of course a general alarm was sent out for the thieves. but they couldn't have reached fayette if they tried," laughed frank. "and why not?" asked bones, quickly. "wires down. bart, the fellow who wasn't hurt, shinned up a pole, by the aid of a pair of lineman's spurs he carried with him, and cut every blessed wire soon after they made me turn into that road leading to fayette," replied frank. doctor shadduck they found pretty much himself. he greeted frank warmly, as did also coach willoughby. "he's all wet, dad; he's been in juniper creek, the sheriff says. there's a story back of it, and i'm just dying to hear it," cried bones, shoving the other forward. "first of all, please see if everything is safe here," said frank, as he thrust the bag into the hands of the doctor. "everything they got, so far as i can see, is here. it's wonderful how you happened to get hold of them, and the car too," said the doctor, shaking the boy's hand again warmly. "there's where you're mistaken, dad; it didn't happen at all, and i'd wager on it that frank played a right hot game with those two rascals, and beat them out in a square deal," declared bones, sturdily. "bully for you, bones," remarked the sheriff; "you just bet he did. wait till you hear the whole story. it's the greatest ever." of course frank related all that had happened to him; but first of all the wise physician insisted upon giving him something that would prevent any ill effects following his cold plunge and subsequent wild ride. meanwhile frank's father and mother were called over, and the story had to be told again for their benefit; though frank tried to beg off, and declared that after all it had been just good luck that carried him through. chapter xx frank's luck perhaps it was just as well that a day of rest followed that strenuous saturday. frank found himself somewhat stiff and sore when he awoke, and acting under the advice of his father he remained in seclusion the better part of the day. but the story had gone around, and the doorbell of the allen home was kept busy throughout the whole afternoon. half a dozen of frank's most intimate chums dropped in to hear the story, and frank finally declared he would have to get it set up in type and copies struck off if the demand kept on. there were grown people who came also. among others was mr. cuthbert. frank found his hand trembling a little nervously when he saw him, thinking that possibly minnie had sent a message; but it seemed that if he had come over at her earnest solicitation the gentleman had been instructed not to mention that fact. "we believed it was frank in that car," he said, as he shook hands warmly with the boy; "and i even called out, for some of us thought he looked toward us rather appealingly; but as no answer came we concluded it must have been a mistake. to think we were so close to those wretches, and didn't suspect anything wrong. have you heard the latest, mr. allen, and you frank?" "are they caught?" asked frank, instantly, jumping at the truth from the expression he saw on the gentleman's face. "so it is said; and i was told that sheriff tucker was the one who cornered the pair of rogues after all," replied mr. cuthbert. "hurrah!" cried ralph and paul and the others in a chorus. "well, i'm glad that it fell to my friend, the sheriff of the next county. he was mighty good to me and deserves all the reward there is coming," was the remark of the one who was supposed to be the most interested. he was secretly bitterly disappointed because minnie had not come over, or asked her father to carry a message. evidently, whatever it may have been that had come between minnie and her former friends, the allens, it was proving an insurmountable barrier. and on monday when frank went to school, as usual, he had to submit to being asked a thousand questions. often he utterly refused to answer anything further, he became so weary of hearing about the matter. minnie appeared as distant as ever. but one thing frank happened to see that gave him more or less satisfaction; and this was the utter humiliation of lef seller. lef had been standing around, listening to what was being said; and the air of utter unbelief upon his sneering face told that had he dared he would only too gladly have called the whole story a freak of the imagination; and that in reality the credit belonged to sheriff tucker, who had only allowed frank to assume the laurels because he wanted to get credit at the allen department store, where he was known to trade. just then minnie happened to pass in company with her new chum, dottie warren; and thinking to add a drop of bitterness to frank's cup of joy, lef immediately posted after the two. there were some words between them, during which it seemed as though minnie might be accusing lef of saying something to which she seriously objected. at any rate she walked on with her head held high in the air, while lef shrugged his shoulders, and not daring to look toward the grinning group of boys, sauntered off. still, that new quarrel between the others did not heal the breach that separated old friends. frank tried to forget, and laughed as merrily as though there was not a cloud on the horizon. professor parke even called frank into his study and requested him to relate the strange thing that had happened. the head of columbia high school had a very tender spot in his heart for frank allen, not alone because he was a bright pupil, but on account of the clean character he bore among his fellows. coach willoughby was staying over to see the last game of the season. he declared that while he was losing money every day he remained away from his law business, he could not find it in his heart to desert the boys until they had safely landed that beautiful silver cup in a deciding victory over bellport. truth to tell, the old princeton graduate was a thorough sport, and once he had yielded to the call of the game he could not break away. "don't you come out to practice for several days, frank," he advised, "on wednesday perhaps, when we start to go over the entire thing again and try new signals, it will be time. there are a few weak spots in the team that need help, and i'm going to devote two afternoons to them exclusively. wander around, and limber up with walks or a bicycle ride. but please don't employ your spare time rounding up any more rascals, will you?" "i'll try not to," laughed frank; "but what's a fellow to do if they will persist in throwing themselves at your head?" "that's a fact, they did kidnap you, to be sure. well, next time try and see to it that the other fellow goes into juniper brook and not you. that's a dangerous trick at this cold season of the year; and especially taking a long ride afterward in an open car. i wonder you didn't come down with pneumonia, frank," said the coach, as he threw one arm affectionately across the other's shoulders. "oh! everybody was so kind. i had the loan of a coat first, and an old hat; then sheriff tucker got me a big shaggy automobile fur coat, which with the hot coffee helped ward off a cold. finally doctor shadduck dosed me good and hard. nothing doing in that line for me this time," laughed the boy. it was on tuesday afternoon that the time began to drag most heavily on his hands. paul and ralph, together with bones, had gone to the recreation grounds to talk over matters with the coach, and try out some new plays. frank really knew of no one whom he cared to look up just then. a reaction seemed to have set in after his recent excitement, and things were most woefully dull. the weather still held dry and fair to a degree that was considered extraordinary for november, usually so dismal with the approach of winter. "i wonder if it wouldn't be worth while to take a spin on the wheel," he mused as he considered the matter; "the chances are the weather will change any day now, and then good-bye to wheeling for the season. besides, i really believe i'd like to turn down that road to fayette, and take another look at that old bridge. there are a few things i don't quite understand about that affair." the thought aroused him. again he felt the blood circulating through his veins with the old-time vigor; the stagnation had departed, and it was with considerable elation that he hurried to get his bicycle. the fact that the bridge was a matter of ten miles or more away did not give him cause for worry. he could easily make it in an hour or less, and be back long before suppertime. as he passed the school building he waved his hand to old soggy, the janitor and custodian, who was busily engaged with his daily duties. "off after another lot, are ye?" laughed the good-natured old fellow; "well, this time bring 'em in yourself, and don't be botherin' no poor sheriff to help out. you ought to be ashamed, my boy!" frank knew that old soggy would have his joke, and he only laughed in response. that was the one thing objectionable in doing anything out of the ordinary run; every person thought they had a right, either to make a hero out of him, or else sneer at the story as something like the accepted fish yarn. his wheel was in good shape, as always; the road seemed much better for a bicycle than it had been for a car, and with the bracing atmosphere made a combination difficult to surpass. before the hour was up he had dropped off at the bridge, and stood there leaning on the rail looking down. "h'm! after all, it was a good thing i knew so much about this same place. if i'd jumped ten feet further along i'd have come slap down on that ugly looking bunch of rocks that stick their noses up above the water. juniper is low, like all the other streams around here, after this dry fall. but i knew there was a deep pool right under and below the bridge." so he mused as in imagination his eye followed his course after reaching the water. he could see just where he had crawled out, as jim discovered later, when the fugitive was already half-way back to the road again. "he had to run uphill, and that's one reason why he couldn't head me off, as bart wanted him to do. then that lame arm prevented him from shooting decently. on the whole, i guess i was mighty lucky," he concluded. after lingering around for a short time he once more mounted his wheel and headed back toward columbia. there were short-cuts that he knew from former usage, by means of which several miles might be saved. something seemed to beckon him along this course, though he hardly understood why he should want to shorten his run when he was out for the exercise and air. it was while he was traversing a farmer's lane that would bring him out on the other road, and save two miles around, that frank for the first time noticed some one moving across a field, and heading almost directly toward him. he noted the fact with some surprise, because he happened to know that the farmer was the possessor of a very vicious bull, which he often allowed the freedom of that very pasture, in the summer and fall, for exercise, so that the boys of columbia always went around when making for the old "swimming hole." he had noticed the animal only a couple of minutes before, trotting around back of the haystacks that ran along one end of the field. if he ever caught sight of that feminine figure crossing his preserves there would surely something be bound to happen. frank, impelled by some sense of coming trouble, came to a stop and caught hold of the high rail fence to hold himself on his wheel while he looked. somehow there seemed something wonderfully familiar about the figure of the tripping maid; and his heart seemed to almost stand still as she raised her head to look around, and he discovered that it was minnie cuthbert, evidently on the way to visit an uncle, who lived a short distance beyond farmer blodgett. just as he made this interesting discovery he heard a dull roar that struck a note of dismay at the door of his heart. the savage bull, whom every one feared, had discovered the fair trespasser on his preserves, and was coming on the run! chapter xxi the lifting of the cloud "this way, minnie! run as fast as you can!" the girl had looked back and discovered the advancing bull, which sight caused her to shriek and became panic-stricken. fortunately the animal pursued peculiar tactics while bearing down upon his expected victim. running forward for a short distance, he would stop to bellow furiously and toss up the turf with his short horns, upon which gilt balls had been fastened by the farmer owner. frank had jumped the fence like a flash, and was already rushing toward minnie. she caught sight of him, and naturally changed her course so as to head in his direction. perhaps just then she hardly knew who it was coming to her assistance; but turned to any port in a storm. when they met it was at a distance of possibly thirty yards from the fence. frank immediately clutched her arm and began to hurry her toward the haven of safety as rapidly as he could. "oh! frank, he is coming faster!" gasped the girl, who had been constrained to look back over her shoulder toward the threatening danger. "never mind! run! run!" cried frank, trying to instill new courage in her heart. at the same time he knew full well that they would never be able to reach the fence and climb over before the enraged animal came up. something else must be done. how could he attract the attention of the bull to himself while minnie clambered over? the question was not difficult to solve. she was, by the strangest accident in the world, wearing a red sweater that buttoned down the front. in other days they were known as cardigan jackets, and frank could easily remember how charming minnie had looked many a time the previous winter in this same garment. it was this that was adding fuel to the rage of the angry bull, always attracted by a flaming color. frank without regard to the feelings of the astonished girl caught hold of this outer apparel, and with one effort ripped the buttons loose. it was no time for courtesy, nor could he waste a precious second in explaining just why he did this strange thing. another effort and the sweater was in his hands. minnie seemed to realize by now what he had in his mind, for a weak little smile appeared on her white face as she looked up at him. "run straight to the fence and climb over! i'll follow you, but never mind me! quick, minnie, do as i say!" he exclaimed. there was unconscious authority in his voice, just as when he called to his players on the diamond or on the gridiron. minnie ran on, obeying his instructions thus far. she undoubtedly expected that frank meant to cast the offensive red sweater on the ground, so as to attract the attention of the beast for a dozen seconds, time enough to allow of his finding safety beyond the barrier. as she neared the high rail fence she turned her head again to look. to her horror she saw frank standing there, waving the scarlet jacket wildly to and fro. he was challenging the oncoming bull to make a run at him, actually endeavoring to attract the animal's attention, so as to give minnie ample time to escape. even as she stood there with quaking knees, staring, she saw frank suddenly and nimbly jump aside, and avoid the first mad rush of the bull. "oh! frank; run! run! he will kill you!" she shrieked, wringing her hands hysterically; all the past forgotten in that one minute of terror. "get over the fence! get over the fence! the longer you delay the worse for me! climb over, minnie!" came back the answering shout, as frank poised himself to repeat his former tactics. crying, she obeyed, though it seemed as though her half-blinded eyes could hardly show her how to catch hold of the various bars; but presently she had succeeded in gaining the outside of the enclosure, and through the spaces between the rails she looked again, her heart almost standing still with dread. frank was still on his feet, though he had been put to his best efforts in order to escape those threatening horns. "now run, frank! i'm over the fence!" she cried at the top of her voice. "all right! i'm coming!" he replied, as best he could, for his antagonist just then made another vicious lunge, and it was only by a shave that the athletic boy managed to escape those golden balls that surmounted his massive head. now that he had accomplished the main object of his labor frank could devote his energies toward his own escape. when the bull passed him he turned and bolted in the direction of the friendly fence. the distance was too great to think of making it in one run. as he flew along he expected to hear the pounding of the bull's hoofs on the hard turf behind him, nor was he mistaken. "he's coming, frank! oh! be careful!" minnie was calling this in trembling tones, and yet frank paid little or no attention to her warning, for he had to depend upon his own instincts just then. at the proper instant he whirled around. already he had stamped the situation in his mind, and knew to a fraction just how far away the fence lay. again he managed to escape the rush of the beast. had he been an experienced spanish bull-fighter he could hardly have done better. and again he changed his position. all he wanted was one more chance, and he knew he could win out. this time the animal, growing more and more enraged, came within a foot of striking the boy, who was beginning to get winded with his efforts. "now!" cried minnie, who seemed to recognize the opening when it appeared. already was frank in full motion, sprinting for the near-by fence with all his might and main. he reached it even as the bull was bearing down after him. one tremendous effort and he had mounted the rails to fall in a heap on the other side--safe! the bull came to a sudden halt within the enclosure, and vented his fury in more bellowing and tearing up of the turf. minnie was at the side of her champion in a moment. "oh! frank, are you hurt?" she exclaimed, as she caught hold of him in her anxiety; and almost breathless as he was, the boy could not help feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the prospect of the breach between them being healed in this wonderful manner. "not a bit, minnie, only short of breath. here's your sweater, safe and sound. excuse me for taking it in that rude way, but you see there wasn't much time for explanations," he managed to say, as he started to put it on her again, an operation to which she submitted with pleasure. "and now," said frank, as arm in arm they started to walk away from the scene of the adventure, he rolling his wheel as he went, "what was all this trouble about, minnie? what terrible thing have i done to make you treat both helen and myself so? neither of us have the least idea, and she's very unhappy over it. please let me know." minnie looked troubled, and yet a gleam of hope began to appear in her gray eyes. "oh! if you only could explain it away, i'd be so glad, frank; so glad," she said. "is it anything that lef seller has been saying about me?" he asked, shortly. "no, no. this is a matter that concerns only you and i. it was about a letter you wrote, a note rather, that was intended for helen, and which--oh! i don't know what to make of it, i've tried so hard not to believe you meant it; but every time i look at that note it stands out so plain, and gives me a shock." she clung to his arm, and let her head sink as she spoke. frank knew that she was crying softly, too, and he was the most mystified boy that could be found. "a note that i wrote to helen, and about you! why, minnie, surely you must be mistaken. i don't ever remember doing anything of the kind!" he declared. "but i've got it still, frank, right here in my little bag. ten times i tried to destroy it, and just couldn't," she exclaimed, looking up at him. "let me see it, please," he said, his eyes filled with wonder. with trembling hands she opened the little bag, to which she had unconsciously clung through all her recent peril. from this she took a folded piece of paper, that had apparently been frequently handled, to judge from the creases. when frank examined what was written upon it his face first took on a look of astonishment, and then amusement. "i see," he said, slowly, "this is evidently about half of a page, and torn in a diagonal way. notice minnie that it is only a _portion_ of a note. there is another half, which will give it an entirely different version! i admit that i wrote this note to helen in school one day. then i changed my mind, and tore it in half, intending to destroy it. where did you happen to find this piece, minnie?" "on the floor in the hall. soggy was sweeping out when i went back for something i had forgotten. just by accident i saw your writing, and unconsciously stooped to pick it up. oh! frank, what a cruel shock it gave me," she said. "well, as near as i can remember, i tried to thrust both pieces into my desk. this one must have fallen to the floor either then or later, and was swept out. perhaps the other half may still be there, minnie! will you go with me around to the school now? the sooner this strange thing is cleared up the better." "if you say so, i'll be glad to go, frank. but it's enough for me to hear you say that it was not intended to warn helen against me," she replied, smiling up through her tears. "wait and see the proof first," laughed frank. they reached the high school building in due time. soggy, the janitor, was just about locking up, and upon hearing their request readily allowed them to enter. going straight to his desk, frank fumbled around inside eagerly, and then with an exclamation of triumph drew out something. "there, look!" he exclaimed, as he fitted the ragged edges of the two pieces of paper together on the top of the desk. "you see they match perfectly. now read out loud what i was writing to my sister that day, and changed my mind, intending to talk with her when we got home." and minnie read this: helen don't believe all you hear. in the first place it's nonsense to think that you could expect the truth from one so shallow as min erva stone. i never liked her. she may seem all right as a friend, but i'd advise you to have little to do with her. she says one thing to your face and another to your back. i'm afraid she's deceptive, and that's about the meanest trait any girl can have. bett er let your new friendship gradually cool, and drop her altogeth er. honestly, to tell the truth, i think minnie cuthbert ought to be en ough chum for you. frank. when she finished this she looked up at him with tear-steeped eyes. "we're friends again once more, minnie, are we not." he asked, smiling. "yes, good friends; true friends, i hope frank!" she replied as they clasped hands, and a pair of happy gray eyes looked up shyly into the darker orbs of the boy. chapter xxii how bellport bucked the line as so frequently happens, thanksgiving day was overcast and cold, the air having a tang as of threatening snow. "bully football weather!" shouted the fans, as they crowded into the great park-like field at columbia; the toss of a coin during the week having given frank's team the privilege of playing on their home grounds. there was even a greater crowd present than on the occasion of the game with clifford. this struggle was to effectually decide the ownership of that coveted silver cup, and the championship of the tri-school league for the season. everybody who could possibly get there was present. the grandstand seemed to be a waving mass of color with the various little flags, and the gay wraps of the school girls, intensely interested in this battle of brawn and skill between their brothers. naturally those from clifford gathered together for the most part; and bellport had sent an enormous delegation to whoop things up for her sturdy team. indeed, those bellport players did look like a serious proposition as they scampered back and forth across the field before the time for play had arrived. many a timid heart among columbia's friends felt as though the chances were very much against such a victory as had been won over clifford. such enthusiasm as abounded! cheers arose everywhere. bands of students went about, headed by some valiant cheer captain, and made all other sounds insignificant beside their clamor, as they chanted their school yell in common, or sang the favorite songs of their classes. "we're going to see a hot old game, anyhow!" cried buster billings, as he sat on the bench in the grandstand, being reckoned of little account as a football player, however much he might shine in baseball. "what's bellport's line-up? seems to me nearly every face here is familiar; and i reckon their entire baseball squad has qualified for the gridiron," remarked another observer. "just as you say, there's not a fellow missing," sighed buster; "but then, none of them happens to be gifted with the heft that fastened its fatal clutches on me at an early age. i'd give the world to play football, but though they've tried me several times, it's always back to the scrap heap for poor buster boy." "well, they left me out this time, too; my first half in the game with clifford wasn't a howling success. but at any rate i'm a sub, and if a few of the boys get carried off the field they may call on me," and jack eastwick patted his chest in anticipation of the slaughter to come. for the concluding tussle of the high school league the contending teams presented this line-up: _columbia._ comfort _f.b._ allen, captain. west. _r.h.b. l.h.b._ wallace. _q.b._ shadduck. oakes. harper. bird. daly. shay. morris. _r.e. r.t. r.g. center. l.g. l.t. l.e._ _bellport._ clay. coddling. smith, jr. lacy. alpers. macy. smith, sr. _l.e. l.t. l.g. center. r.g. r.t. r.e._ snodgrass. _q.b._ banghardt. bardwell. _l.h.b. r.h.b._ lee, captain. _f.b._ the same referee officiated who had managed the game with clifford so well. and the coach of each team was busily engaged giving the last instructions, since the time specified for the opening kick-off was very near. columbia was not boisterous, but there was a look of grim determination visible on the faces of frank allen and his fellows that counted for much. "it's better to shout after you're out of the woods, fellows," said the captain, as he drew his squad around him for a last word ere going upon the field. this time frank was lucky, and won the toss. he immediately selected the goal from which the cold november wind blew, as that gave columbia considerable advantage to start with, though it would be evened up later when the second half brought about a change in base. still, by then the wind might have died out, and the advantage lost. lee opened matters with a beautiful kick, but the oval was captured, and it came columbia's turn. comfort smashed out a fine one, sending the oval far down the enemy's territory. and so fast did the other columbia fellows chase after it, that when bellport secured the ball through a clever catch, they found no chance to do anything more than return the kick. after that the fight was on. columbia sent the ball back into the territory of the enemy, and at such a bewildering angle, thanks to the wonderful spiral kick of jack comfort, that the player who attempted to clasp it in his arms allowed it to get away. "go it, you tigers!" shrieked many in the crowd, as they saw several columbia men making furious efforts to reach the rolling oval before any of the enemy could throw themselves upon it. but coddling was there in time to drop on the ball, though hardly had he done so than shadduck landed on his back, together with various others belonging to both teams. now bellport had the ball, and there was great curiosity to know what success they would have in bucking the columbia line. report had it that never had bellport been so strong in her line of attack; and clifford enthusiasts had warned their neighbors of what was in store for them this day. bellport rushed into the fray. the artful lacy, he who had played such a clever game as shortstop in the baseball tournament the preceding season, snapped the ball to snodgrass, who plunged straight for the middle of the columbia line backed up by a solid wedge that seemed capable of carrying the heavy quarter-back through. there was a confused mass of struggling players, and a great cloud of dust, in which figures were to be seen pushing this way and that. [illustration: there was a confused mass of struggling players.] "he's down!" shouted hundreds as the dust passed off with the wind, and they could see the situation again. "but he took several yards with him, and bellport has the ball. what d'ye think of that sledgehammer way of carrying things, eh? wait till snodgrass and banghardt and bardwell get working together, and you'll see the columbia defense crumple up like dead leaves in a fire!" of course it was a bellport admirer who said this; but those who heard only laughed and waved their columbia flags the more fiercely. they had full confidence in their boys, and knew what frank could get out of them in an emergency. once more the teams were lined up, watching each other like so many wild animals, hungry and eager. lee shouted out some signals in his sonorous voice. it sounded very like the previous set, but only those in the secret could know whether the slight difference meant a new change of action or not. then the ball was put in play. like lightning it passed from lacy's hands. snodgrass made out to receive it, and once more plunged for the center, as if intending to break through, with several of his fellows backing him up. the deception was so complete that the vast majority of the audience really believed he carried the ball with him. so a great whoop went up when he was dragged down by one of the columbia tacklers. "but look at smith, sr., running! he's got the ball, fellows! he's after a touchdown, and he won't be happy till he gets it! wow! that's going some!" "he'll never make it! there's west in the way, and allen bearing down on him like a pirate ship under full sail! what did i tell you? that ralph west is the best tackier in the county! they made no mistake when they booted tony gilpin out and made room for west. where is the ball now, fellows?" "under smith, sr., and on columbia's twenty-five yard line!" admitted buster billings, unwillingly. "and bellport has still another chance to carry it over! if the wind was favorable lee could boot the pigskin across your goal, and not half try. but i guess they'd rather depend on breaking through, or getting around the ends. keep your eyes on those boys, for they're as full of schemes as an egg is of meat." "that sounds encouraging. i was afraid our fellows might have too easy a snap, and disappoint their friends by not half trying. just wait yourself, bellport. it was the same thing in baseball last summer; and yet columbia flies the banner, all right. you may be treated to some surprises yourself, old chap," remarked buster, condescendingly. again the scrimmage was on. the columbia tigers were so fast on their feet that clay, who got the ball this time, was unable to accomplish much before they pounced upon him and bore him heavily to the ground. "how's that?" shouted buster, "our fellows just eat up such easy plays. bring out some of your fancy stunts, and do something, can't you?" three minutes later and the ball came to columbia. it was time, for bellport had, by a series of bull-like rushes, carried it over the twenty-yard line. "now to get back some of that lost ground. there they go! see shadduck run, will you? he's mercury, with wings on his feet! look at him dodge that left guard! say, he's going to make it yet, as sure as you live he is! bully boy, bones! go it! go it, you darling! oh! what a heart-ache i've got! he's over the line, boys; over the line! a touchdown for us to start things!" and buster danced in his excitement, like a rubber ball. "no he ain't," snarled a bellport backer, "they downed him before he got there! notice that just three of our fellows are settin' on his back. he tried mighty hard, but they nailed him a little too soon!" "you're mistaken. he held the ball over the line, and it counts for columbia, as you can see if you look again," remarked mr. allen, who was sitting near. "that's so," grumbled the discomfited bellport man, "and with that wind it's goin' to be as easy as pie to boot the ball over for a goal. shucks! what ails our fellows to-day? they never did sloppy work like that with clifford." "there was a reason, they say. clifford claims that her signals were sold to bellport. anyhow, there's going to be nothing of that kind to-day, but clean fighting. there goes frank to kick goal, and he'll do it, too," answered buster. the goal was made easily, thanks to the favoring wind. then again the ball was put into play, and fierce ran the rivalry. sometimes the fighting was on columbia territory, and then again the tide of battle shifted until it was bellport's line that was threatened. now and then the cheers of the enthusiasts arose and swelled over that fiercely-contested field like thunder. back and forth they swung, both now doggedly determined. a score of plays were made that brought out cheers from the spectators, regardless of school affiliations; for they liked clean football, and could applaud clever work, even on the other side. when the heart-rending agony was finally relieved by the referee's whistle announcing the end of the first half, that score of six by columbia was the entire counting! chapter xxiii won by four inches "see 'em getting hail columbia from their coach because they made that fool play! next time it'll be different," growled the unhappy bellport backer. "i hope so," replied the cheerful and optimistic buster, composedly. frank, as he came in from the field, dusty and disheveled, looked eagerly at a certain part of the grandstand where helen sat alongside her chum minnie. immediately both girls waved their flags at him, and called out something, which, of course, was utterly drowned in the furious shouting that arose. but frank would ten times rather have heard what they said than to listen to the cheers of the multitude; for he knew that love and friendship endure, while the admiration of the crowd is as fickle as the weather, praising one day and on the next condemning. both teams held earnest consultations during the interval between the halves of the game. new plays were planned whereby advantage might be taken of some supposed weak spot in the line of the enemy's defense. and singular to say, not a single change had as yet been made in the line-up, something remarkable indeed, when in other days half a dozen casualties must have resulted from those furious clashes. doubtless there were those who suffered in silence, fearing lest they be taken out, if their real condition were made known; and every man was wild to finish in what promised to be the most exciting football game that had ever happened in the tri-school league. "there they go to take position. now for another heart-breaking period of suspense. but they've got the advantage. it's an up-hill fight for bellport; six to nothing, and half the time gone. if they can only keep the others from scoring it isn't necessary to make any more," said buster to jack eastwick. "no chance for me to get into this game. that shay is a sticker. but i candidly admit he's something of an improvement on myself, and i hope he holds out. but mark me, buster, there's going to be some changes before the game ends," remarked the other, confidentially. "what makes you say that, jack?" asked his friend, curiously. "because those bellport bulldogs have got blood in their eyes now. the coach has been combing them down, and they're just bound to carry things before them, or die trying. it's going to be hotter than ever, buster." "but frank has been saying things, too. and our boys have the benefit of the experience of one who was a terror on the lines of princeton, my especial friend, coach willoughby," remarked buster, proudly. "he's set 'em up a few capers that are going to surprise our good bellport friends. i'm game to stack up on columbia. i only hope some of those bellport players like bardwell and banghardt don't try foul tactics on us, like they did in baseball, that's all." "the referee has his eye on 'em. he has been warned, and let them try it at their peril. if those two dangerous half-backs are put off the team it'll go to pieces in a hurry, mark my words. that's what i'm expecting it to end in." but jack was mistaken. bellport knew the folly of attempting anything that had a suspicious look. brawn and strategy and agility must carry the day, no matter which side won. shrilly blew the whistle, and once more the ball, yellow no longer, for it had been ground into the dirt, sailed through the air. there was an exchange of punts that ended when bellport held the pigskin on her forty-yard line and the signal came for a play around columbia's left end. "watch out now, fellows!" warned frank allen. "don't let 'em get through, or past you." "eighteen--twenty-seven--sixty--all together--fourteen!" chanted snodgrass, and back the ball was snapped to him. in a flash he passed it to bardwell, who started as though to circle shadduck at right end. and then that trick, so often worked, so effective when it comes out right, and so futile when it does not, was tried. bardwell passed the ball to banghardt on the run, and the left-half started for the end where morris was. how it happened none of the columbia players, not even morris himself, could tell, but he was drawn in by the double pass and his end was free to be circled by banghardt. even the columbia two half-backs were fooled, and no excuse for it, either, as they admitted afterward, for they had often worked the play themselves. be that as it may, banghardt was past, and with no one between him and the goal line but comfort. but the full-back was a tower of strength, and with eagerly outstretched hands he waited the oncoming of the left half. "get him, comfort! get him!" pleaded the crowd. straight at the full-back came banghardt, and then, with a sudden shifting, he turned aside, and comfort grasped only the empty air, while the man with the ball, amid the wild, excited cries of the adherents of his school, while the grandstands fairly rocked under the impact of thousands of stamping feet, touched down the pigskin. "touchdown! touchdown for bellport!" howled the enthusiasts, while the dazed columbia team crawled out of the scrimmage and wondered how it had happened. so, too, did some of the bellport players themselves wonder, for the play had come like a flash from a clear sky. the goal was easily kicked, tying the score, and then the big crowd sat up and wondered what would come next. "it's going to be a hot game all right!" was the general verdict. "here's where we beat you, columbia!" called a bellport supporter, as he turned to buster with a grin on his face. "oh we've got you in a hole dead sure. we've got your number." "oh, have you!" retorted buster. "wait. don't count your chickens until they're out of the woods." after the kick-off there followed some line smashing tactics on both sides. once bellport was penalized for off-side play, and once columbia lost the ball for holding in the line. bellport was later penalized ten yards for a second offense in off-side work, and then the players seemed to realize the importance of being careful, and they got down to business. how they ever stood the smashing, banging tactics, the fierce tackling, the eager runs, the line bucking, the giving and taking, only one who has played football, and who knows the fierce joy of the game, can understand. nervous women cried out in alarm as they saw the struggling mass and heap of boyish humanity. there were several times when the play had to be stopped to allow the dashing of cold water over some unlucky chap, to bring him out of a half faint, and the number of lads who lost their wind, and had to have it pumped into them by artificial respiration was many. but no one was seriously hurt, though coddling had to leave the field because of a broken finger and harper was replaced at the columbia right guard because he was so disabled from a fierce piling-on of players that he was useless in the line. ten minutes more to play, and the score tied! back and forth the players had surged, up and down the field, now kicking, now plunging into each other's line, now circling the ends. it was the most fiercely contested game that had ever been played in the league. the columbia-clifford contest was as nothing to it. "hold 'em, tigers! don't let 'em score again! rip out another touchdown! go at 'em!" how the cohorts of columbia begged and pleaded! no less did the friends of bellport. a touchdown, a field goal, or a safety for either side now would win the game and the championship. which would it be? to which side would it go. a thousand admirers of either team asked those questions. bellport had the ball, and had, by a smashing rush, carried it three yards through columbia's line. it was on the latter's forty-yard line now, but it had been there before, and had not advanced much farther. that last attack, though, had had power behind it. "look out!" warned frank. "they may do us!" the play looked to be another rush on the part of bellport, and with fierce and eager eyes her opponents watched for the slightest advantage. bardwell came on with the ball like a stone from a catapult. he hit the line between shay and daly, but he did not go through. with desperate energy, borne of despair, the guard and tackle held. and then, wonder of wonders, probably because he was dazed by the impact with which he hit the line, bardwell dropped the ball. like a flash daly had fallen on it. "our ball!" he fairly howled, and when the crowd knew that they went wild--that is, the columbia contingent. but the time had slipped by. there were but three minutes more of play. "quick now, fellows. line up! get a touchdown!" begged frank. "break the tie!" into the play plunged the doughty captain himself for a ten-yard gain, for the shock of surprise at their misfortune still held the bellport players spellbound. "another like that!" cried the throng. a fake kick netted eight yards additional, and then followed more line bucking. "a goal from the field," suggested wallace, when time was taken out to allow alpers to get back his end. "no, straight up the field--rush it!" ordered allen. once more he made a slight gain. "one minute more!" warned the time-keeper. "oh, can we do it!" panted wallace. he called on ralph west for a straight plunge between guard and tackle. the plucky left-half drew a long breath, and gathered himself for the tremendous energy he knew would be needed. they were but four feet from the goal line. the ball _must_ be shoved over if human lungs and muscles could stand the terrific strain a moment longer. amid a solemn silence came the signal. like a shot west plunged forward, with the ball tightly tucked under his arm. into the line he went, smash bang! oh, what a great hole there was torn for him by the strenuous shay and daly! through it west went, and in vain did lee and bardwell try to stop him. as well try to stop a rushing torrent as the columbia players now. they were going to have that touchdown or tear up the goal posts. with the quickness that argued how well he knew the need of haste, west placed the ball down beyond and over his head after he had fallen in a fierce tackle. over the line--over--ah, was it over? the chalk-mark was obliterated at this point. was it over? "touchdown!" howled the columbia players madly. "never. it's not over!" retorted bellport's men fiercely. there was a wild dispute, and in the midst of it the whistle blew, ending the game. who had won? it would take a measurement to decide. the linesmen came hurrying up, while the crowd chaffed at the delay and did not know who to cheer. anxiously the measure was taken, and while hearts wildly beat the announcement was made. "the ball is over by four inches. columbia wins the touchdown!" "oh, wow!" "hurrah!" "we win!" "eleven to six!" "the silver cup is ours!" and then such a riot of wild cries, such stamping of feet, such waving of banners and streamers of ribbon! the great championship game was won by columbia! columbia! "columbia! columbia the gem of the gridiron!" came the eager shouts. and the players filed off the field. chapter xxiv the message from tokio.--conclusion that thanksgiving night columbia went wild. true, the first snow of the year began sifting down, and the ground was covered with a white mantle; but such a little thing as that could not quench the ardor of those happy fellows. and so for hours the town resounded with cheers and songs, while in several places great bonfires along the banks of the harrapin told of the general rejoicing. how could they help it when columbia high had completed the greatest year in all her history--first there was the winning of the baseball championship; then came the hotly contested inter-school rowing races, in which she won new laurels with her young athletes; and last but not least, both clifford and bellport had gone down to bitter defeat before her gridiron warriors! frank would have begged off, but even the girls insisted that it would be a shame to spoil the fun. so he had to join in the festivities, and shout with the rest of columbia's brave sons and fair daughters, as the gigantic procession wound in and out through all the town, greeted by answering cheers from the equally enthusiastic fathers and mothers from the windows. "there's only one more thing we ought to scoop in this year," said paul bird, as he and frank stood with the girls and watched the antics of herman hooker and his band of comical players, wherein the most astonishing stunts were indulged in with amazing instruments manufactured for the occasion. "you mean the hockey championship, i suppose?" returned frank, smiling. "yes, and from the expression on your face, old fellow, i'm of the opinion right now that you mean to have a look-in on that later on when the river is frozen again." frank laughed and nodded. "some of us have been talking it over. you know clifford has been unbeaten in that line for years. they have the best skaters up there in the state, they claim. if we think to accept their standing challenge this year it's up to us to put a better team on the ice than last season," he remarked. "well, they did snow you under, for a fact. but experience showed that there were two fellows on your team who ought never to have been there. they lost the match through their clumsiness. isn't that so, girls?" demanded paul. "everybody said so," declared helen; and minnie nodded her heard to indicate that she was of the same opinion. "then it must be so," laughed frank. "but those fellows are not on the team this year. we've been keeping quiet about who is going to play. the committee have selected a certain number of players, and the best will be chosen in time. mark my words, paul, we mean to try and give clifford the biggest kind of a fight this winter. whether we can win or not depends on many things. time will tell." and time did tell, for what manner of hockey was played that winter on the ice-clad surface of the neighboring harrapin can be found recorded in the next volume of this series of high school sports, entitled: "the boys of columbia high on the ice; or, out for the hockey championship." when the first of december came around shortly after that great thanksgiving day game, ralph west sought out frank once more. his face told of excitement, and frank was consequently ready to expect some important news. "did you get your usual monthly allowance from uncle jim's office?" he asked. "yes, yesterday. i suppose he left word before he went that it should be sent while he was away. but i've heard from him direct," replied ralph, his face glowing with the eager light of anticipated happiness. "you have? a letter from china or russia or siberia, which?" "you're away off, frank. this was a cablegram. i just got it at the office, for i have wandered in there often in hopes of such a thing, and know the operator. it was from tokio, and i suppose your uncle jim must have followed mrs. langworthy and her brother arnold musgrove there. perhaps they gave up all hope of getting to russia through china. i don't know how that is, but here's what it says," and he handed a message to frank, who glanced down at these words: "leave here next steamer for states. mrs. langworthy accompanies me. keep up a good heart, for there is much joy in store for you. james decatur allen." "hurrah! that's glorious news, old fellow! from my heart i congratulate you! now, i know uncle jim well enough to feel sure that he'd never cable like that unless he was absolutely positive of his ground. like as not, that monster of an arnold--why wasn't his name benedict like the revolutionary traitor, has confessed; for you don't notice his name among the expected travelers." "well, i don't know how i'll ever be able to stand the weeks that must pass before they get here in columbia. you must help me, frank, you and helen," declared ralph, gripping the hand of his chum almost savagely. "we will, all right. the time will fly, because you're anticipating happy news. just think of the extravagance of uncle jim, sending nearly thirty words in a cablegram. it costs twenty-five cents a word to london, and goodness knows how many times that from tokio here. he knows what he's doing though, and i warrant you it's the lady's money that pays for that cablegram," whereupon ralph impulsively raised the paper to his lips and kissed it, then blushed like a girl. with such good and true friends around him, it may be sure that ralph was not going to be left alone much of the time. they made him join in all their sports, and with the coming of winter a dozen new things presented themselves to the boys and girls of old columbia high. minnie was happier than ever, since that little shadow was removed, and her former warm, friendly intercourse with frank and helen renewed. many times she thought of how valiantly frank had stood there, holding the attention of that terrible bull, so as to allow her time to clamber out of harm's way; and never without a shudder, as she contemplated what a terrible thing might have happened had the boy slipped when avoiding those rushes of the enraged animal. never would she allow that old red sweater to leave her possession. the very sight of it always made her sigh with satisfaction. it had undoubtedly had much to do with the savage attack of that animal, whose pasture she so unwittingly invaded; but had that event not happened, perhaps the mystery of that torn paper would never have been explained. nothing could again cause her to ever doubt the fidelity of frank allen; and to the end of the chapter they must always be, as she had said that day, "good friends, true friends!" the end. the high school left end or dick & co. grilling on the football gridiron by h. irving hancock contents chapters i. sulking in the football camp ii. the start of the dodge mystery iii. dick stumbles on something iv. the 'soreheads' in conclave v. at the end of the trail vi. the small soul of a gentleman vii. the football notice goes up viii. dick fires both barrels ix. bayliss gets some advice x. two girls turn the laugh xi. does football teach real nerve xii. dick, like caesar, refuses the crown xiii. bert dodge "starts something" xiv. the "strategy" of a school traitor xv. a "fear" for the plotter xvi. "the cattle car for yours" xvii. facing the "school cut" xviii. "prin." gets in the practice xix. laura and belle have a secret xx. in the line of daring xxi. the price of bravery xxii. the thanksgiving day game xxiii. sulker and real man xxiv. conclusion chapter i sulking in the football camp "football is all at sixes and sevens, this year," muttered dave darrin disconsolately. "i can tell you something more than that," added tom reade mysteriously. "what?" asked dick prescott, looking at reade with interest, for it was unusual for reade to employ that tone or air. "two members of the athletics committee have intimated to coach morton that they'd rather see football passed by this year." "_what_?" gasped dick. he was staring hard now. "fact," nodded tom. "at least, i believe it to be a fact." "there must be something wrong with that news," put in greg holmes anxiously. "no; i think it's all straight enough," persisted tom, shaking his head to silence holmes. "it came to me straight enough, though i don't feel at liberty to tell you who told me." all six members of dick & co. were present. the scene of the meeting was dick prescott's own room at his home over the bookstore kept by his parents. the hour was about nine o'clock in the evening. it was friday evening of the first week of the new school year. the fellows had dropped in to talk over the coming football season, because the week had been one of mysterious unrest in the football squad at gridley high school. just what the trouble was, where it lay or how it had started was puzzling the whole high school student body. the squad was not yet duly organized. this was never attempted until in the second week of the school year. yet it was always the rule that the new seniors who, during their junior year, had made good records on either the school eleven, or the second eleven, should form the nucleus of the new pigskin squad. added to these, were the new juniors, formerly of the sophomore class, who had shown the most general promise in athletics during the preceding school year. gridley high school aimed to lead---to be away at the top---in all school athletics. the "gridley spirit," which would not accept defeat in sports, was proverbial throughout the state. and so, though the football squad was not yet formally organized for training and practice, yet, up to the last few days, it had been expected that a finer gridiron crowd than usual would present itself for weeding, sifting and training by coach morton. the latter was also one of the submasters of gridley high school. since the school year had opened, however, undercurrent news had been rife that there would be many "soreheads," and that this would be an "off year" in gridley football. just where the trouble lay, or what the "kick" was about, was a puzzle to most members of the student body. it was an actual mystery to dick & co. "what is all the undermining row about, anyway?" demanded dick, looking around at his chums. dick was pacing the floor. dave, tom and greg holmes were seated on the edge of the bed. dan dalzell was lying back in the one armchair that the room boasted. harry hazelton was standing by the door. "i can't make a single thing out of it all," sighed dan. "all i can get at is that some of the seniors and some of our class, the juniors, are talking as though they didn't care about playing this year. i know that coach morton is worried. in fact, he's downright disheartened." "surely," interjected dick, "mr. morton must have an idea of what is keeping some of the fellows back from the team?" "if he does know, he isn't offering any information," returned harry hazelton. "i don't see any need for so much mystery," broke in dave darrin, in disgust. "well, there is a mystery about it, anyway," contended tom reade. "then, before i'm much older, i'm going to know what that mystery is," declared dick. "you're surely the one of our crowd who ought to be put on the trail of the mystery," proposed dalzell, with a laugh. "why?" challenged prescott. "why, you're a reporter on 'the blade.' now mysteries are supposed to constitute the especial field of reporters. so, see here, fellows, i move that we appoint dick prescott a committee of one for dick & co., his job being to find out what ails football---to learn just what has made football sick this year." "hear! hear!" cried some of the others. "is that your unanimous wish, fellows?" asked dick, smiling. "it is," the others agreed. "very good, then," sighed prescott. "at no matter what personal cost, i will find the answer for you." this was all in a spirit of fun, as the chums understood. yet this lightly given promise was likely to involve dick prescott in a good deal more than he had expected. readers of the preceding volumes in this series know dick & co. so well that an introduction would be superfluous. those to whom the pages of "the high school freshmen" are familiar know how dick & co., chums from the central grammar school, entered gridley high school in the same year. how the boys toiled through that first year as half-despised freshmen, and how they got some small share in school athletics, even though freshmen were not allowed to make the school athletic teams, has been told. the pranks of the young freshmen are now "old tales." how dick prescott, with the aid of his chums, put up a hoax that fairly seared the board of education out of its purpose to forbid high school football does not need telling again. our former readers are also familiar with the enmity displayed by fred ripley, son of a wealthy lawyer, and the boomerang plot of ripley to disgrace prescott and brand the latter as a high school thief. the same readers will recall the part played in this plot by tip scammon, worthless son of the honest old high school janitor, and how tip's evil work resulted in his going to the penitentiary for the better part of a year. readers of "_the high school pitcher_" will recollect how, in their sophomore year, dick and co. made their first real start in high school athletics; how dick became the star pitcher for the nine, and how the other chums all found places on the nine, either as star players or as "subs." in this volume also was told the story of fred's moral disasters under the tyranny of tip scammon, who threatened to "tell." how dick & co. were largely entitled to the credit for bringing the gridley high school nine through a season's great record on the diamond was all told in this second volume. dick's good fortune in getting a position as "space" reporter on "the morning blade" was also described, and some of his adventures as reporter were told. the culmination of fred ripley's scoundrelism, and his detection by his stern old lawyer father, were narrated at length. perhaps many of our readers will remember, the unpopular principal of the high school, mr. abner cantwell; and the swimming episode, in which every high school boy took part, afterwards meekly awaiting the impossible expulsion of all the boys of the high school student body. our readers will recall that mr. cantwell had succeeded the former principal, dr. thornton, whom the boys had almost idolized, and that much of mr. cantwell's trouble was due to his ungovernable temper. during the first two years of high school life, dick & co. had become increasingly popular. true, since these six chums were all the sons of families in very moderate circumstances, dick & co. had been disliked by some of the little groups of students who came from wealthier families, and who believed that high school life should be rather governed by a select few representing the move "aristocratic" families of the little city. good-humored avoidance is excellent treatment to accord a snob, and this, as far as possible, had been the plan of dick & co. and of the other average boy at the high school. "let us see," broke in dick, suddenly, "who are the soreheads in the football line?" "well, davis and cassleigh, of the senior class, for two," replied dave darrin. "dodge, fremont and bayliss, also first classmen," suggested reade. "trenholm and grayson, also seniors," brought in greg holmes. "then there are porter, drayne and whitney," added dave. "they're of this year's juniors." "and hudson and paulson, also of our junior class," nodded harry hazelton. dick prescott had rapidly written down the names. now he was studying the list carefully. "they're all good football men," sighed dick. "all men whose aid in the football squad is much needed." "drayne is the stuck-up chap, who uses the broad 'a' in his speech, and carries his nose up at an angle of forty-five degrees," chuckled dan dalzell. "he's the fellow i mortally offended by nicknaming him 'sewers,' to mimic his name of 'drayne.'" "that wouldn't be enough to keep him out of football," remarked dave quietly. dick looked up suddenly from his list. "fellows," he announced, "i've made one discovery." "out with it!" ordered dan. "perhaps you can guess for yourselves what i have just found." "we can't," admitted hazelton meekly. "please tell us, and save us racking our brains." "well, it's curious," continued dick slowly, "but every one of these fellows---i believe you've given me all the names of the 'soreheads'" "we have," affirmed tom reade. "well, i've just noted that every fellow on my sorehead roll of honor belongs to one of our families of wealth in gridley." dick paused to look around him, to see how the announcement impressed his chums. "do you mean," hinted hazelton, "that the soreheads are down on football because they prefer automobiles?" "no." dick prescott shook his head emphatically. "by jove, dick, i believe you're right," suddenly exclaimed dave darrin. "so you see my point, old fellow?" "i'm sure i do." "i'm going to get examined for spectacles, then," sighed dan plaintively. "i can't see a thing." "why, you ninny," retorted dave scornfully, "the football 'soreheads' have been developing that classy feeling. they wear better clothes than we do, and have more pocket money. many of their fathers don't work for a living. in other words, the fellows on dick's list belong to what they consider a privileged and aristocratic set. they're the gridley bluebloods---or think they are---and they don't intend to play on any football eleven that is likely to have dick & co. and a few other ordinary muckers on it." "muckers?" repeated harry hazelton flaring up. "cool down, dear chap, _do_!" urged darrin, soothingly. "i don't mean to imply that we really are muckers, but that's what some of the classy group evidently consider us." "why, they say that cassleigh's grandfather was an italian immigrant, who spelled his name casselli," broke in dan dalzell. "i believe it, son," nodded dave. "old casselli was an immigrant and an honest fellow. but he had the bad judgment to make some money in the junk business, and sent his son to college. the son, after the old immigrant died, took to spelling his name cassleigh, and the grandson is the prize snob of the town." "and bayliss's father was indicted by the grand jury, seven or eight years ago, for bribery in connection with a trolley franchise," muttered greg holmes. "also currently reported to be true, my infant," nodded dave sagely. "but the witnesses against the elder bayliss skipped, and the district attorney never brought the case to trial. case was quashed a year later, and so now the baylisses belong to the distinguished order of unconvicted boodlers. that trolley stock jumped to six times its par value right after the case against bayliss was dropped, you know." "and, from what i've heard mr. pollock say at 'the blade' office," dick threw in, "the fathers of one or two of the other soreheads got their money in devious ways." "why, there's whitney's father," laughed dan dalzell. "did you ever hear how he got his start thirty years ago? whitney's brother-in-law got into financial difficulties, and transferred to the elder whitney property worth a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. when the financial storm blew over the brother-in-law wanted the property transferred back again, but the elder whitney didn't see it that way. the elder whitney kept the transferred property, and has since increased it to a half million or more." "oh, well," dick interrupted, "let us admit that some of the fellows on the sorehead list have never been in jail, and have never been threatened with it. but i am sure that dave has guessed my meaning right. the soreheads, who number a dozen of rather valuable pigskin men, are on strike just because some of us poorer fellows are in it." "what nonsense!" ejaculated greg holmes disgustedly. "why, purcell isn't in any such crowd. of course, purcell's father isn't rich beyond the dreams of avarice, but the purcells, as far as blood goes, are head and shoulders above the families of any of the fellows on dick's little list." "if that's really what the disagreement is over," drawled dan, "i see an easy way out of it." "go ahead," nodded dick. "let the 'soreheads' form the sons of tax-payers eleven, and we'll organize a sons of poor but honest parents eleven. then we'll play them the best two out of three games for the honor of representing gridley high school this year." "bright, but not practicable," objected dick patiently. "the trouble is that, if two such teams were formed and matched, neither team, in the event of its victory, would have all of the best gridiron stuff that the high school contains. no, no; what we want, if possible, is some plan that will bring the whole student body together, all differences forgotten and with the sole purpose of getting up the best eleven that gridley can possibly send out against the world." "well, we are willing," remarked darrin grimly. "no! no, we're not," objected hazelton fiercely. "if the snobs don't want to play with any of us on the team, then we don't want to play if _they_ come in." "gently, gently!" urged dick. "think of the honor of your school before you tie your hands up with any of your own mean, small pride. our whole idea must be that gridley high school is to go on winning, as it has always done before. for myself, i had hoped to be on the eleven this year. yet, if my staying off the list will put gridley in the winning set, i'm willing to give up my own ambitions. i'm going to put the honor of the school first, and myself somewhere along about fourteenth." "that's the only talk," approved dave promptly. "gridley must have the winning football eleven." "well, the whole thing is a shame," blazed reade indignantly. "oh, well, don't worry," drawled dan dalzell. "keep cool, and the whole thing will be fixed." "fixed?" insisted reade. "how? how will it be fixed?" "i don't know," dan confessed, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "just leave the worry alone. let dick fix it." "how can you fix it?" asked reade, turning upon their leader. "i don't know---yet," hesitated prescott. but, like dan, i believe there's a way to be found." "going?" asked hazelton. "well, i'll trot along, too." "yes," nodded greg. "it's a shame to stay here, hardening dick's mattress when he ought to be lying on it himself. it's time we were all in bed. good night, dick, old fellow." four of the boys were speedily gone. darrin, however, remained behind, though he intended to stay only a few minutes. the two were earnestly discussing the squally football "weather" when the elder prescott's voice sounded from the foot of the stairs. "dick?" "yes, sir," answered the boy, throwing open the door and springing to the head of the stairs. "mr. bradley, of 'the blade,' wants to talk with you over the 'phone. in a hurry, too, he says. "i'll be right there, dad. coming, dave?" darrin nodding, the two chums ran down the stairs to the bookstore. dick caught up the transmitter and answered. "that you, dick?" sounded the impatient voice of news editor bradley. "this is dick prescott, mr. bradley." "then, for goodness' sake, can you hustle up here?" "of course i can." "ask your father if you can take up a late night job for me. then come on the jump. my men are all out, and everything is at odds and ends in the way of news. i can't get a single man, and i wish i had three at this minute." "dave darrin is here. can i bring him along?" "yes; he's not a reporter---but he may be able to help. hustle." "i'll be walking in through the doorway," laughed dick, "by the time you've hung your transmitter up. good-bye." ting-a-ling-ling! "now, dave, get your father on the jump, and ask his leave to go out on a late night story with me." fortunately there was no delay about this. dave received the permission from home promptly enough. the two youngsters set out on a run. what healthy boy of sixteen doesn't love to prowl late a night? it is twenty-fold more fascinating when there's a mystery on tap, and a newspaper behind all the curiosity. the longing of these sturdy chums for mystery and adventure was swiftly to be gratified---perhaps more so than they could have wished! news editor bradley was waiting for them in the doorway of "the blade" office, a frown on the journalistic face. chapter ii the start of the dodge mystery "this is the way it always goes," jerked out bradley, as the two high school boys hurried into the office after him. "one of my men is sick, and the other two are somewhere---where, i can't find out." "all" his men sounded large enough; as a matter of fact, the only reporters "the blade" employed were three young men on salary, and dick prescott, mainly as gleaner of school news. dick didn't receive any salary, but was paid a dollar a column. "what's happening, anyway?" dick asked coolly. "you know theodore dodge?" demanded mr. bradley. "i know him when i see him; he never talks with me," prescott replied. "theodore dodge is the father of a fellow in our senior class at high school," dave put in, adding under his breath, "and the son is one of our football 'soreheads.'" "dodge has vanished," continued bradley. "he went out early this morning, and hasn't been seen since. tonight, just after dark, a man walking by the river, up above the bend, picked up a coat and hat on the bank. letters in the pocket showed the coat to be mr. dodge's. the finder of the coat hurried to the dodge house, and mrs. dodge hurriedly notified the police, asking chief coy to keep the whole matter quiet. jerry (chief coy) doesn't know that we have a blessed word about this. but jerry, his plain clothes man, hemingway, and two other officers are out on the case. they have been on the job for nearly three hours. so far they haven't learned a word. they can't drag the river until daylight comes. now, prescott, what occurs to you as the thing to do?" "i guess the only thing," replied dick quietly, "is to find theodore dodge." mr. bradley gasped. "well, yes; you have the right idea, young man. but can you find dodge, dick?" "when do you go to press?" "latest at four o'clock in the morning." "i think i can either find theodore dodge, or else find where he went to," prescott replied, slowly. "of course, that's brag---not promise." "you get us the story---straight and in detail," cried bradley, eagerly, "and there'll probably be a bit extra in it for you---a good bit, perhaps. if dodge doesn't turn up without sensation this is going to be our big story for a week. dodge, you know, is vice-president and actual head of the second national bank." "whew!" thought dave darrin, to himself. "it's easy enough for any suspicious person to imagine a story! but it might not be the right one." "some time ago," asked dick thoughtfully, "didn't you publish a story about some of the big amounts of insurance carried by local rich men?" "yes," nodded bradley. "i think you stated that theodore dodge carried more than any other citizen of gridley." "yes; he carries a quarter of a million dollars of insurance." "is the insurance payable to his widow, or others---or to his estate?" "i don't know," mused news editor bradley, a very thoughtful look coming into his face. "well, it's worth while finding out," pursued dick. "see here, suppose dodge has been using the bank's funds, and found himself in a corner that he couldn't get out of? then, if the insurance money goes to his widow, it would be hers, and no court could take it from her for the benefit of his creditors. if it goes to the estate, instead, then the insurance money, when paid over, could be seized and applied to cover any shortage of the missing man at the bank." "so that-----?" interrogated the news editor, his own eyes twinkling shrewdly. "why, in case---just in case, you understand---that mr. dodge has gone and gotten himself into trouble over the bank's funds, then it's probable that he has done one of two things. either, in despair he has killed himself, so that either his widow or the bank will be protected. if the missing man didn't do away with himself, then probably he has put up the appearance of suicide in the hope that the officers of the law will be fooled of his trail, and that either a wronged bank or a deserted wife might get the insurance money. of course, mrs. dodge might even be a party to a contemplated fraud, though that's not a fair inference against her unless something turns up to make it seem highly probable." "my boy," cried mr. bradley admiringly, "you've all the instincts and qualities of the good newspaper man. i hope you'll take up the work when you get through the high school. but now to business!" "where do you want me to go? where do you want me to take up the trail? where it started, just above the river bend? that's out in the country, a mile and a half from here." "darrin," begged the news editor, "won't you step to the 'phone and ring up getchel's livery stable? ask the man in charge to we want a horse with a little speed and a good deal of endurance." while dave was busy at the wire dick and the news editor talked over the affair in low tones. "with the horse you can cover a lot of ground," suggested bradley. "and you're right about taking up the trail where it started. in half an hour, if you don't strike something big, you can drive back here on the jump for further orders. and don't forget the use of the 'phone, if you're at a distance. also, if you strike something, and want to follow it further, you can have darrin drive in with anything that you've struck up to the minute. hustle, both of you. and, darrin, we'll pay you for your trouble tonight." horse and buggy were soon at the door. dick sprang in, picking up the reins. dave leaped in at the other side. the horse started away at a steady trot. "i hope those boys have brains enough not to go right past the story," mused bradley, gazing after the buggy before he went back to his desk. "but i guess prescott always has his head squarely on his shoulders. he does, in school athletics, anyway. len spencer is the man for this job, so of course len had to be laid up with a cold and fever that would make it murder to send him out tonight." horse and buggy were soon at the door. dick sprang in, picking up the reins. dave leaped in at the other side. the horse started away at a steady trot. "i hope those boys have brains enough not to go right past the story," mused bradley, gazing after the buggy before he went back to his desk. "but i guess prescott always has his head squarely on his shoulders. he does, in school athletics, anyway. len spencer is the man for this job, so of course len had to be laid up with a cold and fever that would make it murder to send him out to-night." "dick," muttered dave excitedly, "you've simply got to make good. this isn't simply a little paragraph to be scribbled. it's a mystery and is going to be the sensation of the day. this is the kind of story that full-fledged reporters on the great dailies have to handle." "yes," laughed dick, "and those reporters never get flurried. i'm not going to allow myself any excitement, either." "no, but you want to get the story---all of it." "of course i do," prescott agreed quietly. "if you do this in bang-up shape," dave went on enthusiastically, "it's likely to be the making of you!" "how?" queried dick, turning around to his chum. "why, success on a big story would fairly launch you in journalism. it would provide your career as soon as you're through high school." "i don't want a career at the end of the high school course," dick returned. "i'm going further, and try to fare better in life." "wouldn't you like to be a newspaper man for good?" demanded dave. "not on a small-fry paper, anyway" replied prescott. "why, bradley is news editor, and has been in the business for years. he gets about thirty dollars a week. i don't believe pollock, who has charge of the paper, gets more than forty-five. that isn't return enough for a man who is putting in his whole life at the business." "thirty dollars has the sound of pretty large money," mused dave. "as for forty-five, if that's what mr. pollock gets, look at the comfort he lives in at his club; and he's a real estate owner, too." "yes," dick admitted. "but that's because pollock follows two callings. he's an editor and a dealer in real estate. as for me, i'd rather put all my energies into one line of work." "then you believe you're going to earn more money than pollock does?" questioned dave, rather wonderingly. "if i pick out a career for income," dick responded, "i do intend to go in for larger returns. but i may go into another calling where the pay doesn't so much matter." "such as what?" "dave, old fellow, can you keep a secret?" "bosh! you know i can." "a big secret?" "stop that!" "well, i'll tell you, dave. by and by there are going to be, in this state, two appointments to cadetships at west point. our congressman will have one appointment. senator alden will have the other. now, in this state, appointments to west point are almost always thrown open to competitive examination. all the fellows who want to go to west point get together, at the call, and are examined. the fellow who comes off best is passed on to west point to try his luck." "and you think you can prove that you're the brightest fellow in the district?" laughed dave good-humoredly. "there are to be two chances, and i think i can prove that i'm one of the two brightest to apply. and dave!" "well?" "why don't you go in to prove that you're the other brightest fellow. just think! west point! and the army for a life career!" "i think i'd rather scheme to go to the naval academy, and become an officer of the navy," returned dave slowly. "the big battleships appeal to me more than does the saddle of the cavalryman." "go to indianapolis?" muttered dick, in near-disgust. "well, i suppose that will do well enough for a fellow who can't get to west point." "now, see here," protested dave good-humoredly, though warmly, "you quit talking about indianapolis. that's a favorite trick with fellows who are cracked on west point. you know, as well as i do, that the naval academy is at annapolis. there's a vacancy ahead for annapolis, too." "oho! you've been thinking of that?" demanded dick, again looking into his chum's eyes. "yes." "yes; if i can come out best in a competitive examination of the boys of this district." "two secrets, then---yours and mine," grinned prescott. "however, it'll be easier for you." "why?" "there aren't so many fellows eager to go to the naval academy. it doesn't draw as hard as the army does." "the dickens it doesn't!" ejaculated dave darrin. "no; the navy doesn't catch young enthusiasm the way the army does. you won't have so many fellows to compete with as i shall," said dick. "i'll have twice as many---three times as many," flared darrin. "the naval academy is the only real and popular school in the united service." "well, we won't quarrel," laughed young prescott. "when the time comes we'll probably find smarter young fellows ahead of us, headed for both academies." "if you do fail on west point-----?" quizzed dave. "_if_ i do," declared dick, with a very wistful emphasis on that "if," "then, after getting through high school i'll probably try to put in a year or two of hard work on 'the blade,' to help my parents put me through college. they're anxious to make me a college man, and they'd work and save hard for it, but i wouldn't be much good if i didn't try to earn a lot of the expense money. one thing i'm resolved upon---i'm not going to go through life as a half-educated man. it is becoming more true, every year, that there's little show for the man with only the half-formed mind." then the two turned back to the subject that had brought them out on this september night---the disappearance of banker theodore dodge. "in a minute or two we'll be in sight of the river bend," announced darrin. "there it is, now," nodded dick, slowing down the horse and gazing over yonder. "some one is there, and looking hard for something." "yes; i make out a couple of lanterns," assented dave. "well"---as dick pulled in the horse---"aren't you going to drive over there?" "that's what i want to think about," declared young prescott. "i want to go at the job the right way---the way that real newspapermen would use." chapter iii dick stumbles on something a few moments later dick prescott guided the horse down a shaded lane. "whoa!" he called, and got out. "what, now?" questioned darrin, as his chum began to hitch the horse to a tree. "i'm going to prowl over by the bend, and see who's there and what they are doing." having tied the horse, dick turned and nodded to his friend to walk along with him. "you know bradley told us," prescott explained, "that the police do not know that dodge's disappearance has leaked out to the press. most folks in gridley know that i write for 'the blade.' so i'm in no hurry to show up among the searchers. i intend, instead, to see what they're doing. by going quietly we can approach, through that wood, and get close enough to see and hear without making our presence known." "i understand," nodded darrin. within two or three minutes the high school reporter and his chum had gained a point in the bushes barely one hundred and fifty feet away from where two men and a boy, carrying between them two lanterns, were closely examining the ground near the bank. one of the men was hemingway, who was a sort of detective on the gridley police force. the other man was a member of the uniformed force, though just now in citizen's dress. the boy was bert dodge, son of the missing banker, and one of the best football men of the senior class of gridley high school. "it's odd that we can't find where the trail leads to," the eavesdroppers heard hemingway mutter presently. "i'm afraid," replied young dodge, with a slight choke in his voice, "that our failure is due to the fact that water doesn't leave any trail." "so you think your father drowned himself?" asked hemingway, looking sharply at the banker's son. "if he didn't, then some one must have pushed him into the river," argued bert, in an unsteady voice. "and i'm just about as much of the opinion," retorted hemingway, "that your father left his hat and coat here, or sent them here, and didn't even get his feet wet." "that's preposterous," argued the son, half indignantly. "well, there is the spot, right there, where the hat and coat were found. now, for a hundred feet away, either up or down stream, the ground is soft. yet there are no tracks such as your father would have left had he taken to the water close to where he left his discarded garments," argued hemingway, swinging his lantern about. "we've pretty well trodden down whatever footprints might have been here," disputed bert dodge. "i shan't feel satisfied until daylight comes and we've had a good chance to have the river dragged." "well, of course, it is possible you know of a reason that would make your father throw himself into the river?" guessed officer hemingway, with a shrewd glance at the son. "neither my mother nor i know anything about my father that would supply a reason for his suicide," retorted bert dodge stiffly. "but i can't see any reason for believing anything except that my poor dad must now be somewhere in the river." "we'll soon be able to do the best that we can do by night," rejoined hemingway. "chief coy has gone after a gasoline launch that carries an electric search-light. as soon as he arrives we'll go all over the river, throwing the light on every part of the water in search of some further clue. there's no use, however, in trying to do anything more around here. we may as well be quiet and wait." "i can't stand still!" sounded dodge's voice, with a ring of anguished suspense in it. "i've got to keep hunting." "go ahead, then," nodded the detective. "we would, too, if there were anything further that could be looked into. but there isn't. i'm going to stop and smoke until the launch heaves in sight." both policemen threw themselves on the ground, produced pipes and fell to smoking. but bert dodge, with the restlessness of keen distress, continued to stumble on up and down along the bank, flashing the lantern everywhere. presently dodge was within sixty feet of where his high school mates crouched in hiding. suddenly the livery stable horse, some four or five hundred feet away, whinnied loudly, impatiently. natural as the sound was, young dodge, in the tense state of his nerves, started and looked frightened. "wh-what was that?" he gasped. "a horse," called hemingway quietly. "probably some critter passing on the road." "i wish you'd see who's with that horse," begged young dodge. "it may bring us news. i'm going, anyway." with that, swinging the lantern, bert dodge started to cut across through the woods with its fringe of bushes. dave darrin slipped away, and out of sight. before dick could do so, however, young dodge, moving at a fast sprint, was upon him. bert stopped as though shot when he caught sight of the other boy. "dick prescott?" he gasped. "yes," answered dick quietly. "what are you doing here?" "i came to see what news there is about the finding of your father." hemingway had now reached the spot, with the other policeman some yards to the rear. "you write for 'the blade,' don't you?" challenged bert. "yes," dick assented. "and 'the blade' people sent you here?" cried bert dodge, in a voice haughty with displeasure. "perhaps 'the blade' sent me here," dick only half admitted. "sent you here to pry into other people's affairs and secrets," continued young dodge impetuously. then added, threateningly: "don't you dare to print a word about this affair!" dick looked quietly at young dodge. "did you hear me?" demanded bert. "yes." "then what's your answer?" "that i heard you, bert." "you young puppy!" cried dodge, advancing threateningly. "don't you address me familiarly." "i don't care anything about addressing you at all," retorted prescott, flushing slightly under the insult. "at present i can make allowances for you, for i fully understand how anxious you are. but that is no real excuse for insulting me." "are you going to heed me when i tell you to print nothing about my father's disappearance?" insisted young dodge. "that is something over which you really have no control," dick replied slowly, though not offensively. "i take all my orders from my employers." "you young mucker!" cried bert, in exasperation. "you print anything about our family misfortunes, and i'll thrash you until you can't see." "i won't answer that," dick replied, "until you make the attempt. but, see here, dodge, you should try to keep cool, and as close to the line of gentlemanly speech and conduct as possible." "a nice one you are, to lecture me on that subject," jeered bert dodge. "you---only a mucker! the son of-----" "stop!" roared dick, his face reddening. he advanced, his fists clenched. "if you're going to say anything against my father or mother, bert dodge, then stop before you say it! before i break your neck!" "stop, both of you," interjected hemingway, springing between the white-faced high school boys. "no blows are going to be struck while members of the police department are around. dodge, of course, you're upset and nervous, but you're not acting the way a gentleman should, even under such circumstances." "then drive that fellow away from here!" commanded bert. "i can't," confessed the officer. "he is breaking no law, and has as much right to be here as we have." "oh, he objects to my saying anything against his father or mother, but he's out tonight to throw all manner of slime on my father's name," contended bert dodge. his voice broke under the stress of his pent-up emotion. "you're wrong there, dodge!" dick broke in, forcing himself to speak calmly. "i'm here to gather the facts on a matter of news, but i am not out to throw any insinuations over your father, or anyone whose good name is naturally precious to you. sometimes a reporter---even an amateur one---has to do things that are unpleasant, but they're all in the line of duty." "'the blade' won't print a line about this matter," raged bert tremulously. "mr. ripley is my father's friend, and his lawyer, too. mr. ripley will go to your editor, and let him know what is going to happen if that scurrilous sheet-----" here bert checked himself, for dick had begun to smile coldly. "confound you!" roared bert dodge. he leaped forward, intent on striking the young junior down. but officer hemingway pushed dodge back forcefully. "come, come, now, dodge, we won't have any of that," warned the officer. "and, if you want my opinion, you're not playing the part of a gentleman just now. prescott understands your state of mind, however. he knows you're so upset, your mind so unhinged by the family trouble that you're doing and saying things that you'll be ashamed of by daylight." "i suppose, next, you'll be inviting this reported fellow to go on the boat with us when it comes," sneered bert dodge. "that would be for the chief to say. reporters are, usually, allowed to go with the police. come, come, dodge," urged hemingway, laying a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder, "calm down and understand that prescott is not offering to make any trouble, and that he has been very patient with a young fellow who finds himself in a heap of trouble." "i can cut this short," offered dick quietly. "i don't believe it would be worth my while, mr. hemingway, to ask the chief's permission to go on the boat with you. 'the blade' can find out, later, whether you discover anything on the river." "where are you going, now?" demanded bert unreasonably, as prescott turned away. "back to the horse and buggy," dick replied coolly. "then i'm going with you, and see you start back to town," asserted bert dodge. hemingway did not interfere, but, leaving his brother policeman at the river's edge, accompanied young dodge. in a few minutes they arrived at the spot in the lane where dick had tied the horse. here they found dave darrin seated in the buggy. dave glanced unconcernedly at them all, nodding to hemingway way, who returned the salutation. "now, i'll watch you start away from here," snapped bert. "all right, then," smiled dick, climbing in, after unhitching, and picking up the reins. "i won't keep you long." with that, and a parting word to the policeman, dick prescott drove away. "i saw hemingway coming, and knew you wouldn't need me," dave explained with a laugh. "so, to save bert a double attack of nerves, i slipped off in the darkness, and came here. but what on earth ails dodge, anyway?" "why, for one thing, he's worried to death about the disappearance of his father," replied dick prescott. "i've seen people awfully worried before, and yet it didn't make madmen of them," snorted darrin. "well---perhaps-----" dick hesitated. "well----?" darrin insisted, rather impatiently. "i'm half inclined to think that bert dodge has been leading the soreheads who sulk and won't play football in the same team with some of us common fellows," dick laughed. "if so, the very fact of my being sent to look into the news side of his father's disappearance would make bert feel especially sore at me." "by george, you've hit the nail right on the head there," cried dave. "that's the trouble. bert has been leading a kick that was aimed very largely at dick & co., and now it almost puts him out of his head to find that dick prescott, of all the fellows in the school, has been sent by 'the blade' to gather the facts concerning theodore dodge's mysterious disappearance---or death." "mr. dodge isn't dead," replied prescott slowly. "what? and say! do you realize, dick, that you're letting the horse walk?" "i intended to," returned dick. "whoa!" "there's a boat coming up the river and showing a search-light," broke in dave, pointing. "i saw it. that's why i stopped the horse. it must be chief coy's launch that he went after. yes; there it is, putting in where we first saw bert dodge and the officers." "well, if you're not going to keep track of the launch, why don't you hit a fast gait for the office?" queried darrin. "there is plenty of time yet," dick replied, "and we've nothing to report to the office yet. i'm just waiting for that boat to take on its passengers and get well away from the spot." "oh!" guessed dave. "then you're going back and make your own search of the place?" "you're clever," nodded prescott, with a low laugh. "yes; it may be that hemingway and his companion have made a fine search. or it may be that they've missed clues that a blind man ought to see." so the two high school boys sat there, in the buggy drawn up at the side of the road, for the next fifteen minutes. in that time the launch took on the waiting passengers, and the light played over all that part of the river, then started down stream. dick slowly headed the horse about, this time driving much closer to the river's bank than he had done before. "there's a lantern under the seat, dave. i saw it when we started from 'the blade' office. haul it out and light it, will you?" for some minutes the two high school boys searched without much result. at last dick and dave began to move in wider circles, away from the much-tramped ground. then, holding the lantern close to the ground, prescott moved nearer and nearer to the railway track, all the while scanning the soil closely. "look there, dave!" suddenly called prescott. "no-----don't look just yet," he added, holding the lantern behind him. "but tell me; you've often seen mr. dodge. what kind of boots did he wear?" "narrow, pointed shoes, and rather high heeled for a man to wear," darrin answered. "exactly," nodded dick. "look there!" darrin bent down over a soft spot in the soil close to the railway roadbed. there were three prints of just such a boot as he had described. "you see the small heel print," continued prescott, in a whisper. "and you note that the front part of the foot makes a heavy impression, as it would when the foot is tilted forward by a high heel." "i don't believe another man in the town ever wore a pair of boots such as made these prints," murmured darrin excitedly. "and they're headed away from the river, toward the railroad! and look here---other footprints of a different kind!" "you're right!" cried prescott, holding the lantern closer to the ground and scanning some additional marks in the soil. "coarse shoes; one pair of 'em brogans! mr. dodge had companions when he went away from here." "they may have been forcing the man somewhere with them," quivered darrin, staring off into the black night about them. "no; not a sign of a struggle," argued dick, still with his gaze on the ground. "no matter who mr. dodge's companions were, he went with them willingly. gracious, dave, but we were right in believing the banker to be still alive! coat and hat at the water's edge were a blind! mr. dodge has his own reasons for wanting people to think him dead. he has sloped away. here's the track. which way did he and the fellows go?" "away from gridley," declared darrin, sagely. "otherwise, mr. dodge would have been seen by some one who would remember him." "we'll go up along the track, then." this they did, but the roadbed was hard. besides, anyone walking on the ties would leave no trail. it was slow work, holding the lantern close to the ground and scanning every step, besides swinging the lantern out to light up either side of their course. yet both lads were so tremendously interested that they pushed on, heedless of the flight of time. they had gone a mile or more up the track, "inching" it along, when they came upon an unmistakable print of mr. dodge's oddly pointed boot and narrow, high heel. they found, too, the print of a brogan within six feet of the same point. "this is the way dodge and his queer companions came," exulted dave. "but i don't believe they followed the track much further," argued prescott, pointing ahead at the signal lights of a small crossing station. "if mr. dodge were trying to get away from public gaze he wouldn't go by a station where usually half a dozen loungers are smoking and talking with the station agent." "we're lucky to have the trail this far," observed dave darrin. "but we can't follow it accurately at night. say---gracious! do you know what time it is? half-past one in the morning!" "wow?" ejaculated prescott, halting and looking dismayed. "it'll take us a good many minutes to get back to where we left the horse. it'll be after two o'clock when we hit 'the blade' office. dave, we simply can't follow the trail further tonight. but we must strike it first thing in the morning. it'll be a big thing for 'the blade' to be the folks to find the missing banker and clear the mystery up." "unless dodge just kept on until he came to one of the stations, and took a train. then the trail would be a long one." "he didn't take a train tonight," returned prescott, shaking his head. "if he wanted to disappear that would be the wrong way to go about it. he'd be recognized from the descriptions that will go about broadcast. no, sir! mr. dodge must be hiding in some of the big stretches of woods over yonder. a regiment could hide and be lost in the great woods." "it's a trail i hate to leave," muttered dave darrin. "but we've got to wait until daylight. we can't do much in the dark, anyway. i've got to get back to 'the blade' office. get your bearings here, dave. to make doubly sure i'll cut a slice out of this tie to mark the place where we found this print, for it may be indistinct by daylight." marking the location dick prescott wheeled and began to hurry back, followed by darrin. in due time they reached the buggy, took the light blanket from the horse, unhitched and jumped in. fast driving took them to "the blade" office. "you didn't learn anything, did you?" questioned bradley. "yes; we did," dick informed him. "the police, with their launch didn't get any trace of mr. dodge, did they?" "no," admitted the news editor. "i've talked with hemingway within the last hour. the police will begin dragging the river by daylight." "they won't find the banker that way," chuckled dick. "he's alive." "have you seen him?" demanded the news editor. "no; and i'm not going to say too much now, either," returned dick, with unusual stubbornness. "but 'the blade' wants to take the keynote that theodore dodge is alive, and will turn up. i believe dave and i are going to make him turn up during the next spell of daylight." "we surely are!" laughed darrin. mr. bradley pressed them close with questions, but neither boy was inclined to reveal the secret of the trail along the railway roadbed. "we're going to keep it all as our own scoop," dick insisted. "and please, mr. bradley, don't post the police about our idea. if you do, the police will get the credit. if we keep quiet, 'the blade' will get all the credit that is coming." the news editor laid before dick all the proofs and copy that had been prepared so far on the absorbing mystery of the night. prescott made some newsy additions to the story, and through it all took the confident keynote that the vanished banker would soon be heard from in the flesh. the work done, and bradley having already seen to the return of the horse to the livery stable, dick and dave went into an unused room, where they threw themselves down on piles of old papers. tired out, they slept without stirring. but they had left a note for the office boy who was due at six o'clock to sweep out the business office. that office boy came in and called the high school pair at a few minutes after six. dick's first thought was to instruct the boy to telephone the prescott and darrin homes at seven in the morning, sending word that the two boys were safe but busy. then dick hastily led the way to a quick-order restaurant near by. here the boys got through with breakfast as quickly as they could. that done, they bought sandwiches, which they put into their pockets. as they came out of the eating house the streets were still far from crowded. laborers were going to their toil, but it was yet too early for the business men of the city to be on their way to offices, or clerks to the stores. "now, let's get out of the town in a jiffy," proposed dick. "we don't want to have many folks observing which way we go. we'll travel fast right up along the railway track." once started, the two boys kept going briskly. both had been drowsy at the outset, but the impulse of discovery had them in its grip now, and fatigue was quickly forgotten. something more than half an hour after the start the boys halted beside the tie that prescott had whittled in the dark a few hours before. "there are the footprints," quivered dave, staring hard. "they're not as distinct as they were a few hours ago," replied dick. "still, i think we can follow them. i'm glad they lead toward the woods." "yes," darrin agreed. "the direction of the footprints shows that mr. dodge and his companions didn't have any notion of boarding a train and getting out of this part of the world." yet, though both of these young newspaper hounds were keen to follow the trail, they did not find it any easy matter. dick and dave reached the edge of the woods. then, for a short time, they were obliged to explore carefully ere they came again upon one of the bootmarks of fastidious banker dodge. it was a hundred feet further on, in a bit of soft mould, that the next bootprint was found. had these two high school boys been more expert trackers they would have found a fairly continuous trail, but their untrained eyes lacked the ability to see other signs that would have been evident to a plainsman. so their progress was slow, indeed. they could judge only by the direction in which each last footprint was pointed, and they had to remember that one wandering through the woods might travel over a course whose direction frequently changed. "dave," whispered prescott, "i think we had better separate a little. we might go along about a hundred feet apart. in that way there is more chance that we'll come sooner upon the next print." there were perhaps six hundred feet into the woods, by this time, and stood looking down at the fifth footmark they had found. "all right," nodded darrin. "we're a pair of rank amateurs at this kind of work, anyway." "amateurs or not," murmured dick, with a smile? "we seem to be the only folks in gridley who are on the right track in this mystery at present." "i'm full of misgivings, anyway," muttered dave. "why?" "i can't help feeling that we should have turned our news over to chief coy or hemingway. "again, why?" "well, if we lose our man now, we'll soon feel that we ought to have turned the whole thing over to the police while the trail was fresh." "dave, don't you know, well enough, that newspapers do more than the police, nowadays, in clearing up mysteries?" "this may be more than a mystery," hinted dave. "even if we get through to the end of this trail---or mystery we may find a crime at that end." "all the more need, then, for moving on fast. see here, dave, i'll follow just the way this footprint points. you get out a hundred feet or so to the right. and we'll move as fast as we can, now." the wisdom of this plan was soon apparent, for it was dave darrin who discovered the next footprint. he summoned dick prescott with a sharp hiss. "yes; all right," nodded dick, joining his comrade and gazing down at one of the narrow bootmarks. "but don't send a long signal again, dave. we might be close, and warn some one out of our way." "what shall we do, then?" "we'll look frequently at each other, and the fellow who discovers anything will make signs to the other." three minutes later dick prescott crouched low behind a line of bushes, his eyes glistening as he peered and listened. then he began to make wildly energetic signals to dave darrin. the head partner of dick & co. had fallen upon something that interested him---tremendously! chapter iv the "soreheads" in conclave dave darrin came stealing over, as soft-footed as any panther. dick did not turn around to look at his chum. he merely held up a cautioning hand, and darrin moved even more stealthily. in another moment dave's head was close to his chum's, and both young men were gazing upon the same scene. "davis and fremont-----" whispered darrin in his chum's ear. "bayliss, porter and drayne," dick nodded back, softly. "trenhold, grayson, hudson," continued darrin. "all the 'soreheads,'" finished dick prescott for him. "or nearly all," supplemented dave. indeed, the scene upon which these two high school boys gazed was one that greatly interested them. on a little knoll, just beyond the line of bushes, and on lower ground, fully a dozen young men lounged, basking in the morning sun, which poured through upon this small, treeless space. though the young men down in the knoll were not carefully attired, there was a general similarity in their dress. all wore sweaters, and nearly all of them wore cross-country shoes. evidently the whole party had been out for a cross country run. now, the dozen or so were eagerly engaged in conversation. "it's too bad purcell won't join us," remarked davis. "yes," nodded another fellow in the group; "he belongs with us." "oh, well," spoke up bayliss, "if purcell would rather be with the muckers, let him." "now, let's not be too rank, fellows," objected hudson slowly. "i wouldn't call all the fellows muckers who don't happen to belong in our crowd." "what would you call 'em then?" growled bayliss angrily. "time was when only the fellows of the better families expected to go to high school, on their way to college. now, every day-laborer's son seems to think he ought to go to high school-----" "and be received with open arms, on a footing of equality," sneered porter. "it's becoming disgusting," muttered bayliss. "not only do these cheap fellows expect to go to the high school, but they actually want to run the school affairs." "i suppose that's natural, to some extent," speculated porter. "why?" demanded bayliss, turning upon the last speaker in amazement. "why, the sons of the poorer families are in a majority, nowadays," returned hudson. "say, you're getting almost as bad as purcell," warned porter. "if i am, i apologize, of course," responded hudson. "i've no real objection to the sons of poorer men coming to the high school," vouchsafed paulson, meditatively. "but you know the cream, the finer class of the high school student body, has always centered in the school's athletic teams. and now-----" "yes; and now-----" broke in bayliss harshly. "why, these fellows, who are not much more than tolerated in the high school, or ought not to be, make the most noise at the meets of the training squads," continued paulson. "and some of 'em," growled fremont, "actually have the cheek to carry off honors in scholarship, too. take dick prescott, for instance." "oh, let the muckers have the scholarship honors, if that's all they want," retorted bayliss "a gentleman hasn't much need of scholarship, anyway, if he's an all-around, proper fellow in every other respect. but the, gang that call themselves dick & co. are a fair sample of the muckers that we have to contend with." "no," objected fremont; "they're the very worst of the lot in the high school. why, look at the advertising those fellows get for themselves. and not one of them of good family." "fellows of good, prominent families don't have to advertise themselves," observed bayliss sagely. it was plain that by "good" family was meant one of wealth. these young men had little else in the way of a standard. "it makes me cranky," observed whitney, "to see the way a lot of the girls seem to notice just such fellows as prescott, darrin, reade, dalzell---fellows who, by rights, ought to be through with their schooling and earning wages as respectful grocery clerks or decent shoe salesmen." "but this talk isn't carrying us anywhere," objected bayliss. "the question is, what are we going to do with the football problem this year? we don't want to play in the same eleven with the cheap muckers, and have 'em think they're the whole eleven. the call for the football training squad is due to go up some time next week." "bert dodge says-----" interrupted paulson. "yes, dodge is the fellow i wish we had here with us today," interposed bayliss. "dodge is the one we ought to listen to." "poor dodge has his own troubles today," murmured hudson. "yes; i know---poor fellow," nodded bayliss. "i wish we fellows could help him, but we can't." "i was talking with dodge yesterday, before his own troubles broke loose," went on hudson. "dodge's idea is that we ought all to keep away when the football squad is called. then coach morton may get an idea of how things are going, and he may see just what he ought to do." "but suppose the muckers all answer the call in force?" inquired trenholm. "what are we to do then?" "we're to keep out of the squad this year," responded bayliss promptly. "see here, either we fellows organize the gridley high school eleven ourselves, and decide who shall play in it, or else we stay out and let the muckers go ahead and pile up a record of lost games this year." "that's hard on good old gridley high school," murmured hudson. "true," agreed fremont. "but it'll teach the town, the school authorities, the coach and after this year, that only the prominent fellows in the school should have any voice in athletics. let the muckers be content with standing behind the side lines and rooting for the real high school crowd." "shall we put it to a vote?" asked bayliss, looking about him. "yes!" answered several promptly. "then, as i understand it," continued bayliss, "when the football call goes up, we're all to ignore it. we're to continue to ignore the call, and keep out of the school football squad this year, unless the coach and the athletics committee agree that we shall have the naming of the candidates. is that the general agreement among ourselves?" "yes!" came the chorus. "any contrary votes?" momentary silence reigned in this conclave of "soreheads." "yet," continued bayliss, "we've started training among ourselves. this morning's cross-country is part of our daily training. if we have to refuse the football call, and stay out of the squad, are we to drop our present training?" "hardly, i should say," responded fremont. "i have something to suggest in that line. if we can't go into what is really a gentleman's eleven under the high school colors, i propose that we organize an eleven of our own, and call ourselves simply the gridley football club. we can bring out an eleven that would put things all over any school team that the muckers could organize without our help." "we wouldn't play the muckers, would we?" demanded trenholm. "certainly not!" retorted bayliss, with contemptuous emphasis. "we won't even know that a mucker high school team is on earth," laughed porter. "i think we understand the plan well enough, now, don't we?" inquired blaisdell, rising. "we do," nodded porter. "and we'll all do our full share toward bringing control of high school affairs back to the aristocratic leadership that it once had." "hoist our banners, and let them proclaim: 'down with the muckers!'" laughed hudson, rolling up the hem of his sweater. "we want a good, not too fast but steady jog back to town," announced bayliss. at the first sign that the "soreheads" were preparing to leave the spot dick had taken advantage of their noise to slip away. dave had followed him successfully. then, from another hiding place these two prowling juniors, grinning, watched the "soreheads" move away at a loping run. "we certainly know all we need to about that crowd," muttered dick, a half-vengeful look in his eyes. "the snobs!" "oh, they're cads, all right," assented dave. "yet that bunch of fellows contains some of the material that is needed in putting forth the best high school team this year!" "humph!" commented dave disgustedly. "yet, dick, i was almost surprised that you would stop and listen, without letting the fellows know you were there." "it does seem sneaky, at first thought," prescott admitted, almost shamefacedly. "hold on there!" ordered dave. "i don't believe you'd do a thing like that, dick prescott, unless you had an honorable reason for it." "i did it because the honor of the high school is so precious to me---to us all," dick replied. "we want to put forth a winning team, as gridley high school has always done. now, these 'soreheads' aim to defeat that by keeping a few of the best players off the eleven. i listened, dave, because i wanted to know what the trouble was, and just who was making it. now, i guess i know how to deal with the 'sore-heads.' i'll make them ashamed of themselves." "how?" "one thing at a time, dave. in our excitement we've almost forgotten that we started out to find theodore dodge and clear up the mystery of his disappearance." chapter v at the end of the trail "the further we go the more mysterious this becomes," mused dick, as he and darrin stood together over a clump of faintly-marked footprints, a quarter of an hour later. "how does the mystery increase?" darrin inquired. "for one thing, we don't always find the bootmarks of the men who were with mr. dodge. yet once in a while we do. there are the prints of all three. when theodore dodge passed by this way the other two men were with him, or had him in sight. and our course shows that the three were plunging deeper and deeper into the woods. but come along. there must be an end to this, somewhere." ten minutes later prescott and darrin felt that they had come to the end of the mystery. for the faint trail had led them up a slight, stony slope, and now the two boys lay flat on the ground. below them, in a bush-clad hollow, two miles from the world in general, stood a little, old, ramshackle shanty. the location was one that seekers would hardly have found without a trail to lead them to it. to the door of this shanty a broad-shouldered, rough-looking and powerful fellow of forty had just come. the man, who was poorly clad, wore brogans, and held in his right hand a weighty, ugly-looking club. the fellow was smoking a short-stemmed pipe, and now stood, with his left hand shading his eyes, peering off at the surrounding landscape. dick and dave hugged the ground more closely behind their screen of bushes. "it's all right, bill," announced the lookout in the doorway. "'course this," growled a voice from the inside. "too far from the main line o' travel for anyone to be spying around. besides, no one guesses-----" "well, you can go to sleep if ye wanter, bill. i'm goin' ter sit up and smoke." with that the brogan-shod man disappeared inside the shanty. dick and dave glanced at each other with eager interest. "i wonder whether they have mr. dodge in there with them?" breathed dick, in his ear. "if mr. dodge is in there he's keeping amazingly quiet," darrin responded doubtingly. "within a very few minutes," prescott rejoined, "i'm going to know whether mr. dodge is in that shanty." "we found his footprint close enough near here," argued dave. "yes, and i feel sure enough that mr. dodge is there. but why don't we hear something from him? the whole business is so uncanny that it gives one that creepy feeling." for a full quarter of an hour the two chums remained hidden, barely stirring. from the shanty, at first, came crooning tones, as though the man in brogans were humming over old songs to himself. occasionally there was a snore; evidently bill was drowsing the day away. "now, i'm going down there," whispered dick. "look out the big fellow doesn't catch you," warned darrin. "i've an idea he'd beat you to a pulp if he caught you." "i'm not as big as he is," admitted dick, grinning, "but i think i might prove as fast as he on my feet." as prescott started to steal down into the hollow dave reached about him, gathering all the fair-sized stones within reach. "if dick has to come from there on the rim," soliloquized darrin, "a few stones hurled at the face of that ugly-looking customer might hold him back for a while. and i used to be called a pretty fair pitcher!" prescott, in the meantime, was stealing around the shanty, applying his eyes to some tiny cracks. at last he turned, making straight and cautiously up the slope. as he came near, dick sent dave a signal that made that latter youth throb with expectancy. "yes! we've found theodore dodge!" whispered young prescott eagerly. "he's in there, lying on the floor, bound and gagged." "whew! and what is mr. brogans doing?" "sitting on the floors smoking and playing solitaire with a dirty pack of cards. the other rascal, bill, is sleeping at a great rate." "what are we going to do now?" "dave, are you willing to stay here, hiding and keeping watch on the place?" "surely," nodded darrin, with great promptness. "if the wretches should try to take mr. dodge away from here-----" "i'll follow 'em, of course." "and leave a paper trail," nodded dick. "here is all the paper i have in my pockets," he added. "i have some, too," muttered dave. "i'll be back as speedily as i can get help." "you ought not to be gone more than an hour." "not as long as that, i hope. goodbye, dave, and look out for yourself." after going the first hundred yards dick prescott let himself out into a loping run, very much like that used by the "soreheads" in getting back to town. with a trained runner the cross-country style of running is suited for getting over long distances at fair speed. twenty minutes later young prescott reached a farm house in which there was a telephone. he asked permission to use the instrument. "go right in the parlor, and help yourself," replied the farmer's wife. as dick rang on, and stood waiting, transmitter at his ear, he first thought of calling for the police station. "no, i won't, either," he muttered. "this belongs to my paper. let them tip off the police. hello! give me 'the blade' office, gridley, please." dick waited patiently a few moments. then: "hullo! 'the blade?' this is prescott. is mr. pollock there? he is? good! tell him i want to speak with him." then mr. pollock's voice sounded over the wire. "hullo, prescott! why aren't you on hand, with that big dodge story hanging over our heads? why, it brought me down hours before fore my time." "pollock, i've found dodge," replied dick composedly. "at least, darrin and i-----" "what's that!" broke in the editor's excited voice. "you've found dodge? alive?" as rapidly as he could young prescott told the story. mr. pollock listened gladly. "now, where are you, prescott?" dick told mr. pollock the name of the farmer from whose home he was telephoning. "just you wait there, prescott. and, oh!---pshaw! i came near forgetting to tell you the biggest news of all---for you. mrs. dodge this morning offered a thousand dollars' reward for the finding of her husband, dead or alive. you'll get that reward---you and darrin! but i've no more time to talk. stay right where you are until i reach you." nor was it long before dick, pacing by the farmyard gate, saw an automobile approaching at a lively clip. in it were the chauffeur and editor pollock. the latter waved his hand wildly when he caught sight if his high school reporter. right begged this automobile sped another, in which sat chief coy, officer hemingway and a uniformed policeman, in addition to the chauffeur. "we didn't lose much time, did we?" hailed mr. pollock, as the first auto slowed up "jump in, quick! show us the way." "i suppose there's some excitement down in gridley, about this time?" laughed dick, as the two autos raced along once more. "not a bit," replied the editor. "and for the very simple reason that no one knows that dodge has been found." "his family know it, of course?" queried dick. "no; not a word. chief coy kept it quiet, and asked me to do the same. he didn't want the dodge family all stirred up by false hopes in case you had made a mistake. the silence will keep 'the evening mail' from learning the news for a while. and i've had our forms left standing. we're all ready to run out an extra ---in case you haven't made a mistake, prescott," added mr. pollock quizzically. dick smiled resignedly at this implied doubt. but the autos were making fast time, and soon the machines had gone as far on the way as they could be used. "now we'll have to get out and strike across country, through the woods," prescott called. so far dick had resolutely tried to keep out of his mind any thought of that thousand-dollar reward. it sounded too much like "blood money" to take pay for helping any afflicted family out of its troubles. besides, it had been the glory of doing a piece of bright newspaper work that had allured the two high school boys at the outset. "yet a thousand dollars is---a thousand dollars!" dick couldn't help feeling, wistfully, as he piloted his party across fields and through the woods. "a thousand dollars! five hundred apiece for dave and me! what a fearful big lot of money! what we could do with it, if we had it! i wonder whether it would be right and decent to take it?" then, as he neared the place where he had left his chum on post dick prescott found other and anxious thoughts crowding into his mind. was dave darrin, staunch and reliable dave---still there, on post, and unharmed? was theodore dodge there? were his captors still with him? chapter vi the small soul of a gentleman a few minutes later all fears and doubts were dispelled. dave darrin rose to greet the newcomers informing them, in a whisper, that all was still well in the old shanty below. he of the brogans and club heard a slight noise outside. swiftly he rose and darted to the door, ready to pounce. but he beheld the policemen, with the newspaper trio just behind them. more, chief coy and his subordinates had their revolvers drawn. "howdy, gents?" was mr. brogans' greeting as he dropped his club and tried to grin. "take care of him, hemingway," directed thief coy, briefly. "me?" demanded brogans, in feigned astonishment. "what have _i_ done?" the noise roused bill, who sprang up. but bill must have found the police wonderfully soothing, for he quieted down at once. both rascals were taken care of. then theodore dodge was found lying bound and gagged on the floor. a ragged, foul-smelling coat had been substituted for the one that had been left at the river's bank. the banker looked up at the intruders with a stupefied leer, betraying neither alarm or pleasure. as soon as the two rough-looking fellows had been handcuffed mr. dodge was freed, and his tongue also, but chief coy, after raising the banker and questioning him, muttered: "clean out of his head. daffy. must have wandered away from gridley during a loony streak. he isn't over it yet." the two rough-looking ones protested loudly against being deprived of their liberty. "i don't really know that you fellows have done anything," admitted chief coy. "but i'm taking you along on suspicion that it was you, and not mr. dodge himself, who bound and gagged him." this retort, given with a great deal of dry sarcasm, silenced the prisoners for the time being. "we ought to have this out an hour before 'the evening mail' people," exulted editor pollock. "prescott, my boy, you're a born reporter! and, darrin, you're not much behind." "theodore dodge found by two "blade" reporters! that won't sound bad!" the briefest questioning was enough to show that theodore dodge was in no condition to give any account of himself. he did not reply with an intelligible word. his eyes held only a vacant stare. it was as though memory and reason had suddenly snapped within his brain. "the doctors will want him," commented chief coy. "and we can't be hustling back a bit too soon." it had been a gloomy morning at the home of banker dodge. through the night, none had slept. anxiety had kept them all on the rack. mrs. dodge, a thin and nervous woman, had gone from one spell of hysterics into another, as morning neared. a trained nurse had to be sent for. then in a calm lull mrs. dodge had telephoned for lawyer ripley, who lost his breakfast through the speed with which he obeyed the summons of the distracted wife. as a result of the lawyer's visit the reward of a thousand dollars had been offered. the house was quiet again. dr. bentley, having been called for the third time, had administered an opiate, and mrs. dodge was sleeping. the other members of the family tip-toed restlessly about. bert dodge felt in a peculiarly "mean" frame of mind that morning. the young man simply could not remain in one spot. the more he had thought, through and through the night, the more he had become convinced that his father had killed himself because of some entanglement in the bank's affairs. "and i'll be pointed out as the defaulter's son," thought bert bitterly. "oh, why couldn't the guv'nor think of some one besides himself! we'll have to move away from gridley, of course. but the disgrace will follow us anywhere we may go. oh, it's awful---awful! of course, i'm not in any way to blame. but, oh! what a disgrace!" it was well along in the forenoon when bayliss, returning homeward in sweater and running togs, espied bert's white, wan face near the front door. bayliss signaled cordially to young dodge, who, glad of this kindliness at such a time, went down the walk to the gate. "no news of your father yet, i suppose?" asked bayliss. "no," sighed bert. "too bad, old fellow!" "yes; the uncertainty is pretty tough on us all," dodge replied. "oh, you'll hear before the day is out, and the news will be all right, too," declared bayliss, with well-meant cheeriness. "then you'll be with us on the morning cross-countries again. we missed you a whole lot this morning, bert." "did you?" asked young dodge, brightening. "yes; and, by the way, we've decided on our course---for our set, you know. we're going to ignore the football call next week. if coach morton asks us any questions, then we'll let him know how the land lies. we won't try to make the high school team if the muckers are allowed the same show. we'll have a select crowd on the eleven, this year, or else all of our set will stay off." "the muckers have some good football men among them, too," grumbled bert. "of course for that gang that call themselves dick & co we can't any more than make guesses. but some of them would be handy on an eleven i guess." "yes; if they were not muckers," agreed bayliss loftily. "but there are enough of our own kind to make as good an eleven as gridley high school ever had." "it's a pity we can't get up our own eleven play the muckers, just once, and beat them out for the right to represent gridley." "it wouldn't be so bad an idea. but they might beat us," retorted bayliss dryly. "so, on the whole, our fellows have decided not to pay any heed whatever to dick & co. or any of the other muckers. after this the line must be drawn, at high school, between the gentlemen and the other kind." "all plans looking in that direction will have my hearty support," pledged bert dodge. "i know it, old fellow." "it's queer that the question never came up before about the muckers," bert mused. "we never had dick & co. in school athletics, until last year," replied bayliss significantly. "that fellow, prescott, is about the worst-----" bert dodge stopped right there. bayliss, too, started and turned. around the nearest corner some folks were making a big noise. then around the corner came two autos, while a crowd raced along on the sidewalks. "hurrah! mr. dodge is found. dick prescott and dave darrin found him!" shouted a score of urchins in the crowd. bert and bayliss both gasped. then the autos slowed up at the curb before the gate. the police prisoners were still in the second car. bert took a look, recognized his father, despite the strange look in that parent's face. "help them bring my father in, bayliss!" called young dodge. "i'll run to prepare the folks." in another moment there was a turmoil of excitement inside the dodge house. while the excitement was still going on bert came out to inform the crowd that both his father and mother needed quiet and medical attendance. bert begged the crowd to go away quietly. dick and dave were standing before the gateway way while editor pollock answered some of the queries of the crowd. "great luck for you fellows, prescott and barren!" called some one in the crowd. "you two will know what to do with a thousand dollars' reward!" bert dodge wheeled about like a flash, and facing dave and dick, shouted: "if that's what you two fellows are hanging around here for, you'd better clear out! take it from me that you fellows will get no thousand dollars, or ten cents, out of our family!" chapter vii the football notice goes up mr. pollock, usually a very calm man, wheeled upon young dodge. "my lad, when you find out what prescott and darrin have done in the way of rescuing your father, you'll feel wholly ashamed of yourself. i don't believe either young man has given a second thought to the reward." people in a crowd take sides quickly. bert heard several muttered remarks from the bystanders that made him flush. then, choking and angry, he turned and darted for the house. by this time mr. pollock, dick and dave were speeding for "the blade" office. already a run had started on the second national bank. a crowd filled the counting room and extended out onto the sidewalk. their depositors, largely small business men and people who ran private check accounts, were frightfully nervous about their money. up to noon the bank paid all demands, though the accounts were adjusted slowly, while the crowd grew in numbers outside. at noon the second national availed itself of its privilege of closing its doors promptly at that hour on saturday. dick prescott wrote with furious speed at "the blade" office. in another room mr. pollock wrote from the facts supplied by dave darrin. in half an hour from the time these three entered the office the "extra" was out on the street---fifteen minutes ahead of "the mail," which latter newspaper contained very little beyond the fact that mr. dodge had been found, and that he was now under the care of his family. "the mail" stated that the discovery had been made by "two high school boys" aiding the police, and did not name either dick or dave. on monday the bank examiner arrived. he made a quick inspection of the bank's affairs, and pronounced the institution "sound." the run on the bank stopped, and timid depositors began to bring back their money. the members of the dodge family could once more hold up their heads. in the meantime dr. bentley had called in a specialist. together the two medical men decided that theodore dodge had suffered only from an extreme amount of overwork; that the strain had momentarily unbalanced his mind, and had made the deranged man contemplate drowning himself. by means of a modified form of the "third degree" chief coy, by this time, had succeeded in making the two vagrants confess that they had found mr. dodge, with his coat and hat off standing by the bank of the stream. guessing the banker's condition, and learning his identity, the two men, though they did not confess on this point, had evidently coaxed the banker away to their shanty away off in the heart of the woods. undoubtedly it had been their plan to keep the banker under their own eyes, with a view of extorting a reward from the missing man's family. the judge of the local court finally decided to send both men away for six months on a charge of vagrancy. and here the matter seemed to end. though lawyer ripley urged the prompt payment of the offered reward to prescott and darrin, mrs. dodge, influenced by her son, demurred. at mr. pollock's suggestion dick and dave promptly drew up and signed a paper releasing the dodge family from any claim. this paper was also signed by the fathers of the two boys, and forwarded to lawyer ripley. that gentleman man returned the paper to dick, with a statement that he might have something to communicate at a later date. tuesday morning, with many secret misgivings, coach morton, who was also one of the submasters of the high school, posted the call for the football squad. the call was for three o'clock thursday afternoon, at the gym. "humph!" was the audible and only comment of bayliss, as he stood before the school bulletin board at recess and read the announcement. "i guess the day for football here has gone by," observed porter sneeringly. "of interest to ragamuffins only," sneered paulson, as he turned away to join fremont of the senior class. "listen to the wild enthusiasm over upholding the school's honor in athletics," muttered dave, scowling darkly. "we knew it was coming," declared tom reade. abner cantwell was still principal at gridley high school, though that violent-tempered and unpopular pedagogue had been engaged, this year, only as "substitute" principal. there were rumors that dr. thornton, the former and much-loved principal, would soon be in sufficiently good health to return. so the board of education had left the way clear for dropping mr. cantwell at any moment that it might see fit. dick & co. had gathered by themselves on this tuesday, at recess. they did not discuss the football call, nor its reception by the "soreheads," for they had known what was coming. just before recess was over, however, there were sudden sounds of a riot around the bulletin board. "tear that down!" "throw 'em out!" "raus mit!" "the mean cheats!" there was a surging rush of high school boys for the bulletin board. bayliss and fremont, both of the senior class, who had just posted a new notice, were now trying to push their way through an angry crowd of youngsters that had collected. "they're no good!" "a disgrace to the school!" "send 'em to coventry!" "no! handle 'em right now!" there was another rush. "get back, you hoodlums!" yelled bayliss, his face violet with rage. "i'll crack the head of any fellow that lays hands on me!" stormed fremont. "oh, will he? come on, then, fellows!" fremont was caught up as though by a cyclone. two or three fellows seized him at a time, passing him down the corridor. the last to receive the hapless fremont propelled him through the main doorway of the school building. nor was this done with any gentle force, either. bayliss, not attempting to fight, was simply hustled along on his feet. out of one of the rooms near by rushed mr. cantwell, the principal---or "prin." as he was known, his face white with the anger that he felt over what he regarded as a most unseemly disturbance. "stop this riot, young gentlemen!" commanded the principal sternly. "send in the riot call, like you did last year!" piped up a disguised, thin, falsetto voice from the outskirts of the rapidly growing crowd. quite a lot of the girls had gathered, too, by this time. the principal turned around, sharply, as some of the girls began to giggle. but mr. cantwell was unable to detect the one who had thus taunted him. coach morton peered over the railing of the floor above. "mr. morton!" called the principal. "yes, sir." "sound the assembling gong, if you please." clang! clang! clang! the din of the gong cut their recess four minutes short, but not one of the excited high school boys regretted it. they had had a chance to express themselves, and now fell in, filing down to the locker rooms, then up the stairs once more to the assembly room. bayliss and fremont came in, joining the others. they were white-faced, but strove to carry their heads very high. the sounding of the gong had stopped the circulating of the paper that had been so angrily torn down from the bulletin board. it was in dick prescott's hands now. the notice had announced the formation of a "select" party for a straw ride for the young men and young women of the junior and senior classes on thursday afternoon, starting at two-thirty o'clock. invitations would be issued by the committee, after requests for tickets had been passed upon by that committee. bayliss, fremont and paulson signed the notice of the straw ride. this was the means by which the "soreheads" chose to announce that they would ignore the football squad call for thursday. wisely, for once, the principal did not choose to question the young men regarding the excitement attending the close of recess. studies and recitations went on as usual. but feeling ran high. the "soreheads" and their sympathizers were known, by this time, to all the other young men of the student body. during the rest of the day's session many a "sorehead" found himself being regarded with black or sneering looks. of course the self-elected "exclusive" set was not numerously represented in the high school. most of the boys and girls did not come from well-to-do families. some who did had refused to have anything to do with the "sorehead" crowd. the instant that school was dismissed that tuesday afternoon scores of the more boisterous boys rushed from the building, across the yard, and double-lined the sidewalk leading from the gateway. "ugh! ugh! ugh!" they groaned, whenever any of the "soreheads" tried to walk this gauntlet in dignified silence. "let's keep out of that, fellows," advised dick, to his chums, who grouped themselves about him. "groans and catcalls won't smooth or soothe any hard-feelings." "i don't blame any of the fellows for what they're doing to the snobs," blazed dan dalzell indignantly. "i don't say that i do, either," dick replied quietly. "but there may be better ways of teaching fellows that they should stand by their school at all times." "i'd like to know a better way, then," flared tom reade. "let's have it, instanter, dick, if you've got one," begged greg holmes. "yes; out with it, old chap," begged harry hazelton. but dick prescott smiled provokingly. "perhaps, with the help of some of the rest of you," he replied, "i shall be able to find a way of cooling some hot heads. i hope so, anyway." "dick has his plan all fixed, now," dan whispered, hopefully, to tom. "if he has," quoth reade, under his breath, i wish he'd tell us his scheme." "humph!" retorted dan. "you know dick prescott, and you know that he never shoots until he has taken time to aim." chapter viii dick fires both barrels "oh---great scott!" gasped tom reade, as he paused at an item in "the blade" the following morning. that item had been written by prescott. there could be no doubt about it in reade's mind. "what's the matter?" asked tom's father. "oh, dick has been paying his respects to a certain clique in the high school, i take it," tom replied, with a grin. "i heard, yesterday, that he was going to shoot into that crowd. but---and here's a short editorial on the same subject, too. wow! dick has fired into the enemy with both barrels!" a moment later tom passed the paper over to his father. dick's article read: _there is a possibility that gridley high school will not be in the front ranks in football this year. those who know state that a "sorehead" combination has been formed by the young male representatives of some of our wealthier families. these young men, having elected themselves, so it is said, the salt of the earth, or the cream of a new gridley aristocracy, are going to refuse to play in the football eleven this year. even young men who belong to "prominent" families may have some gifts in the way of football ability. three or four out of the dozen or more "soreheads" are really needed if gridley high school is to maintain its standing this year. the remainder of the "soreheads" may, with advantage to the high school eleven, be excused from offering themselves. the "soreheads," it is stated, feel that it would be beneath the dignity of their families for them to play on an eleven which must, in any event, be recruited largely from the sons of the gridley families less fortunately situated financially. strangely enough, though they don't intend to play football this year, these "soreheads" have been training hard of late, one of their practices being the taking of an early morning cross-country run together. the average young man at the high school is as eager as ever to uphold the town's and the school's honor and dignity on the football gridiron this year. whether the so-called "soreheads" will reconsider their proposed course of action and throw themselves in with the common lot for the upholding of the gridley name and the honor of the high school will have been determined within the next few days. it is possible, however, that this little coterie of self-appointed "exclusives" will continue to refuse to cast their lot with the commoner run of high school boys, to whom some of the "soreheads" have referred as "muckers." a gridley "mucker," it may be stated in passing, is a gridley boy of poor parents who desires to obtain a decent education and better himself in life._ "is that article true?" demanded tom reade's father. "yes, sir," tom responded. "dick wouldn't have written it, if it hadn't been. but turn over to the editorial column, and see that other little bit." the editorial in question referred to the news printed in another column, and stated that this information, if correct, showed a state of affairs at the high school that needed bettering. the editor continued: _if there are in the high school any young snobs who display such a mean and un-american spirit, then the thoughtful reader must conclude that these young men are being unjustly educated at the public expense, for such boys are certain to grow into men who will turn nothing of value back into the community. such young men, if they really need to study, should be educated at the expense of their families. both the high school and the community can easily dispense with the presence of snobs and snobbery._ "i guess there'll be some real soreness in some heads this morning," laughed tom's father. "won't there!" ejaculated tom, and hurried out into the street. it did not take him long to find some of his chums and other high school boys. those who had not seen "the blade" read the two marked portions eagerly. bert dodge had "the blade" placed before him by his sister. bert read with reddening cheeks. "that's what comes of letting a fellow like dick prescott write for the papers," bert stormed angrily. "that fellow ought to be tarred and feathered!" "why don't you suggest it to the 'soreheads'?" asked his sister, quizzically. grace dodge was an amiable, democratic, capable girl who had gone through college with honors, and yet had not gained a false impression of the importance conferred by a little wealth. "grace, i believe you're laughing at me!" dared the young man exasperatedly. "no; i'm not laughing. i'm sorry," sighed the young woman. "but i can imagine that a good many are laughing, this morning, and that the number will grow. bert, dear, do you think any young man can hope to be very highly esteemed when he sets his own importance above the good name and success of his school?" bert did not answer, but quit the house moodily. he encountered some of "his own set," but they were not a very cheerful-looking lot that morning. not one of the "soreheads" could escape the conviction that dick prescott held the whip hand of public opinion over them. what none of them appreciated, was the moderation with which young prescott had wielded his weapon. dodge, bayliss, paulson and hudson entered the high school grounds together, that morning, ten minutes before opening time. as the quartette passed, several of the little groups of fellow students ceased their talk and turned away from the four "soreheads." then, after the quartette had passed, quiet little laughs were heard. all four mounted the steps of the building with heightening color. before the door, talking together, stood fred ripley and purcell, whom the "soreheads" had endeavored to enlist. "good morning, purcell. morning, ripley," greeted bayliss. fred and purcell wheeled about, turning their backs without answering. once inside the building the four young fellows looked at each other uneasily. "are the fellows trying to send us to coventry?" demanded dodge. "oh, well," muttered bayliss, "there are enough of us. we can stand it!" yet, at recess, the "soreheads" found themselves extremely uncomfortable. none of their fellow-students, among the boys, would notice them. whenever some of the "soreheads" passed a knot of other boys, low-toned laughs followed. even many of the girls, it proved, had taken up with the coventry idea. "fellows, come to my place after you've had your luncheons," bayliss whispered around among his cronies, after school was out for the day. "i---i guess there are a---a few things that we want to talk over among ourselves. so come over, and we'll use the carriage house for a meeting place. maybe we'll organize a club among ourselves, or---or---do something that shall shut us out and away from the common herd of this school." when the dozen or more met in the bayliss carriage house that afternoon there were some defiant looks, and some anxious ones. "i don't know how you fellows feel about this business," began hudson frankly. "but i've had a pretty hot grilling at home by dad. he asked me if i belonged to the 'sorehead' gang. i answered as evasively as i could. then dad brought his list down on the table and told me he prayed that i wouldn't go through life with any false notions about my personal dimensions. he told me, rather explosively, that i would never be a bit bigger, in anyone's estimation than i proved myself to be." "hot, was he?" asked bayliss, with a half sneer. "he started out that way," replied hudson. "but pretty soon dad became dignified, and asked me where i had ever gotten the notion that i amounted to any more than any other fellow of the same brain caliber." "what did you tell him? asked bert dodge, frowning. "i couldn't tell him much," retorted hudson, smiling wearily. "dad was primed to do most of the talking. when he stopped for breath mother began." "it's all that confounded dick prescott's doings! it's a shame! it's a piece of anarchy---that's what it is!" muttered paulson. "on my way here i passed three men on the street. they looked at me pretty hard, and laughed after i had gone by. fellows, are we going to allow that mucker, dick prescott, to make us by-words in this town?" "no siree, no!" roared fremont. "good! that's what i like to hear," put in hudson dryly. "and what are we going to do to stop dick prescott and turn public opinion our ways" "why-----" "we-----" "the way to-----" "we'll-----" several spoke at once, then all came to a full stop. the "soreheads" looked at each other in puzzled silence. "what are we going to do?" demanded fremont. "how are we going to hit back at a fellow who has a newspaper that he can use as a club on your head?" "we might have a piece put in 'the evening mail,'" hinted porter, after a dazed silence. "that's the rival paper." "yes!" chimed in bayliss, eagerly. "we can write a piece and get it put in 'the mail.' our piece can say that there has been a tendency, this year, or was believed to be one, to get a rowdyish element of the high school into the high school eleven, and that our move was really a move intended to sustain the past reputation of the gridley high school for gentlemanly playing in all school sports. that will hit dick & co., and a lot of others, and will turn the laugh back on the muckers." this proposition brought forth several eager cries of approval. "i see just one flaw in the plan," observed hudson slowly. "what is it?" demanded half a dozen at once. "why, 'the evening mail' is a paper designed to appeal to the more rowdyish element in gridley politics. 'the mail's' circulation is about all among the class of people who come nearest to being 'rowdyish.' so i'm pretty certain, fellows, that 'the mail' wouldn't take up our cause, and hammer our enemies with the word 'rowdy.' 'the blade' is the paper that circulates among the best people in gridley." "and dick prescott writes for 'the blade'!" a gloomy silence followed, broken by bayliss's disconsolate query: "then, hang it! what can we do?" and that query stuck hard! chapter ix bayliss gets some advice on that fateful thursday morning every high school boy, and nearly every high school girl saw "the blade." the morning paper, however, contained no allusion whatever to the football remarks of the day before. instead, there was an article descriptive of the changes to be made out at the high school athletic field this present year, and there were points and "dope" (as the sporting parlance phrases it) concerning the records and rumored new players of other high school elevens that were anxious to meet gridley on the gridiron this coming season. thursday's article was just the kind of a one that was calculated to make every football enthusiast eager to see the season open in full swing. again the "soreheads" came to school, and once more they had to pass the silent groups of their fellow students, who stood with heads turned away. the reign of coventry seemed complete. never before had any of the "soreheads" understood so thoroughly the meaning of loneliness. at recess all the talk was of football. none of this talk, however, was heard by the "soreheads." whenever any of these went near the other groups the talk ceased instantly. there was no comfort in the yard, that morning, for a "sorehead." when school let out that afternoon, at one o'clock, bayliss, fremont, dodge and their kind scurried off fast. no one offered to stop them. these "exclusive" young men could not get away from the fact that exclusion was freely accorded them. fred ripley, as had been his wont in other years when he was a freshman, walked homeward with clara deane. "fred, you haven't got yourself mixed up at all with that 'sorehead' crowd, have you?" miss deane asked. "not much!" replied fred, with emphasis. "i want to play football this year." "will all the 'soreheads' be kept out of the eleven, even if they come to their senses?" clara inquired. "now, really, you'll have to ask me an easier one than that," replied fred ripley laughingly. "i had an idea that all of the fellows whose families are rather comfortably well off might be in the movement---or the strike or whatever you call it," clara replied. "oh, no; there's a lot of us who haven't gone in with the kickers---and glad we are of it," fred replied. "still, don't you believe in any importance attaching to the fact that one comes of one of the rather good old families?" asked clara deane thoughtfully. "why, of course, it's something to be quietly proud of," fred slowly assented. then added, with a quick laugh: "but the events of the last two days show that one should keep his pride buttoned in behind his vest." as for the "soreheads" themselves, there weren't any more meetings. as soon as they actually began to realize how much amused contempt many of the gridley, people felt for them, these young men began to feel rather disgusted with themselves. across the street, and not far from the gymnasium building, was an apartment house in which two apartments were vacant. being well acquainted with the agent, bayliss borrowed the key to one of the apartments. before half past two that afternoon, bayliss and dodge were in hiding, where they could look out through a movable shutter at the gymnasium building. "there go prescott, darrin and reade," bayliss soon reported. "oh, of course; they'll answer the football call," sniffed dodge. "it was over fellows just like them that the whole trouble started." "and there's dalzell, hazelton and hanshew. griffith is just behind them." "yes; all muckers," nodded dodge. "there's coach morton." "of course; he has to attend," replied dodge, coming toward the shuttered window. "but i'll wager old morton isn't feeling over-happy this afternoon." "i don't know," grumbled bayliss. "there he is at the gym. door, shaking hands with dick prescott and dave darrin, and laughing pretty heartily." "laughing to keep his courage up, i reckon," clicked bert dodge dryly. "morton knows he's going to miss a lot of faces that he'd like to see there this year." then dodge took up post at the peephole, while bayliss stepped back, yawning. several more football aspirants neared and entered the gym. the name of each was called off by bert. "this is the first year," chuckled bayliss, "when gridley hasn't had a chance for a star eleven." "i'll miss the game, myself, like fury," commented dodge. "all through last season, when i played on the second eleven, i was looking forward to this year." "now, don't you go to getting that streak, and quit us," warned bayliss quickly. "our set is going to get up its own eleven; don't forget that! and we're going to play some famous games." "sure!" admitted dodge. but there was a choke in his throat. just a few moments later bert dodge gave a violent start, then cried out, in a voice husky with emotion: "oh, i say, bayliss, look-----" "what-----" "_hudson_!" "what about him?" "quick!" "well, you ninny," "hudson is going in the-----" with a cry partly of doubting, partly of rage, bayliss leaped forward, crowding out dodge in order to get a better view. hudson was actually ascending the gym. steps, and going up as though he meant business. "he's gone over to---to---them!" gasped bert dodge. "the mean _traitor_!" hissed bayliss. hudson did, indeed, brave it out by going straight on into the gym. as he entered some of the fellows already there glared at him dubiously. but hudson met the look bravely. "hullo!" cried dick. "there's hudson!" coach morton heard, from another part of the gym. turning around, the coach greeted tile reformed 'sorehead' with a nod and a smile. then some of the fellows spoke to hudson as that young man moved by them. in a few moments more, hudson began to feel almost at home among his own high school comrades. then drayne, another 'sorehead,' showed up. he, too, was treated as though nothing had happened. when trenholm, still another of the "soreheads," looked in at the gym., he appeared very close to being afraid. when he saw hudson and drayne there he hastened forward. by and by grayson came in. at the window across the street bayliss and dodge had checked off all four of these "deserters" and "traitors." "well, they'll play, anyway---either on school or on second," muttered bert, to himself. "oh, dear! just think the way things have turned out." these four deserters from the "soreheads" were all out of that very select crowd who did respond to the football call. promptly at three o'clock coach morton called for order. then, after a very few remarks, he called for the names of all who intended to enter the football training squad for this season. "and let every fellow who thinks he's lazy, or who doesn't like to train hard and obey promptly, keep his name off the list," warned the coach dryly. "i've come to the conclusion that what we need in this squad is army discipline. we're going to have it this year! now, young gentlemen, come along with your names---those of you who really believe you can stand spartan training." "i think i might draw the line at having the fox---or was it a wolf---gnawing at my entrails, as one spartan had to take it," laughed one youngster. "guess again, or you'd better stay off the squad this year," laughed the coach. "this is going to be a genuinely rough season for all weaklings." there was a quick making up of the roll. "tomorrow afternoon, at three sharp, you'll all report on the athletic field," announced coach morton, when he had finished writing down the names. "any man who fails to show up tomorrow afternoon will have his name promptly expunged from the squad rolls. no excuses will be accepted for failure tomorrow." there was a crispness about that which some of the fellows didn't like. "won't a doctor's certificate of illness go?" asked one fellow laughingly. "it will go---not," retorted coach. "pill-takers and fellows liable to chills aren't wanted on this year's team, anyway. now, young gentlemen, i'm going to give you a brief talk on the general art of taking care of yourselves, and the art of keeping yourselves in condition." the talk that followed seemed to dick prescott very much like a repetition of what coach luce had said to them the winter before, at the commencement of indoor training for baseball. as he finished talking on health and condition mr. morton drew from one of his pockets a bunch of folded papers. "i am now," he continued, "going to present to each one of you a set of rules, principles, guides---call them what you will. on this paper each one of you will find laid down rules that should be burned into the memories of all young men who aspire to play football. do not lose your copies of these rules. read the rules over again and again. memorize them! above all, put every rule into absolute practice." then, at a sign, the young men passed before the coach to receive their printed instructions. "something new you've gotten up, mr. morton?" inquired one of the fellows. "no," the coach admitted promptly. "these rules aren't original with me. i ran across 'em, and i've had them printed, by authority from the athletics committee. i wish i had thought up a set of rules as good." as fast as they received their copies each member of the squad darted away to read the rules through. this is what each man found on the printed sheet: _"1. work hard and be alive. 2. work hard and learn the rules. 3. work hard and learn the signals. 4. work hard and keep on the jump. 5. work hard and have a nose for the ball. 6. work hard all the time. be on speaking terms with the ball every minute. 7. work hard and control your temper and tongue. 8. work hard and don't quit when you're tackled. hang onto the ball. 9. work hard and get your man before he gets started. get him before the going gets good. 10. work hard and keep your speed. if you're falling behind your condition is to blame. 11. work hard and be on the job all the time, a little faster, a little sandier, a little more rugged than the day before. 12. work hard and keep your eyes and ears open and your head up. 13. work hard and pull alone the man with the ball. this isn't a game of solitaire. 14. work hard and be on time at practice every day. train faithfully. get your lessons. aim to do your part and to make yourself a perfect part of the machine. be a gentleman. if the combination is too much for you, turn in your togs and call around during croquet season."_ "what do you think of that, as expounding the law of football?" smiled coach, looking down over dave darrin's shoulder. "it doesn't take long to read, mr. morton and it ought not to take long to memorize these fourteen rules. but to live them, through and through, and up and down---that's going to take a lot of thought and attention." to the four ex-"soreheads" not a word had been said about the late unpleasantness, nor was this quartette any longer in coventry. trenholm, grayson, drayne and hudson were the four best football men of the bayliss-dodge faction. now that they were to play with the high school eleven all concerned felt wholly relieved. as the young men were leaving the gym. that afternoon coach morton found a chance to grip dick's arm and to whisper lightly in his ear: "thank you, prescott." "for what, mr. morton." "why, for what you managed to do to hold the school eleven together. that was clever newspaper work, prescott. and it has helped the school a lot. i'm no longer uneasy about gridley high school on the gridiron for this season. we'll have a team now!" with a confident nod the coach strolled away. as the gym. doors were thrown open the members of the new football squad rushed out with joyous whoops. some of the more mischievous or spirited actually tackled unsuspicious comrades, toppling their victims over to the ground. that line of tactics resulted in many a "chase" that brought out some remarkably good sprinting talent. thus the squad dissipated itself like the mist, and soon the grounds near the school were deserted. bayliss and bert dodge went away to nurse a grievance that nothing seemed to cure. for these two, now that their strong line of resistance had been broken, found themselves secretly longing, as had the four deserters, for a place in the football squad. bert dodge sulked along to school, alone that friday morning. bayliss, however, after a night of wakefulness, had decided to "eat crow." so, as dick, dave and greg holmes were strolling along schoolward, bayliss overhauled them. "good morning, fellows," he called, briskly, with an offhand attempt at geniality. all three of the chums looked up at him, then glanced away again. "oh, i say, now, don't keep it up," coaxed bayliss. "we high school fellows all want to be decent enough friends. and how's the football? i don't suppose the squad is full yet. i---i half believe i may join and take a little practice." "thinking of it?" asked dick, looking up coolly. "yes---really," replied bayliss. "see the coach, then; he's running the squad." "yes; i guess i will, thanks. good morning!" bayliss sauntered along, blithely whistling a tune. he knew coach morton would give him the glad hand of welcome for the squad and the team. "oh, mr. morton," was bayliss's greeting, as he encountered the coach near the school building steps. "yes?" asked the submaster pleasantly. "i---i---er---i didn't make the meeting yesterday afternoon, but i guess you might put my name down for the squad." "isn't this a bit late, bayliss?" asked the submaster, eyeing the youth keenly. "perhaps, a bit," assented the confident young man. "however-----" "at its meeting, last night, mr. bayliss, the athletics committee of the alumni association advised me to consider the squad list closed." "closed?" stammered bayliss, turning several shades in succession. "closed? do---do you mean-----" "no more additions will be made to the squad this year," replied the coach quietly, then going inside. bayliss stood on the steps, a picture of humiliation and amazement. "fellows," gasped bayliss, as prescott and his two chums came along, "did you hear that? football list closed?" "want some advice?" asked dick, halting for an instant. "yes," begged bayliss. "never kick a sore toe against a stone wall," quoth dick prescott, and passed on into the school building. chapter x two girls turn the laugh by this time training was going on briskly. four days out of every week the squad had to practice for two hours at the athletic field. there were tours of work in the gym., too. besides, it was "early to bed and early to rise" for all members of the squad. even those who hoped only to "make second" were under strict orders to let nothing interfere with their condition. three mornings in the week coach morton met all squad men for either cross-country work or special work in sprinting. and this was before breakfast, when each man was on honor pledged to take only a pint of hot water---nothing more---before reporting. on the other mornings, football aspirants were pledged to run without the coach. yet, with all this, studies had to be kept up to a high average, for no man on the "unset" list could hope to be permitted to play football. hard work? yes. but discipline, above all. and discipline is priceless to the young man who really hopes to get ahead in life! "you're not playing fair," dave cried reproachfully to his chum one day. "why not?" prescott questioned mildly. "you're using hair tonic!" darrin asserted, with mock seriousness, as he gazed at dick's bushy mop of football hair. "you're growing a regular chrysanthemum for a top piece to your head." "oh, my hair, eh?" smiled dick. "why, you can have as fine a lot of hair if you want to take the trouble." "don't i want it, though?" retorted darrin. "what kind of tonic do you use?" "grease," smiled prescott. "nothing but grease?" "nothing much." "what kind of grease?" "elbow!" "now, stop your joshing," ordered dave promptly. "no kind of muscular work is going to bring out a fuzzy rug like that on anyone's skypiece." "but that's just how i do it," dick insisted. "not a bit hard, either. see here! just use your finger tips, briskly, like this, and stir your whole scalp up with a brisk massage." "how long do you keep it up?" demanded dave, after following suit for some time. "oh, about ninety seconds, i guess," nodded prescott. "you want to do it eight times a day, and wash your head weekly, though with bland soap and not too much of it." "is that honestly all you do to get a siberian fur wig such as you're wearing?" "that's all i do," replied dick. "except---yes; there's one thing more. go out of doors all you can without a hat." "the active curry-comb and the vanished hat for mine, then," muttered dave, with another envious look at dick's bushy hair. nor did dave rest until the other chums all had the secret. by the time that the football season opened dick & co. were the envy of the school for their heavy heads of hair. with all the hard work of training, coach morton did not intend that the young men should be so busy as to have no time for recreation. he understood thoroughly the value of the lighter, happier moments in keeping an athlete's nervous system up to concert pitch. though the baseball training of the preceding spring had been "stiff" enough, dick & co. soon found that the football training was altogether more rugged. in fact, coach morton, with the aid of dr. bentley as medical director, weeded out a few of the young men after training had been going on for a fortnight. some failed to show sufficient reserve "wind" after running. a few other defectives proved not to have hearts strong enough for the grilling work of the gridiron. all the members of dick & co., however, managed to keep in the squad. in fact, hints soon began to go around, mysteriously, that dick & co. were having the benefit of some outside training. purcell came to young prescott and asked him frankly about this report. "nothing in it," dick replied promptly. "we're having just the same training as the rest of the boys. but i'll tell you a secret." "go on!" begged purcell eagerly. "you know the training rules---early retiring and all?" "yes; of course." "well, we fellows are sticking to orders like leeches. every night, to the minute, we're in bed. we make a long night's sleep of it. then, besides, we don't slight a single particle of the training work that we're told to do by ourselves. we've agreed on that, and have promised each other. now, do you suppose all the fellows are sticking quite as closely to coach's orders?" "i---i---well, perhaps they're not," agreed purcell. "are you?" insisted dick. "in the _main_, i do." "oh," observed prescott, with mild sarcasm. "'in the main'! now, see here, purcell, we high school fellows are fortunate in having one of the very best coaches that ever a high school squad did have. mr. morton knows what he's doing. he knows how to bring out condition, and how to teach the game. he lays down the rules that furnish the sole means of success at football. and you---one of our most valuable fellows---are following some of his instructions---when they don't conflict with your comfort or with your own ideas about training. now, honestly, what do you know about training that is better than coach morton's information on that very important subjects" "oh, come, now; you're a little bit too hard, prescott," argued purcell. "i do about everything just as i'm told." "you admit mr. morton's ability, don't you?" "yes, of course." "then why don't you stick to every single rule that's laid down by a man who knows what he is doing? it will be better for your condition, won't it, purcell?" "yes, without a doubt." "and what is better for you is better for the team and for the school, isn't its" "by jove, prescott, you're a stickler for duty, aren't you?" cried purcell. he spoke in a louder tone this time. two girls who were passing the street corner where the young men stood heard the query and glanced over with interest. neither young man perceived the girls at that moment. "why, yes," prescott answered slowly. "duty is the main thing there is about life, isn't it?" "right again," laughed purcell. one of the girls looked swiftly at the other. they were laura bentley and belle meade, friends of dick's and dave's, and also members of the junior class. "well, i'm going to take a leaf out of your book," pursued purcell. "i'm really as anxious to see gridley high school always on top as you or any other fellow can be." "of course you are," nodded dick. "the way you put our baseball team through last season proves that." "i'm going to be a martinet for training, hereafter," purcell declared earnestly. "i'm going to be a worse stickler than old coach himself. and i'm going to exercise my right as a senior to watch the other fellows and hold their noses to the training grindstone." "then i'm not worried about gridley having a winning team this year," dick answered. "by jove, you had a lot to do with that, too, didn't you, prescott?" cried purcell. "you put it over the 'soreheads' so hard that we never heard from them again after we got started." "you helped there, also, purcell. if you and ripley and a few others had gone over to the 'soreheads' it would have stiffened their backbone and nothing could have made it possible, this year, for gridley high school to have an eleven that would represent all the best football that there is in the grand old school." in the first two years of their school life dick and dave had spent many pleasant hours in the society of laura and belle. so far, during the junior year, the chums had had but little chance to see the girls, for the demands of football were fearfully exacting. laura, being almost at the threshold of seventeen years, had grown tall and womanly. bert dodge began to notice what a very pretty girl the doctor's daughter was becoming. so, one afternoon while the football squad was practicing hard over on the athletic field, bert encountered laura and belle as they strolled down the main street. lifting his hat, dodge greeted the girls, and stood chatting with them for a few moments. to this neither of the girls could object, for bert's manners, with the other sex, were always irreproachable. but, presently, laura saw her chance. she did not want to be rude, but bert's face had just taken on a half-sneering look at a chance mention of dick's name. "you aren't playing football this year, bert?" laura asked innocently. bert quickly flushed. "no," he admitted. "of course everyone can't make the eleven," belle added, with mild malice. "i---i don't believe i'd care to," dodge went on. "i---you see---i don't care about all the fellows in the squad." "i don't suppose every boy who is playing on the squad is a chum of everyone else," remarked laura. "such fellows as prescott, for instance, i don't care much about," bert continued, with a swift side glance at laura bentley to see how she took that remark. but laura showed not a sign in her face. "no?" she asked quietly. "i think him a splendid fellow. by the way, he and dave darrin haven't received the reward for finding your father, have they?" bert gasped. his face went white, then red. he fidgeted about for an answer. "no," he replied, cuttingly, at last, "and i don't believe they ever will." "oh, i beg your pardon," cried laura in quick contrition. "i didn't know that it was a tender spot with you, or your family." "it isn't," bert rejoined hurriedly. "it simply amounts to this, that the reward will never be paid to a pair of cheeky, brazen-faced-----" "won't you please stop right there, mr. dodge?" laura asked sweetly. "mr. prescott and mr. darrin are friends of ours. we don't like to hear remarks that cast disrespect in their direction." "oh, i beg your pardon," answered bert, trying not to be stiff. but he was ill at ease, leaving the girls very soon after. yet, in his hatred for dick and dave, young dodge resolved upon a daring stroke. he enlisted bayliss, and the pair sought to "cut out" prescott and darrin with laura and belle. neither dick nor dave was in love. both were too sensible for that. both knew that love affairs were for men old enough to know their own minds. yet the friendship between the four young people had been a very proper and wholesome affair, and much pleasure had been derived on all sides. nowadays, however, bert and bayliss managed to be much out and around gridley while the football squad was at practice. almost daily this pair met laura and belle, as though by accident, and the two young seniors usually managed, without apparent intrusion, to walk along beside laura and belle, often seeing the pair to the home gate of one or the other. "you two fellows want to look out," purcell warned dick and dave, good-naturedly, one day. "other fellows are after your sweet-hearts." "i wonder how that happened," dick observed good-humoredly. "i didn't know we had any sweethearts." "what about-----" began purcell, wondering if he had made a mistake. "please don't drag any girls' names into bantering talk," interposed dave, quickly though very quietly. so purcell said no more, and he had, indeed, meant no harm whatever. but others were noticing, and also talking. high school young people began to take a very lively interest in the new appearance of dodge and bayliss as escorts of laura and belle. then there came one especially golden day of early autumn, when it seemed as though the warm, glorious day had driven everyone out onto the streets. dodge and bayliss met laura and belle, quite as though by accident, and manifested a rather evident determination to remain in the company of the girls as long as possible. finally laura halted before one of the department stores. "belle, there's an errand you and i had in mind to do in there, isn't there?" laura asked. "may we have the very great pleasure, then, of your leave to wait until you are through with your shopping?" spoke up bert dodge quickly. laura flushed slightly. just then more than a dozen of the football squad, coming back from the field, marching solidly by twos, turned the corner and came upon this quartette. there were many curious looks in the corners of the eyes of members of the squad. despite themselves dick and dave could feel themselves reddening. but laura bentley was equal to the emergency. "here come the school's heroes---the fellows who keep gridley's high school banner flying in the breeze," she laughed pleasantly. both dodge and bayliss started to answer, then closed their lips. "won't you please excuse us, boys?" begged laura, in her usual pleasant voice. "here are dick and dave, and belle and i wish to speak with them." from some of the members of the football squad went up a promptly stifled gasp that sounded like a very distant rumble. dick and dave, looking wholly rough and ready in their sweaters, padded trousers and heavy field shoes, stepped out of the marching formation as though obeying an order. the chums looked almost uncouth, compared with the immaculate, dandyish pair, dodge and bayliss. the latter, with so many amused glances turned their way, could only flush deeply, stammer, raise their hats and---fade away! the lesson was a needed and a remembered one. laura and belle took their afternoon walks in peace thereafter. chapter xi dies football teach real nerve? "get in there, ripley! don't be afraid. it's only a leather dummy. it can't hurt you! now, tackle the dummy around the hips---_hoist_!" a laugh went up among the crowd as fred, crouching low, head down, sailed in at that tackling dummy. young ripley's face was red, but he took the coach's stern tone in good part, for the young man was determined to make good on the eleven this year. "now, prescott! show us that you can beat your last performance! imagine the dummy to be a two hundred and twenty pound center!" dick rushed in valiantly, catching the dummy just right. "let go!" called the coach, laughingly. "it isn't a sack of gold!" another laugh went up. this was one of the semi-public afternoons, when any known well-wisher of gridley was allowed on the athletic field to watch the squad at work. for half an hour the young men had been working hard, mostly at the swinging dummy, for coach morton wanted much improvement yet in tackling. "now," continued the coach, in a voice that didn't sound very loud, yet which had the quality of carrying to every part of the big field, "it'll be just as well if you fellows don't get the idea that only swinging leather dummies are to be tackled. the provisional first and second teams will now line up. second has the ball on its own twenty-yard line, and is trying to save its goal. you fellows on second hustle with all your might to get the ball through the ranks of the first, or school eleven. fight for all you're worth to get that ball on the go and keep it going! you fellows of the first, or school eleven, i want to see what you can do with real tackling." there was a hasty adjusting of nose-guards by those who wore that protection. the ball was placed, the quarter-back of the second eleven bending low to catch it, at the same time comprehending the signal that sounded briskly. the whistle blew; the ball was snapped, and quarter-back darted to the right, passing the ball. second's right tackle had been chosen to receive and break through the school's line. on school's left, dick and ripley raced in together, while second's interference crashed into the pair of former enemies as right tackle tried to go through. but fred ripley was as much out for team work this day as any fellow on the field. he made a fast sprint, as though to tackle, yet meaning to do nothing of the sort. dick, too, understood. he let ripley get two or three feet in the lead. at ripley, therefore, the second's interference hurled itself savagely. it was all done so quickly that the beguiled second had no time to rectify its blunder; for fred ripley was in the center of the squirming, interfering bunch and dick prescott had made a fair, firm, abrupt tackle. in an instant the ball was "down." second had gained less than a yard. "good work!" the coach shouted, after sounding the whistle." ripley and prescott, that was the right sort of team work." again second essayed to get away with the ball. this time the forward pass was employed---that is to say, attempted. hudson and purcell, by another clever feint, got the ball stopped and down; third time, and second lost the ball on downs. now school had the ball. as the quarter-back's signals rang out there was perceptible activity and alertness at school's right end. as the ball was snapped, school's right wing went through the needful movements, but dick prescott, over at left end, had the ball. ripley and purcell were supporting him. straight into the opposing ranks went ripley and purcell, the rest of the school team supporting. it was team work again. dick was halted, for an instant. then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition---on and on! twice dick was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through. he was over second's line---touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers. as dick came back he limped just a bit. "i tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game," remarked one citizen admiringly. "nerve? pooh!" retorted his companion. "just a hoodlum footrace, with some bumping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys are rolling over one another. the whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve." the first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically. "would it take any nerve for you," he demanded, "to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed," "yes; i suppose so," admitted the kicker. "well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life." "but they're not looking for it," objected the kicker, "or they wouldn't go in so swift and hard. real nerve? i'd believe in that more if i ever heard of one of these nimble-jack racers taking a big chance with his life off the field, and where there was no crowd of wild galoots to look on and cheer!" "of course killing and maiming are not the real objects of the game," pursued the first speaker. "coaches and other good friends of the game are always hoping to discover some forms of rules that will make football safer. yet i can't help feeling that the present game, despite the occasional loss of life or injury to limb, puts enough of strong, fighting manhood into the players to make the game worth all it costs." "i want to see the nerve, and i want to see the game prove its worth," insisted the kicker. second eleven, though made up of bright, husky boys, was having a hard time of it. thrice coach arbitrarily advanced the ball for second, in order to give that team a better chance with high school eleven. and now the practice was over for the afternoon. the whistle between coach's lips sounded three prolonged blasts, and the young players, flushed, perspiring---aching a bit, too---came off the field. togs were laid aside and some time was spent under the shower baths and in toweling. only a small part of the late crowd of watchers remained at the athletic field. but the kicker and his companion were among those who stayed. coach morton stood for a time talking with some citizens who had lingered. as most of these men were contributors to the athletic funds they were anxious for information. "do you consider the prospects good for the team this year?" asked one man. "yes," replied mr. morton promptly. "is the school eleven decided upon in detail?" questioned another. "no; of course not, as yet. each day some of the young men develop new points---of excellence, or otherwise. the division into school and second teams, that you saw this afternoon, may not be the final division. in fact, not more than five or six of the young men have been definitely picked as sure to make the school team. we shall have it all decided within a few days." "but you're rather certain," insisted another, "that gridley is going to have as fine a school team as it has ever had?" "it would be going too far to say that," replied coach morton slowly. "the truth is, we never know anything for certain until we have seen our boys play through the first game. our judgment is even more reliable after they've been through the second game." by this time, some of the football squad were coming out of locker rooms, heading across the field to the gate. coach morton and the little group of citizens turned and went along slowly after them. the kicker was still on hand. just as the boys neared the gate there were heard sounds of great commotion on the other side of the high board fence. there were several excited yells, the sound of running feet, and then more distinct cries. "he's bent on killing the officer! run!" "look out! here he comes! scoot!" "he's crazy!" then came several more yells, a note of terror in them all. five youngsters of the football squad were so near the gate that they broke into a run for the open. coach morton, too, sped ahead at full steam, though he was some distance behind the members of the squad. the citizens followed, running and puffing. once outside, they all came upon a curious sight. one of the smallest members of gridley's police force had attempted to stop a big, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who, coatless and hatless had come running down the street. two men had gotten in the way of this fellow and had been knocked over. then the little policeman had darted in, bent on distinguishing himself. but the red-faced man, crazed by drink, had bowled over the policeman and had fallen on top of him. the victor had begun to beat the police officer when the sight of a rapidly-growing crowd angered the fellow. leaping up, the red-faced one had glared about him, wondering whom next to attack, while the officer lay on his back, more than half-dazed. making up his mind to catch and thrash some one, the red-faced man came along, shouting savagely. it was just at this moment that dick prescott and greg holmes, sprinting fast, came out through the gateway. "look out, boys! he'll kill you!" shouted one well-meaning citizen in the background. "will he?" grunted dick grimly. "greg, i'll tackle the fellow---you be ready to fall on him. head down, now---charge!" as though they had darted around the right end of the football battle line, and had sighted the enemy's goal line, prescott and holmes charged straight for the infuriated fellow. "get outer my way!" roared red-face, turning slightly and running furiously at them. dick's head was down, but that did not prevent his seeing through his long hair. "get out of my way, you kid!" gasped the big fellow, halting in his amazement as he saw this youngster coming straight at him. greg was off the sidewalk, running a few feet out from the gutter but dick sailed straight in. as he came close, red-faced seemed to feel uneasy about this reckless boy, for the big fellow, holding his fists so that he could use them, swerved slightly to one side. fifty people were looking on, now, most of them amazed and fearing for young prescott. but dick, running still lower, charged straight for his man. the big fellow, with a bellow, aimed his fists. dick wasn't hit, however. instead, he grappled with the fellow, just below the thighs, then straightened up somewhat---all quick as a flash. that big mountain of flesh swayed, then toppled. red-face went down, not with a crash, but more after the manner of a collapse. as he fell, greg darted in from the street and fell upon the big fellow's chest. in another instant young prescott was a-top of the fellow. "keep him down, boys!" yelled coach morton. just before the coach sprinted to the spot dave darrin, then tom reade, and then tom purcell, hurled themselves into the fray. when the coach arrived he could not find a spot on red-face at which to take hold. the policeman, limping a bit, came up as fast as he could. "will you young gentlemen help me to put these handcuffs on?" asked the officer, dangling a pair of steel bracelets. "will we?" ejaculated dave. "whoop!" "roll the fellow over!" called dick prescott. with a gleeful shout the squad members rolled red-face over, dragging his powerful arms behind his back. there was a scuffle, but coach morton helped. a minute more and the handcuffs had been snapped in place. in the eyes of the recent kicker, back on the field, there now appeared a gleam of something very much akin to enthusiasm. "what do you say, now?" asked that man's companion. "though, of course, prescott and holmes knew that help wasn't far off." "it doesn't make any difference," retorted the recent kicker. "either boy might have been killed by that big brute before the help could have arrived." "then does football teach nerve?" "it certainly must!" agreed the recent kicker. chapter xii dick, lile caesar, refuses the crown a few days later the members of the school team, and the substitutes, had been announced. then the men who had made the team came together at the gymnasium. who was to be captain of the eleven? for once there seemed to be a good deal of hanging back. if there were any members of the team who believed themselves supremely fitted to lead, at least they were not egotistical enough to announce themselves. there was a good deal of whispering during the five minutes before mr. morton called them to order. some of the whisperers left one group to go over to another. "now, then, gentlemen!" called coach morton. "order, please!" almost at once the murmuring stopped. "before we can go much further," continued the coach, "it will be necessary to decide upon a captain. i don't wish to have the whole voice in the matter. if you are to follow your captain through thick and thin, in a dozen or more pitched football battles, it is well that you should have a leader who will possess the confidence of all. now, whom do you propose for the post of captain? let us discuss the merits of those that may be proposed." just for an instant the murmuring broke out afresh. then a shout went up: "purcell!" but that young man shook his head. "prescott!" shouted another. dick, too, shook his head. "purcell! purcell!" "now, listen to me a moment, fellows!" called purcell, standing very straight and waving his arms for silence. "i don't want to be captain. i had the honor of leading the baseball nine last season." "no matter! you'll make a good football captain!" "not the best you can get, by any means," insisted purcell. "i decline the honor for that reason, and also because i don't want the responsibility of leading the eleven." "prescott!" shouted three or four of the squad at once. purcell nodded his head encouragingly. "yes; prescott, by all means! you can't do better." "yes, you can! and you fellows know it!" shouted dick. his face glowed with pleasure and pride, but he tried to show, by face, voice and gesture, that he didn't propose to take the tendered honor. "prescott! prescott!" came the insistent yell. above the clamor coach morton signaled dick to come forward to the platform. "won't you take it, prescott?" inquired the coach. "i've no right to, sir." "then tell the team why you think so." as soon as coach had secured silence dick, with a short laugh, began: "fellows, i don't know whether you mean it all, or whether you're having a little fun with me. but-----" "no, no! we mean it! prescott for captain! no other fellow has done as much for gridley high school football!" "then i'll tell you some reasons, fellows, why i don't fit the position," dick went on, speaking easily now as his self-confidence came to him. "in the first place, i'm a junior, and this is my first year at football. now, a captain should be a whole wagon-load in the way of judgment. that means a fellow who has played in a previous season. for that reason, all other things being equal, the captain should be one of the seniors who played the gridiron game last year." "you'll do for us, prescott!" came the insistent call. "for another thing," dick went on composedly, "the captain should be a man who plays center, or close to it. now, i'm not heavy enough for anything of that sort. in fact, i understand i'm cast for left tackle or left end---probably the latter. so, you see, i wouldn't be in the right part of the field. i don't deny that i'd like to be captain, but i'd a thousand times rather see gridley win." "then who can lead us to victory" demanded dave darrin briskly. dick promptly. "he's believed to be our best man for center. he played last year; he knows more fine points of the game than any of us juniors can. and he has the judgment. besides, he's a senior, and it's his last chance to command the high school eleven." "if wadleigh'll take it, i'm for him," spoke dave darrin promptly. henry wadleigh, or "hem," as he was usually called, was turning all the colors of the rainbow. yet he looked pleased and anxious. there was just one thing against wadleigh, in the minds of hudson and some of the others. he was a boy of poor family. he belonged to what the late but routed "soreheads" termed "the mockers." but he was an earnest, honest fellow, a hard player and loyal to the death to his school. "any other candidates?" asked coach morton. there was a pause of indecision. there were a few other fellows who wanted to captain the team. why didn't some of their friends put them in nomination? dick & co. formed a substantial element in the team. they were for "hen" wadleigh, and now tom reade spoke: "i move that wadleigh be considered our choice for captain." "second the motion," uttered dan dalzell, hastily. coach morton put the proposition, which was carried. wadleigh was chosen captain, subject to the approval of the athletics committee of the alumni, which would talk it over in secret with coach morton. and now the team was quickly made up. wadleigh was to play center. dick was to play left end, with dave for left tackle. greg holmes went over to right tackle, with hazelton right guard. dan dalzell was slated as substitute right end, while tom reade was a "sub" left tackle. fred ripley was put down as a substitute for left end. as one who kept in such close training as did prescott he was not likely to miss many of the big games, and fred's chances for playing in the big games was not heavy. yet ripley was satisfied. even as a "sub," he had "made" the high school eleven. "i think, gentlemen," declared mr. morton, in dismissing the squad, "that we have as good a team to put forward this year as gridley has ever had. the only disquieting feature of the season is the report, coming to us, that many of the rival schools have, this year, better teams in the field than they have ever had before. so we've got to work---well like so many animated furies. remember, gentlemen, 'coldfeet' never won a football season." bayliss and dodge when they heard the news, were much disgusted. they had hoped that subs. instead, dick and three of his cronies had been put in gridley's first fighting line, only two of the redoubtable six being on the sub list. school and second teams, being now sharply defined, fell to playing against each other as hard and as cleverly as they could. wadleigh's choice as captain was confirmed by the athletics committee. "but i'd never have had the chance, prescott, old fellow, if it hadn't been for you," "hen" protested gratefully. "dick, i won't forget your great help!" "i didn't do anything for you, hen," prescott retorted, with one of his dry smiles. "you didn't?" gasped wadleigh. "no, sir! i did it for the school. i wanted to see our team have the best possible captain and the winning eleven!" bert and bayliss happened to be passing the gymnasium when they heard of the selection of wadleigh. "bert," whispered bayliss, "i believe you're at least half a man!" "what are you driving at?" demanded dodge. "we owe dick prescott a few. if you're with me we'll see if his season on the gridiron can't be made a farce and a fizzle." chapter xiii bert dodge "starts something" as always happens the schedule of the fall's games was changed somewhat at the last moment. in the first change there was a decided advantage. wrexham withdrawing its challenge almost at the last, coach morton took on welton high school for the first game of the season. now, welton must have played for no other reason than to gratify a weak form of vanity, for there were few high school teams in the state that had cause to dread welton high school. for gridley, however, the game served a useful purpose. it solidified captain wadleigh's team into actual work. the score was 32 to 0, in favor of gridley. however, as dick phrased it, the practice against an actual adversary, for the first time in the season, was worth at least three hundred to nothing. "but don't you fellows make a mistake," cautioned captain wadleigh. "don't get a notion that you've nothing bigger than welton to tackle this year. next saturday you've got to go up against tottenville, and there's an eleven that will make you perspire." coach morton had tottenville gauged at its right value. during the few days before the game he kept the gridley boys steadily at work. the passing and the signal work, in particular, were reviewed most thoroughly. "remember, the pass is going to count for a lot," mr. morton warned them. "you can't make a weight fight against tottenville, for those fellows weigh a hundred and fifty pounds more, to the team, than you do. they're savage, swift, clever players, too, those tottenville youths. what you take away from them you'll have to win by strategy." so the gridley boys were drilled again and again in all the special points of field strategy that coach morton knew or could invent. yet one of the best things that mr. morton knew, and one that always characterized gridley, was the matter of confidence. captain wadleigh's young men were made to feel that they were going to win. they did not underestimate the enemy, but they were going to win. that was well understood by them all. now, in the games of sheer strategy much depends upon nimble ends. dick prescott, in particular, was coached much in private, as well as on the actual gridiron. "keep yourself in keen good shape, mr. prescott," mr. morton insisted. "we need your help in scalping tottenville next saturday." as the week wore along mr. morton and captain wadleigh became more and more pleased with themselves and with their associates. "i don't see how we can fail tomorrow," said mr. horton, quietly, to "hen" wadleigh, just after the school and the second teams had been dismissed. it was not much after half-past three. practice had been brief, in order that none of the players might be used up. "prescott, in especial, is showing up magnificently," replied wadleigh. "he and darrin are certainly wonders at their end of the line." "you must use them all you can tomorrow, and yet don't make them fight the whole battle," replied coach morton. "save them for the biggest emergencies." "i'll be careful," promised wadleigh. dick and dave walked back into the city, instead of taking a car. "how are you feeling, dick?" asked dave. "as smooth as silk," prescott replied. "i don't believe i've ever been in such fine condition before," replied dave. "that's mighty good, for i have an idea that the captain means to use us all he can tomorrow." "oh, tottenville is as good as beaten, then," laughed dave, with all the gridley confidence. "i'd like to know just how strong tottenville is on its right end of the line," mused prescott. "i don't care how strong they are," retorted darrin, with a laugh. "you and i are not going to use strength; we're going to rely upon brains---coach morton's brains, though, to be sure." the two chums separated at the corner of the side street on which stood the prescott bookstore and home. dave hurried home to attend to some duties that he knew were awaiting him. dick, whistling, strolled briskly on. he saw dodge and bayliss on the other side of the street, but did not pay much attention to them until they crossed just before dick had reached his own door. "there's the mucker," muttered bayliss, in a tone intentionally loud enough for the young left end to overhear. "i won't pay any attention to them," thought dick, with an amused smile. "i can easily understand what they're sore about. i'd feel angry myself if i had been left off the team." "why do fellows like that need an education?" demanded dodge, in a slightly louder tone, as the pair came closer. still dick prescott paid no heed. he started up the steps, fumbling for his latch key as he went. "you faker! you mucker!" hissed bayliss, now speaking directly to the young left end. this was so palpable that dick could not well ignore it. dropping the key back into his pocket, he turned to stare at the two "sorehead" chums. "eh?" he asked, with a quiet laugh. "yes; i meant you!" hissed bayliss. "oh, well," grinned dick, "your opinions have never counted for much in the community, have they?" "shut up, you ignorant hound!" warned bayliss belligerently. "too bad," retorted dick tantalizingly. "of course, i understand what ails you. you were left off the high school team, and i was not. but that is your own fault, bayliss. you could have made the team if you hadn't been foolish." "don't insult me with your opinions fellow!" cried bayliss, growing angrier every instant. at least, he appeared to be working him self up into a rage. "oh, i don't care anything about your opinions, and i have no anxiety to spring mine on you," retorted dick, in an indifferent voice. once more he fumbled for his latch key. "you haven't any business talking with gentlemen, anyway," sneered bert dodge. dick flushed slightly, though he replied, coolly: "as it happens, just at present i am not!" "what do you mean by that?" flared bert. "oh, you know, you don't care anything about my opinions," laughed dick. "let us drop the whole subject. i don't care particularly, anyway, about being seen talking with you two." "oh, you don't?" cried bayliss, in a voice hoarse with rage. in almost the same breath bert dodge hurled an insult so pointed and so offensive that dick's ruddy cheek went white for an instant. back into his pocket he dropped the latch key, then stepped swiftly down before his tormentor. "dodge," he cried warningly, "take back the remark you just made. then, after that, you can take your offensive presence out of my sight!" "i'll take nothing back!" sneered the other boy. "then you'll take this!" retorted dick, very quietly, in a cold, low voice. prescott's fist flew out. it was not a hard blow, but it landed on the tip of bert dodge's nose. "you cur!" cried dodge chokingly. "wait until i get my coat off." "no; keep it on; i'm going to keep mine on," retorted prescott. "guard yourself, man!" "jump in, bayliss! we'll thump his head off!" gasped dodge, with almost a sob in his voice, to was so angry. bayliss would have been nothing loath to "jump in." but, just as dick prescott, after calling "guard," aimed his second blow at bert, fred ripley, purcell and "hen" wadleigh all hurried up to the scene. for bayliss to be caught fighting two-to-one would have resulted in a quick thrashing for him. so bayliss stood back. "bad blood, is there?" asked wadleigh, as the new arrivals hurried up. "prescott, after insulting bert, flew at him," retorted bayliss, panting some with the effort at lying. dodge was now standing well back. he had parried three of dick's blows, but had not yet taken the offensive. as dodge was a heavier man, and not badly schooled in fistics, dick had the good sense to go at this fight coolly, taking time to exercise his judgment. "what's it all about?" demanded wadleigh. just for an instant bayliss felt himself stumped. then, all of a sudden, an inspiration in lying came to him. "prescott got ugly because the dodges never paid that thousand-dollar reward," declared bayliss. dick heard, and with his eye still on dodge, shouted out: "that's not true, bayliss. you know you are not telling the truth!" bayliss doubled his fists, and would have struck prescott down from behind, but wadleigh, who was a big and powerful fellow, caught bayliss by his left arm, jerking him back. "now, just wait a bit, bayliss," advised "hen," moderately. "from what i know of prescott i'm not afraid but that he'll give you satisfaction presently---if you want it." "you bet he'll have to!" hissed bayliss. "if prescott loses the argument he has on now," added purcell, significantly, "i fancy he has friends who will take his place with you, bayliss." then all turned to watch the fight, which was now passing the stage of preliminary caution. several boys and men had run down from main street. now, more than a score of spectators were crowding about. "hurrah!" piped up one boy from the central grammar school." the mucker bantam against the 'sorehead' lightweight!" there was a laugh, but bert dodge didn't join in it, for, after receiving two glancing, blows on the chest, he now had his right eye closed by dick's hard left. the next instant the bewildered dodge received a blow that sent him down to the sidewalk. "i think i've paid you back, now," prescott remarked quietly. at this moment mr. prescott, hearing the noise from the back of his bookstore, came to the door. "what is the trouble, richard?" inquired his parent. dick stepped over to his father, repeating, in a low voice, the insult that dodge had hurled at him. "you couldn't have done anything else, then!" declared the elder prescott, fervently; and this was a good deal for dick's father, quiet, scholarly and peace-loving, to say. bert and bayliss walked sullenly away amid the jeers of the onlookers. once out of their sight, bert, fairly grinding his teeth, said: "bayliss, i'll have my revenge yet on that mucker prescott---" and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he added savagely: "the tottenville game's tomorrow---you know?" "yes?" said bayliss inquiringly. "well, wait till tomorrow afternoon, and i'll take the conceit out of the miserable cur---just you wait." chapter xiv the "strategy" of a school traitor "rah! rah! _gri-i-idley_!" again and again the whole of the rousing, inspiring high school yell smote the air. it was but a little after noon on saturday. it seemed as though two thirds of the school, including most of the girls, had come down to the railway station to see the high school eleven off on its way to tottenville. that city was some thirty miles away from gridley, but there was a noon express train that went through in forty minutes. coach morton and captain wadleigh had rounded up the whole of the school team. all of the subs were there. the coach and members of the team were at no expense in the matter, since their expenses were to be paid out of the gate receipts of the home eleven. to many of the boys and girls of gridley high school, however, the affair bore a different look. the round trip by rail would cost each of these more than a dollar, with another fifty cents to pay for a seat on the grand stand at tottenville. hence, despite the fine representation of high school young folks at the railway station, not all of them were so fortunate as to look forward to going to the game. in addition to those of the young people who could go, there were more than three hundred grown-ups who had bought tickets. the railroad company, having been notified by the local agent, had added a second section to the noon express. and now they waited, enthusiasm finding vent in volleys of cheers and the school war-whoop. dick prescott and his chums stood at one end of the platform. nor were they alone. many admirers had gathered about them. laura bentley and belle meade, who were going with the rest to tottenville, were chatting with dick and dave. each of the girls carried the gridley high school colors to wave during the expected triumphs of the afternoon. "i'm glad you're playing today," laura almost whispered to young prescott. "why?" smiled dick "why, i believe you're one of those fortunate people who always carry their mascot with them," rejoined miss bentley earnestly. "with you there, dick, i feel absolutely certain that even tottenville must go down in the dust. gridley will bring back the score---and not a tied score, either." "i certainly hope i am as big a mascot, or possess as big a mascot as you seem to believe," laughed young prescott. "you and dave are each other's mascots," declared belle meade, with a laugh. "i remember that last year when you were both on the baseball nine gridley never lost a game in which you and dave both played." "nor did the nine lose any other game," returned dick, "though there were some games when dave and i weren't on the batting list. the nine didn't lose a game last season, miss belle, and had only one tied score." "anyway," declared laura, with great conviction, "it all comes back to this---that gridley can't lose today because both prescott and darrin are to play." "and i believe, young ladies, that you're both much nearer to the truth than you have any idea of. in today's game a great deal does depend on prescott and darrin." it was captain "hen" wadleigh, who, passing to the rear of the group, had overheard laura's remark, and had made this addition to her prophecies. "here comes the train!" yelled one youth, who was fortunate enough to have a ticket for the day. soon after the sound of the whistle had been heard the express rolled in. but this was the first section of the regular train. by some effort the football crowd was kept off the train. soon after the second section of the train was sighted as it rolled toward the station. "team assemble!" roared captain wadleigh. there was a rush of husky, mop-headed youths in his direction. just then a hand rested on dick's arm. "let me speak with you, just a moment prescott." as dick turned he found himself looking into the face of hemingway, plan clothes man to chief coy of the police department. "i'm awful sorry, lad, but-----" began hemingway slowly, in a tone of the most genuine regret. dick's face blanched. he scented bad news instantly, though he could not imagine what it was. "anyone sick---any accident at home?" asked the young left end. "team aboard, first day coach behind the smoker!" roared captain wadleigh, and the fellows made a rush. "the truth is," confessed hemingway, "i've a war-----" dick saw light in an instant. "oh, that wretched dodge? he has-----" "sworn out a warrant for your arrest," nodded hemingway. laura and belle did not hear or see this. they were hurrying rearward along the train. few of the football fellows saw the trouble, for they were busy boarding the car named by captain wadleigh. dave darrin was the only one to pay urgent heed. "see here, hemingway," began dave, "dick will come back---you know that. he's desperately needed today. won't it do just as well-----" "no," broke in the plain-clothes man, reluctantly. "i'd have done that if possible, but dodge's father put the warrant in my hand and insisted." "he?" echoed darrin, bitterly. "the very man that dick and i rescued when he was out of his head and in the clutches of scoundrels he? oh, this is infamous---or crazy!" "i know it is," nodded officer hemingway sympathetically. "but what am i to do when-----" "hustle aboard, there, you prescott and darrin!" roared captain wadleigh's voice from an open window. "you hear, hemingway?" urged dave. "yes; but i can't help it," sighed the policeman. "we're not going---can't-----" fluttered darrin. his voice was low, but it reached the captain of the eleven. "what's that?" roared wadleigh, making a dash for the door of the car. "keep your seats, you other fellows. i-----" "you go, dave---you must!" commanded dick. "hurry! the train is starting. hustle! play for both of us." dick gave his chum a push that was compelling. dave yielded, boarding the step as the end of the car went by him. "what-----" began wadleigh, breathlessly. "i'll explain," panted darrin angrily. the train was now in full motion. "hey, dere! stop dot train, quick! me! i am not off board, yet!" it was herr schimmelpodt, hot, perspiring and gasping, who now raced upon the platform. for one of his weight, combined with his lack of nimbleness, it was hazardous to attempt to board the moving train. yet herr schimmelpodt made a wild dash for the train. he would have been mangled or killed, had not officer hemingway caught the anxious german and pulled him back. "hey, you! vot for you do dot?" screamed herr schimmelpodt. "hey? answer me dot vun, dumm-gesicht!" (foolish-faced one.) "i did it to save you from going under the wheels," retorted officer hemingway dryly. "und now i don't go me by dot game today!" groaned herr schimmelpodt. "me! i dream apout dot game all der veek, und now i don't see me by it." "but, man-----" "hal's maul." (literally' "shut your mouth!") "me! und i couldn't lose dot game for ein dollar!" glared the prosperous german. he stared after the departed second section, from the open windows of which fluttered or wildly waved many a banner; for few of the gridley crowd had yet discovered that one of the most prized members of the team had been left behind. herr schimmelpodt it was, who, a wealthy retired contractor, had found his second youth in his enthusiasm over the high school baseball nine the season before. though thrifty enough in most matters, the german had become a liberal contributor to the high school athletic fund, to the great dismay of his good wife, who feared that his new outdoor fads would yet land them both in the poorhouse. "vot you doing here, bresgott?" demanded herr schimmelpodt, turning upon the young prisoner. "vy you ain't by dot elefen? how dey going to vin bis you are behint left?" "you have company in your misery, sir," said officer hemingway. "i'm awfully sorry to say that dick prescott can't see today's game, either. it's a whopping shame, but sometimes the law is powerless to do right." "what foolishness are you talking mit, vonce alretty?" demanded herr schimmelpodt, looking bewildered. "i've just been arrested, on a false charge of assault," dick stated quietly. "you? und you don't blay by der game yet' by der beard of charlemagne," howled herr schimmelpodt excitedly, "ve see apoud dot!" digging down into a trouser's pocket this enthusiastic old high school "rooter" brought up a roll of bills almost as large around as a loaf of bread. chapter xv a "facer" for the plotter "what are you going to do with all that wallpaper, mr.schimmelpodt?" laughed officer hemingway. "me? i gif bail, don't i?" demanded the german. "well, you can't do it here. that's a matter to be fixed in court." "und dot train going by a mile a minute, i bet you!" gasped the german ruefully. "come along, lad," urged hemingway gently. "on saturdays court opens at one o'clock. we'll get right up there and see this matter through." "i bet you've see dis matter through---right through someone, ain't it?" exploded herr schimmelpodt, ranging himself on the other side of the young prisoner. as they went along the german, using all his native and acquired shrewdness, quickly got at the bottom of the matter. in the meantime indignant dave darrin was telling all he knew about the business to an indignant lot of high school youngsters in the day coach. "you keep your upper eyebrow stiff, bresgott," urged the warm-hearted german. "i see you through by dis business. don't you worry." "thank you, but it isn't the arrest that is really bothering me," prescott answered. "it's the feet that i'm fooled out of playing this afternoon. and darrin and i had been trained for so many special tricks for today's game that i'm almost afraid my absence will make a difference in the score. but, herr schimmelpodt, if you want to help me, do you really mind dropping in at the store and telling my father, so that he can come down to the court room? yet please be careful not to scare dad. he has a horror of courts and criminal law." "i bet you i do der chob---slick," promised the german, and hurried away. "there goes a man that's all right, from his feet up to the top of his head," declared officer hemingway. on the streets dick's appearance with hemingway attracted little notice. folks were used to seeing the high school reporter of "the blade" walking with this policeman-detective. the few who really did notice merely wondered why dick prescott was not on his way to the tottenville gridiron today. when hemingway and his prisoner reached the court room there were only two or three loungers there, for it was still some minutes before the time for the assembling of the court. presently bert dodge and his friend, bayliss, dropped in. they glanced at the young left end with no attempt to conceal their feelings of triumph. bert looked much the worse for wear. dick returned their looks coolly, but without defiance. he was angry only that he should have been cheated of his right to play in that big game. then in came the elder dodge, only just back from a sanitarium. beside him walked lawyer ripley, who immediately came over to dick, just before herr schimelpodt and dick's father entered the room hastily. "prescott," began the old lawyer, sitting down beside the young player, and speaking in a low tone, "i've just been called into this matter, as i'm the dodge family lawyer. had my advice been asked i would have demanded much more investigation. from what knowledge i have of you, i don't regard you as one who is likely to commit an unprovoked assault. have you any objection to stating your side of the case bearing in mind, of course, the fact that i'm the dodge lawyer." "not the least in the world," dick replied promptly. it was just at this moment that herr schimmelpodt and the elder prescott came hastening into the room. bert dodge and bayliss looked over uneasily, several times, to where lawyer ripley and the young prisoner sat. dick's father stood by in silence. he already knew his son's version of the affair of the day before. herr schimmelpodt didn't say anything, but sat down, breathing heavily. then the clerk of the court and two court officers came in. justice vesey entered soon after and took his seat on the bench. "the case of dodge versus prescott---i mean, the people against prescott, your honor, is the only thing on the docket this afternoon," explained the clerk. "is the case ready" inquired the justice mildly. "i will ask just a moment's delay, your, honor," announced lawyer ripley, rising. "i wish a moment's conference with my principals." the court nodding, mr. ripley crossed the room, engaging in earnest whispered conversation with the dodges, father and son. while this was going on a telegraph messenger boy entered. espying dick, he went over and handed him a yellow envelope. dick tore it open. it was a telegram sent by dave darrin, on the way to tottenville, and read: "fred ripley said he heard insult offered you by dodge yesterday. get case adjourned to monday and ripley will testify in your behalf." smiling, dick passed the message to his father. mr. prescott, after scanning the telegram, rose gravely, crossed the room and handed the slip of paper to lawyer ripley. "if the court please, we are now ready with this case," announced lawyer ripley. "proceed, counselor. mr. clerk, you will swear such witnesses as are to be called." "if the court please," hastily interjected mr. ripley. "i don't believe it is going to be necessary to call any witnesses. with the court's permission i will first make a few explanations." "this case, your honor, is one in which albert dodge, a minor, with the consent of his father, has preferred a charge of aggravated assault against richard prescott, a minor. "that there was a fight, and that said prescott did vigorously assault young dodge, there is no doubt. prescott himself does not deny it. but i am satisfied, if it please the court, that the case is one in which, on the evidence, young prescott is bound to be discharged. i am satisfied that young prescott had abundant provocation for the assault he committed. further, we have received apparently satisfactory assurance by wire that a witness is prepared to testify to conduct and speech, on the part of young dodge, that would justify an assault, or, as the boys call it, 'a fight.' now, your honor, if the prisoner, prescott, through his father, will agree to hold the elder dodge blameless in the matter of civil damages on account of this arrest, i shall move to have the case dismissed." "will you so agree, mr. prescott," inquired the court, glancing at dick's father. "yes," agreed the elder prescott, "though i must offer my opinion that this arrest has been a shameful outrage." "my client, the elder dodge-----" began lawyer ripley, in a low voice. "case dismissed," broke in justice vesey briskly, and mr. ripley did not finish his remark. bowing to the court, dick rose, picked up his hat and started out with his father. but once outside herr schimmelpodt caught them both by the arm. "vait!" he commanded. "i much vant to hear me vot lawyer ripley haf to say to dot young scallavag." "are you talking about me?" demanded bert dodge, flushingly hotly, for, just at that moment, he turned out of the court room into the corridor. "maybe," assented herr schimmelpodt. "then stuff a sausage in your dutch mouth, and be quiet," retorted bert impudently. "young man, if your father hat not enough gontrol of er you, den i vill offer him dot i teach you manners by a goot spanking," replied herr schimmelpodt stiffly. "bert, you will be silent before your elders," ordered mr dodge. "you have come close enough to getting me into trouble today. had i understood the whole story of the fight, as i do now, i never would have backed your application for a warrant." if you meet with any rebuke from young prescott's friends, take it in meekness, for you richly deserve censure." "as you are only a boy, bert, and i am your father's lawyer," broke in mr. ripley, even more sternly, "i have used whatever powers of persuasion i may have to have this case ended mildly. the prescotts might have sued your father for a round sum in damages for false arrest. and, if you and bayliss had sworn falsely as to the nature and causes of the fight, you might both have been sent away to the reformatory on charges of perjury. remember that the law against false swearing applies to boys as much as it does to men. and now, good day, mr. dodge. i trust you will be able to convince your son of his wrongdoing." however, the elder dodge, despite his momentary sternness, was not a parent who exercised much influence over his son. half an hour later bert had out the family runabout, making fast time toward tottenville. "bert," said bayliss, rather soberly, "i'm inclined to think that lawyer ripley was good enough to get us out of a fearful scrape." "that's what he's paid for," sniffed bert "he's my father's lawyer." "then i'm glad your father has a good lawyer. whew! it makes me sick when i stop to think that we might have been trapped into giving---er---prejudiced testimony, and that then we might have been shipped off to the reformatory until we're of age!" "ain't fred ripley the sneak, though!" ejaculated bert angrily. "the idea of him standing ready to 'queer' a case against his father's clients! i thought fred had more class and caste than to go against his own crowd for the sake of a mere mucker!" "well, the thing turned out all right, anyway," muttered bayliss. "we're off in time to see the game." "and that's more than dick prescott will do today," laughed bert sullenly. "he can't catch a train to tottenville, now, in time for the game." "if gridley loses the game today," hinted bayliss, "i suppose the fellows will all feel that it was because prescott didn't go along. then they'll all feel like roasting us." "oh, bother what the high school ninnies think---or say," grunted bert. fifteen minutes later there was a loud popping sound. then a tire flattened out, so that it became necessary for the young men to get out and busy themselves with putting on another tire. at this task they did not succeed very well until, finally, another automobilist came along and gave the boys effective help. so it was that, by the time the pair reached tottenville, housed the car at a garage, and reached tottenville's high school athletic field, the game was well on. as the two young men reached the grand stand the gridley contingent were on their feet, breathless. gridley had the ball down to the ten-yard line from tottenville's goal. captain wadleigh's signals were ringing out, crisp and clear. a whistle sounded. then the ball was put swiftly into play. tottenville put up a sturdy resistance against gridley's left end. dave darrin had the ball, and appeared to be trying to break through the tottenville line, well backed by gridley's interference. of a sudden there was a subtle, swift pass, and gridley's left end darted along, almost parallel with the ten-yard line, then made a dashing cut around and past tottenville. two of the home team tackled that left end, but he shook them off. in another instant----"touchdown!" yelled the frantic gridley boosters. "touchdown! oh, you darrin! oh, you prescott!" bert dodge rubbed his eyes. "prescott?" he muttered. "blazes, but that is prescott!" faltered bayliss, with a sickly grin. "how did he ever get over here in time to play?" demanded bert dodge. herr schimmelpodt could have told. the stout, sport-loving old contractor had parted with some of his greenbacks to a chauffeur who had put dick and himself over the long road to tottenville. and the young left end was playing, today, in his finest form! chapter xvi "the cattle car for yours" it was dave darrin who kicked the goal. this ran the score up to six to nothing in gridley's favor. it was the first scoring in a game that had begun by looking all bad for gridley. the tottenville high school boys were bigger than the visitors and fully as speedy. in fact, even now, to impartial observers, it looked as though these six points on the score had been won by what was little better than a fluke. "gridley can't keep this up," remarked the tottenville boosters confidently. "they'll lose their wind and nerve against our fine line before the game is much older." the first half went out with score unchanged. but captain wadleigh did heave a sigh of relief when the time keeper cut in on that first half. "fellows, look out for the fine points," he warned his fellows, after they had trotted into quarters. "it'll be craft, not strong rush, that wins for us today, if anything does." "prescott's here. he and darrin can put anything over in the line of craft," laughed fred ripley. ripley was in togs, but was not playing. he was on the sub line, today, awaiting a call in case any player of his team became disabled. "darrin and prescott are all right," nodded wadleigh gruffly. "but they have endurance limits, like other human beings. don't rely too much upon any two or three men, fellows. now, in the second half"---here wadleigh lowered his voice---"i'm going to spare prescott and darrin all i can. so you other fellows look out for hard work." dick's eyes were still flashing. this was not from the fever of the game, but from the recollection of how narrowly he had escaped being tricked out of this chance to play today. on his arrival, and while dressing before the game, prescott had related to the team the mean trick that had been played upon him. he had also told how the case came out in court. "dodge and bayliss are traitors to the school!" cried purcell indignantly. "we'll have to give 'em the silence!" "hear! hear!" cried several of the fellows. this, in other words, meant that dodge and bayliss would be "sent to coventry"---shut out from all social contact with the school body during the remainder of the school year. "i think i'm with you, fellows," nodded captain wadleigh. "however, remember that the football team can't settle all school questions. we'll take this up when we get back to gridley." in the second half it was not long before gridley did go stale and tired. but so, too, to the disgust of home boosters, did the tottenville high school boys. the game became a sheer test of endurance. gridley, under wadleigh, played with a doggedness that made tottenville put forth all its strength. "brace up, you lobsters," growled captain grant of the home team, after the whistle had sounded on tottenville's "down" with the ball. "buck the simple gridley youths. wade through their line as if you fellows were going to dinner half an hour late. don't let them wind you, or stop you!" tottenville threw all its force into the following plays. surely, doggedly, the home boys forced the ball down the gridiron. at last gridley was forced to make a safety, thus scoring two points for their opponents. "don't let that happen again, fellows," urged wadleigh anxiously. "fight for time, but don't throw any two-spots away." "rally, men! brace! crush 'em!" ordered captain grant. "seven minutes left! we've got to score." these muttered orders caused a grim smile among the tottenville high school boys, for the only way to tie the score would be to force gridley to make two more safeties---a hard thing to do against a crack eleven in seven minutes! dick and dave darrin were called into play as soon as the visitors had the ball in their own hands once more. the "trick" signal sounded from quarter-back's lips. "one---three---seven---eleven!" there was instant, seemingly sly activity on the part of gridley's right wing. those from gridley who stood on the grand stand thought that the coming play looked bad in advance. "why don't they use prescott again?" asked some one anxiously. "he has been having a vacation." then followed the snap-back. quarter-back started with the ball, and it looked as though he would dash for the right. the quarter took one step, then wheeled like lightning, and rushed after darrin, who already was in swift motion. gridley's whole line switched for the left. tottenville found out the trick after the heaviest fellows in its line had started for gridley's right. "oh, darrin---sprint! oh, you prescott!" truly the boosters were howling themselves hoarse. there was frenzy on in an instant. to the knowing among the watchers there was no chance for gridley to rush down on the enemy's goal line, but every yard---every foot, now---carried the pigskin just so much further from gridley's goal line. gridley's interference rushed in solidly about dave darrin, as though to boost him through. dick seemed bent on beating down some of the formation surging against the visitors. just as the bunch "clumped" dave darrin went down. there was a surge over him, and then dick prescott was seen racing as though for life. there was no opposition left---only tottenville's quarter-back and the fullback. tottenville's quarter got after fleeting dick too late, for the whole movement had been one of startling trickery. one tottenville halfback was too far away to make an obstructing dash in time. in dodging the other halfback dick dashed on as though not seeing the fellow. this, however, was all trick. just in the nick of time prescott, still holding the ball, ducked and dodged far to the left, getting around his man. tottenville's fullback was now the sole hope of the home team. prescott, however, dodged that heavy fellow, also. from the gridley boosters on the grand stand went up a medley of yells that dinned in the young left end's ears. panting, all but fainting, dick was over the enemy's goal line and he had the ball down. when dave had emerged from that fruitless clumping he had a broad grin on his face. he saw that while dick was not yet over the goal line, only the fullback was in the way and the fullback was no match for dick in the matter of speed. then the yells told the rest. back came the ball. captain wadleigh nodded to dave to kick the goal. captain grant looked utterly wild. he had assured everyone in tottenville who had asked him that the gridley "come ons" would be eaten alive. and here-----! dave made the kick. after going down in that bunch darrin was not at his best. body and nerves were tired. he failed to kick the goal. hardly, however, had the two teams been started in a new line-up when the time keeper did his trick. the game was over. that last kick had failed, but who cared? the score was eleven to two! ere the players could escape from the field the gridley boosters were over on the gridiron. dick and dave were bodily carried to dressing quarters. wadleigh, who had shown fine generalship in this stiff game was cheered until the boosters went hoarse. "gentlemen," cried coach morton, raising his voice to its fullest carrying power as the dressing quarters filled, "it's probably too early to brag, but i feel that we've got an old-fashioned gridley eleven this year." "ask grant!" "ask anybody in tottenville!" the first yell was sent up by ripley, the second by another substitute. all the gridley members of the team were excited at the close of this game. not even their weariness kept down their spirits. herr schimmelpodt didn't attempt to enter quarters. he was now too much of a "sport" to attempt that. but he stood just outside the door, vigorously mopping his shining, wet face. there were two extra places in the german's hired car. dave, of course, was asked to fill one of these, and captain wadleigh was invited to take the fifth seat. more dejected than ever were bert dodge and his chum, bayliss, as they slouched away from the grounds. they did not attempt to invade the gridiron and join in the triumphal procession to quarters. "you can't seem to down that fellow prescott," muttered bayliss, in disgust. "just as you think you've got him by the throat you find out that he's sitting on your chest and pulling your hair." "oh, i don't know," growled dodge sulkily. "he may have his weak spot, and it may be a very weak spot at that." the pair moped along until they reached the garage in which they had left the runabout. bayliss was standing near the doorway, while bert inspected the machinery of the car. "pest! look out there," muttered bayliss, stepping back from the open doorway. "what is it?" demanded bert. "oh, i see! old schimmelpodt brought the beggar prescott over here in an auto. that's how the fellow managed to get into the game, after all. well, what of it all, anyway?" "that car is running along slowly, and it has a full-sized crowd in it," muttered bayliss, going closer to his crony. "wadleigh, prescott and darrin---and maybe the chauffeur is a thick friend of theirs." "what on earth are you driving at?" demanded dodge, glancing up. "bert, i don't believe i'm wholly stuck on the scheme of us driving back to gridley. there are too many lonely spots along the road. "do you think they'd assassinate us?" jeered bert. "i---i think wadleigh may have formed the notion of stopping us and giving us a thrashing," responded bayliss. "bosh!" snapped dodge quickly. yet, none the less, he paused and looked thoughtful. "there's more than one road to gridley, old fellow," muttered bert uneasily. "you see schimmelpodt and that mocker didn't pass us on the way here." "but i think they're likely to have guessed our road," persisted bayliss. "there was an ugly look on wadleigh's face, too, as that car drove past here." "but old schimmelpodt wouldn't stand for anything disorderly and---unlawful," urged bert. "i don't know about that," retorted bayliss significantly. "that old german has gone crazy over high school sports. he might stand in for 'most anything. you know, he offered your dad to give you a spanking this afternoon." the thought of herr schimmelpodt's big and capable-looking hands caused bert to shiver a bit uneasily. yet he didn't want to admit that he was scared. he glanced at his watch. "we've time to catch the regular train back, i suppose, bayliss." "let's do it, then," begged the other. "will you pay a chauffeur to take this car home, then?" "i'll pay half," volunteered bayliss eagerly. "all right, then; if you're pretty near broke, we'll divide the cost," agreed dodge. an arrangement was easily made with the owner of the garage. then, the charges paid, this pair of cronies, who considered themselves much better than the usual run of high school boys, hurried over to the railway station. the train was waiting by the time that the pair arrived. bert and bayliss hastily purchased tickets, then boarded the handiest car. the train proved to contain few people except the gridley student body and boosters from that town. "here, what are you fellows doing in here?" angrily demanded purcell, as the cronies entered one of the cars. "we're going to ride to gridley, if you've no objections," replied bert, with sulky defiance. "no, sir; not in this car!" declared purcell promptly. "too many decent people here. the cattle car for yours!" "oh, shut up!" retorted dodge, trying to shove into a vacant seat. but purcell gripped him and pushed him back. "no, siree! not in here! the cattle car is your number." "you-----" "we'll pitch you off the train if you have the cheek to try to ride in this ear," insisted purcell. high school boys, when off on a junket of this kind, are likely to be as wild as college boys. a score of the gridley youths now jumped up. it looked as though there were going to be a riot. "oh, come on," snarled bayliss, plucking his crony's sleeve. "we don't want to ride with this truck, anyway." into the next car stamped the two young men, their faces red with anger and shame. "sneaks!" piped up some one. chapter xvii facing the "school cut" at the instant of their entrance into the car the air had been full of merry chatter. there were many high school girls in this car, and not many vacant seats. as the word "sneaks" sounded through the car everyone turned around. bert and bayliss found themselves uncomfortably conspicuous. at once all the talk and laughter ceased. stony silence followed. one of the girls was sitting alone in a seat. bayliss, unable to endure the situation any longer, glided forward, dropping into the vacant place. "that seat is engaged," the girl coolly informed him. so bayliss, redder than ever, hurriedly rose. bert had already started for the next car. bayliss slunk along after him. "sneaks!" cried some one, as they showed their faces in still the next car forward. here, too, all the chatter stormed at once. bert, pulling his hat down over his eyes, went hurriedly past the boys and girls of gridley, and into the next car. bayliss followed with the fidelity and closeness of a little dog. now, the next car ahead proved to be the smoking car. here, at any rate, the despised pair could find safe harborage. but one of the men of gridley, who had followed the football team this day, and who had got an inkling of the story of the arrest, removed a cigar from between his lips and pointed an accusing finger at the boys. "see here, you fellows!" he shouted. "this car is exclusively for men. can you take a hint?" "but we've got to sit somewhere," flashed bert defiantly. "i don't know as that's necessary, either," retorted the gridley man. "at least, i don't care if it is. after your dirty little trick, today, we don't want you in here among men. do we, neighbors?" there were many mutterings, some cat-calls and at least a score of men rose. "you let me alone, you fellows!" yelled bert dodge, as he made a break for the front end of the car. "don't any of you dare to get fresh with me!" by the time he had reached the front end of the car bert was almost sobbing with anger and shame. bayliss had followed, white and silent. in the baggage car, to their relief, the sole railway employee there did not object to their presence. bert and his crony found seats on two trunks side by side. "dodge," whispered bayliss unsteadily, after the train had pulled out from tottenville, "i'm afraid we're in bad with the school push." "afraid?" sneered bert. "man, don't you know it?" "well, it's all your fault---this whole confounded row!" "oh, you're going to play welsher, are you?" sneered bert. "humph! by morning you'll be a full-fledged mucker!" "don't you worry about that," argued bayliss, though rather stiffly. "i know my family---and my caste." "i should hope so," rejoined dodge, with just a shade more cordiality. rather than alight at gridley, and face the whole high school crowd---for scores who had not been able to meet the expense of the trip to tottenville would be sure to be at the station to meet the victorious team---bert and bayliss rode on to the next station, then got off and walked two miles back to town. by monday morning the punishment of the pair was made complete. bert and bayliss walked to school together. as they drew near the grounds both young men felt their hearts beating faster. "i wonder if there's anything in for us?" whispered dodge. "sure to be," responded bayliss. "well, the fellows had better not try anything too frisky. if they do, they'll give us a chance to make trouble for 'em!" it seemed as though the full count of the student body, boys and girls, had assembled in the yard this morning. all was gay noise until the pair of cronies appeared at the gate. then, swiftly, all the noise died out. one could hardly hear even a breath being drawn. the silence was complete as bert and bayliss, now very white, stepped into the yard. though not a voice sounded, every eye was turned on the white-faced pair. bert dodge's lips moved. he tried to summon us control enough of his tongue to utter some indifferent remark to his companion. but the sound simply wouldn't come. after a walk that was only a few yards in distance, yet seemed only less than a mile in length, the humiliated pair rushed up the steps, opened the great door and let themselves in. at recess neither bayliss nor dodge had the courage to appear outside. as they left school that afternoon they were treated to the same dose of "silence." tuesday morning neither dodge nor bayliss showed up at all at school. on thursday morning high school readers of "the blade" were greatly interested in the following personal paragraph: _"bayliss and dodge, both of the senior class, high school, have severed their connection with that institution. it is understood that the young men are going elsewhere in search of better educational facilities."_ that was all, but it told the boys and girls at gridley high school all that they needed to know. "that is the very last gasp of the 'sorehead' movement," grinned tom reade, in talking it over with dan dalzell. "well, they did the whole trick for themselves," rejoined dan. "no one else touched them, or pushed them. they took all the rope they wanted---and hanged themselves. now, that pair will probably feel cheap every time they have to come back to gridley and walk the streets." "all they had to do was to be decent fellows," mused tom. "but the strain of decency proved to be too severe for them." in the high school yard that thursday morning there was one unending strain of rejoicing. some of the other late "soreheads," who had escaped the full meed of humiliation---davis, cassleigh, fremont, porter and others---actually sighed with relief when they found what they had escaped in the way of ridicule and contempt. "the whole thing teaches us one principle," muttered fremont to porter. "what is that?" "never tackle the popular idol in any mob. if you can't get along with him, avoid him---but don't try to buck him!" "humph!" retorted porter. "if you mean prescott and his gang---dick & co., as the fellows call them---i can follow one part of your advice by avoiding them. i never did and never could like that mucker prescott!" the fact of interest to dick would have been that he appeared to enjoy the respect of at least ninety-five per cent. of the student body of the high school. surely that percentage of popularity is enough for anyone. the fellow can get along without the approbation of a few "soreheads"! chapter xviii "prin." gets in the practice if dodge and bayliss devoted any time to farewells among their late fellow-students before quitting gridley the fact did not seem to leak out. yet despite the absence of two young men who considered themselves of such great importance the gridley high school appeared to go on about the same as ever. it was the season of football, and nearly of the school's interest and enthusiasm seemed to spend itself in that direction. coach morton did all in his power to push the team on to perfection; the other teachers worked harder than ever to keep the interest of the students sufficiently on their studies. the girls, as well as the boys, suffered from the infection of the gridiron microbe. five more games with other high school teams were fought out, and now gridley had an unbroken record of victories so far for the season. such a history can often be built up in the athletics of a high school, but it has to be a school attended by the cream of young manhood and having an abundance of public interest and enthusiasm behind it all. not at any time in the season did coach morton allow the training work to slacken. regularly the entire squad turned out for field work. if the afternoon proved to be stormy, then four blasts on the city fire alarm, at either two o'clock or two-thirty, notified the young men that they were to report at the gym. instead. there, the work, though different, was just as severe. the result was that every youngster in the squad "reeked" with good condition all through the season. it is in just this respect that many a high school eleven fails to "make really good." in a team where discipline is lax some of the fellows are sure to rebel at spending "all their time training." where the coach exercises too limited authority, or when he is too "easy," the team's record is sure to suffer in consequence. many a high school eleven comes out a tail-ender just because the coach is not strict enough, or cannot be. many a team composed of naturally husky and ambitious boys fails on account of a light-weight coach. on the other hand, the best coach in the country can't make a winning eleven out of fellows who won't work or be disciplined. coach morton's authority was unbounded. after the team had been organized for the season it took action by the athletics committee of the alumni association to drop a man from the team. but coach and captain could drop the offender back to the "sub" seats and keep him there. moreover, it was well known that mr. morton's recommendation that a certain young man be dropped was all the hint that the athletics committee needed. under failing health, or when duties prevented full attention to football training, a member of the team was allowed to resign. but an offending member couldn't resign. he was dropped, and in the eyes of the whole student body being dropped signified deep disgrace. in five out of the won games dick prescott had played left end, and without accident. yet, as it was wholly possible that he might be laid up at any instant, the coach was assiduously training dan dalzell and tom reade to play at either end of the line. other subs were rigorously trained for other positions, but dan and tom were regarded as the very cream of the sub players in the light-weight positions. dan had played left end in one of the lesser gables, and had shown himself a swift, brilliant gridironist, though he was not quite as crafty as prescott. tom reade had less of strategy than dan but relied more upon great bursts of speed and in the sheer ability to run away from impending tackle. now the boys were training for the team's eighth game, the one to be played against the hepburn falls high school, a strong organization. "remember that a tie saves the record, but that it doesn't look as well as a winning," coach morton coaxed the squad dryly, as they started in for afternoon practice. "we miss the mascot that the earlier high school teams used to have," remarked hudson. "yes? what was it?" inquired coach. "why, bully old dr. thornton used to drop in for a few minutes, 'most every practice afternoon?" replied hudson. "i can remember just how his full, kindly old face, with the twinkling eyes, used to encourage the fellows up to the prettiest work that was in then. oh, he was a mascot---dr. thornton was!" coach morton was of the same mind, but he didn't say so, as it would sound like a rejection on the present unpopular principal, abner cantwell. this afternoon there was no real team practice mr. morton wanted certain individual play features brought out more strongly. one of these was the kicking of the ball. after several had worked with the pigskin morton called out: "now, prescott, you take the ball, and drop back to the twenty-five-yard line. when you get there name your shot---that is, tell us where you intend to put the ball. where doesn't matter as long as it is a long kick and a true one. after you name your shot, then run swiftly to the center of the field. from there, without a long pause, kick and see how straight you can drive for the point you have named." "all right, sir," nodded dick. tucking the pigskin under his arm, he jogged back to the twenty-five-yard line. "right over there!" called dick, pointing. "i'll try to drop the ball in the front row of seats, second section past the entrance." "very good, prescott!" no one was sitting in the section named by prescott, but a few onlookers who had been squatting in a section near by hastily moved. "the duffers! they needn't think i am going to hit them with the ball," muttered dick. then he started on a hard run. just at center he stopped abruptly, swung back his right foot and dropped the ball. it was a hard, fast drive. the ball arched upward, somewhat, though it did not travel high. but to dick, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there came a sudden jolt. a man had just appeared, walking through the entrance passage. his head, well up above the sloping sides of the passage at this point, was not right in line with the ball. and that man was principal cantwell! several members of the squad saw what might happen, but every one of them was too eagerly expectant to make a sound to prevent the threatened catastrophe. dick saw and half shivered. yet in his desire to say something in the fewest words of warning, all he could think of was: "low bridge!" nor did coach morton succeed in thinking of anything more helpful, for he shouted only: "mr. cantwell!" "eh?" asked the principal, turning toward the coach and therefore not seeing the ball that was now nearly upon him. mr. cantwell, on this afternoon, having a few calls in mind, had arrayed himself in his best. he wore a long black frock coat which, he imagined, made him look at least as distinguished as a diplomat. in the matter of silk hats, being decidedly economical, mr. cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years. but new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore this glossy thing in the latest style. there was no time for more warning. the descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat. bump! the pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from the principal's head. on sailed hat and football for some three feet, the hat managing to run upside down. r-r-r-rip! the force with which the football was traveling impaled the hat on a picket at the side of the stand. then, as if satisfied with fits work, the football struck and bounded back, landing at the principal's feet. for one moment mr. cantwell was dumb with amazement. then he saw his impaled hat and realized the extent and tragedy of his loss. the angered man went white with wrath. "what ruffian did that!" he roared. but the boys, unable to hold in any longer, had let out a concerted though half-suppressed "whoop!" and now came running to the spot. "who kicked my hat off?" demanded the principal, pointing tragically to the piece of headgear, through the crown and past the rim of which the picket now stood up as though in triumph. "you---you got in the way of---the ball, sir," explained drayne, trying hard to keep from roaring out with laughter. "but some one kicked the ball my way," insisted the principal, with utter sternness. "don't tell me that no one did! that football could not by through the air without some one propelling it. now, young gentlemen, who kicked that ball?" "i did, mr. cantwell," admitted dick, pushing his way through the throng. "and i'm very sorry that anything like this has happened, sir." "on, you did it, oh?" demanded the principal, eyeing the young man witheringly. "and you actually expect an apology to restore my new and expensive hat to its former pristine condition of splendor?" "i didn't know you were there, sir," dick explained. "you didn't appear until just after i had kicked the ball." "prescott is quite right, mr. cantwell," put in coach morton. "none of us knew you were here in the passage until the ball had been kicked---not, in fact, until the ball was almost upon you." "then, when you saw me, why didn't you call out to warn me?" demanded the principal, still fearfully angry, though trying to keep back unparliamentary language. "i did call out, sir," replied dick. "there was mighty little time to think, but i called out the two quickest words i could think of." "what did you call?" demanded the principal. "i yelled 'low bridge!'" "a most idiotic expression," snorted the principal. "what on earth does it mean, anyway?" "it means to duck, sir," prescott answered. "duck?" retorted mr. cantwell, glaring suspiciously at the sober-faced young left end. "now, what on earth does 'duck' mean, unless you refer to a web-footed species of poultry?" "prescott was rattled, beyond a doubt, mr. cantwell," interposed coach morton. "so was i---the time was so short. all i could think of as to call out to you by name." "with the result that i looked your way--and lost my row hat," snapped the principal. he now turmoil to take the spoiled article off the paling. he looked at it almost in anguish, for he had been very proud of that glossy article. "it's a shame," muttered drayne, with mock sympathy. "that's what it is," agreed dave darrin innocently. "but---mr. morton---i think the matter can be fixed satisfactorily. if you call this to the attention of the athletics committee won't they vote to appropriate the price of a new hat out of the high school athletics fund? you know, the fund is almost overburdened with money this year." "that might not be a bad idea," broke in the principal eagerly. "will you call this to the attention of the committee, mr. morton, for it was in coming here to watch the young men that i lost my fine, new hat." "now, i'm heartily sorry," replied mr. morton, "but i am certain the members of the committee will feel that money contributed by the citizens of the town can hardly be expended in purchasing hats for anyone." "but-----" mr. cantwell began to expostulate. then he stopped, very suddenly. just as plainly as anyone else present the principal now saw the absurdity of expecting a new hat out of the athletics fund. mr. cantwell shot a very savage look at innocent-appearing dave darrin. "my afternoon is spoiled, as well as my hat," remarked the principal, turning to leave with as much dignity as could be expected from man who bore such a battered hat in his hands. "the hatter might be able to block your hat out and repair it," suggested hudson, though without any real intention of offering aid. "our coachman had that sort of trick done to played-out old silk hat that dad gave him." "mr. hudson," returned the principal, turning and glaring at this latest polite tormentor, "will you be good enough to remember that i am not extremely interested in your family history. "back to your practice, men!" called the coach sharply, after the last had been seen of the back of the principal's black coat. "it was too bad!" muttered dick, in a tone of genuine regret. "say that again, and i'll make an effort to thrash you, prescott!" challenged hudson, with a grin. "well, i am sorry it happened," dick insisted. "and mighty sorry, too." "you couldn't help it." "i know it, but that hardly lessens my regret. i don't enjoy the thought of having destroyed anyone else's property, even if i couldn't help it and can't be blamed. "prescott said he didn't know i was there!" exclaimed mr. cantwell angrily to himself. "bosh! that boy has been a thorn in my side ever since i became principal of the school. of course he saw me---and he kicked wonderfully straight! oh, how i wish i could make him wear this hat every day during the balance of the school year! such a handsome hat---eight dollars!" "it's a shame to tell you," confided dave darrin, as he and dick headed the sextette of chums on the homeward tramp, "but you're certainly looking in great condition, old fellow." "i feel simply perfect, physically," dick replied. "i have, in fact, ever since i first began to train in the baseball squad last season. it's wonderful what training does for a fellow! i know there's a heap of bad condition in the world, but i often wonder why there is. why, dave, i ought to knock wood, of course, but i feel so fine that it seems as though nothing could put me out of form." at that moment young prescott had no idea how easily a few minutes could bring one from the best possible condition to the brink of physical despair. chapter xix laura and belle have a secret "only a team of fools would hope to stop gridley high school this year." thus stated the elliston "tribune" after gridley had walked through elliston high school, one of the strongest school teams of the state, by a score of eight to nothing. that copy of "the tribune" found its way over to gridley, and fell into the hands of some of the high school boys. "be careful, young men," warned mr. morton. "don't get it too seriously into your heads that you can't be beaten, or your downfall will date from that hour. the true idea is not that on can't be beaten, but that you won't. stick to the latter idea as well as you do to your training, and it will be a good eleven, indeed, that can get a game away from you." "only two more to play this year, anyway," replied hudson. "we can't lose much." "the team might lose two, and that would a worse record than any gridley eleven has made in five years," retorted mr. morton dryly. "we won't lose 'em, though," rejoined tom reade. "every fellow in the squad is in a conspiracy to pull the eleven through the next two games---by its hair, if necessary." "that line of thought is better than conceit," smiled the coach. the game with paunceboro high school came off, one of the most stubbornly fought battles that gridley had ever entered. it seemed impossible to score against this enemy. again and again dick broke around the left end in a spirited dash, or dan dalzell made one of his swift sorties at right end. then, by the time that paunceboro had grown used to end dashes, gridley would make a smashing charge at center. all these styles of attack, however, paunceboro met smilingly. in the first half there was no score. yet paunceboro did not succeed any better in getting through or around gridley's line of flexible human steel. until within ten minutes before the close of the second half, it looked like a tie between giants of the school gridiron. then, by a series of feints in which prescott, darrin, drayne and hudson bore off the most brilliant honors, although all under wadleigh's planning, paunceboro was sorely pressed down against its own goal line. just in the nick of time paunceboro made a safety, and thus sent the ball back up the field. but it cost paunceboro two reluctantly-given points, and that was the score---two to nothing. gridley was still victor in every game so far played in the season. november was now far along, and there remained only the great thanksgiving day game. this contest, against filmore high school, was to be fought out on the gridley field. "your football season will soon be over, dick," remarked laura bentley, one afternoon when prescott and darrin, on their way back from coach's gridiron grilling, met laura and belle on main street. "this season will soon be over," replied dick "but i hope for another next year." "and then, perhaps, at college?" hinted belle. "if we go to college," replied dick slowly. "why? don't you expect to?" asked laura, in some surprise. "we are not sure," murmured dick, "that we want to go to college." "why, i thought both of you were ambitious for higher education," cried belle. "so we are," nodded dave. "oh! then, if not to college, you are going to some scientific school?" guessed laura. "i wonder if you two could keep a secret?" laughed dick teasingly. "try us!" challenged belle meade. dick glanced at dave, who gave a barely perceptible nod. "no; we won't try you," retorted dick "we'll trust you, without any promise on your part." "good!" cried laura, in a gratified tone. "well?" inquired belle, as neither boy spoke. "it's just here, then," prescott went on, in a low tone, after glancing around to make sure that no one else was within hearing. "the congressman from this district, in a year or so more, will have the filling of a vacancy at west point. that means a cadetship from this district. now, a congressman can appoint a cadet as a matter of favoritism, or to pay a political debt to some relative of the boy he so appoints. but the custom, in this district, has always been for the congressman to appoint the boy who comes out best in a competitive examination. the examination is thrown open to all boys, of proper age, who can first pass a good physical examination." "so you're both going to try for it?" asked belle quickly. "no," retorted dave very quickly. "that would make us rivals. dick and i don't want to be rivals." "then where do you come in?" asked belle, glancing curiously at darrin. "whisper!" replied dave, looking mischievously mysterious. after a pause he continued, almost in a whisper: "at just about the same time there will be a vacancy at annapolis. so while dick is trying to get a job carrying the banner for the army, it will be little david trying for a chance to be a second farragut in the navy." dick winced at his chum's rather slighting allusion to an army career, but on this one point of preference in the way of the service, the two chums were willing to disagree. darrin wouldn't have gone to west point if he could. dick admitted the greatness of the american navy, but all his heart was set on the army. "both of you boys, then, are planning to give up your lives to the flag?" exclaimed laura. "yes," nodded dick; "do you think it's foolish?" "i think it's glorious!" breathed laura. "so do i," agreed belle heartily; "though, like dave, i should think the navy would be the more attractive." "oh, the navy is all right," gibed dick. "it would never suit me, though. you see, a fellow in the navy has nothing to do but ride into a fight on board a first-class ship. it's too much like being a cook's tourist war time. now, any army officer, or a private soldier, for that matter, has to depend upon his own physical exertions to get him into the fight." "and an army fellow," twitted dave, "if he finds the fight too hard for him, can always dig a hole and hide in it. but where can a naval officer hide?" "oh, he has it easy enough, anyway, hiding behind armor plate," scoffed dick. "of one thing i feel certain, anyway," said laura thoughtfully. "you are both of you cut out for the military life. under the most fearful conditions i don't believe either one of you would ever show the white feather." "i don't know," replied dick gravely. "neither one of us has ever been tested sufficiently. but i hope you're right, laura. i'd sooner be dead, at this instant, than to feel that my cowardice would ever throw the slightest stain on the grand old flag. i try to be generous in my opinions of others. i think i can stand almost any man except---the coward!" "i'm not a bit afraid of either one of you, on that score," broke in belle warmly. "that's very kind of you," nodded dave. "but of course you don't know any more about our bravery than we do ourselves. it has never been proven." "how many young men have been killed in football this year?" asked laura quietly. "i think the paper stated, the other day, that it was something more than forty," replied dick. "well, don't you two play football," demanded laura. "don't you both jump into the crush as fearlessly as anyone, doesn't it take about as much nerve to play fast and furious football as it does to fight on the battlefields isn't football, in its hardest form, a great training for the soldiers" "oh, perhaps," laughed dick. "for that matter, laura, i believe you could soon talk me into believing that i'm braver than good old phil sheridan!" "hullo," muttered dave suddenly. "what-----" "where's the crowd rushing!" demanded belle, in the same breath. "there's some trouble down the street!" cried darrin. "and smoke, too." "it's a fire!" cried dick, wheeling about. "come along---all!" as the girls started to scurry down the street dick caught laura's nearer arm to aid her. dave did as much for belle. these four young people were among the first hundred and fifty to gather on the sidewalk before a store and office building that was on fire. it was a five story building. fire had started in back on the second floor. originating in offices empty at the time, the blaze had gained good headway ere it was discovered. it had eaten up to the third and fourth floors, and was now sweeping frontward. on the third floor the heat had cracked the window glass, and the air, rushing in, had fanned up a brisk blaze. flames were beginning to shoot out their fiery tongues through these third story windows. "is everyone out of that building?" demanded the policeman on the beat, rushing up. he had just learned that a citizen had gone to ring in the fire alarm, so now the policeman's next thought was directed toward life saving. there was a quick count of those who had been in the offices on the upper floors. on the fourth floor one suite of offices had been occupied as a china painting school. miss trent, the teacher, who had reached the sidewalk safely, now looked about her anxiously. "i had only one pupil up there, miss grace dodge," replied miss trent, hurriedly. "i called to her and then ran. miss dodge started after me, then rushed back to get her purse, palette and color case." "has anyone seen miss dodge?" demanded the policeman. no one had. "then i'll get up there, if i can," muttered the officer. dropping belt and club to the sidewalk, and pulling his helmet down tight on his head, the policeman darted into the building and up the stairs. at that moment, above the smoke and flames pouring out of the third story windows, grace dodge appeared at one of the windows on the fourth floor. she was hatless, and a streak of blood appeared over her left temple. "don't jump!" shouted several men loudly. "a policeman has just started up to get you." miss dodge appeared somewhat dazed; it was a question whether she understood. but her face disappeared from the window way. to many of the horrified ones below, it appeared as though the imperiled girl had swayed dizzily away from the window, as though overcome by the heat and fumes from the windows below her. "where is the fire department? is it never coming?" wailed one woman in the throng, wringing her hands. no one here knew that the citizen who had rushed to send in the alarm had found the first box out of order. he was now rushing to another alarm box. out of the hallway came the policeman, white-faced and tottering weakly. "i---i couldn't get up much above the second floor," he gasped, in a voice out of which the strength was gone. "i---i guess the---heat and smoke got me! but---some one---must try!" where was that fire department? dick, staring over the crowd, found that all of his chums had arrived. "come on, fellows!" he yelled. "we've got to do something. follow me!" prescott, after one swift glance at the buildings, made a dash for the door of the one just to the right of the blazing pile. into the stairway entrance he dashed, followed by dave darrin, by tom reade, greg holmes, dan dalzell and harry hazelton. "hurrah!" yelled some one, in infectious enthusiasm. "dick & co. to the rescue!" chapter xx in the line of daring that became instantly the cry: "dick & co. to the rescue!" yet none of the sextette heard it. they were all inside, at the first step of their projected deed of bravery. "all of you but dave run through the offices!" yelled dick. "some of the tenants must have fire-rope coils. grab the first rope you can find and bring it to me on the roof. hustle! dave, you follow me!" even to boys daily grilled on the football gridiron it was no mere matter of sport to dart up five flights of stairs at fast speed. dick prescott was panting as he reached the roof and threw open the skylight door. but he got out on the roof, hurrying across it, doing his best, at the same time, to gulp in chestfuls of fresh air. then he came to the edge of the roof next to the burning building. the roof of that other building was about fifteen feet below the roof on which dick prescott stood. after an instant of swift calculation young prescott jumped. he landed, below, on the balls of his feet, though the next instant the momentum of the fall carried him forward onto his hands. in another twinkling prescott was up, running toward the front edge of the building. he stopped at the skylight door, but discovered that the flames and smoke below shut off hope there. so he continued to the front of the roof. here dick glanced back, for a second, to make sure that dave had followed safely. darrin was on his feet, and waved his hand reassuringly. then dick prescott leaned out, peering down at the front of the burning building. "there's prescott!" shouted some of the most enthusiastic watchers. "hurrah. old gridley high school!" but dick paid no heed to the crowd. he was trying to locate the window at which grace dodge had appeared, and was trying to contrive how he would use a rope when one came. in the meantime darrin, having jumped to the lower roof, remained where he had dropped, awaiting the arrival of the other fellows with a rope. after a few moments they came. reade had a coil of inch rope, which he waved enthusiastically. "wait until we get the rope uncoiled," called greg. "then we'll lower some of us down to join you" "lower---nothing! jump!" yelled dave, in a stentorian quarter-deck voice. greg obeyed, instanter. tom flung the coil of rope below, then followed it. hazelton and dalzell, an instant later, were with their comrades. "come on, now," ordered darrin, who had snatched up the coil of rope and was darting over the roof. "dick's waiting for us." prescott, still looking below, heard the swish of ropes on the roof as dave uncoiled and threw the lengths out. "good!" yelled dick, looking back. "tom, you take a turn or two of the rope around that chimney, for anchor. dave, you stand here at the roof edge to pay out the rope. greg, you and dan get in behind dave to help on the hoist. see, dave! that third window from the end--there's where the rope wants to go." "you going down the rope?" queried darrin dryly. "yes." "wait, then, and i'll tie some knots in it." "no time for that," vetoed dick sharply. "i'll have to take my chances. miss dodge may be smothering, or burning. pay it out---fast!" dick watched until he saw that the rope had gone low enough, and that it hung before the right window. "now, brace yourselves, fellows!" he called, between his hands, for the roar of the flames and the crackling of timbers made some sort of trumpet necessary, even at short range. on his knees, his back to the street, at the edge of the roof, dick prescott seized the rope. then, with a fervent inward prayer, he started over the edge, and hung in the air, eighty feet from the ground. down below, the ever-increasing crowd let out a cyclonic, roaring cheer. it was a foolish thing to do, for it might have rattled the young football player. but prescott paid no attention to the racket, and kept on lowering himself, coolly. here was where his gym. training and all his football practice came in splendidly. every muscle was strong, every nerve true to its duty! not once did prescott fear that he would lose his grip and fall to the street below. up above, at the roof's edge, stood darrin, directing as though from quarter-deck or military-top. dave had to lean rather far out, at that great height, but it did not make him dizzy. "there! the grand old chap has landed on the window-sill! he has gone inside!" cried dave, turning to his comrades. "now we can wait until we feel a signal-pull on the rope." as he turned away from the smoke that was coming up through the air darrin realized how much smoke he had inhaled. he thumped his chest lightly, taking deep breaths. dick was in the studio now. close to the window, where the draught was strongest, prescott found the smoke so thick that he had to grope his way through it; but bending low, he quickly came to where grace dodge lay unconscious on the floor. she looked lifeless, as she lay there. "whew! i'm afraid she's a goner, already!" thought dick, with a great surge of compassion. however, seizing the unconscious girl by the shoulders he dragged her swiftly over the floor to the window through which he had come. the rope still dangled there. seizing it, dick gave it a gentle pull---not too hard, for fear the jerk might catch good old dave of his guard and yank him over the roof's edge. in another instant darrin was "back on the job," peering down. dick made a signal that dave understood perfectly. prescott's next care was to knot his end of the rope swiftly around grace's body, above the waist, adjusting the coils so that considerable of the strain would come under the shoulders, where it could best be borne. once more dick leaned out of the window, making motions. dave darrin nodded. the fascinated crowd in the street looked up, breathless. few now even thought to wonder why the fire department did not appear. at dave's command the others on the roof with him began to hoist. slowly, dick aided grace's body through the window. then the girl, motionless, so far as she herself was concerned, swung in the air, slowly ascending. now groans of horror went up from the street. it seemed to the onlookers below as though a dead body were being hoisted. dick had made a loose hitch of the end of the rope so that it bound the girl's skirt about her ankles. as he watched, he saw the swinging body steady at the roof edge. then grace disappeared from his sight as dave and the others hauled her to momentary safety. "ugh!" gasped young prescott. the smoke and the hot air, filling his lungs, drove him back from the open window to a spot where the draught was less intense. after a few moments he heard something clattering against the window frame. "what is it?" wondered dick, dreamily, for his senses were leaving him. rousing himself, by a supreme effort of the will, the young football player staggered toward the window. it was the rope, which dave had lowered for him. and thoughtful darrin had swiftly knotted a strong slip-noose at the end. dick had just strength and consciousness enough left to slip this noose over his head and down under his armpits, drawing the noose tight. then---so fast was the hot air and smoke overcoming him that he had to fight for it!---dick forced his way to the sill and gave a hard tug at the rope. then he reeled, falling back senseless upon the floor. in that same instant, not far behind him, the flames burst through the flooring. there must be some quick work, now, or dick prescott would meet a hero's death at seventeen! chapter xxi the price of bravery dave darrin did not falter in his duty for an instant. he had been waiting for that tug on the rope. now he leaned out, and as far over as was possible without pitching himself headlong into the street below. "dick! oh, dick!" he roared. there was, of course, no answer, for young prescott day senseless on the floor, smoke and hot air filling his lungs, the creeping flames threatening to pounce upon and devour him. wondering, dave gave a slight signal tug himself at the rope. from below there was no answer. "something uncanny has happened, down there!" muttered darrin. "what's wrong?" called reade. "i wish i knew," muttered dave. "there is no further signaling." "then-----" that was as far as tom got with his hint at an explanation. "cut it," retorted darrin briskly. "keep the rope steady. i'm going down there." "can you-----" "yes!" blazed dave recklessly. "watch me. here goes nothing!" as the last three words left his lips darrin swung free over the roof edge. he was going down the straining, smooth rope now, hand under hand. the dense crowd in the street below was quick to realize that something new and tragic was on the cards. a gasp of suspense went up as dave slowly went down. many in the street uttered a silent prayer---for heroes are ever dear to the multitude. dave's task now was more dangerous than dick's original undertaking had been. the smoke was rolling up with ever increasing density. "i'll close one eye, and save that to see dick with," darrin muttered grimly to himself. so, with one eye closed tightly, dave yet knew when the instant came to swing in and stand on the sill. opening the closed eye, darrin sought to peer into the studio. such a gust of smoke came out at him that darrin very nearly lost his balance from dizziness. "i can't see a blessed thing in there," dave muttered. so he sprang inside. now, quickly enough dave stumbled over the prostrate figure of his unconscious comrade. fairly pouncing upon prescott, dave half raised that body, then dragged it to the window. "pull!" darrin yelled up to tom reade, peering over the roof's edge. over the roar of the fire dave's voice did not carry well, but his gesture was seen. reade gave the command, and the hoisting commenced, while dave, standing at his post, though choking, and his brain reeling, swung dick's feet clear of the sill. then the body began to go up quickly, while the crowd watched in greater awe than ever. dave darrin leaped out upon the sill, holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nostrils in order to protect his lungs as much as possible. with the other hand dave clutched at the window frame, for he had a fearful dread, now that he would lose his hold, his footing and plunge headlong into the street. dick's body disappeared over the roof edge. after what seemed like a short age, but what was only a few moments, reade again showed his face, dangling the noose in his hand. then he let it fall until it hung close to darrin. reade and the crowd alike watched breathlessly, while dave darrin, fumbling, almost blindly, tried to slip the noose over his head and adjust it under his shoulders. once he let go of the rope, half swaying out into the street. a cry of terror went up from the spectators below. tom reade carefully swung the rope back again. dave caught it. after it had seemed as though he must fail dave at last adjusted the noose under his armpits. "all right!" bellowed tom reade, making a trumpet of his hands. darrin answered only by a tug on the rope. then he hung in mid air as the hoisting began. at that moment a new sound cane on the air. the fire department, with a short circuit somewhere in its wires, had at last been notified by telephone, and the box number was pealing out on two church bells. barely were dave's feet clear of the top of the window casing when a draught drove the flames out. his shoes were almost licked by the red tongues. "hurry, you hoisters!" bellowed a man in the street. his voice did not carry, but tom reade and his wearied helpers were doing all that could be done by strong, willing hands. another and longer tongue of flame leaped out through the shattered window, and again dave's swinging feet were all but bathed in fire. "thank heaven we've got you up here, old fellow!" panted tom reade fervently, as dave was hauled over the roof's edge, helping himself a little. dave, as soon as the noose had been slipped over his head, got up on his feet, though he staggered a bit dizzily. "we must all get back up to that roof," ordered dave, pointing to the roof down from which they had leaped a while before. "we can't," retorted reade. "we'll have to wait for the firemen and their ladders." "ladders---nothing!" retorted dave, though his voice was weak and husky. "we'll make our own ladders. you, holmes, get over against that wall. hazelton, you beside hind reade you climb up onto their shoulders. now, dan you climb up on reade's shoulders, and you'll reach that roof up there!" darrin's orders were quickly carried out. this trick of wall scaling was really not difficult for football men in daily practice. dan's head was quickly above the gutter of the next roof. he pulled himself over the edge. "stand by to catch the rope, dan," shouted dave. "throw it to him, tom." whizz-zz! whirr-rr! that rope was over the edge and in dan's hands. dalzell raced to a chimney, taking two or three turns around and making fast. "come on!" he called down. harry hazelton ascended the rope hand over hand, reade following. then greg holmes went up. dave, in the meantime, was preparing the apparently lifeless grace dodge for the ascent. as he gave the signal those on the roof above hauled away. grace was soon in a position of safety. then dick, who had not, as yet, revived, was hoisted. "now, we'll haul you up," called down reade. "forget it," mocked darrin. "toss down the rope and i'll use my own muscles." so dave joined them and stood beside them on the roof. "now, we'd better make the street as soon as we can," darrin advised. "the one who's strongest pick up miss dodge, and another stand by for relief. two of you will have to tote dick. i wish i could help, but i'm afraid my strength is 'most all out." dave, however, led the way. by the time that the little party had descended two flights they were met by firemen rushing up. after that the task of reaching the street was easy. as the rescuers and rescued came out upon the street the crowd, now driven back beyond police lines, started to cheer. but dave's hand, held up, acted as a silencer. dick and miss dodge were carried to a neighboring drug store for attention. now the firemen tried to run up ladders to the studio floor, with a view to fighting the flames by turning the stream on through the windows. flames drove them back. the on-lookers were quick to grasp the fact that had no one acted before the arrival of the firemen, grace dodge would have been lost indeed. as it was, the fire fighters were obliged to fight the fire from the roof of the next building. the office building in which the flames had started was almost gutted before the blaze was subdued. an hour later grace dodge was placed in an automobile and carried to her home, a physician accompanying her. she had revived for a brief period, but had again sunk into unconsciousness. whether her life could be saved was a matter of the gravest doubt. and dick? young prescott was revived soon enough, after expert assistance had been secured. yet he had swallowed more of the overheated air than had the girl. in the minds of the medical men there was a grave doubt as to whether his lungs could be fully restored---or whether he would be doomed to a spell of severe lung trouble, ending, most likely, in death at a later day! scores of people turned back from that fire with tears in their eyes. they had seen this day something that they would remember all their lives. "dick and dave were wondering whether they had courage enough for the military service," sobbed laura bentley, in the privacy of belles room. "they have courage enough for anything!" dick was up and about the next day, though he did not go to school. moreover, later reports placed him out of serious danger. the football squad was gloomy enough, however. their star left end man would not be in shape for the big thanksgiving day game. chapter xxii the thanksgiving day game say, you're a great one, prescott, to throw us down in this way," chaffed drayne, as dick strolled into dressing quarters. "oh, come, now!" broke in darrin impatiently. "it's bad enough, drayne, to have to play side partner to you in the biggest game in the year, without having to listen to your fat-headed criticism of better men." drayne flushed, and might have retorted, had not wadleigh broken in, in measured tones, yet with much significance in his voice: "yes, drayne; cut out all remarks until you've made good. of course you are going to make good, but talk will sound better after deeds." most of the fellows who were togging were uneasy. they wanted, with all their hearts, to win this day's game. first of all, the game was needed in order to preserve their record for unbroken victories. then again, filmore high school was a team worth beating at any time and filmore boosters had been making free remarks about a gridley waterloo. so there was a feeling of general depression in dressing quarters. dick prescott, with his dashing, crafty, splendid, score-making work at left end, had become a necessity to the gridley eleven. "it's the toughest luck that ever happened," grumbled hazelton, right guard, to holmes, right tackle. "and i don't believe drayne is in anything like condition, either." "now, see here, you two," broke in captain wadleigh behind them, as he gripped an arm of either boy, "no croaking. we can't afford it." "we can't afford anything," grinned hazelton uneasily. "oh, of course, we're going to win today---gridley simply has to win," added holmes hastily. "yes; you two look as though you had the winning streak on," growled wadleigh, in a low voice. "for goodness' sake come out of your daze!" "do you think yourself that drayne is fit?" demanded hazelton. "he's the fittest man we have that can play left end," retorted wadleigh. "knocking, are you?" demanded drayne, coming up behind them. "nice fellows you are!" "oh, now, see here, drayne, no bad blood," urged wadleigh. he spoke authoritatively, yet coaxingly, too. "remember, we've got to keep all our energies for one thing today." "well, i'm mighty glad you two don't play on my end of the line," sneered drayne, looking at hazelton and holmes with undisguised hostility. "cut it, drayne. and don't you two talk back, either," warned wadleigh sternly. "oh, acknowledge the corn, drayne," broke in hudson, with what he meant for good humor. "just say you're no good and let it go at that." there was a dead silence, for an instant, broken by one unidentified fellow, muttering in a voice that sounded like a roar in the silence: "drayne? humph!" "there you go! that's what all of you are saying to yourselves!" cried drayne angrily. "for some reason you idiots seem to think i'm in no shape today. hang it, i'm sorry i agreed to play. for two cents i wouldn't play." "drayne can be bought off cheaply, can't he?" remarked one of the fellows. the last speaker did not intend that his voice should reach drayne, but it did. "say, you fellows all have a grouch on, just because i'm playing today!" quivered the victim of the remarks. "oh, well, never mind i'll cure your grouch, then!" seating himself on a locker box, drayne began to unfasten the lacings of his shoes. "here, man! what are you doing?" demanded captain wadleigh, bounding forward angrily. "curing the grouch of this bunch," retorted drayne sulkily. "man alive, there's no time to fool with your shoes now!" warned the team captain. "i'm not going to need this pair," drayne rejoined. "street shoes will do for me today." "not on the gridiron!" "i'm not going on the field. i've heard enough knocking," grumbled drayne. a dozen of the fellows crowded about, consternation written in their faces. prescott was known not to be fit to play. only the day before dr. bentley had refused to pass him for the game. hence drayne, even if a trifle out of condition, was still the best available man for left end. "quit your fooling, drayne!" cried two or three at once. "quit your talking," retorted drayne, kicking off his other field shoe. "i've done all my talking." truth to tell, drayne still intended to play, but he wanted to teach these fellows a lesson. he intended to make them beg, from wadleigh down, before he would go on to the finish of his togging. drayne knew when he had the advantage of them. "don't be a fool, drayne," broke in hudson hotly. "or a traitor to your school," added another. "be a man!" in drayne's present frame of mind all these appeals served to fan his inward fury. "shut up, all of you!" he snapped. "i've listened to all the roasting i intend to stand. i'm out of the game!" several looked blankly at "hen" wadleigh. "whom have you to put in his place?" grayson demanded hoarsely. drayne heard and it was balm to his soul. he started to pull off his football trousers. outside, the band started upon a lively gallop. the crowd began to cheer. it started in as a gridley cheer. then, above everything else, rang the filmore yell of defiance. just at this moment coach morton strode into the room. almost in a twinkling he learned of the new complication that had arisen. "captain wadleigh, who is to play in drayne's stead" demanded the coach rather briskly. "under certain conditions," broke in wayne, "i'll agree to play." "we wouldn't have you under all the conditions in the world!" retorted mr. morton. "a football eleven must be an organization of the finest discipline!" drayne reddened, then went deathly white. he hadn't intended to let the matter go this far. "who is your best man for left end, captain?" insisted mr. morton. "you've got to decide like a flash. your men ought to be out in the air now." there was a blank pause, while "hen" wadleigh looked around over his subs. "will you let me play?" there was a start. every fellow in the room turned around to stare at the speaker. it was dick prescott, who started eagerly forward, his face aglow with eagerness. "you, prescott?" cried mr. morton. "but only yesterday dr. bentley reported that your lungs had not sufficiently recovered." "i know, sir," dick laughed coolly; "but that was yesterday. "it would be foolhardy, my boy. if you went out on the field, and any exceptional strain came up, you might do an injury to your lungs." "mr. morton," replied the team's left end, very quietly, "i'm willing to go out on the field---and do all that's in me, for old gridley---if it's the last act of my life." "your hand, prescott!" cried mr. morton, gripping the boy's palm. "that's the right spirit of grit and loyalty. but it wouldn't be right to let you do it. it isn't necessary, or human, to pay a life for a game." "will you let me go on the field if dr. bentley passes me _today_?" queried prescott. "but he won't." "try him." mr. morton nodded, and some one ran out and passed the word for dr. bentley, who acted as medical director in the school's athletics. within two minutes the physician entered dressing quarters. coach morton stated prescott's request. "absurd," declared dr. bentley. "will you examine me, sirs" insisted prescott. with a sigh the old physician opened his satchel, taking out a stethoscope and some other instruments. "strip to the waist," he ordered tersely. many eager hands stretched out to aid dick in his task. in a few moments the young athlete, the upper half of his body bared, stood before the medical examiner. for his height, weight and age prescott was surely a fine picture of physical strength. but dr. bentley, with the air and the preformed bias of a professional skeptic, went all over the boy's torso, starting with a prolonged examination of the heart action and its sounds. "you find the arterial pressure steady and sound, don't you," asked dick prescott? "hm!" muttered dr. bentley. "now, take a full breath and hold it." thump! thump! thump! went the doctor's forefinger against the back of his other hand, as he explored all the regions of dick's chest. a dozen more tests followed. "what do you think, doctor?" asked mr. morton. "hm! the young man recovers with great rapidity. if he goes into a mild game he'll stand it all right. if it turns out to be a rough game-----" "then i'll fare as badly as the rest, won't i, doctor?" laughed dick. "thank you for passing me, sir. i'll get into my togs at once." "but i haven't said that i passed you." dick, however, feigned not to hear this. he was rushing to his locker, from which he began to haul the various parts of his rig. "is it a crime to let young prescott go on the field?" asked coach morton anxiously. "no," replied dr. bentley hesitatingly. "it might be a greater crime to keep him off the gridiron today. men have been known to die of grief." probably a football player never had more assistance in togging up for a game. those who couldn't get in close enough to help dick dress growled at the others for keeping them out. "you seem uneasy, coach," murmured captain wadleigh, aside. "i am." "i can't believe, sir, that a careful man like dr. bentley would let prescott go on at left end today, if there was good reason why prescott shouldn't. as we know, from the past, dick prescott has wonderful powers of recuperation." "if prescott should go to pieces, captain, whom will you put forward in his places" "dalzell, sir. he's speedy, even if not as clever as prescott or drayne." "i'm glad you've been looking ahead, captain. out i hope prescott will hold out, and suffer no injury whatever from this day's work." was dick anxious? not the least in the world. he was care free---jubilant. the gridley spirit possessed him. he was going to hold out, and the eleven was going to win its game. that was all there was to it, or all there could be. in the first two or three days after his injury at the fire dick had traveled briefly in the dark valley of physical despair. to be crippled or ill, to be physically useless---the thought filled him with horror. then young prescott had taken a good grip on himself. out of despair proceeded determination not to allow his lungs to go down before the assault of smoke and furnace-like air. grace dodge was not, as yet, well on the way to recovery, but dick prescott, with his strong will power, and the grit that came of gridley athletics, was now togging hastily to play in the great game---though he had not, as yet, returned to school after his disaster. out near the grandstand the band crashed forth for the tenth time. gridley high school bannerets waved by the hundreds. yet filmore, too, had her hosts of boosters here today, and their yells all but drowned out the spirited music. "here come our boys! gridley! gridley! gridley! wow-ow-ow!" "hurrah!" then the home boosters, who had read drayne's name on the score card took another look at their cards---next rubbed their eyes. "prescott at left end!" yelled one frenzied booster. "whoop!" then the gridley bannerets waved like a surging sea of color. the band, finishing its strain, started in again, not waiting for breath. "prescott, after all, on left end!" home boosters were still cheering wildly by the time that captain pike, of filmore high school, had won the toss and the teams were lining, up. silence did not fall until just the instant before the ball was put in play. drayne, with his headgear pulled down over his eyes, and skulking out beside the grand stand, soon began to feel a savage satisfaction. something must be ailing the left end man after all, for dick did not seem able to get through the filmore line with his usual brilliant tactics. instead, after ten minutes of furious play, filmore forced gridley to make a safety. then again the ball was forced down toward gridley's goal line, and at last pushed over. gridley hearts, over on the grand stand and bleacher seats, were beating with painful rapidity. what ailed the home boys? or were the filmore youths, as they themselves fondly imagined, the gridiron stars of the school world! filmore, like gridley, had a record of no defeats so far this season. it was a hard pill for captain wadleigh and his men to swallow. in the interval between the halves the local band played, but the former dash was now noticeably absent from its music. the gridley colors drooped. chapter xxiii sulker and real man dave darrin glanced covertly, though anxiously, at his chum. was dick really unfit to play? dave wondered. it was not that prescott had actually failed in any quick bit of individual or team play that he had been signaled to perform. but darrin wondered if dick could really be anything like up to the mark. during the interval captain wadleigh went quietly among his men, murmuring a word of counsel here and there. nothing in wadleigh's face or tone betrayed worry; intense earnestness alone was stamped on his bearing. "now, remember, fellows, don't get a spirit of defense grafted on you," were wadleigh's last words before the second half began. "remember, its to be a general assault all the time. if you get on the defensive nothing can save us from losing." no sooner was the ball in motion than gridley's line bore down upon the enemy. so determined was the assault that filmore found itself obliged to give ground, stubbornly, for a while. yet captain pike's men were not made of stuff that is easily whipped. after the first five minutes pike's men got the ball and began to drive it a few yards, and then a few yards more, over into gridley's territory. as the minutes slipped by the ball went nearer and nearer to gridley's goal line. another touchdown must soon result. twice pike tried to throw the ball around the left end. wadleigh, hudson, darrin and prescott, backed by quarter and left half, presented such a stubborn block that the ball did not get another yard clown the field in two plays. but pike, who was a hammerer, made a third attempt around that left end. this time he gained but two feet, and the ball passed to gridley. of course, after having had its left wing so badly haltered gridley was bound to try to work the ball through filmore's right. as wadleigh's signals crisped out, the gridley players threw themselves out for a play to right. quarter received the ball, starting fiercely to the right. left half dashed past quarter, receiving the ball and carrying it straight to dick prescott. for a moment this blind succeeded so admirably, that even those on the grand stand did not see the ball given to prescott, but believed that quarter was rushing the ball over to the right. then, like a flash, the trick dawned. dick prescott had the oval, and was running with it like a whirlwind, with darrin and hudson as his interference, and with quarter dashing close behind them. dick sprinted around the first filmore man, leaving his interference to sweep the fellows over. at filmore's second attempt to tackle, dick ducked low and escaped. in the next instant the would-be tackler was bowled over by darrin and hudson, and dick swept on with the ball. by this time all the home boosters were on their feet, yelling like so many comanches. filmore's half and full contrived a trap that caught young prescott, and carried him down with the ball---but this happened at filmore's forty-five-yard line! in the next play, dave had the ball, on a short pass, but with dick dashing along close to his side, and hudson on the other flank. before darrin went down on the ball it had been carried to filmore's thirty-yard line. then it went beyond the twenty-five-yard line, and gridley still carried the pigskin. "dick's coming up, all right," proudly muttered darrin to hudson, while the next snapback was forming. "it's putting nerve into all of us," rejoined hudson. the pigskin was only fourteen yards from the filmore goal line when captain wadleigh's men had to see the ball go to filmore. pike's men, however, failed to make good on downs, so the oval came back into wadleigh's possession. now, the play was swift and brilliant. dick got the ball around the left end once, and afterwards assisted dave to put it through the hostile line. with the third play dick carried the pigskin barely across filmore's goal line and scored a touchdown. darrin immediately after made a kick for goal. the score now stood eight to six for filmore but only ten minutes of playing time remained. "our fellows have saved a whitewash, and that's all," reflected drayne. "they'd have done better with me, and i guess wadleigh knows it by this time." "slug's the word," pike passed around, swiftly. "no fouling, but use your weight, dash and speed. slam these gridley rubes. hammer em!" "come on, now gridley!" rang the imploring request from the home boosters, who were now too restless to keep to their seats. "remember your record so far this season!" "forceful playing, but keep cool. use your judgment to the last, and put a lot of speed and doggedness behind your science," was wadleigh's adjuration. those who followed form most close, now had their eyes on young prescott. if he went to pieces that would leave gridley weak at what had usually been its strongest point, especially in attack. and gridley had the ball again. but what ailed captain wadleigh, the boosters wondered? for he was now sending the ball to the right wing, as if admitting that prescott must not be worked too hard. "use prescott!" shouted one man hoarsely. "prescott! prescott!" "yah! dot's all right. vot you t'ink wadleigh has ein head for' leafe him und bresgott alone, and dey hand you der game a minute in!" bawled the deep bass voice of herr schimmelpodt who, nearly alone of the gridley boosters, believed that the home team needed no grand stand coaching. "but they've only eight minutes left," grumbled the man sitting to the left of herr schimmelpodt. "yah! dot's all right, too," retorted the german. "battles haf been won in less than eight minutes. read history!" in two plays captain wadleigh had succeeded in advancing the pigskin less than two yards down the filmore territory. but now hats were thrown up in the air, and frantic yells resounded when it was discovered that dick had the ball again, and that darrin, hudson, wadleigh, quarter and left half were fighting valiantly to push him through the stubborn, panting line of filmore high school. it was a splendid fight, but a losing one. filmore was massing all its weight, wind and brawn, and gridley lost the ball on downs. an involuntary groan went up from the gridley spectators. five and a half minutes left, and the ball in the enemy's hands! that settled the game. the musicians looked at their leader, before taking the music from their instrument racks. "keep your music on," called the leader. "we of gridley are sportsmen enough to play the victors off the field." the play was quicker and snappier than ever. all the young men on both sides were using their last reserves of strength and wind. pike was making a ferocious effort to get the ball back and over gridley's goal line. but pike lost, after three plays, and wadleigh's men again grabbed the pigskin. "barely two minutes!" groaned the gridley spectators, watches in hand. dick was seen glancing at wadleigh and shaking his head almost imperceptibly. but a hundred people on the grand stand saw that tiny shake, and, most of all, pike took it in. wadleigh, before bending low over the ball held up thumb and forefinger of his right hand, formed in a circle, for a brief instant. that sign meant: "emergency signal code!" then he bent over to snap the ball back, and the figures that shot from quarter-back's chest carried different values from those that any enemy could guess. "eight---eleven---four---ten!" then the ball went back to quarter, who started from a crouch without straightening up. gridley's whole attack seemed to swing to the right. wadleigh, himself, from half-facing to right, took a long step toward right wing; then wheeled like a flash, and went plowing, onward, to the left. quarter, after the start, and ere filmore could break through, had passed the ball to half, who, on a wild sprint, had passed it to dick prescott. and now dick was racing out around filmore's right end, backed by a crushing interference of which wadleigh was the center. darrin, with head high, was watching for every chance at legitimate interference. behind them all, quarter and left half pounded and pushed. an instant and dick was free and around filmore's end. now, he dashed into the race of his life! wadleigh sent a man sprawling. dave's elbow did something to filmore's right tackle. just what it was none of the spectators could see. but none of the field officials interfered so it must have been legitimate. after a fight and a short, brilliant run, dick was tackled by filmore's fullback. one quivering instant---then wadleigh and hudson bumped that fullback so hard that he went down, dick wriggling safely away and bounding toward filmore's goal. with fire in their eyes, gridley's center and left wing swept on. dick prescott was over the goal line, bending and holding the ball down! then, indeed, the crowd broke loose all except the few hundreds from filmore. was it a touchdown? that was the question that all asked themselves. it was so close to the line that many onlookers were in doubt, and stood staring with all their eyes. but the ball went back for the kick, and that settled all doubts. dave made the kick, and lost it---but who cared? a moment later and the whistle blew---the second half was over---the game finished. filmore had bitten the dust to the song of eleven to eight. dick's tiny head shake had been a piece of strategy prearranged with wadleigh. it was a legitimate ruse, as honest as any other piece of football strategy intended to throw the enemy "off". now the band was indeed thundering out, playing in its best strain. all restraint thrown aside, the spectators surged over the lines and out on the gridiron, making a rush for the heated but happy home players. the record had been kept---a season without a game lost. filmore swallowed its chagrin and went home. dick? he had helped nobly to save the game and the record, but now he was exhausted. over in dressing quarters two of the subs were rubbing him down, while dr. bentley and coach morton stood anxiously by. chapter xxiv conclusion after a few days prescott was back at school. it was noted, however, that he did not take any part in gym. work, and that he spoke even more quietly than usual, but he kept up in his recitations. youth is the period of quick recovery. that the thanksgiving day game had strained the young left end there was no doubt. within a fortnight, however, prescott was himself again, taking his gym. work, and a cross-country run three times a week. "we ought to give drayne the school cut," hinted grayson. "he behaved in an abominable way right at the beginning of the critical game. he's a traitor." "give drayne the cut?" repeated wadleigh, slowly, before a group of the fellows. "perhaps, in one way, he deserved it, but-----" "well, what can you find to say for a fellow who acted like that?" demanded hudson, impatiently. "drayne helped to win the game for us," replied wadleigh moderately. "had he played filmore would have downed us---of that i'm sure, as i look back. drayne's conduct put prescott on the gridiron, didn't it? that was what saved the score for us." at the time of grace dodge's great peril, her banker father had been away on a business trip. it was two days later when word was finally gotten to the startled parent. then, by wire, theodore dodge learned that grace's condition was all right, needing only care and time. so he did not hasten back on that account. when he did return to gridley, mr. dodge hunted up lawyer ripley. "i must reward those boys, and handsomely," he explained to the lawyer. "their splendid conduct demands it." "i am sorry, dodge, that you have been so long in coming to such a conclusion," replied the lawyer, almost coldly. "what do you mean?" "why, you still owe prescott and darrin that thousand dollars offered by your family as a reward for finding you when your misfortune happened." "but my son, bert------" "is the bitter enemy of young prescott, who is one of the manliest young fellows ever reared in gridley." "but my wife has also opposed my paying the reward," argued mr. dodge. "she declares that the two boys were out on a jaunt and just stumbled upon me." "your wife, like all good mothers, is much inclined to take the part of her own son," rejoined lawyer ripley. "however, at the time prescott and darrin found you, they were not out on a jaunt. they were serving 'the blade,' and i happen to know that the young men did some remarkably good detective work in trailing and rescuing you. they started fair and even with the police, but they beat the police at the latter's own game. dodge, by every consideration of right and justice, you owe that reward to prescott and darrin! if they had not found and rescued you, you might not be here today. there is no telling what might have happened to you had you been left helpless less in the custody of the pair of scoundrels who had you in that shack. i repeat that you owe that thousand dollars as fairly as you ever owed a penny in your life" "well, then, i'll pay it," assented theodore dodge reluctantly, after some hesitation. "i am afraid my wife will oppose it, however." "you can tell mrs. dodge just what i've said, or i'll tell her, if you prefer." "will you attend, ripley, to rewarding all the boys for their gallant conduct in rescuing my daughter." "yes; if you'll leave the matter wholly in my hands, and agree not to interfere" theodore dodge agreed to this, and lawyer ripley went ahead. the legal gentleman, however had a more difficult time than he had expected. it took a lot of argument, and more than one meeting, to make dick & co. agree to accept anything whatever. it was at last settled, however, mr. ripley urging upon the young men that they had no right to slight their own future prospects or education by refusing to "lay by" money to which they were honestly entitled, when it cane in the form of an earned reward from a citizen amply able to pay the reward. so dick and dave received that thousand dollars, which, of course, they divided evenly. in addition, each member of dick & co. received one hundred dollars for his prompt and gallant work in rescuing grace dodge from death. of course bert, away at private school with bayliss, heard all about the rescue. it is not a matter of record, however, that bert ever wrote a letter thanking any member of dick & co. for saving his sister. chapter xxv postscript when the next commencement swung around fred ripley, who had managed to "go straight" all through his senior year, was among those graduated. what became of him will yet be learned by our readers in another volume. there are a host of other gridley fellows also to be accounted for. their part in the subsequent history of gridley, and of the world in general, will also yet be told, all in the proper place. "prin.," too, may yet come in for some attention. dick & co. did not take part in basket ball nor any of the organized winter athletics though they kept constantly in training. but these young men realized that the high school is, first of all, a place for academic training; so, after the football season had ended so gloriously, they went back to their books with renewed vigor. laura and belle, as they neared the end of their junior year, went almost from girlhood into womanhood, as is the way with girls. yet neither miss meade nor miss bentley found dick or dave "too young" for their frank, girlish admiration. "you see, dick, that we were quite right about you and dave having all the grit that goes with the highest needs of the military profession," laura remarked. "your conduct at the fire shows the stuff that would be displayed by dick & co. in leading a charge in battle, if need be." "i guess a reasonable amount of courage, under stress, is the possession of nearly all members of the human race," laughed young prescott. here we shall leave our gridley friends for a short time. we shall meet them all again, however, in the forthcoming and final volume of this series, which will be published under the title: "_the high school captain of the team; or, dick & co. leading the athletic vanguard_." in this new volume we shall see more of the boys' qualities in leadership. before we meet our popular boys in high school again the reader will find the long succession of wonderful events of their summer vacation following their junior year in the last two volumes of the "_high school boys' vacation series_", which are published under the titles, "_the high school boys' fishing trip; or, dick & co. in the wilderness_," and "_the high school boys training hike; or, making themselves 'hard as nails.'_" these two narratives of a real vacation of real american boys are bound to please the many friends of dick & co. be sure to read them. the end [transcriber's note: extensive research found no evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] over the line _by_ harold m. sherman _author of_ one minute to play touchdown! hit by pitcher bases full, etc. the goldsmith publishing co. cleveland, ohio copyright 1929, by the goldsmith publishing co. introduction when a new fellow moves into the neighborhood, you look him over, strike up an acquaintance and sort of go around with him, but not until he shows the sort of stuff he's made of do you take him into the gang and make a real pal of him, or else let him alone, as the case may be. it's somewhat the same with a new book. you look through it, read it and if it's good stuff, the author, like the new chap in the neighborhood, becomes one of the gang. and when such an author keeps on producing sure fire stuff, like harold m. sherman has been doing, there is no doubt at all that his books will be read. this book deals with the mental hazard that has been the downfall of so many chaps. but judd billings overcomes his obstacle while still at high school and how he later makes a name for himself at college, makes this a book that will be instantly liked by all who read it. in fact, all one need say is that it is a harold m. sherman book. j. d. v. contents chapter i the strange contract ii judd grits his teeth iii a kicker is discovered iv fighting spirit v for a scrap of paper vi ill news and a new arrival vii the first night viii judd practices football ix at the fair x the attempted hold-up xi benz broods xii one kind of loyalty xiii an impractical joke xiv the confession xv judd gains a promotion xvi before the game xvii the first half xviii the second half chapter i the strange contract "judd, i'd rather a fellow would be anything else but a quitter!" judd jumped to his feet, eyes blazing. "i'm not a quitter ... but i'm not gonna go back to school!" bob billings, older brother, stared for a moment, unanswering. judd had come on to the city to visit him during summer vacation. since the father's death and bob's attending bartlett college, there had been little chance for the two to be together, especially with bob employed in the star sporting goods store, miles away from trumbull, the little town near which the billings family lived. "you've got to get a hold on yourself," bob said, finally, "i'd no idea you'd gotten this way. you're babying yourself out of everything you'd really like to do. and here i'd counted on your taking up on that trumbull high team where i left off! no reason why you couldn't either ... you've got a much better physique than i have. that work on our farm has given you the muscles of an ox. you've got a grip in those hands that would make most fellows yell for help. only trouble with you is--you don't know your own strength and you're afraid to use it. right now a much smaller guy could tie you into bow knots!" judd's face flushed. he had a great deal of respect for his older brother, bob. it was bob who had written the greatest athletic page in trumbull high history by his feats in baseball, football and track. and then, when the war had broken out, it was bob who had enlisted in the air service and come back from abroad with the croix de guerre and a distinguished service medal with several citations for bravery. and now, as a senior at bartlett college, it was bob who was heralded as the outstanding member of the football team. yes--there was no question about it--bob was a _he_ man! to follow in the footsteps of such a brother was indeed an honor--or was it a hardship? when judd billings had entered high school the students looked upon him with expectant awe. wasn't he the brother of the great bob billings? surely he would carry on the tradition of the family. more great things would be forthcoming. judd's big-boned, awkward frame was pointed out with high glee. he was a trifle taller and pounds heavier than bob had been. what might this mean when he got under way? give him time and then look for some more records to be broken! but those who prophesied big things for judd did not take the matter of temperament into consideration. judd was as different from bob as saturday was from sunday. it did not take the students long to discover that he was unusually shy and self-conscious. judd would almost jump at his own shadow. he avoided crowds and made friends slowly. as for competition, he apparently detested it, retracing his steps rather than encounter physical conflict. and so, when he might have been the idol of the entire school, judd soon became the object of disgust. "my eyes!" he would offer as excuse for his not taking up with sports. it was true that he had had some trouble with his eyes but townspeople shook their heads and said wisely that judd's eyes were only serving as his alibi. the trouble was more deep-rooted than that. "i'll tell you what's wrong with judd!" explained old mr. bailey, proprietor of the trumbull general store, "i used to know his dad, jim billings. he was a steady customer of mine up to the time of his death and some man he was, too! as husky a farmer as i ever see! he didn't have any use for mollycoddles and he brought his oldest boy, bob, up to fight his own battles, not wasting any sympathy on him. but judd came along seven years after bob and he missed out on old jim's disciplinin'. with the father dead, judd came under his mother's care and mrs. billings has sure put her boy on the toboggan. you see she's so nervous and scarey that she imagines terrible things are going to happen to everybody. she hasn't let judd go skating on the bay for fear the ice might break. she's against his going into sports because he might get injured. she's made a hothouse plant out of that big, strapping fellow and i say it's a cryin' shame because judd's got the same stuff in him his father was made of if he could only get it out. wish judd could be around bob for awhile. that's the kind of association he needs!" mrs. billings, well meaning though she had been, realized finally that something must be done about judd. her anxious attention had been divided between him and the operation of the farm. hank duncan, jim billings' hired man, had taken charge of the place with jim's passing, mrs. billings insisting that bob secure the college education which he had planned before going into service. "i can't understand what is the matter with judd," she wrote her older son early in june, "i've tried to give him every opportunity and to do everything for him i thought best, but he has just failed in one subject and was barely conditioned in two others. he is so discouraged that he says he's not going to continue in high school. he wants to find a job and get to work. what would you advise?" bob, on receipt of this letter, had thought matters over carefully ... gravely. just half a block from the small bachelor apartment he occupied was a spacious city park with baseball diamonds, a football field and tennis courts. it had been his habit to keep in trim for football season by working out in the park during the summer. if he could get judd to spend the summer with him he would do what he could to make him over. the temptation to accept bob's invitation had been too great for judd to refuse. he was mortally sick of his associations at trumbull. every place he went reminded him of some failure he had made. he was looked down upon by fellows his own age. few ever taunted him openly. judd felt that this was out of respect for the fact that he was the brother of the great bob. just why he should be different than the other fellows was something he couldn't figure out and his humiliation at failing in his school work had caused him to feel that he could never face his schoolmates again. seeing how set judd was against returning to school, bob wisely refrained from forcing the issue. he was glad that judd had instantly reacted to the charge of "quitter." as long as a fellow had the fight spirit in him there was some hope. "i'm going out for a little workout with the football tonight," bob informed, "got to keep in training, you know. like to come out and chase the ball for me?" judd consented begrudgingly but, before bob's practice was over, he began to betray genuine interest. bob showed him how to throw the pigskin and he found it great fun to lay the ball on his hand and sail it through the air in spiral flight after recovering bob's kicks. "say, judd!" bob called, "you might get down the field and catch these punts. it'll save you chasing them after they strike." judd moved slowly to the place bob indicated, not wanting to reveal his growing interest too plainly. bob kicked. the ball, turning end over end, carried almost exactly to the place judd was standing. he moved a few steps to the side and reached up his arms but his judgment of distance was poor. the ball struck him a smarting blow in the face and bounced away. judd, over-balanced, fell to the ground. bob trotted up to judd and dragged him to his feet. "what's the matter, buddy?" judd showed him the spot over his eye, a slight skin bruise. "oh, why that's nothing. come on, let's try another." bob picked up the ball. "no ... see ... it's bleeding." judd displayed some drops of blood on his handkerchief. "i reckon i'd better go to the room and sterilize it, i don't want to get blood poisoning, you know." bob laughed. "tommy rot! whoever gave you such silly ideas? forget it!" judd's feelings were wounded. "you can't tell what'll happen if you don't take care of yourself. i heard of a fellah once..." "see here, judd! get those wild imaginings out of your head. how far do you think we'd get in this world if every time a little thing happened to us we sat down to worry about it and to think up lots worse things happening?" but judd was done for the afternoon. he turned and walked away, dabbing his handkerchief tenderly to the bruise and sympathizing with himself. he should have known better than to have played with bob. he might have been sure that something like this would happen. there were so many things that a fellow had to watch out for! but after judd had reached the apartment and looked at himself in the glass and been convinced that his hurt did not amount to so much after all, he reflected--with a smile--that chasing the football had been real sport. the next time judd accompanied bob to the park the great bob taught him how to stand and how to hold his hands in catching a punt. at first judd was a bit reluctant to get in the path of a twisting football again but he gradually overcame this fear and found, to his delight, that he could catch some of the longest punts with ease. bob was kicking the ball forty and fifty yards at a kick and most of the punts judd had to run in order to get under. after a particularly long chase, in which judd reached up and just managed to catch the ball on the tips of his fingers, bob shouted from down the field: "that's the pep! great stuff, buddy!" judd no longer tried to disguise his interest in football. he was enjoying these practice sessions hugely. he got so that he looked forward to them. bob loaned him a part of an old football suit so that they could rough it up more, as he said. judd wondered, a bit guiltily, what his mother would say if she knew what he was doing. gradually bob taught judd the fundamentals of the game. he did it in an off-hand way so that judd would not anticipate the reason. judd had said no more about getting a job but bob had noticed his brother scanning the want-ads in the paper. he smiled as he noted little evidences that judd was developing more initiative. perhaps he might even get enough courage to go out and apply for a job himself! the weather grew almost unbearably hot as july neared august. but bob told judd that perspiration was good for him so they continued to work out on such late afternoons as bob could get away. one afternoon bob said to judd: "you're learning football pretty fast, buddy. you've been booting that ball for thirty to forty yards every kick; your passing is good and you can grab almost every ball you get your hands on. now let's see how good you are at tackling. i'm going to take the ball and run right at you. it's up to you to down me." judd did not take kindly to this idea. it was different, just playing with a football and not having anyone to interfere with you. but this stopping of a man when he was running by grabbing him and hanging on until you brought him to the ground was no fun. what if? ... and a dozen visions of possible happenings flashed across judd's mind. "i--i--not today," said judd, hoping that bob would not push the suggestion. "come on. there's nothing going to hurt you!" bob trotted down the field fifteen yards. he turned about and crouched forward, ready to start. "look out! here i come!" the sight of bob coming toward him terrified judd. it seemed that bob's knees were moving up past his head and his feet were digging the turf in a plunging drive. as bob neared him judd quickly side-stepped and avoided contact with him. bob cut into the sod with his feet and swung around in a half-circle, bringing up short. "what's the matter? afraid?" judd didn't answer. he was scared stiff. he wanted to run. why, if he had not stepped out of the way he might have suffered serious injury! who could stop a charging pair of feet and a bullet-like head? besides, in such moments, judd was conscious that he was facing the great bob instead of just his brother. he felt his own insignificance. "judd, there's no more likelihood of anything happening to you here than any place else. it's all a matter of knowing how and then it's just as easy as catching a football. it looks hard only to those who have not learned. let me show you." and bob demonstrated to judd the correct way to tackle. "i'll not run hard the first few times," said bob, considerately, "just try it out." judd was trembling. his knees seemed weak. he was trying to tell himself that he was not afraid. he knew that what his brother had told him was so but he dreaded physical contact. bob did not give him much time for reflection. he was coming at him again! judd did not wish to appear a coward in the eyes of bob. he was almost as afraid not to tackle as he was to tackle. while he was trying to make up his mind bob was upon him and judd made a wild clutching dive forward. his arms closed about bob's legs at a point midway between the hips and the knees, there was a jolting impact and the ground seemed to rise to hit him. judd sat up to take stock of his injuries. he found, to his pleased surprise, that he was unhurt. "bully work!" complimented bob, warmly, "your first tackle was a peach!" judd felt his courage and self-confidence rise like the mercury in a thermometer. he was finding out that many of his old fears had been groundless. bob ran straight at judd a dozen times and each time judd brought him to the ground. "all right, buddy. now i'm going to get by you. i'm not going to use the straight arm. i'll show you about that later. but i'm coming at you like an express train. try to stop me if you can!" there was a challenge in bob's words. judd sensed his first big thrill of competition. bob said he was coming through. well, he was going to stop him! bob ran at judd viciously and with all the speed at his command. judd came forward to meet him. he saw two clock-like legs and a body bent close to the ground. he dove low in order to reach him. then it seemed as if a dozen knees struck him thudding blows in the face. he felt himself being dragged along the ground. his hold on the one foot loosened. he hit the ground heavily and was dimly conscious of feet pounding the earth. bob had gone through! it was such experiences as this that sickened judd. all the pleasure of football was gone for him now. he had a bump over one eye and a patch of skin off his chin. there was no answering spirit of fight. judd lay where he had fallen. bob waited, hoping that judd would show the spunk to get up. he had subjected his younger brother to rough treatment but he had done it for a purpose. "i'm sorry, buddy. you tackled too low ... and you didn't hang on tight enough after you grabbed me. you see, i kept on going and i got away from you." judd raised up, dazedly. he was not interested in why he had failed to stop bob. he was concerned over the bumping he had received. "am i--am i hurt very bad?" he asked, tremulously. bob laughed. "not bad enough to mention," he said, "you'll stop me next time, eh buddy?" judd shook his head. "no ... there's not gonna be any next time, i--i'm through." bob knew better than to argue with him when he felt this way. he picked up the football and walked off the field. judd gladly followed. several days later, when bob returned from work, he noticed that judd was red-eyed. on the table lay some newspaper clippings. they were want ads. "well, what did you do today?" asked bob, casually. "i--i was out looking for work." bob whistled. "well! did you find anything?" "no." "oh, i see--you answered these ads here--may i look them over?" judd nodded his consent. "h-h-hm! maxwell's! that's a good place. 'clerk wanted. young man preferred. no experience necessary. good opportunity for advancement.' what did they say when you applied?" judd was silent. bob waited an appreciable moment for him to reply. "did some other fellow beat you to the place?" judd found his voice. "n-no--but--but they wanted a young man who had at least a high-school education." bob had a wave of sympathy for his younger brother. "but here's another good place, buddy. jackson and ballard's! you've picked some good ones. 'filing clerk wanted. we teach you our system. young man with ambition to get ahead in our line of work desired.' how about this?" judd hesitated. "they seemed interested. then they asked me how much education i'd had. they said they wanted some one that they could send right on up as soon as he got to know the business. they said it was their experience that fellows with high school educations were better fitted for the work...." bob was glad that judd had had this experience. he knew that there were plenty of places that judd could get work but the better institutions where opportunities for real advancement were greatest almost demanded that a young man's qualifications include a reasonable amount of education. "well ... buck up, buddy. there's always a way out and you're young yet!" tears came anew to judd's eyes. he turned away from bob, ashamed. "why--buddy--what's the matter?" "i--i didn't know i could feel this way." "how do you feel?" "i--i dunno. i guess i'm homesick." bob's eyes blurred. he himself had scarcely been back to trumbull for three years. "well, you'll soon be back, buddy ... with mother. summer vacation is about over. i expect she's missed you a lot too. she's tried to do the very best she knew how for you.... perhaps i can come up later and ... and see you play football." judd started. bob almost regretted that he had taken the liberty to make this suggestion. he had tried to do it casually as if playing football would be the natural thing for judd to do. and he had not mentioned school although to play football would imply attending school. judd looked at bob sharply. his emotions were conflicting. he would like to do so many things if... "but mother wouldn't hear to my playin'," objected judd at last. this seemed the most logical excuse he could think of. "anyhow, i am not goin' back to school." this came as an after thought. "well ... i'm glad you are going back to trumbull any way," replied bob, "i think you will be able to take better care of yourself." there were lots of things he would like to have said to judd but bob somehow did not feel that it would be wise. judd must be allowed to think things out for himself. when the morning arrived for judd's departure, bob who had to go on to work, bade his younger brother good-bye at the apartment. "i'm leaving you a contract, buddy, and a little note. as soon as i've gone i want you to read them. if, after thinking it over, you are willing to sign the contract, leave the duplicate for me on the table. i want you to know that whatever you do i'm for you. you're going to make good as soon as you forget yourself. you'll understand what i mean some day. good-bye. tell mother i'll get up to see her this fall sure. good luck!" judd sat wonderingly, holding the folded slips of paper that bob had placed in his hand. what did bob mean by the word "contract?" why should his brother leave him a note? why couldn't he tell him what he wanted to without putting it on paper? this was a funny way of doing things! he opened the note and read: "dear buddy--it's easier to tell you what i have in mind on paper than it is face to face. and i think you will realize it when you have read what i have to say. the contract i have drawn up is to be strictly between you and me. no one else is to see it or know anything about it. i think that it will help you to agree to do certain things for awhile until you can get yourself to agree to do them without any outside influence. there will be times when you will have to make yourself go through experiences distasteful to you. but you will come out bigger and better for them. the keeping of this contract is strictly a matter of honor so if you do not intend to live up to it, do not be dishonest with yourself by signing it. i'm sorry that i can't be with you. but it's distinctly your fight. you're the one who has to face the music and about all anyone else could do would be to offer encouragement or advice. you'll have to make the decisions and do the acting. i'd like to see you go back to school and go out for football. i think you could make the team. and some day, when you break loose, you will astonish yourself. you've got a fine physique. there's nothing weak about you. most of your troubles are in your mind. come on, buddy, let's see you make a whirlwind comeback. you can do it!" judd read the note over three times before he laid it down and gave his earnest attention to the contract. the contract was brief but stern in its requirements. it read: i, the undersigned, do hereby agree, being bound by my honor, to live up to the following declarations to wit: 1. i will not "baby" myself at any time and under any provocation. 2. whatever happens to me i will grin and bear it. 3. if i meet with failure in anything i am trying to do i will not cease trying nor lose faith in myself. rather will i make a greater effort than before to succeed. 4. i will pay no attention to what others may think or say of me. i will let nothing keep me from doing what i know is right. 5. in the event that i do not live up to this contract i will write and tell my brother, bob billings, of the specific instances. 6. when i feel inclined not to do what i feel to be right, i will take out this contract and read it over until i have renewed my spirit and developed a determination strong enough to go ahead. this contract signed by me in good faith and with the knowledge that the penalty for breaking same will be exacted in the doing. ................ my signature. as judd read the contract, which had been typed in duplicate by bob at the office, he suddenly began to realize some of his shortcomings of the past and the reasons for them. he studied the contract for half an hour. then he went to the table drawer, took out pen and ink, and scribbled his name on the line left for his signature. judd felt like he had won a great victory as he locked the apartment door, and jumped the streetcar for the depot. he could hardly wait to get back to trumbull ... and to re-enter school! mrs. billings was overjoyed that judd had decided to return to school but she was rather alarmed at a change which she discerned in him. there was a more determined look about his face--a look that told her judd was going to do some things which he had never attempted to do before and mrs. billings was not quite certain what the outcome would be. when school opened, the schoolmates noticed the change too. they didn't know what it meant but they did know that judd walked with his head erect, there was a surer swing to his steps, and he looked folks straight in the eye. judd was silent. his jaws were set tight. no one sensed the fight that was going on within--no one realized that every move judd made was forced. when the first call went out for football candidates, judd hunted up coach little and submitted his name. he had thought about the moment when he would do this for days. and each time that he thought of it the nervous chills raced up and down his back. he had hoped that when the time really came he could find courage to go through with it. coach little could not conceal his astonishment when judd confronted him. for two years the coach had begged judd to get out for the team. he saw in the well-built youth the makings of a fine player. trumbull high was a small school. it needed all available material. a boy who was physically fit for football and who did not get out for practice was regarded as disloyal. no wonder that the students felt this way about it with rivalry so keen between trumbull and canton high schools! trumbull's colors had trailed in the dust for three consecutive years. this season the students had early begun to clamor for revenge. "glad to see you getting out, billings," coach little said to him, pleasantly. "i believe you should develop into a good player." some of the old football players crowded about. they eyed judd unbelievingly. "what, judd going out for football?" the surprise was so great that there was not an answering echo of enthusiasm. judd was yet untried. they had never seen him do anything noteworthy. judd had existed apart from them and their activities. he could not expect to be readily accepted into the ranks of those who had been proven under fire. judd backed away, feeling self-conscious. as he left the crowd his face flushed crimson at a low-voiced remark which reached him. "hump! he won't last long! he's got a streak of yellow a yard wide all the way down his spine!" when judd asked his mother for money to purchase football togs she knew that her intuition had been correct. mrs. billings sat staring at him for a moment. judd was hoping that his mother would refuse him. his own decision was weakening. he still had a chance to get out of it. his eyes ... his studies ... he would have to make up some work in order to be eligible to play ... there were so many convenient excuses.... and if his mother should put her foot down it would be so much easier to withdraw. mrs. billings was having a struggle too. she was picturing her guarded care of the boy and contrasting his life for the first time with that of bob's. was it right, after all, to keep a boy from athletics? what had her plan done for judd? it had made of him a coward, a boy who was afraid of himself and afraid of other people. mrs. billings turned to the drawer and took out the money, handing it over to judd. judd took the money and hurried out. his heart was pounding strangely. to think that his mother had changed! she, of all people! what had come over her? now there was no backing out. he must go ahead. he had gotten his foot in it. why had he been so forward? no one had expected him to go out for football. they would have let him alone. it would be a bigger disgrace to go out and fail than not to go out at all. at least this is the way it seemed to judd. and he was afraid of failing more than anything else. chapter ii. judd grits his teeth judd was the object of curious eyes the first night out. coach little kept the squad busy passing the football about, kicking and catching punts. judd was exceedingly nervous. he dropped several punts, muffed passes and when the ball was given him to kick, missed it completely due to over anxious embarrassment. the sight was highly amusing to the rest of the squad, all of whom could boast of some football experience. coach little sought to have the boys show respect to judd, appreciating his feelings. judd knew that he could do better; he knew that he had not forgotten the points drilled into him by bob. but putting this knowledge into execution before a field of players whom he felt had the "show me" attitude, was a different matter. the news spread throughout trumbull that judd billings, kid brother of the great, bob, had at last gotten into athletics. on the heels of this news came the word that he was the laughing stock of the football squad. he was the crudest, awkwardest, greenest candidate that had ever put in appearance on the trumbull gridiron. no danger of his ever picking up the laurels won for the billings family by the older brother! judd was a joke. but though the grown folks smiled at the reports they remarked that people would have to give judd credit. something must have come over the boy to cause him to get out for the team. why he had not even engaged in a game of tiddly-winks before! judd went home from the first scrimmage with an aching body. he had been placed in the line of one of the picked teams made up by coach little and it had seemed to judd that every play was directed at him. time and again he was on the bottom of the heap. he could feel the players piling on top of him and on several occasions his face was plowed in the dirt. judd wasn't hurt. he marvelled at this. and there had been a certain thrill in the moments that he had managed to grasp the man with the ball and hang on until he had brought him down. but judd was not sure that he liked this rough treatment. that night judd wrote to bob. he had been reading his contract over. there had come to him a strong temptation to quit. several fellows had gotten bruised in practice. jimmy blackwell had the skin taken off his knuckles when someone stepped on his hand; harry knowlton got a clip over one eye; tom barley had his wind knocked out. it would be but a matter of time before something happened to him. in the letter to bob, he wrote: "i don't know why i'm so timid. i don't feel scared inside but something keeps me from going only so far. i know i can do better but i don't. we had our first scrimmage today. some of the fellows got bunged up. they didn't seem to mind it. i guess they're made different than i am." bob was glad that judd had taken to writing him. if judd could only confide his feelings in some one he would perhaps be able to keep up his morale. it helped to know that someone understood what you were going through. with bob it had been his father. he must take the father's place with judd. bob answered back: "stick to it, buddy. each time you win makes the next victory that much easier. and one of these days it will take an earthquake to jar you!" judd gritted his teeth and went back to practice. he tried to forget himself--to play with a carefree abandon. he tried not to think of the consequences in advance. when he could get this attitude he noticed that he seemed to play better. one instance was particularly striking. blackwell, fullback on the regulars for two seasons, had broken through the line and was away for an open field run. it looked like he was good for a touchdown. judd found himself free and in position to give pursuit. he thought only of downing blackwell. the fullback had a five yard lead on him. judd raced after him and caught up to him after a twenty yard run. he left the ground in a flying tackle and pinioned blackwell from behind, bringing him heavily to earth. when judd realized what he had done he was shaky for the remainder of the practice. he might have been badly hurt! but such brilliant flashes of playing convinced coach little that billings had some real football ability in him. judd had been studying doggedly to make up his school work. there might be a possibility of his being used before the year was out. when the coach cut the squad he placed billings as a substitute on the second team. with the first three games on the schedule played, the students and townspeople awoke to the realization that trumbull high had the best football team in years. the football warriors had soundly trimmed every opponent and had kept their goal line uncrossed, piling up a total of 117 points! one night the coach gave the second team some of the plays that were used by ashton high, trumbull's next opponent. he wanted to see what defense his regulars could offer against them. the ashton team built their plays around one player, their fullback. he was a big fellow and exceptionally fast. because billings appeared to be about his physical equal, coach little motioned him to the fullback position. burton, second team quarterback, outlined to billings the plays he was to use. judd was excited and a bit confused. this was the first time he had ever been called upon to run with the ball. he did not relish the thought of being tackled. it was bad enough to tackle anyone but to be thrown yourself seemed worse. sometimes several fellows hit you at once and then more fell on you. judd nodded vaguely to burton's instructions. the first play called for a cross-buck over left guard. the second team's line opened a hole; judd received the ball and followed burton through. he saw burton go down, bumped solidly against some bodies in the line, felt a grip on one leg, then saw a clear field ahead. judd ran like a scared deer. he did not care to be tackled from behind. the only way to prevent it was to outdistance everyone. but he did not reckon on the last line of defense. blackwell, first team fullback, was charging in. judd tried to dodge him. it did not occur to him to stiff arm. he stopped dead in his tracks. blackwell's tackle hit judd with jolting force. it would not have shaken him up so much if judd had been running at the instant. coach little, who a moment before had chuckled with glee at the way judd went through the line, now turned away with an exclamation of disgust. billings was a physical coward. everyone on both teams knew it now. some of the spectators began to jeer. "what d'ya stop for? afraid he was gonna hit ya? you oughta get hurt!" burton came running up and helped the dazed billings to his feet. "what's the matter?" he blazed, "did you forget something? we had a chance for a touchdown and we haven't whipped the firsts this year!" coach little called billings off the field. the hard games on the schedules were coming up now and every practice session was vitally important. the team carried its string of victories to six with three more games to play before the season's end. attention was centered on the final contest with canton high. this school was the largest in the district. it seemed as if it always turned out a good football team. and this year was no exception. as phenomenal as had been trumbull's season, the canton high eleven had won greater laurels. canton had played some of the best schools in the state and had emerged victorious. it would be hard to prophesy what would happen when canton met trumbull. state sporting authorities began to figure the canton-trumbull encounter a mythical championship battle providing both elevens won the remaining games on their schedules. billings' sad showing that one practice session had kept him on the sidelines every scrimmage thereafter. the players exhibited sullen contempt for him. and just as judd had begun to win back some of their respect too. but they might have known that he would turn out that way. judd brooded over his situation. oddly enough he did not mind what fellow players thought or said of him. he was having his hardest time trying to keep from babying himself. finally judd decided that he needed help. he did not have strength enough to force himself to do what he knew he should do. judd stopped coach little as the coach was leaving the field one night. "could i see you a moment, sir?" the coach paused. his mind was on the next game. he had a dozen problems to solve. what could billings want? was he going to resign at last? billings had stuck longer than the coach had thought he would. somehow he felt a peculiar sympathy for the lad. "well, what is it, judd?" judd hesitated until the other players were out of earshot. they looked back curiously. he heard one of them say, "i thought so. billings is tryin' to get in soft with the coach now. alibi ike!" hot tears came to judd's eyes. he turned to the coach pleadingly. "please sir, i'm not a quitter.... i'm not yellow ... that is, not really.... i didn't want to stop when i saw i was going to be tackled. something else made me.... i--i can't make myself do what i want to do.... i ..." the coach studied billings sympathetically. "you'd what?" "i'd like to have you make me do what i can't make myself do ... force me to get in there and play ... i ... i'm not asking for mercy ... or ... or to be favored. no matter what i do, i don't care if you beat me or what happens ... i want to get over feeling like i do about myself!" this was a most unusual request. to coach little there flashed a small appreciation of the struggle that billings must be undergoing. he laid a hand on his shoulder. "i'm sorry, billings. you're up against a tough fight. some fellows never get over it. just seems like they can't entirely break it. the season is so far along now that i don't know whether i'll have a chance to help you much. keep a stiff upper lip. don't take the game so seriously. you're too tense. relax. if you do this you will not take yourself so seriously and it will help you. i'm glad you spoke to me about this. i'm glad you realize what is wrong. keep saying to yourself, 'i will do this' and 'i will do that' and if you can say it until you believe it, nothing can stop you from doing it." judd thanked the coach for giving him this advice and immediately felt better. he went home with a lighter heart than he had had in weeks. chapter iii a kicker is discovered trumbull high put the skids under newton academy in the next to the last game of the season but in so doing the eleven lost the services of its star fullback, jimmy blackwell, who suffered a badly sprained ankle. there was gloom in trumbull that night. chances were that blackwell had played his last game for the school and chances were that trumbull would be no match for canton high with blackwell out of the lineup. coach little had no player on the string of first substitutes who could begin to fill blackwell's shoes. he moved rudolph, second team fullback, up to blackwell's position after some consideration. rudolph was short but stockily built--a good little man. the boy would need a great deal of grooming but he seemed the only one available. in looking about for someone to fill the vacancy on the second team left by rudolph's advancement, coach little thought of billings. why not? there was a slight possibility ... one never could tell.... when judd was notified that he was to take the fullback position on the second team he was totally unnerved by the shock. he couldn't sleep for dreaming of what would probably happen to him in scrimmage. the players would all be laying for him. they thought him a physical coward and they would show no mercy. he had done nothing to command their respect. now that his opportunity had come to redeem himself, he didn't want it. but when school was over the next afternoon, judd found himself in the dressing room preparing for that which he feared the most. just outside, burton, second team quarterback, was talking to some of his players. "say, fellows, i just heard the coach put judd in at full. some joke, huh? watch me. i'll give him the ball every time i get a chance. we'll run him ragged. when he gets through scrimmage today he'll wish he'd never seen a football." the players laughed and sided in with burton. judd finished tying his shoe and stood up, shakily. he had heard what was said. he dreaded to go out on the field. he was the last one to leave the dressing room. no one paid any attention to him. oh, if he could just crawl off some where--some place where everyone would let him alone and where no harm could befall him! the shrill blast of the whistle caused him to run toward the field. the teams were lining up.... the kickoff came straight for judd. he caught the ball and started off, dazedly. he ran five, ten, fifteen yards. then two tacklers struck him at once before he had time to dodge. he went down with a thud. he was dragged to his feet and pushed into position. burton began calling signals. he glanced meaningly at judd. it was his number! judd was slow in taking the ball. he was thrown for a two yard loss. he heard burton bawling him out and telling him to "get in there and play, you big dub!" the ball went to judd again. he followed his interference around the end for a bare yard. he was not putting any drive into his playing. on the fourth down burton motioned judd back and signified that he was to kick. the ball was on the second team's twenty-seven yard line. judd nervously scraped a level place for him in the sod. the ball snapped back to him. he saw the lines break as his foot swung up to meet the ball. there was an impact as the punt got under way. the next instant judd landed on his back as fenstermaker, first team guard, bumped roughly into him. coach little, on the sidelines, whistled his surprise. the punt carried forty-five yards! rudolph, who caught it, was downed in his tracks. burton came running up to judd, in sudden elation, and patted him on the back. "that's the stuff, judd, old boy. some punt!" this compliment stimulated judd and gave him more confidence. he began to forget himself. scrimmage that night ended in a hard-earned victory for the first team, 7 to 0. the second team had put up a stubborn defense and billings' toe had kept the regulars from rolling up the score. billings had not shown to advantage in carrying the ball. he had fumbled on several occasions and he could not hit the line. but great governor, how he could kick! coach little recognized in billings the best kicker in the school. he was up against it for material in the fullback position. rudolph did not excel in kicking. he was a good line plunger and fairly fast around the ends. blackwell had been a triple threat player. there was a remote possibility that blackwell might be able to get in part of the canton high game. if billings were not afraid of himself and had had more experience! the coach had an idea. he called the second team quarterback to him. "burton, i want you to take billings aside and train him in all the second team plays. give him the first team signals and plays too. teach billings what you can." burton did not question coach little. he had learned to obey orders. and besides, burton had to admit--secretly--that his estimation of billings had been raised. he had called upon judd to carry the ball at least half of the time. each time judd had responded. true, he made no startling gains, his greatest being six yards--but burton had been expecting an exhibition somewhat similar if not worse than billings' first sorry showing. tonight, however, judd kept coming. the fault, as burton saw it, was that he stopped for a moment just as he was about to hit the line; he slowed up as he went to circle the ends; he did not take the ball soon enough. but when burton thought of the farmer boy's kicks, a glint of admiration came into his eyes. why, even blackwell could do no better. and blackwell was about the best football player since the great bob! "billings, the coach wants me to give you the dope on the signals and plays," burton said to judd, as they left the dressing room for the street. it was judd's turn to be surprised. he felt miserable. every second in scrimmage had been agony. he had played like one in defense of one's life and had used what to him was the utmost caution. he could not help stopping just before hitting the line; he could not keep from slowing up as he circled the ends; it took him just an instant to make himself take the ball each time his signal was called. and when it came to kicking, his only thought had been to get the ball as far away from him as possible. he loathed physical contact. no one had spoken to him outside of burton. judd imagined that they all were conscious of his showing the white feather. the first team men seemed especially hostile. they had received a tongue-lashing from the coach for their inability to run the score up. of course he could not know that they were a bit resentful at him for having thwarted their scoring attempts by his unusual kicking. judd made arrangements with burton to meet him and go over the signals. as they parted, burton asked him, "say, why don't you get out to the field early? you don't have a last hour class. and practice kicking ... practice drop kicking and place kicking. you've got a good toe. it might be that..." a warm feeling passed through judd. he was grateful for the interest shown in him. it helped to have someone believe that he could do something. judd hesitated. "... i don't have a class the last hour either. i could go out with you...." judd tried not to let burton see how pleased he was at this offer. "why ... why, thanks, awfully!" he said, "i'd like to do it." the game with canton high was only one week away. word came from canton that their team was expected to win by a margin of twenty points. canton was claiming the state championship. trumbull high could not make such claims, not having played as stiff a schedule as the rival school. but both canton and trumbull had gone through the season undefeated. and trumbull followers would be glad to make claims if their team could conquer canton. sport writers picked canton to win easily, with trumbull's lineup weakened by the loss of blackwell. even if blackwell could get into the game it was dubious if he would be able to do much. that sprained left ankle would not be any too strong. the game was to be played at trumbull. great preparations were started to take care of a monstrous crowd. three days before the game, coach little came on the field early and saw an interesting spectacle. burton and billings were on the gridiron. billings was standing on the thirty-five yard line, facing the south goal posts. ten yards in front of him knelt burton with his hands on the ball. billings motioned. burton passed the ball between his legs. billings caught it deftly and plied his toe to it as the ball struck the ground. the oval raised in a swift, short arch and sped over and between the uprights. coach little stood still in astonishment. the boys did not see him. burton ran after the bounding ball. he returned. the process was repeated, billings moving back to the forty yard line. coach little hastened out on the field. "here, what are you boys doing?" burton and billings looked toward the coach in surprise. "practicing, sir." it was burton who spoke. the coach looked at billings, who stood embarrassed and with his toe kicking at some uneven rises in the ground. "judd, if you could run with the ball as well as you can kick, you'd be of value to the team." burton wanted to tell the coach that he thought billings was getting better. billings had made a twenty yard run last night. and he had not seemed so afraid of getting hurt. "i think judd is ..." started burton, but thought better of it. the coach was no fool. he was probably aware of billings' improvement. judd knew that he was getting better control of himself. each little victory that he won, no matter how much anxiety it had caused, seemed to lessen the effort he had to put forth the next time. and judd had escaped even the slightest injury. football was not as rough as it looked and a fellow didn't get hurt every time he fell down. on top of this he was beginning to develop a fighting blood. he could sense himself creating an objective and then feel a desire to reach that objective. if it was the fourth down and they needed three to go, judd tried to make the three yards with some to spare. he could see himself making it and before he got a chance to wonder whether anything would happen to himself or not, he was in motion. sometimes he reached the objective and sometimes not, but it wasn't many minutes before he found himself facing a new situation that had to be settled. and so it went, until the scrimmage was over, judd not sensing any fear until the actual moment of contact when he was greatly disturbed until he found that nothing had happened to him. to judd, football was a variety of hot and cold sensations. the moment he could absolutely overcome his apprehension he knew that he would be able to hit the line hard, that he would be able to run the ends and that he would take the ball when his signal was called with the proper snap and drive. "billings, i am moving you up to the first squad tonight," said the coach, deciding. "this will be our last scrimmage before the big game. we may have need for your toe." burton could not conceal his joy. he had taken a liking to judd ... a peculiar friendship had sprung up between them ... his contempt for the great bob's brother was gone. hopes of trumbull followers were heightened when jimmy blackwell put in his appearance for practice and limped through signals with the team, his ankle heavily bandaged and supported. blackwell got away several kicks but they carried little better than thirty yards. he did not take any chances in scrimmage. the first team lined up for scrimmage with rudolph in the fullback position. blackwell, wrapping himself in a blanket, came over to sit down beside billings. "well, judd, i hear you've been placed on the first squad," said blackwell. there was the trace of chumminess in his voice. judd nodded his head, not knowing what to say. "looks like we'll need you, too. i understand you've developed into quite a kicker." blackwell was trying to draw him out. "oh, i don't know..." said judd, hesitatingly. blackwell lowered his voice. "say ... i've never told this to anyone and i wouldn't want you to repeat it. this is my last year in high school ... same as it is yours. it's my third year on the football team. when i first started in i was so afraid of myself that i'd worry myself sick over things that never happened. i could never quite figure you out until that time when i tackled you. i know what it means to stick it out the way you have. but you'll come out on top if you hang on. nothing bothers me any more..." judd could hardly believe his ears. could it be possible that a player like blackwell had experienced the same feelings? judd thrilled with the thought. it was good news to hear that another person had overcome something similar to that which he was struggling to conquer. "how ... how long did it take you to ... to get the best of it?" judd asked, interestedly. "i still have to fight it ... at times..." replied blackwell, gazing down at his bandaged ankle. "but the old feeling doesn't stay with me long. i soon get the upper hand ... the reason i'm speaking about this to you is partly a selfish one. it's been my ambition to see canton high defeated. for two years i've played on the losing team. this year we counted on turning the trick ... until i was injured. between you and me, rudolph can't make the grade. he is fast but too small. we'll be outweighed at least ten pounds to the man. rudolph will play for all there is in him but there isn't enough. if i get in i won't last long. you saw me out there ... kicking. it's about all i can do to put the weight of my body on this left foot, to say nothing of booting the ball at the same time ... i don't know whether the coach will give you a chance unless it's to make a kick. but if you could get a grip on yourself and let loose once ... say, i'm not even trying to guess what might happen!" judd sat, his blood pounding in his veins, thinking of what blackwell had told him. he was vaguely conscious of the sound of signals being called, of cries of spectators, of the dull tread of running feet. out on the field the loyal sons of trumbull high were doing their utmost to get in tip top shape for the biggest battle of the season. a sudden yell went up as burton recovered a first team fumble and started on his way toward the goal with a clear field ahead of him. rudolph was in pursuit. it looked like a touchdown for the second team. but rudolph was slowly gaining. the goal was only fifteen yards away ... now ten ... now five. rudolph left his feet and his arms encircled the flying burton. they came to earth two yards from the last line. the elated second team lined up for first down. blackwell nudged billings. "there's a situation that might develop in the game with canton," he said. "imagine that the second team is canton. if we hold 'em for downs i'll bet the coach calls you in to kick." judd bit his lips and watched. three times the second team backfield dove into the first team line. but the first team was holding madly now. on the last down the ball was but a foot from the goal line. fenstermaker, big guard, broke through the defense and dropped burton for a one yard loss. the ball went over. a halt was called in the game. coach little had motioned to rudolph. blackwell pushed billings to his feet. "get in there! the coach is calling you. what did i tell you? ... come on ... let's see a real punt!" judd pulled off his sweater and ran out on the field. he knew this was to be one of his big tests. if he made good the coach might see fit to use him in the big game. but more than that--he must make good for blackwell ... and then there was bob ... and yes, even his mother! the scrimmage to the other players meant little more than a final strenuous seasoning ... to judd it meant a fight against unseen odds. barley, first team quarterback, picked out a spot about five yards behind the goal line for judd to stand. barley was the personification of pep. he ran along the line, slapping his players on the back and exhorting them to hold. he came back to billings. "all right ... show your stuff! kick that ball out of sight!" judd reached out his hands. he had a surge of fear. what if the line didn't hold? what if the pass was poor? but the next minute the ball was coming back to him. the line wavered and the pass was low. by the time he got in position to kick the players were almost upon him. he put every ounce of strength into the boot. forty yards down the field the ball went twisting and turning. it struck the ground and rolled to the second team's twenty yard line where a second team player fell on it. the first team was out of danger. cheers came to judd's ears from the few on the sidelines. he had come through under fire. coach little approached blackwell. "i believe we have unearthed a kicker who can take your place in an emergency," he said, exultantly. blackwell was enthusiastic. "believe? ... why, mister little, that fellow's on the way to being the best kicker trumbull high's ever had!" the first time that judd was called upon to run with the ball he was tackled and thrown heavily. his wind was knocked out of him. the coach and blackwell looked at each other apprehensively. what effect would this have on billings? they watched his fellow players lift him up and down while judd gasped for air. presently he sat up, then was shoved to his feet. his face was ghastly. barley asked him if he was all right. judd wasn't sure. barley asked him if he wanted to leave the game. the other players looked on, some a bit contemptuously. was billings going to lay down again? judd shook his head and stumbled back into his position. when he was next called upon to take the ball he did not follow his interference and tried to evade his tacklers, being thrown for a five yard loss. barley reprimanded him severely. judd was almost paralyzed with fear. he kept saying to himself, "no, i will not quit ... i will not quit." coach little and blackwell looked at each other again. disappointment was written on their faces. billings lacked the fighting spirit ... he could not stand hard knocks ... it would never do to trust him with carrying the ball. the coach likened him to a young high school lad he had known who showed promise of becoming a great baseball player. the boy could catch every ball that he could get his hands on but he was afraid to stand up to the plate ... he couldn't get out of the habit of stepping back ... he was fearful of getting hit ... and the result was that he lost out all around. billings was the same way ... only in football. judd left the field that night crestfallen. inwardly he had wanted to play the game ... to get up and play harder than ever ... but for some inexplainable reason he could not make himself. it seemed that he was panic stricken. his outer feelings ran away with his inner judgment. the school needed him badly but he could not qualify. there was a letter from bob awaiting him when he got home. he took it to his room to read it. bob spoke of the coming game with canton. then there were a few lines of kindly encouragement and advice. "i've heard from several sources about your work this fall, judd, and it certainly has given me cause for rejoicing to learn that you have stuck with the ship regardless of what's happened. i believe it has done you lots of good. i wish i could get home to see the game with canton but i can't figure how to manage it. we have a game saturday and even though you play your game on friday it would be next to impossible for me to get away. cheer up, you're bound to get your chance one of these days. don't forget your contract. hang on! you've done fine so far! the football season will soon be over. and with blackwell on the injured list there's a bare possibility you may get into the big game. say, wouldn't that be great?" judd put the letter from him with a shudder. yes, wouldn't it be great! if scrimmage was hard, what would a real game be with rivalry at high pitch and each team contesting for every inch of ground? judd wondered how other people could feel the way they did about things. just now it seemed to him that the opportunity to play in the big game would be about the worst calamity that could befall him. the way to live up to the contract was not to think of self but to think of the contract. it was just like thinking of the objective and going toward it without stopping to consider what might happen. the only trouble was--judd forgot what he was going out after when the least thing jolted him. he began to think of himself again and other things faded into insignificance. chapter iv fighting spirit the day of the game dawned with a miserable wet rain falling. the canton high team and five hundred raving rooters arrived by special train at ten in the morning. nothing seemed to dampen their spirits. they came with the intention of winning a decisive victory and having a big time in the doing. judd, hollow-eyed from loss of sleep through dread of the approaching conflict, met with other members of the team at eleven o'clock. most of the boys were in good spirits. the coach had insisted that they eat at a training table and that he supervise the last meal eaten before the big game. he always got the boys in uniform early and gave them an opportunity to wear off the first wave of excitement before the game was called. blackwell managed to sit next to billings. he saw that judd was almost beside himself with nervousness, playing with his food and making a sorry pretense of eating. "i--i'd give anything if i could get out of this..." "no you wouldn't," prompted blackwell, "you'd be ashamed of yourself for the rest of your life ... and you know it." judd hung his head. he had to confess that what blackwell said was true. now that he had waged the fight against himself, there was a certain growing spirit which refused to let him stop. he had thought that he would quit on the last night of scrimmage but the next night found him out taking a light signal practice with the team. it was as if he had started an automobile and then wished to stop it only to find that it had gotten beyond his control. the situation was terrifying. when judd dressed for the game he took a white slip of paper from his wallet and folded it inside his head gear. some of the players saw him do it and one asked, "what's that for, a shock absorber?" the question was a harmless thrust but judd flushed guiltily. they certainly would kid him if they knew what it really was! in the distance could be heard the yells of the rival schools and the blare of the school bands. overhead, in the lulls, could be heard the monotonous drip of the rain. what a day for a football game! the gridiron was water-soaked and soggy. a person would get covered with dirt and wet to the skin. nothing inviting about that to judd. "fellows, i've been your coach for seven years. there has never been a game in all my experience that i have wanted to win more than this one. we will be outweighed; we will be faced by a team of veterans; but we will not be outspirited. trumbull has always possessed the spirit that never says die. i know that every man on the first team will be out there ... when his chance comes ... giving everything he has for old trumbull...." the coach's eyes passed over every boy in the squad, pausing just a moment to rest upon billings, then moving on quickly. the last pointed words of the coach failed to impress judd. he seemed in a daze. could it be possible that he was actually a sub on the first team and that he might be called upon to play? the thoughts of honor had not come to him ... of fighting for his school ... of fighting for anything in particular. but he did want to fight to live up to the contract ... to the belief that a few people had in him. judd followed the other subs to a bench along the edge of the field. he sat down with burton, second team quarterback, beside him. they watched the trumbull eleven as it took the field amid a riotous welcoming from the umbrella packed stands. judd studied the blue jerseyed youths of canton in comparison with the dark red clad boys of trumbull. it seemed to him that the canton team was better drilled, the players moved with more snap and machine-like precision. judd felt nervous and fidgety. trumbull won the toss and chose to kick off. there was a tense hum of sound as barley, trumbull quarterback, knelt and pointed the ball on a wet clod of dirt. rudolph measured off the distance to kick. the opposing captains raised their arms, the referee's whistle shrilled, and the wall of red clad trumbull warriors moved forward as the ball spun into the air. rudolph's kick carried to the ten yard line where drake, canton fullback, gathered it in and fell behind his quickly formed interference. he slipped and slid through the mud as he ran. a trumbull player, meeting the solid phalanx at the twenty yard line, plunged low into the interference, being trampled under foot. but he succeeded in breaking the formation. fellow team-mates tore into the advancing runners and the big fullback was downed on the thirty-five yard line after a brilliant opening run. the stands were in an uproar. judd had watched the play, being conscious of a peculiar pulsation in his throat. the very atmosphere seemed suddenly charged with fighting spirit ... he saw the trumbull team ... now transformed into mighty gladiators ... and he experienced a shocking sensation at the thought that he was one of them ... in reserve. button pounded him on the back. "wow! they failed to gain!" as the first onslaught of the canton line was repulsed for a two yard loss. before the game was five minutes old it was sadly evident that today--of all days--weight was very likely to tell. the wet field was bound to greatly handicap the work of both teams. there would be little opportunity for fast, open field work or much passing. the plays would have to be through the line or around the end--straight football largely. as the first quarter drew to a close, canton had the ball on trumbull's thirty yard line, benefiting by a series of punt exchanges. holding desperately to prevent canton gaining another first down, trumbull was slowly but surely pushed backward through the mud. with one yard to go, drake came crashing through center for three yards, battering his way with scarcely any interference to help him. judd seemed to feel each impact as the opposing lines strained against each other. he cringed inwardly as he heard the smack of drake's collision with barley, who brought the big fellow to earth. canton's first down on trumbull's eighteen yard line! the first down seemed to give the heavier canton team new life. they went to the attack with a savageness which was not to be denied. using the sledge-hammer power of drake ... the canton team pounded again and again at the trumbull line. the players could scarcely be recognized for the mud with which they were bespattered. judd noticed blackwell, hobbling up and down in his nervous eagerness, looking appealingly at the coach. but coach little shook his head. he was taking no chances by putting blackwell in so long as there was no opportunity of his doing much good. blackwell's value, in his present condition, would lie in his offensive ability--if he could be used at all. judd wondered why blackwell wanted to get into such a combat. he recoiled at the very thought that he might be called upon. an excited cry directed judd's attention back to the play of the moment. the trumbull line had faltered and the canton backfield was through with drake again carrying the ball. judd saw barley brushed aside as he dove for the runner. rudolph, the last line of defense, came dashing in and threw himself at the canton fullback as he crossed the goal line. drake spun around and fell heavily over the goal, landing solidly upon his tackler. a mighty cheer went up from the canton rooters--a cheer which died out in a sudden hush when it was seen that the tackler did not rise. trumbull players gathered about rudolph. "water! water!" a boy near judd picked up a pail and went racing out on the field, dabbing a sponge in it as he ran. judd stared dumbly at burton, who said: "that's tough! ... looks like rudie's out!" they carried rudolph from the field and blackwell went limping out to take his place. the canton team lined up for the try at goal. rudolph was regaining his senses and struggling to be in action again. judd leaned over toward him. "you're out of it, old man," he said, soothingly. judd thought this remark would be a great relief to one who had received such a jolt as rudolph. but rudolph only glared at him as another cheer told plainly that canton had kicked goal. score seven to nothing ... favor of canton. referee's whistle! first quarter up. the teams exchanged goals and canton kicked off to trumbull. barley caught the ball on his fifteen yard line and ran it back seven yards before a canton linesman struck him down on a pretty tackle. blackwell, taking the ball on the first play, made a limping plunge around right end for a three yard gain. he was given a resounding cheer for his gameness. two more downs and trumbull was forced to punt. blackwell went back and tested his footing in the mud. he shifted his weight carefully to his left foot and booted the ball, but his kick lacked the power it ordinarily contained. the punt carried a scant thirty yards and the canton halfback who caught it came charging toward the trumbull goal to trumbull's twenty-eight yard line. several attempts to tackle this elusive runner were thwarted by the slippery condition underfoot. with the ball in canton's possession again the relentless pound, pound, pound against trumbull's line began anew. despite heroic attempts of trumbull linesmen to stop the advance, the heavier canton line pushed and shoved and forced its way through, making a path for the seemingly tireless drake who had been nicknamed "mud scow" by an ingenious canton yell leader. eleven minutes of the second quarter were gone when "mud scow" drake went over for the second touchdown. judd had watched trumbull for every foot of the water-soaked territory. he had seen blackwell, on three different occasions, stop the slashing, slipping drive of drake ... had seen these two go down in a sea of mud ... had seen blackwell get up each time a little slower ... had seen the undaunted determination upon his dirt-smeared face. and when the canton team lined up joyously for their second try at goal after touchdown, judd saw that blackwell was crying ... crying in unashamed fashion ... perhaps he wasn't even conscious that he was crying. this was all so puzzling to judd. he had thought of himself first in everything. he could not comprehend exactly why blackwell should be so concerned ... unless he were hurt ... and suffering! it did not dawn upon him what blackwell was actually thinking ... that blackwell, in his last year at school, felt himself unable to do his best ... sensed his inability to put the punch in the team ... to restore its shattered confidence ... shattered because of canton's powerful, battering attack. the first half ended with the ball on trumbull's ten yard line and canton just that far away from a third touchdown! score, canton 14; trumbull 0. drake's well trained toe had added the extra point after the second touchdown also. "so far the game looks like a one man offensive and the advantage of weight," coach little told his players between halves. "stop this fellow drake and you'll stop their drive. they're using him because they have to depend upon straight football and he's the strongest man in their backfield. the chances are that canton will play a defensive game from now on and you must take the offensive in order to win. you've got everything against you today but one thing ... and that's spirit. any team that can put up the fight you have out there every minute of the half need not be discouraged. don't think about the score. concentrate on every play ... put everything you have in it ... and the score will take care of itself..." the coach sent the same lineup back into the game. rudolph, swathed in blankets, sat near judd, who watched him out of the corner of his eye. he noticed that rudolph kept his attention centered on every move of the game. canton kicked off, and it was trumbull's ball on trumbull's thirty yard line. rudolph's lips moved at each calling of the signals. judd unconsciously got to doing the same thing. every time blackwell's number was called he imagined that he was blackwell and followed the play through in his mind. blackwell was holding up ... he was good for short gains almost every time he took the ball. but after each run he dragged himself back into position and scraped the mud from his feet as though each sticking clod held him back. rudolph nudged judd after a play in which blackwell's fatigue was most evident. "you'll get your chance pretty soon ... he's about all in!" the blood went racing to judd's head. the entire game had been thus far like a disconnected dream to him. it had been difficult to actually associate himself with it. "my ... my chance!" he faltered. rudolph nodded ... then clutched judd's sleeve. "see ... blackwell's looking this way ... we've got to kick ... and ... he can't!" the field seemed to blur out of judd's vision. there was a sickening buzzing in his head ... he looked at rudolph with undisguised horror on his face. "me ... me ... go in ... there?" rudolph gave him a look of scorn and threw aside his blankets. coach little came up, slapping judd on the back. "you're taking blackwell's place, billings ..." "let me go in!" pleaded rudolph, "judd's scared stiff!" the coach glanced sharply at the shivering substitute. the referee's whistle was screeching demandingly. blackwell was being helped off the field. "no, rudie ... you're done for the day. it's up to billings." the coach turned to judd. "billings, i'm not putting you in because i want to ... it's because i have to, understand? and if you show yellow ... everyone in trumbull and everyone in the state for that matter ... is going to know it." judd ripped off his sweater. he passed blackwell as he went out to report to the referee. blackwell called to him. "i'm counting on you, judd ... do it for me, old boy!" the great bob's younger brother had a mixture of feelings ... the words of the coach had aroused him more than he had ever thought he could be aroused ... and blackwell's plea had brought to him a flash of what it really meant to forget self. if blackwell could play as he had played with a sprained ankle when every step meant a stab of pain ... if rudolph had given his best and was even now, though injured, willing to get back into the battle ... why couldn't he carry on the good fight? why couldn't he? the question suddenly became an obsession with him. and the answer began to rise up within him ... "i can ... i can!" the ball was on trumbull's thirty-five yard line and last down. barley met billings on his way out to the team. judd had an odd thought that barley reminded him of a man who had stuck his head out of a sewer hole and looked at him one day. why should he think of such a curious thing as that ... at a time like this? but barley was shouting something at him ... the stands were on their feet ... shouting ... shouting ... what were they shouting? ... why! ... it was his name! "come on, billings! get us out of this hole," pleaded barley. and when he said this ... the haunting face of the sewer digger came back to judd ... came back in such a ludicrous light that judd looked at barley and laughed. get him out of the hole? certainly he would! the other players--grim, tired, water-soaked--saw judd laugh. his first time under fire in the biggest game of the year ... and he could laugh! to barley the laugh came as a ray of sunshine. his worries vanished. judd had the attitude of a veteran. barley ran along the line, kicking each linesman as the referee's whistle put the ball again in play. "get in there and hold that line!" there was the sloppy crunching of body against body as the slippery ball snapped back to billings. judd caught it, juggled it, recovered and kicked. the ball arched skyward in a twisting spiral. trumbull ends, making a quick get away, went stumbling and sliding down the field. drake stood under the punt, waiting to catch it. as he reached up to grab it a trumbull end hit him, the slippery ball eluded his wet fingers and bounced a few feet away. the other end, closing in, dove for the ball. there was a wet mass of muddy forms disputing possession. the referee dug down to the bottom of the heap. trumbull's ball on canton's seventeen yard line! the first real break in the game had favored trumbull. barley pounced upon judd and hugged him happily. "good boy, judd ... we're going to score!" the team showed new spirit. every man was on his toes. only seventeen yards away from a touchdown! the stands began to come to life. "yeah, trumbull ... yeah! yeah! yeah!" signals! judd was conscious of them ... but he was also conscious that the signals had a direct relation to him. he knew, for instance, that the first play was going through left guard and that he was to form interference for the right half. the ball was passed back. judd automatically crossed in front of the right half and charged toward the canton left guard ... but canton had broken through ... and he found himself confronted with two determined-looking tacklers. he slipped and half fell into them and both opponents fell with him. the right half plunged on over them, judd feeling a foot on the scruff of his neck as his face went down in the mud. the play netted a bare yard. signals! it seemed that he had scarcely gained his feet before he was whirled into another play. barley was pepping up the team ... he was putting drive into them ... and he was calling billings' number! judd took the ball and fell in behind his interference. he circled the end, running wide. a tackler attempted to reach him but slipped and went down in the gummy mire. he stuck out his hand and another tackler dropped away from him. he was conscious of the rain on his face ... and it seemed that for every foot he advanced ... he slid two feet backward. judd now found himself running alone. he turned in as he came to a strip of white along the edge of the field, catching a fleeting glimpse of umbrellas and huddled spectators ... then he saw the big form of drake plowing toward him with arms outstretched. fear overtook judd ... a fear which blotted out everything else from the daze of his thoughts. but in this instance, fear saved him. judd made a supreme effort to avoid being tackled, and leaped past drake just as drake left his feet. drake struck in a shallow puddle and rolled over and judd fell across the goal line. he had scored a touchdown the first time that he was given the ball! as quick to reclaim him as they had been quick to condemn him, his team-mates crowded about judd and for the first time made him feel the glow of comradeship. only judd knew how unworthy of their praise he was. his touchdown had been a happy accident. his attempt to kick goal was blocked. score, canton 14; trumbull 6. two minutes remained of the third quarter. trumbull kicked off and the ball was downed on canton's twenty-one yard line. canton tried the trumbull line for two downs and found that the line had stiffened. trumbull was holding desperately. then drake dropped back as if to kick. barley called to billings. "get back. watch out for a fake punt!" judd had hardly gotten back when the play started. drake was a triple threat man. he made as if to pass to the left end, then plunged through the right side of the line. barley tackled drake but the big fullback shook him off and started into an open field with only billings between him and the trumbull goal, seventy some yards away. judd had been living in dread of such a moment. there flashed through his mind the temptation to make a seeming effort to tackle drake and fail. it would be easy to let on that he had slipped in the mud. and there would be no danger of his getting hurt. he saw drake preparing to straight arm. then judd saw a mental picture of blackwell with his lame ankle, running toward the self-same drake unflinchingly and bringing him to the ground. a sudden blast of courage came over him. he ran at drake swiftly and knocked drake's arm aside; his arms closed about drake's knees; the big fullback lurched to free himself, twisted his body in an adroit manner and managed to swing judd about so that the weight of his body landed on his tackler's head. judd experienced the same sensation that had come to rudolph. barley, the first to his side ... spoke harshly to drake. "trumbull men always play fair ... this is the second man you've put out of the game!" drake laughed and denied the accusation. a water boy came running up and dashed a pail of water on judd's face. the trumbull players crowded about, crestfallen. judd came to ... with an expression of pain on his face. he moved his left shoulder cautiously and winced as he did so. "oh ... take me out ... take me out..." he whispered ... "my shoulder!" barley picked up billings' head gear which had been knocked off in the tackle. the stands were cheering his name. but judd was conscious only of pain. as they helped him to his feet ... he saw the coach on the field. "i--i can't go on, sir," he said. "i--i'm hurt." the coach examined judd's shoulder. "it's just a wrench ... you're our only hope ... can't you stick?" as the coach asked the question he took the head gear from barley's hands and went to place it back on billings' head. a piece of white paper fell out. the coach picked it up curiously. there was some writing on it. "here, sir! give that to me! that's mine!" judd's eyes flashed. it would not do for anyone to see what was written on it. if they did he would be humiliated forever. "please, sir!" as the coach began to unfold the paper. "if you'll give it back to me ... i'll stick in the game!" coach little shook his head perplexedly and handed him back the paper. judd took it shame-facedly and tucked it quickly in his cap, turning away. his team-mates stared at him in incomprehensive amazement. "he's gone nutty!" said barley. the players had no sooner lined up to resume play than the whistle blew for the end of the third quarter. the ball was on canton's thirty-nine yard line and canton's first down. score--canton 14; trumbull 6. on the sidelines a small commotion was evident. the great bob billings had arrived! he'd intended to see the entire game but had missed train connections at the junction. it had been his desire, however, to keep judd from knowing of his contemplated presence. the substitutes crowded around the former trumbull star in eager admiration. bob sought out coach little. "mister little ... my name's bob billings ... how's the game going?" "too much beef for us in weather like this ... the boys are putting up a great fight though!" "how ... how's my kid brother doing?" coach little looked out upon the field. the teams were changing ends and getting in position to take up play in the last quarter. "i can't understand him. he scored our only touchdown on a great fifteen yard sprint. then he stopped that big bull ... drake ... just as it looked like drake had a clear field. drake fell on judd after the tackle and hurt him ... he'd have quit the game then and there if it hadn't been for a piece of paper." "a piece of paper?" coach little laughed. "yes ... i found it in his cap and gave it back to him without reading it on his promise to stay in the game. i suppose the kid's sweet on some girl and was more afraid of being embarrassed than he was of being hurt!" the great bob's eyes clouded over, and his jaws tightened. "poor buddy!" he said, softly. chapter v for a scrap of paper out on the field judd was having the biggest fight of his life. there surged up within him the desire to overcome the fears of the past. he remembered the morning that he took the pen and signed his name to the contract in bob's room; remembered his coming back to trumbull and re-entering school; remembered how he had made himself get out for football; remembered his mother's changed feelings toward his activities. he had fought this thing that he knew was not a part of him ... trying ... trying to shake it off ... but it clung to him hardest at just the times when he wanted to do the most ... when it was the most difficult to get away from ... and easiest to surrender. the paper had seemed to judd as the only outward evidence of his determination to keep up the good fight ... to conquer fear. he did not want to admit to anyone that he had broken faith with himself ... he had gone so far now that there must be no turning back ... regardless of consequences. and the piece of paper did mean something to judd. it meant living up to his true self ... a self which had no use for babying; a self which never recognized failure ... a self which did not think of itself ... first. judd crouched in his defensive position, a hand holding his lame shoulder, eyes on the canton backfield. there was a sudden shift, the lines crashed and the big drake came through again. but judd, gritting his teeth, went forward to meet him and dropped drake for a bare two yard gain. "good boy!" cried barley, pulling judd to his feet. "right at 'em!" drake, dripping with mud and water, jogged back to his position. the quarterback said something in drake's ear. drake nodded and glanced at billings derisively. the next moment he had the ball again and was circling the end. judd, muttering to himself, "i can! ... i can!" cut through the muddy turf. barley spilled the interference and once more judd tore into drake, bringing the big fellow down. but drake had gained five yards. third down and three to go! canton tried a line play. trumbull held. drake fell back to kick. judd retreated to trumbull's thirty yard line to play for the punt. the pigskin came spinning through the heavy air toward him. he had run forward about five yards to get under it. he made the catch but slipped and fell as he started forward. as he got to his feet two canton tacklers hit him. when judd got up he was conscious of a sharp pain in his right knee. time out was taken while he paced about, testing his foot to the ground. barley, supporting him, said in a whisper: "tough luck, old man. you're putting up a great game. they wouldn't be in it if it wasn't for their man drake ... we've got just seven minutes ... i'll tell you what i'm going to do ... i'm going to give you the ball practically every play and we'll hand them some of the same medicine they've been feeding us!" "i--i don't believe i can do you much good," faltered judd. barley grinned. "where do you get that stuff? anyone who can stop that bird drake can hit the line ... how's your knee ... better?" the referee's whistle sounded. judd became conscious of the wild entreaties of the trumbull crowd. they still had faith in their team ... they knew the boys would do their best ... and now was the time when trumbull must fight the hardest. he nodded. on the first play barley, at quarterback position, smacked the ball against his stomach as he came pounding through. judd hit the line; it wavered; he went through; his feet scraped against the slippery sod; bodies struck him ... hands clutched at him ... but he kept on going as long as he could feel earth beneath him. when he found himself back in position and got his bearings he discovered that he had made seven yards! his team-mates were exuberant. there was a wild motley of sounds from the sidelines. once more he felt the ball in the hollow of his arm, finding himself plunging around the end with his hand against barley. he saw a tackler and pushed barley into him ... then cut in, stumbling as he did so, to avoid another muddy face which leered before him. judd ran for ten yards before he was dragged to the ground.... the game became just one run after another; it seemed like he was continually getting up from the bottom of a heap and staggering to his position, only to start forward again--reaching out for the ball--and blindly but savagely following in the direction of his interference. there was an outer din of noise that judd was vaguely conscious of. he could feel a jerking pain in his leg and an aching twitch in his shoulder, occasionally, when barley didn't call his number, he would start forward, then drop to his hands and knees and rest. oh, how good it seemed to be out of play! he was tired ... desperately tired ... his whole body was sore ... he was miserably wet and uncomfortable ... his eye-lids were almost stuck shut with mud ... his mouth was thick with the grime of it ... but he kept mumbling to himself, "i can! i can!" barley called time out as he fell face downward in the mud. the water boy was out on the field again. judd blinked as a sheet of cold water struck him slosh in the face. barley was pounding him on the back. "wake up, ... we're only five yards from the goal and three minutes to go..." judd looked up and beyond barley. he saw the dark outline of the bleak, wet goal posts, saw the tense faces of the canton team ... then his own fellows grouped around him. fenstermaker, trumbull guard, knelt beside him. he was crying ... the tears making odd little rivulets down his blackened face. "come on, judd ... we'll make a hole for you!" judd struggled to his feet. they were all willing to help him. he was astounded at his own power to keep going. he didn't seem to care what happened. it didn't seem like it was he at all. he allowed them to set him on his feet. "you--you fellows make the hole," he said, "i-i'll go through!" on the sidelines, under the very goal posts, the great bob stood ... his cap was in his hands ... his hair was wet with rain ... his feet were almost lost to view in a puddle of water ... he was unconscious of anything but the actions of his brother. a trumbull fan, recognizing him, pounded bob on the back. "i guess you'll have to take a back seat now, eh bob? the kid's got it all over you!" if judd could have known what his brother was thinking of him then! if he could only have known that bob was on the sidelines! but judd didn't know a thing except that this was his fight. he wasn't even playing for the school. he wasn't thinking of any honor. his single thought was that to have failed in what he set out to do was to fail in everything. bob watched judd as he swayed upon his feet; his eyes followed him as he lunged forward and took the ball once more; he lost sight of judd for a moment, then saw him come straining through the line with a tackler hanging to his waist. the tackler's hand slipped off ... judd shook himself free ... bob wanted to shout, "look out!" as he saw drake dive for him ... then he caught his breath as the kid dodged the fullback but slipped and fell. drake turned and threw himself upon judd as judd rolled over and planted the ball over the goal line. the name "billings" rang from one end of the field to the other, with the substitute fullback being lifted to his feet and pummeled by his team-mates who were crazy with joy ... but judd was so fatigued that his attempt at a goal after a touchdown went wide. two minutes more to play and the score 14 to 12 in favor of canton. it was trumbull's kickoff, barley begging judd to hurry up. judd swung his toe against the ball and started to follow his kick dazedly. the ball, water-soaked and heavy, carried to canton's five yard line. the best canton could do was carry it back ten yards. because the game was so nearly over ... the canton quarterback ordered a punt. "mud scow" drake, with a self-confident smile on his dirt-rimmed face, stood with his arms outstretched waiting to send the ball far down the field ... crushing the last slight hope of victory from trumbull. it had been a terrific game ... and drake was conscious of his power now as never before. barley, realizing that this was the most critical moment in the entire game, ran along the line exhorting the half dead linesmen to a final frenzied effort. "get in there, fellows, and block that kick! block that kick!" the sidelines took up the frenzied cry. drake's hands closed upon the ball, he raised it shoulder high and let it drop, his muddy foot came up to meet it ... but just at that instant a body shot against him ... there was the hollow plunk of a ball striking a rather soft object and a mad scramble of flying forms. when the referee had pulled the players apart he found fenstermaker, trumbull guard, lying face down upon the ball. trumbull's ball on canton's eleven yard line ... and fifty seconds left to play! judd knew that he was not capable of carrying the ball another foot. he instinctively realized that canton would repulse any effort that trumbull might make at running with the ball. the time was too desperately short. then, in a flash, there came to him the vision of practice sessions he had held with burton, second team quarterback. burton knew how to handle the ball, how to place it to his liking. if burton were only in the game.... judd spoke a few quick words to barley and barley ... loyal son of trumbull ... called time out so that burton could come into the game ... and substitute for him. everyone knew what was going to be attempted. burton came racing out to judd who had picked out the spot where he was to attempt the place kick. three points would just win if trumbull could make them. but the field was so soggy and the footing so uncertain. besides ... the heavy clouds had brought dusk upon the field prematurely. judd removed his cap and took out the piece of white paper. he unfolded it and laid it flat upon the ground, then stepped back a few paces and burton knelt, with hands extended, over the paper. the seconds seemed like hours. "hold that line!" judd begged of the linesmen. but he need not have urged this ... tired though they were, they could be depended upon to give their all now. the pass from the center was a bit wide but burton caught it deftly and upended the ball upon the white piece of paper. judd took three short steps and bit his lips as he brought his toe squarely against the pigskin ... a sharp pain shooting through his knee. blackwell and barley hugged each other on the sidelines. rudolph danced in glee. the ball had skimmed over and between the uprights ... skimmed above the bar by a hair! the timekeeper's whistle sounded and trumbull had won a miraculous uphill game by the score of 15 to 14! and the fellow, who, singlehanded, had made the triumph possible--weary to the point of dropping--stooped and picked up the piece of paper, stuffing it back in his cap. the next instant he was carried away upon the shoulders of the madly joyous crowd to one of the wildest victory celebrations trumbull had ever witnessed. * * * * * that night, refreshed by a hot shower and with his sprains carefully bandaged, judd accompanied the great bob to the high school campus where a huge bonfire defied the dismal patter of rain. as they stood by the fire, listening to the cheers of the student body, bob said to judd: "buddy, where's that contract?" judd reached sheepishly inside his overcoat and pulled out a muddy piece of paper. bob took the paper, reached over and before judd could stop him, tossed it in the bonfire. silently the two of them watched the tongues of flame eat the paper up. when the paper had become nothing but formless ashes, bob turned to his younger brother and reached out his hand, saying in a voice that was husky with emotion: "well, buddy, it's gone. you don't need the contract any longer. you lived up to more than a scrap of paper this afternoon. you lived up to the best that was in you!" and judd, a happy lump in his throat, could not answer. but his heart sang with the knowledge that he had won more than the football game. he had won a lasting victory over himself. "one of these days, judd, old scout--you're going to be taking my place at bartlett!" bob continued, his arm about judd's broad shoulders. "i--i'd sure like to," judd replied, warmly, "not your place exactly ... but be making a place of my own!" bob grinned. "that's the stuff!" he returned, little realizing that the following football season would bring drastic changes and see his kid brother--still quite the green, clumsy youth from the country--headed for bartlett while he ...? chapter vi ill news and a new arrival "hey, fellows! what do you know? bob's not coming back!" it was jack frey talking and his announcement brought exclamations of surprise and concern from the group of bartlett men crossing the campus. "what?" "you're kidding!" "if he's not coming back--good-bye football team!" "say, can't you guys tell when cateye's joking?" reprimanded benz hoffmaster, last year member of bartlett's backfield. "of course bob's coming back. he's captain-elect!" cateye shook his head soberly, taking a letter from his inner pocket. "i wish i was only kidding," he said, as fellow students gathered around, "but this is straight dope. the man running the billings farm is sick and bob's decided to stay home a year to help his mother take care of things..." an involuntary groan went up. bob had been cateye's room-mate. the two of them were also veteran members of the team, cateye at left guard and bob at fullback. beyond having been the most popular fellow in school, bob had been acknowledged the greatest player in bartlett history. his absence would be felt off the field and on. "but we can't let bob stick out there on the farm!" protested benz, "we need him too much here. read the letter, cateye. let's get the details." cateye unfolded the letter obligingly. "'dear pal,'" he read, "'i've put off writing this as long as i could, hoping that somehow things would work out so i wouldn't have to write at all. but, jack, there's no use trying to kid myself, as much as i'd like to be back with you this year, i'm just not going to be able to make it. you see mr. duncan's been mighty sick for the past couple months and the doctor says he'll have to take it easy for at least half a year and that means only one thing--i've got to stick here and help mother run the place.'" "gee, that's tough!" muttered curns, veteran right end. "'but i'm sending someone in my place,'" continued cateye, still reading, "'my kid brother, judd--who, i think, is a natural born football player. he's worked on our farm the past four years when he hasn't been going to school and, since bartlett doesn't bar freshmen from her varsity, i'm hoping he shows up well enough to make the team. he's big and strong but awkward and somewhat backward. you can do a lot for him, cateye, if you will. he's never been any further than the little old home town, except the summer he visited me in the city, and the trip to bartlett seems like a coast to coast journey to him. but he'll get this taken out of him the first few days there and you'll really find him a corking, dependable fellow when you get to know him. i've tried to teach him a few things about football as it's played in college but he still has lots to learn. he starred, though, in the big game with trumbull high last season. and, cateye, if you'd like to do me a favor ... i almost hesitate to suggest this ... but if you could see your way clear to taking judd in as your room-mate ... well, i'd never get over appreciating it. tell the gang how sorry i am not to be coming back. looks like, even without me, this year's prospects for a winning team, are very bright. go to it! and don't stop till you've cleaned up on pennington. your old sidekick--bob...'" fellow students consulted one another with glum glances. no doubt now about bob's not returning. suppose they'd have to make the best of it. but what do you suppose the kid brother whom he was sending was like? "so bob wants you to room with a farm hand!" joshed benz, "well, that's what i'd call a test of true friendship. just what are you going to do about it?" cateye nodded. "why not? bob was a farm hand at that rate--when he first came on here. his brother, judd, can't be so bad and if there's a chance of his developing into good football material..." "you said it!" "bob ought to know good football material when he sees it." cateye grinned. "there's a postscript i didn't read you," he added, "about judd's arriving at two-five this afternoon ..." "hey, that's only half an hour from now!" "i know it, and i've an errand i've got to do first," said cateye, "but let me give you the rest of this postscript before i beat it. bob goes on to give his brother a boost by saying: 'judd's in great physical trim already. you should see him tackle three hundred pound hogs out here on the farm and throw 'em...'" a howl at this. "better keep out of his way, benz!" warned curns, "you don't weigh that much but how you eat...!" benz made a move in curns' direction, curns retreating. "let me finish!" pleaded cateye, "i'm in a big hurry, guys." "shoot!" "sure! go ahead!" "'... and, with coach phillips to instruct him on kicking, just watch judd boot that old pigskin'." concluded cateye. "how's that for a real send-off?" benz whistled, "looks to me," he laughed, "like bob's trying to insure his brother getting a great reception by doing a rave about him. he's got my curiosity aroused at that. i'd like to look the boy over. what do you say, fellows, we all meet judd at the train?" the suggestion was made impulsively and received just as impulsive a seconding. "good idea!" "give judd a grand welcoming for bob!" "make him feel at home!" "all right," agreed cateye, "meet you at the train then." and he was off about his business. the afternoon train, packed with merry students returning to bartlett after a long summer's vacation, puffed slowly and with apparent weariness up the slight grade and came to a stop not more than a block from the college. although bartlett was some three miles from anything which resembled a town it happened to be located near a railroad and the company, on special occasions, had conferred a favor upon the students by stopping at the college, thus saving numerous transportation bills. as the train pulled in, some fifteen or twenty students, led by benz hoffmaster, pushed to the front of the platform and peered eagerly through the passing windows, hoping to catch sight of the youth pictured in bob's letter. cateye, as yet, had not put in an appearance. he would have been of no help as to identification, however, for none in bartlett had ever seen this expected new arrival. but it was likely that judd, in some manner, would betray his identity. returning students, piling from the coaches, were swallowed up by awaiting friends and roommates who swarmed about them, amid much backslapping and handshaking. everyone was glad to see everyone else back. the confusion was such that the group on the look-out for a strange face and a someone to whom the surroundings were obviously new, about reached the conclusion that one judd billings had escaped their notice. "or maybe he got so homesick he jumped off the train and's walking back to the farm," suggested benz. at this instant attention was drawn to the last occupant of the last coach who stumbled awkwardly off the car platform and looked dazedly about. "there he is!" went up the shout. big-boned, apparently well-muscled, and of solid build, the new arrival presented a picture of strength but handled himself so clumsily as to provoke the curious interest of any passerby. in each hand he gripped a bulging suitcase. "hey, judd!" called benz, and started in his direction, followed by the group. startled at the sound of his name, the new arrival looked toward the charging reception committee. he drew back uncertainly as benz dashed up, holding out his hand. "you're judd billings, aren't you?" the new arrival nodded, eyeing the fellows surrounding him with growing suspicion and uneasiness. "welcome to our college!" called curns. this brought a blaze of greetings. "how's bob?" "let's take your grips!" "cateye'll be here in a minute!" "tackled any hogs lately?" "here! here! you fellahs lay off! i can handle these bags myself!" the new arrival jerked at his suitcases to pull them free from hands which reached for them. "let go or i'll ...!" "but, judd ...!" protested benz, surprised, "we only mean to ...!" "none of your tricks now!" warned the fellow bob had sent, "i've heard of you college guys. you're not going to haze me. i'm looking for mr. jack frey ..." "we're all friends of his!" insisted benz, "here, let me introduce us. reading, left to right, is potts, curns, pole, neil ... hold on, judd! where you going?" evidencing no interest in meeting the bunch, the new arrival had been anxiously searching the station platform for signs of anyone who might be looking for him. he now moved toward the small waiting room which served as an excuse for a depot as this junction stop was not often used by the railroad. "listen, judd!" benz blocked the way. "you're not going to pull that high hat stuff around here. we've come to meet you out of respect for bob and we..." "you let me through!" demanded the new arrival, prodding benz with his suitcases. "and what if i don't?" benz wanted to know, "you haven't been around much, have you? 'bout time you were learning a few things!" "you gonna let me through or not?" there was fire in the new arrival's eye. he wasn't in the mood to be kidded. this stepping off the train into a college atmosphere and being met by a bunch of hoodlums who wanted to slap him on the back and take his grips away from him and rush him off with a lot of "hurrahs" didn't set well. judd billings was homesick for one thing; he'd been warned to have nothing to do with strangers, for another; and his natural backwardness in meeting people only added to his quite unaccountable attitude of reserve and resistance. jack frey was the one person judd was prepared to meet. if later jack should vouch for these fellows, all well and good. until then he intended to keep them at arm's length. "see here, judd!" spoke up potts, "you're acting like a rube!" "i'll say he is!" seconded benz, "try to befriend him and..." giving benz his shoulder, the new arrival, with a sudden, unexpected shove sent bartlett's veteran football man sprawling. "oh ho!" cried pole, "so the party's getting rough!" regaining his feet, benz approached judd angrily. "put down those suitcases!" he demanded, "i want to take a crack at you." the new arrival attempted to edge out of the group surrounding him. "leave me be," he said, "i don't want to be hurting anybody!" this brought a chorus of defiant laughter. "i dare you to put those suitcases down!" challenged benz. judd hesitated, looking about him warily. the train had gone on and most of the passengers had departed with their friends. in the distance a figure was advancing on the run. "i tell you fellahs, i ..." "so you're afraid, eh?" the new arrival stiffened at this, his fingers twitched, and he fastened upon benz a coldly penetrating look. judd's fear of physical contact was no more. the suitcases dropped to the cinder platform and hands went to hips. "i reckon i can't stop you, if you're hankering for a fight," came the words with a drawl. somehow this clumsy broad-shouldered figure took on an appearance of power as he seemed to forget himself, which bred respect. "go easy, benz!" warned neil, sizing judd up, "no use starting trouble." "i'm not starting it," retorted benz, "i'm finishing it." with that the ringleader of the ill-treated reception committee swung a vicious right hook to the new arrival's jaw. judd's left arm flashed up to block the blow. at the same moment judd took a quick step forward and brought his right fist into play. it caught benz almost on the point of the chin and spun him about in a circle. "say, the rube can fight!" exclaimed potts, surprised. "boy, he's sure different from his brother!" "here, fellows! what's the big idea?" the figure of cateye hurled itself between as benz, reeling, staggered back toward judd, bent on retaliating. "let me at him!" pleaded benz, furiously, "i'll show him he can't get away with this stuff. so bob sent him, eh? what a lemon!" cateye sized up the situation quickly. "my name's frey," he explained to judd who was standing by quietly, hands again on hips, "bob asked me to meet you, i'm sorry to be late. what seems to be the matter?" "these fellahs wouldn't let me alone, that's all," said judd, simply. "we come to meet him and he gives us the cold shoulder," declared curns, "afraid we're going to make off with his precious suitcases or smash his straw hat or throw dust in his eyes!" "we college guys are bad eggs and no mistake!" put in neil, sarcastically. "my mother told me not to have anything to do with strange people," added pole. "will you please tell mr. billings, for his own enlightenment, that he's among civilized people?" requested potts, icily. "these fellows are all right," cateye assured, as judd gazed about him doubtfully, "they didn't mean anything. they're all good friends of bob's. they just wanted to show you a good time. you probably took them too seriously. come on, judd, we'll take your things to my room." relieved, the new arrival stooped and picked up his suitcases. his face wore a sheepish look but he offered no apology for his conduct. rather he seemed anxious to get away from the bunch. "a--am i goin' to bunk with you?" he asked of cateye. "bunk?" repeated cateye, "oh, sure! you're going to be my room-mate." "heaven forbid!" said someone. "take him away," urged benz, "we don't want anything more to do with him." and without another word being spoken cateye set off with judd, the new arrival stalking along, carrying the two bulging suitcases easily, scorning cateye's offer of aid. "that guy's cooked his goose at bartlett!" declared benz, feelingly, "and from now on, guys, he's just a plain rube to me!" "rube's the right word!" agreed pole. "that's what we'll call him after this!" decided curns, "rube!" and so, one judd billings, sent to bartlett by his highly esteemed brother bob, stepped off into a new world, for him, on the wrong foot. chapter vii the first night "but, judd," argued cateye, weakly, "i never sleep with my window wide open like that. especially this time of year. why there is frost on the ground in the morning and the room will be cold as ice when we wake up!" "well, i can't see any harm in good ventilation. i slept in the barn most all this summer an' i don't look sick, do i?" said judd, for the third time. cateye looked him over. no, to be sure, judd didn't look very sick. in fact he seemed exceedingly robust. one hundred and ninety-six pounds, most of it worked into well formed and almost abnormal muscles. "i can't say that you do look sick," admitted cateye, "that's just why you can stand it. but i,--i'm not used to such outdoor measures. do you want to turn this room into a park?" "not eggs-actly a park, but i believe in lots of fresh air an', ..." "have it your own way then!" growled cateye, savagely, seeing the uselessness of further argument. he ventured no more remarks but watched judd's every action curiously, musing: "i can't see bob's idea in wishing this bird on me--even if he is his own brother--but i've taken him in now and i'll stick it out to the end." meanwhile judd had removed a wallet from his pocket and was in the act of secreting it between mattress and springs. "i say, judd, what's the idea of hiding your wad? nobody will steal it. there aren't any thieves about here!" cateye, already in bed, raised himself upon his elbow and eyed his new room-mate interestedly. "you never can tell, mister frey. i had my dinner swiped this noon an' i'm not takin' any chances!" "for heaven's sake, judd, call me cateye. everybody else does." "well, i reckon i can," replied judd, slowly, having completed the action of hiding his wallet to his evident satisfaction. "those feet and those hands," sighed cateye to himself, "would make babe ruth turn green with envy!" judd struggled awkwardly into a home-made nightshirt. cateye buried his head in a pillow and bit his lip to keep from laughing outright. "ye gods! and is this only the beginning?" he asked himself. the question was almost immediately answered. "gee mackerel!" howled judd, as he rolled into bed and sunk down amidst the folds of a soft feather mattress. "this may be the ticket for babes but it's no place for me! i can't sleep on anything soft. it's bad for the spine. me for the floor!" "you're not going to sleep on the floor!" "you bet i am!" mumbled judd, emphatically, dragging the bed sheets off and arranging them on the floor. "i lay out straight when i go to sleep. i don't tie myself up in any fancy bow knots!" cateye rolled over with a groan, "what next?" judd, at last satisfied, switched out the lights and deposited his minus two hundred pounds upon the floor. "this is the life!" he breathed fondly a few minutes later. then the sandman bagged cateye for three solid hours of sleep. it must have been one o'clock or after when cateye awoke. at any rate it was late,--very late, and cateye was so sleepy,--but what was that peculiar sound? cateye came to his senses like a flash and sat bolt upright in bed. the moon was casting a pale, white shadow into the room and the air was noticeably chilly. "i thought i heard someone shout," cateye sputtered, his teeth inclined to chatter, "but i guess it was only a bad dream." he listened intently for a few moments. all that he could hear was the labored breathing of judd who seemed to be enjoying his slumber immensely. cateye laid down and tried to sleep once more but found sleep impossible. he fell to thinking of judd and bob and then of judd again. suddenly a voice, unmistakeable this time, spoke out of the darkness. "yes, i'll be home in time for dinner, mother. i've only got three acres left to plow." the hair on cateye's head began to re-arrange itself. "what on earth can it be?" cateye gasped through shut teeth to keep from crying aloud. "there,--that voice again!" "get up, nancy! whoa, nell! gee--haw! tarnation, but this land is rocky! don't see why dunk wants this land plowed anyhow!" "why, oh, why did i take that guy in for a room-mate?" moaned cateye. "he even gives himself away in his sleep!" the talking recommenced. "no, i didn't fix the harness. i thought i'd wait till after supper.... the young whip-snap! he stole my dinner! if i ever lay hands on him i'll,--i'll--" at this juncture, judd, making a strenuous effort, rolled over upon the floor and opening his mouth wide broke into loud sonorous snores. "thank heaven he's at least stopped talking!" grunted cateye, much relieved and wiping the cold perspiration from his brow. "i hope he doesn't walk in his sleep too!" the snoring increased into a steady rumble. "shall i waken him?" cateye asked himself. "i can't sleep through an artillery engagement." but, on second thought, he decided to lay low and accept the bombardment. after all, he was only doing this as a favor to bob, but the favor was getting to be a pretty big one. how long cateye held the fort he did not know but the cannonading ceased as the campus clock was striking three and relieved from duty he fell asleep at his post. he awakened again at five a.m. conscious of someone astir in the room. judd was up and dressed! "why so early, judd?" whispered cateye, "we don't usually rise until seven here." but judd seemed to feel that he had already overslept since he always used to be up at four a.m. he never could sleep after four o'clock and besides he told cateye jokingly, "i have the cows to milk an' the chores to do before breakfast." "that's too bad," grunted cateye, "and you've worked hard all night too!' "me? i had a grand old snooze!" "snooze nothing! you plowed three acres of land, fixed a harness and, ..." "huh! is that what you call kiddin'?" judd began to grow suspicious. "call it anything you like," snapped cateye, his patience gone, and bound to have it out. "you talk in your sleep, snore like blazes, and i imagine you'll walk, too, when you get the lay of the land!" judd's suspicious looks vanished and a sheepish grin spread over his face. "never mind that, cateye," he said, "i can't help it. it runs in the family." this was the last straw and when it broke it took with it cateye's rising anger. judd's sense of humor had saved the day. in spite of himself, cateye laughed. "put her there, judd," he cried, softly, holding out his hand. "you're not at all like your brother but i fear i am going to like you. if you can stand that fracas, i can, only please leave some long intervals between your performances." judd stretched out his big, brawny hand and crushed cateye's firm palm in his. "judd! let go! do you want to maim me for life?" protested cateye, trying to withdraw his hand from judd's strong embrace. "that's another one of my failin's," apologized judd, "i always grip too hard!" chapter viii judd practices football although bartlett was one of the smaller colleges of the state, it was also one of the most popular. proud alumni pointed to the fact that more men, afterwards become great, had graduated from bartlett than any other college of its size in the world. besides, bartlett had gained a wide reputation and much respect from the larger universities and colleges because of her ability to turn out winning athletic teams. true, bartlett had never as yet succeeded in downing the state university or defeating many of the bigger colleges, but she had always given a good account of herself. fond hopes were held out by students as well as alumni that, in the near future, bartlett would clearly demonstrate her superiority in some branch of athletics over the best teams in that part of the country. the nearest bartlett ever came to any real prominence was early in the history of the institution. that year, the newly founded college turned out a wonderful football team, challenging and defeating pennington, claimants of the state championship, by a 17 to 6 score. after this truly unexpected victory bartlett asked and received a game with the state university, but this eleven soundly trounced them, 28 to 7, and all aspirations for state honors fled. however, the defeat of pennington, which was the second largest institution of learning in the state, put bartlett forever in the select class. the defeat also gave bartlett a bitter rival. the drubbing at the hands of the smaller college had been a hard pill for the penningtonites to swallow and in after years they sought to wipe out the blot upon their former record. spurred on by their previous success bartlett always provided stiff opposition against pennington and much interest as well as excitement was manifested over contests between the two colleges although at the present time, pennington seemed to have had the best of the argument. to venture a statement that pennington did hold the upper hand, however, while speaking to a bartlett student, would be the means of placing your life in extreme jeopardy. the college campus at bartlett was uniquely laid out in the form of a great wagon wheel. from the hub of this wheel, cement sidewalks, acting figuratively as spokes, led the way to the outer rim which consisted of a wide, circular walk passing entirely about the edge of the grounds. all of the college buildings were grouped about this large circle so that they were readily accessible from any point on the campus. one needed only to select the spoke leading up to the building he wished to visit and a few minutes walk would take him there. great elm trees, whose foliage and limbs so beautifully shaded the well kept grounds, made the campus a place to be admired by students and visitors alike. the next morning, after his eventful night, cateye was hurrying to chapel when someone hailed him from behind. "i say, cateye! wait a minute, will you?" it was pole's voice and cateye turned about questioningly. "well, what is it?" "do you mind telling me what that noise was i heard in your room last night? you know my room is right next to yours, ..." "noise! what noise?" queried cateye, forgetting himself for the moment. "that's _just_ it! _what_ noise? it sounded like the distant rumbling of thunder. in fact it was so realistic that i got up and shut my window to keep the rain from beating in before i tumbled to the fact that the manufactured product was coming from your room!" "oh!" laughed cateye, a light beginning to dawn, "that's only judd; he snores." "snores! great guns, he booms! why, i'd have sworn the walls shook last night. and say,--does he do anything else?" "talks some," admitted cateye, reluctantly. "indeed!" scoffed pole, making a beautiful pair of arches with his eyebrows. "i'll say he talks some! in fact if he talks some more tonight,--well, tell him to beware,--that's all!" "you can hardly blame a man for making some disturbance who plows a three acre field in one night," grinned cateye. "is that what he did?" "yes,--in his sleep." "how do you stand it?" "i don't stand it; i put up with it." "surely you don't intend to keep that rube as a room-mate! why, that'll make you the laughing stock of the college. the idea of rooming with a guy that plows fields in his sleep. deucedly funny. bah!" "he struck rocks, too!" "when? where?" "plowing that field of his." "well, i hope he strikes a boulder to-night and breaks his plow so he can't work any more. either you get rid of that guy or i'll change my room!" "go ahead,--change your room!" cateye looked at pole defiantly. "i will, if that nut starts to thunder again tonight!" pole departed with a vicious stride, giving one the resemblance of a man on stilts. cateye stood watching him, an amused smile on his face. three weeks passed quickly. during this time judd underwent a trying period. wherever he chanced to go he provoked laughter and was made the object of many petty but harmless jokes. there was no doubt about it, judd was slow, but he was also good natured and when he saw the joke, enjoyed it as much as anyone. largely through cateye's untiring efforts his rough edge was gradually being worn away, and, while he had formed few friends, still he had made no real enemies. most of the fellows took him as a huge joke. cateye had written to bob: "judd is a great scout and getting on fine. he certainly has the build for a great football player. i've been giving him pointers and i'm anxious for practice to begin so i can see how good he really is." after the first night judd talked only during waking hours, a fact which greatly astonished cateye. true, judd still snored some, but he could easily be forgiven for this minor offense so long as he did not take a notion to plow any more fields. moreover cateye had succeeded in breaking judd in to soft, downy beds and in making him strive to do things much as other fellows would. two weeks later as cateye was crossing the campus he was met by benz who slapped him joyfully on the back. "football practice begins to-morrow! since bob did not come back this year the eleven will have to meet and elect a new captain." "that's so," recalled cateye, "be great to get back in harness again, eh, benz?" "you bet! say,--d'you suppose rube'll be out to-morrow?" "i don't know." "i hope he is. that fellow is the richest joke that ever hit bartlett college. why, if he doesn't know any more about football than he does about table manners, ..." "see here, benz!" retorted cateye, impatiently, "haven't you had about enough fun at judd's expense? seems to me three weeks has been time enough to wear the joke off some. he's a peculiar fellow, i'll admit, but a great scout once you know him." "well then,--i don't know him yet, that's all," retorted benz. "better come over some time and get acquainted!" cateye spun on his heel and walked off, leaving benz puzzled and indignant. two weeks more whiled away with nothing eventful happening. football training had gotten well under way. benz had been elected captain of the eleven over cateye by one vote. both men had won their letters for two years and were looked upon with respect and admiration by the other members of the team. judd had turned out for practice but his ever present awkwardness had caused no end of merriment and made him the brunt for criticism from the mouth of coach phillips, himself. "mighty good material," the coach had said, "but, he certainly needs seasoning!" the first night that scrimmage was held, judd, who had been playing left tackle on the second team in practice now got his first chance to demonstrate his ability. benz was playing fullback on the varsity. students thronged the sidelines. the varsity kicked off and held the seconds for downs on their thirty yard line. the first play called for a line smash through left tackle. benz came tearing in; his interference crumpled; he felt a hard shoulder against his knees, and the next moment hit the ground with a terrible thud which knocked the wind completely out of him. when he came to he looked around quietly, felt of himself, and sat up. "steam roller or locomotive?" he asked, gamely. "only rube," laughed curns, who was playing right end on the varsity. "hump! he did it on purpose just to show me up. i'll get him!" "no he didn't!" denied cateye, indignantly, who happened to hear benz's threat. "judd says he didn't mean to throw you so hard. he always tackles that way. he stops whatever comes through his side the line." "i guess he does!" grunted benz, jumping dazedly to his feet. "well, he won't get me again. come on, gang, let's have a touchdown!" despite their efforts the varsity could not cross the line and the ball went over to the scrubs on the twenty yard line. "can any one in this gang punt?" asked mccabe, the quarterback. "we've only got one real punter in this college an' that's benz." "i used to be able to kick some," volunteered judd, to mccabe's amazement. "play ball!" growled the varsity, anxious for more scrimmage. "good! i'll drop into your position. you go behind the line and receive the ball. we haven't any handsome array of signals yet. give that pigskin fits!" "i'll try!" grinned judd, trotting back. the students along the sidelines wondered at this latest move of judd's. they had opened their eyes wide at the way he broke up the interference and nabbed benz for a loss, a few plays before. was he going to bring more renown to himself by disclosing some real toe work? the ball was snapped back. judd caught it clumsily but seemed over-anxious. the pigskin dropped and his mighty leg swung up to make the punt, but in some unaccountable manner, ball and foot missed connections and judd described a graceful semi-circle, alighting flat on his back. it was so funny that the players on both sides refused to play. they just fell in their tracks and howled. judd crawled slowly to his feet, his face crimson, his jaws set tight. the field was ringing with laughter. even immobile as he usually was, coach phillips could not refrain from smiling. luckily a scrub recovered the ball, but eight yards had been lost on the play. "call that play again!" judd demanded, somewhat angrily. "what! you're not going to repeat that performance, are you?" taunted benz, elated at judd's poor showing. "better let me kick it this time," suggested mccabe, "i think i can punt a little farther than that!" "so can i!" insisted judd. "give me another chance!" there was something in judd's eyes which made mccabe consent. everyone knew that the same play was to be attempted. benz set himself ready to break through the line the moment the ball was snapped back. here was his chance to break up the play and make judd look more ridiculous than ever. the revenge would be sweet. back went the ball! benz shot through the line like a thunderbolt; judd was raising his arms, his foot was swinging up. benz leaped desperately into the air to block the punt. there was a firm, hollow sound of pigskin meeting toe and benz felt the leather whiz past his face. far down the field, even yet high in the air, soared the ball, twisting and turning! a gasp of amazement came from the crowd, then cheers. "a good fifty yard punt!" cried several. "he _can_ punt after all, can't he?" "the lucky stiff!" groaned benz. chapter ix at the fair it was the first of october, and saturday. the day before the varsity had played its first football game of the season, trouncing needham, 48 to 0. the work of benz at fullback, who was endeavoring to fill the famous bob's position, was a feature of the game. time after time he tore off long runs through the left side of the line and mainly because there was no man like judd on the opposing team to stop him. cateye's work at left guard had made that side of the line as solid as a stone wall. judd sat quietly by the sidelines, notebook in hand, jotting down different pointers on the game as they occurred to him. he was eager to learn, so eager! but would he ever know enough about the game to make the first team? to-day, saturday, marked a day of rest for the eleven. coach phillips never allowed his men to work out the day after a game. accordingly the fellows looked about for some new form of recreation. "i'll tell you, fellows!" suggested benz, struck by a new idea, "this is the last day of the fair at tarlton. let's all attend in a bunch!" the suggestion met with unanimous approval. saturday was the only day that the students were allowed to visit town without a special permit. "great stuff! let's start!" shouted curns. "all right, we'll meet on the campus at ten this morning and hoof it to town." "oh, i say, benz! have a heart! i left my walking stick at home." "come on, glove stretcher, don't be a quitter," pleaded benz, "i've another idea! let's ask rube to go along. we'll have no end of fun. he's a regular side show by himself!" "with the menagerie thrown in!" sniffed pole. "what d'ya say?" persisted benz, "shall we invite him?" "yea!" "all right, then. ten o'clock, fellows!" ten o'clock found all of the bunch collected except pole, judd and cateye. everyone was anxious to start. "why don't those nuts hurry up?" growled potts, stamping about, restlessly. "here they come, pole and rube! i wonder where cateye is? say, we sure will have some fun with rube if he isn't around. he always takes rube's part!" cried benz, joyfully. "cateye couldn't come. too much work to do!" shouted pole, when in hearing distance. "but i brought rube." "good enough! come on, bunch. let's beat it into town now. it's only three miles and we can make it before noon!" the party started off at a rapid gait. judd swung along easily, despite his weight, taking the lead. not much was said until half the distance had been traversed. about this time there began to be stragglers who could not keep the pace that judd was unconsciously setting. the fellows exchanged winks. such a joke to be outwalked by a rube! benz passed the word along: "for heaven's sake, guys, keep up to rube's pace if it takes all the pep you've got! if this news ever gets back to college, ..." but the faster gait of the fellows only spurred judd to shake forth another reef, so that without knowing it he was rapidly tiring the bunch. "and i thought i was in condition!" panted benz. "my legs are long, but,--" began pole, then shook his head helplessly. "oh, what's the use!" "only another mile, guys!" called benz, cheerfully, glancing slyly at judd. "some exercise, eh rube?". "you're right! one ought to do this every day. i'm kind of out of practice now, but i reckon i'll be in form coming back!" "great express trains! did you hear that?" whispered curns, wiping perspiration from his forehead. "i'll be hanged if i try to keep the pace of this rube goin' back! i never was cut out for a long distance runner!" "i'm on my last legs," groaned potts, to benz. "i know it's only half a mile more but this pace is too hot. i'll have to drop out. tell the folks at home i died a brave death." "you sprained your ankle," hinted benz, himself eager for a chance to rest. "so i did!" cried potts, happily grasping at any strategic ruse which might stop the line of march. "oh, my ankle! fellows, help! i've turned my ankle! wow! no, not my left one, my right! oh, my! oh, my!" "what a pitiful accident!" sympathized benz, soberly, removing potts' shoe and rubbing the ankle roughly. at the same time he winked slyly at the bunch. momentarily checked, the fellows threw themselves flat upon their backs and inhaled long, deep breaths of the refreshing air. all, save judd. he strode about in circles, anxious to be off again. "i'd give a dime to get these kinks out of my legs," he muttered, slowly. "i'll raise you five on my ankle, rube," groaned potts in fake agony. a half hour of delicious rest elapsed before benz, as medicine man, declared his patient, potts, able to stand upon his pins again and undertake the treacherous journey townward. during this time every member of the party had sufficiently recovered his sea legs to trust themselves to a half mile jaunt. judd, restless and extremely desirous of completing the trip, redoubled his speed. potts kept up well for the first hundred yards, then began to hobble painfully. "my ankle, rube!" he moaned. "have some consideration!" "pardon me, i'd plumb forgotten that you bruised your shin!" judd slowed up. fifteen minutes later an exhausted looking party dragged themselves into tarlton. "stranger, can you direct me the shortest way to a free lunch?" asked pole, hailing a passer-by. "and a free bed?" added potts. "walker's lunch room next block down," informed the stranger, gruffly. "that's just the place for us! get the name? w-a-l-k-e-r's lunch. zowie! lead me to it!" cried oole, a big, good-natured hollander, who played left tackle on the varsity. "jus' give me a chance to feed my face! yah!" after the fellows had partaken of a good meal they felt revived enough to attend any fair, and inspired by walker's lunch they walked another half mile to the fair grounds. everything was going full blast when they arrived. merry-go-rounds, ferris wheels, confetti stands, lemonade and taffy booths, were all reaping their harvests. even the fat man was entertaining large audiences. the fellows had a thoroughly good time and took in almost every sight on the grounds. judd had been kidded and made fun of until he was followed about by a troop of youngsters who thought he was a clown employed by the fair people. judd was really embarrassed and noticeably awkward. at four o'clock the bunch were about to leave when pole chanced to sight a tent before which a big crowd had collected. "what's over there, fellows? we haven't been in that tent yet. let's see what's up!" curiosity ruled the day and the bunch trooped over in front of the tent. "hump! nothin' but a horse show!" scoffed curns, disgustedly, "i'm goin', fellows." "hold on, what's he saying?" cried benz, calling attention to the man on the platform. the bunch grew attentive. "ladles an' gentlemen. las' but not least we 'ave with us dynamite, the stubbornest donkey 'at ever lived! no human bein' has ever been able to stick on dynamite's back fer more than three minutes. to any man who kin ride dynamite fer ten minutes wid out gittin' thrown, this here management offers the fab'lous sum o' twenty-five dollars! twenty-five dollars,--tink of it! jes' fer ridin' dynamite. 'at's all. seems easy, don't it? las' performance dynamite only throwed three men an' one of 'em had a rib busted. remember, this management is not responsible fer no injuries or deaths resultin' from ridin' dynamite. if any man here wants ter tackle dynamite he comes at his own risk. the show begins in five minutes. think it over, gents. here's an easy twenty-five bucks if you want it. but remember,--dynamite, ain't ever been ridden!" "by the great hornspoons!" whispered benz in pole's ear. "here's the chance of our lives to have a circus with judd. let's get the rube to tackle dynamite. of course he'll get thrown but think of the fun of seein' it!" "but he might get killed or injured!" faltered pole. "nonsense! a man as physically fit as rube isn't going to get busted up by falling off a donkey. come on, let's get him to try out dynamite!" pole finally consented. "say, rube," he said, "you can ride dynamite! why don't you go in an' try it? that'd be the easiest twenty-five bucks you ever earned!" "i was just thinkin' of that myself," replied judd, hesitatingly. "here, ... i'll lend you a quarter," returned pole, growing generous. "i'd like to see you get the money, rube." "yes, we're all with you, rube," put in benz, and winked at the bunch. "do you fellows think i could stick to dynamite?" asked judd, cautiously. "i've ridden everythin' from hogs to bulls but i don't know about this here donkey bizness." "try it anyhow, rube. we'll come in and cheer for you." "sure, rube, go to it!" "well, ... all right. i reckon it won't do any harm to try." "good!" pole edged his way over to the ticket seller. "this here fellow wants to tackle dynamite!" "what! that guy? why, dynamite'll break every bone in his body, son. your friend is crazy!" "he's no piece of china, mister!" shot back pole. "look him over. i'll bet rube can ride dynamite!" turning and winking at the bunch. judd stood by, quietly, soberly. "i'll have to speak to the manager about this," replied the ticket seller, seeing that pole was in earnest. "hey, george, come here a minute! this kid wants to tackle dynamite!" he pointed a long, slim finger at judd. "what! say, boy, do you know what you're goin' up against? we didn't name that donkey dynamite fer nothin'!" "just the same i'd like to tackle him, sir," spoke up judd. "i'm willin' to take all risks!" "you heard that, gentlemen? you're my witnesses!" replied the manager, for the benefit of the crowd. "he says he's willin' to take all risks. are you ready fer the funeral, kid?" "yes," replied judd, calling the bluff. "and where are you goin' to bury your donkey?" the manager laughed gruffly. "come on in an' i'll introduce you to dynamite. remember, twenty-five plunks are yours if you stick on dynamite fer ten minutes. and here's the money!" he reached down inside his pocket and pulled forth a roll of bills. "i'll give the money to this policeman fer you to claim if you stick to dynamite. if you do it'll be the first time in history,... but it can't be did, kid! 'at's all!" the bunch filed into the tent. judd removed his coat, disclosing a checkered shirt and a pair of suspenders. he then took off his shoes, seeming unconscious of the interested crowd about him and the titter of laughter which went the rounds. the manager stepped into the big ring, leading judd after him. "ladles an' gentlemen, meet mister judd billings. he's a freshman in bartlett college. an' it's the earnest wish of this management 'at he'll be able to continue his studies there after his little affair with dynamite. henry, bring in the mule!" everyone craned their necks toward the side entrance. suddenly, with a loud, "hee haw!" dynamite shot into the ring, an attendant frantically pulling at the halter. the crowd cheered. judd eyed the animal carefully. dynamite was large and, from his pawing and snorting, very excitable. pole shut his eyes and grasped the railing that surrounded the ring, fearing the consequences. "poor rube," he said. "poor rube nothin'!" scoffed benz, "watch the fun!" judd's face reddened. it came over him, in a flash, that the fellows had pulled "a put up job" on him and that he was being made sport of in front of the crowd. "if judd billings rides this animal successfully, this management cheerfully gives him twenty-five dollars," reminded the manager. "but he must stick to dynamite's back for ten minutes. everyone get your watches out. now judd! now dynamite, blow him up!" the manager left the ring hurriedly. the attendant gave judd the halter and also fled. judd moved slowly, precisely, cautiously. while dynamite hee-hawed stubbornly and tried to pull away, judd jerked the halter fiercely, pulled the mule toward him, stepped up, grasped a long ear firmly, and swung up onto dynamite's back. the crowd gasped and consulted their watches. the fight was on! the moment that judd touched dynamite's back was a signal for the explosives to let loose. the mule bounded into the air and came down stiff-legged. but judd had curled his legs tightly about the body and buried his toes in its flanks. his powerful hands each gripped a long ear which he twisted and squeezed at his pleasure. dynamite bellowed with rage and shot about the ring, kicking, biting, rearing; but unable to throw off the rider. "great work, rube!" shouted benz, unable to conceal his admiration. "that-a-boy! stick to him. one minute's gone all ready. only nine more!" as mule and judd passed by the railing where the fellows were excited onlookers, a mighty cheer went up. judd's face wore an expression of set determination. dynamite was not used to being held by the ears. he could not stick his head between his legs and roll over as he had been accustomed to. he tried until he was almost frantic to free his head, but judd's grip was vice-like. five minutes crawled slowly past and still judd kept his seat, despite a series of bucks, plunges, side-steps, rearings, and sudden balks. the manager clutched his watch nervously. no man had ever remained seated that long before and twenty-five dollars would eat into the night's profit. "he can't last another five minutes," the manager told himself. "throw yourself, dynamite! throw yourself!" as if obeying orders dynamite reared up and fell sideways. "look out, rube!" shrieked the crowd. "gad!" cried pole, "look at that, will you?" judd had struck the ground with dynamite but remained on top and when dynamite struggled to his feet judd was still on his back. "nine minutes gone!" somebody yelled, "stick to it, rube! you've got the money, kid!" dynamite was raving wild now. no man had ever remained seated after a tumble like that! with a final snort of rage he dashed about the ring, jumping high in the air, bucking, twisting, turning. it was no use. judd could not be shaken off. "time!" roared the crowd, hoarsely. the attendant rushed out to rescue dynamite. "never mind, mister," smiled judd, perspiration trickling down his face. "dynamite won't explode any more. he's meek as a lamb an' all in!" true, dynamite might just as well have been christened talcum powder now, for all the fight there was in him. the poor donkey had no further ambitions to unseat other riders and was perfectly content to let judd perch on his back. "son, you're all right!" congratulated the manager, holding out his hand. "i'm a game loser. i'm not only out twenty-five dollars but my dynamite is all gone. a baby could ride that mule now! officer, pay this _man_ the money. he earned it all right!" chapter x an attempted hold-up it was exactly six-thirty and the fellows were just finishing a good supper at walker's lunch counter. judd had become a hero in the eyes of everyone now, except benz. he could not allow himself to think of judd being other than just a plain country rube and although mightily astonished at judd's showing he passed it off finally with: "the lucky stiff!" pole was speaking. "rube, seeing you've got so much kale now you might pay back that quarter i loaned you, with interest." "yes, an' don't forget that dollar an' a half you owe me," chimed in oole, with his mouth full of boston baked beans. "i don't owe you a cent an' never did!" "he's only kiddin', rube," soothed curns, "just so you remember me in your will, i'll be satisfied." judd grinned; then his face grew sober. "well, fellahs, i reckon we'd better be gettin' home. it's a long walk an' it's gettin' dark. besides, i got quite a bit o' money an' i don't want to take any chances o' losin' it." "that's right! i move we do go home," grunted oole, then sweetly to the waiter, "another plate of beans, please." "behold, gentlemen, the human storehouse!" derided pole, pointing at oole. "that's enough from you, macaroni!" retorted oole, tearing a biscuit in two, savagely. "did you say marconi? gentlemen, i am honored!" began pole, then placed a hand over his eye. "thanks for the biscuit oole, but please pass them next time. such table manners!" benz had been quiet for some time. he was a little indignant to think of the renown judd was getting. why, all the fellows were beginning to pay attention to him now. and he, a rube! benz's one desire was to do something which might make judd the laughing stock of the college; something which would provoke ridicule whenever referred to. "i've got it!" he whispered. "judd's afraid of robbers. why, i heard that he hides his wallet under the mattress or carpet every night before he goes to bed. why not pull a fake hold-up and scare him stiff on the way home to-night? great! i'll put the fellows wise." benz got busy and soon everyone knew the plot but the unsuspecting judd. some fellows objected strenuously, but finally consented when they considered what a rich joke it really would be. "pole, it's up to you to get rube started for college. the rest of us fellows will make some excuses and hang around town until you two are gone. i'll get a revolver and some masks and with the bunch will take a short cut through perry field and meet you near the mill pond. get busy!" benz was insistent. "i tell you, i hate to do this thing," pole hesitated, "seems to me we've pestered rube about enough. he proved to us that he's the real stuff this afternoon and i'm for leaving him alone." "but think of the sport, pole. think of it! can you picture him begging for mercy when i point that gun at him and say, 'hands up!' can you?" "i guess almost anyone would beg for mercy in a situation like that," replied pole, not easily moved. "oh, come on, just this once," pleaded benz. "... all right, it's not my funeral," yielded pole, finally. "but you'd better not go too far." "bosh! rube's slow as mud. he'll never tumble to the fact it's not a real robbery and we won't put him wise to the joke until we get back to college." "all right, as i said before, it's not my funeral," muttered pole, indifferently. then to judd who was standing some few feet off: "i say, rube, let's you and i be piking it for the college. the rest of the bunch are goin' to hang around a bit and i'm anxious to get back." "suits me! so long, fellows--see you later!" pole and judd started off. "now, gang!" cried benz, "wait here for me. i'll be back with the stuff and we'll take the short cut. gee, it's dark out, ... and no moon!" * * * * * "this night sure is a dark one. i can hardly see the road, can you, rube?" it was pole speaking and he was almost feeling his way along. "easy. i can't see the road but i reckon i can feel it," responded judd, walking along quite briskly. "keep right behind me, pole, an' ..." "hands up!" the voice came from the left side of the road and judd jumped to the right. "don't run or i'll fire!" it was a severe warning. judd stood perfectly still. the masked highwayman approached stealthily. "w-what do you want?" judd's voice trembled slightly. "we were in the crowd this afternoon; saw you pocket the twenty-five. hand it over!" "we! you?" judd looked about nervously. "yes, there's more of us. come on an' show yourselves, pals!" sure enough! three masked bandits came into view and stepped up threateningly. judd started to lower his hands. "up they go!" mumbled the ringleader, brandishing his revolver fiercely. "are you goin' to come across,--or do we take it from you?" pole stood back some three paces watching the proceedings quietly. "pole, what shall i do?" asked judd, despairingly. "help me!" "i'm covered, rube," replied pole, helplessly. "looks as if you'd have to dish up." judd hesitated. finally, "it's in my vest pocket." "that's the boy!" came a muffled voice. "best way to do an' no blood shed. jack, you get the coin an' i'll keep him covered. you other two guys watch that friend of his!" benz was the ringleader; the man referred to as jack was curns; the other two men were potts and oole. as curns approached to take the money he pulled the mask well down over his eyes and nose so that he could not be recognized. all went well until he placed his hand in judd's vest pocket. then curns sensed trouble. he started to withdraw and step back but judd was too quick for him. like a flash his fist shot out and caught curns on the point of the jaw, knocking him unconscious. benz was standing just two feet behind curns. judd reached him in one bound, struck the unloaded revolver from his hand, and crashed a bony fist into his face. benz went down without a cry. judd swung about for the other two. potts and oole were standing not far apart, supposedly guarding pole. judd had acted so quickly that they were not yet prepared to protect themselves, or to put judd wise to the intended joke. potts tried to escape but he did not move fast enough. he was dropped where he had stood by a stinging blow behind the ear. judd wheeled swiftly, ready for the final victim. "rube!" pole found his voice. "for john's sake, let up. it's all a joke!" judd had already grabbed the huge oole and was shaking him as one would a baby. "a fine joke, i call it. tryin' to rob a fellah!" oole gasped for breath. "let go! you're killing me!" "it's oole, rube, let loose!" pole grabbed judd by the arm and tugged at him frantically. the rest of the fellows who had been silent onlookers now rushed out as they saw the comedy transformed into a near tragedy. of a sudden the truth of the whole affair came over judd. he released his hold on oole and sank down by the road side exhausted. oole also sat down, rubbing his throat gingerly. "fellahs, you shouldn't have done this!" moaned judd, "that's goin' too far!" a flash light was unearthed and the three fellows examined. curns showed signs of returning consciousness, but the other two were still dead to the world. "the mill pond!" someone suggested, and the three injured members were carried to its bank. judd, quite overcome with grief and surprise followed in company with pole. "why didn't you tell me, pole?" demanded judd. "if these fellahs are bad hurt ...!" "it was all my fault, rube! don't take it so much to heart," pleaded pole, "the fellows are comin' along all right. just plain knockouts, every one of 'em." the appliance of water aided greatly in restoring the three bruised and battered highwaymen to their right senses. benz, when he came to, found only one eye ready for use. the other was swollen shut and one side of his nose felt like a small mountain. potts groaned over a small lump behind his ear and curns nursed a tender spot on his jaw. "gee!" said potts, "you did that fast, rube. biff, bang, smash! and it was all over. i heard the biff and the bang but i _felt_ the smash!" "no more highway robberies for mine," groaned curns. benz was too sore and disgusted to say a word. his latest plan had been a magnificent failure and judd was more of a hero than ever. "did i say that fellow was slow?" said benz to himself, "well,--i take that much back. he's fast as greased lightning!" "i'm sorry, fellahs," apologized judd, brokenly. "i thought you were the real stuff; i hated to part with the money an',--an'--" here was an opening for benz. he could not go back to college without some sort of an alibi. "you thought it was the real stuff? bah! pole put you wise and you went in to do us all up. that's what you did, you big stiff!" "i never said a word to rube!" cried pole, hotly. "the joke's on you if there is any and you know it! don't put the blame on anyone else!" "well,--let's hush this affair up, fellows. i'd hate to have it get around college. don't say a word about it, will you, judd?" "hush this up? nothin' doin'!" broke in curns. "this joke is too good to keep. gee, i won't be able to chew any food with this jaw of mine for a week! good-night, gentlemen, it's getting late. going home, rube?" chapter xi benz broods news travels fast. chapel sunday morning was conspicuous by the absence of potts and benz. but curns was present with a smiling face and piece of court plaster attached to his chin. he attracted crowds of students as a magnet attracts iron filings. the students clung to him until they heard the last word of the episodes of one judd billings and then, bent almost double with laughter, they rushed off to tell the news to someone else. information was freely and cheerfully given. by sunday noon everyone in college, even the professors, had learned of the exploit. students cheered whenever judd put in appearance and questioned him as to dynamite or how to administer a knockout punch. to all inquiries judd turned a deaf ear and his simple modesty was much in evidence. judd, of course, told cateye everything and cateye was quick to resent benz's attempts at practical jokes. "i wish i had gone along, now," said cateye. "all this trouble might have been averted. judd, until benz makes up with you you'd better stick pretty close to me for there's no telling what he may do to get even. he's a mighty good fellow to his friends but when he doesn't take a liking to anyone that person had better watch out." "i reckon i can take care of myself," judd replied, firmly. "i know you can!" assured cateye, "you don't need any body guard, but my motto is, 'keep out of trouble,' and that's why i want you to stick by me close. savvy? come on, let's go down to dinner." as the two boys entered the dining room everyone at the tables arose as if by pre-arrangement, while curns yelled: "now fellows, let her go! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rube, rube, rube!" much good natured laughter followed and judd took his seat awkwardly, face flushed with embarrassment. "do you know my sister norah?" some student shouted. "no, i don't, but dyna-mite!" another replied. more laughter followed. suddenly there was a second commotion. every head turned toward the door. benz was entering. "behold, the conquered hero comes!" noised curns. all eating stopped. benz hesitated at the threshold, glowering defiantly up and down the tables. one eye was still badly swollen and colored a glossy black. his nose looked sadly mis-shapen. in all he presented a glorious spectacle. "oh you shiner!" cried some student from a far corner of the room. this exclamation was too much. a roar of laughter went up as benz stood hands twitching in anger and humiliation. "laugh, you guys, laugh!" he cried hoarsely. "don't worry, we will!" somebody assured him. benz stood the gaff a moment longer, then turned about, and leaving the fellows in an uproar, strode off to his room where he remained the rest of the day. two weeks more slipped quickly by, during which time the bartlett eleven captured two more victories, one over everett and the other over lawton academy, by top heavy scores. both of these schools were supposed to have fairly strong teams and the results of their games with bartlett came as quite a surprise in football circles. students began to herald the present team as the greatest in the college's history, and talked of thanksgiving day when the big game of the year was to be played against the rival college, pennington. benz had held aloof from judd, not even speaking to him when meeting face to face. fellows still smiled when passing benz and benz resented those smiles. "i'll get even with rube some how!" he thought, angrily, "he's just a rube. the lucky stiff!" meanwhile cateye had written another letter to bob describing in full judd's escapades, and adding: "he's fast developing into some football man, bob. you should see him punt! and tackle! say, i never saw him miss a man yet,--he's that sure! the bigger they are the harder they fall. judd's good enough for the varsity right now and i'm expecting coach phillips to give him a chance any night. of course benz is captain and he'll put up an awful fuss if anything like that happens. judd, in my opinion, could make good any where you put him on that eleven to-day. he's that much better than any of us. but then, this is his first year and he is green yet, i'll admit. wish you could come down for the big game. your side-kick ... cateye." the campus clock had just struck nine one evening late in october when some one pounded on cateye's door. "let 'em in, judd," said cateye, "before they break the door down!" judd was quick to respond. the door swung open. pole and potts stepped in. "welcome to our city," greeted cateye, tossing aside a notebook upon which he had been working, "i'm always glad to entertain callers, for then i feel that i have a legitimate excuse to quit studying. what have you got there, pole?" "a new guitar. isn't she a beaut? dad sent it to me for a birthday present!" pole sat down on the bed, struck a few chords, and started a tune. "this place hasn't been stirred by any real music this year and i decided to cut loose to-night!" "good heavens, pole, why should you wish any of your discord on us? why not rehearse in your own room?" "i wanted an audience," replied pole, "isn't this ditty pretty? i composed it myself." potts, at this juncture, drew forth a jews harp and added further discordant vibrations to the atmosphere. "i can beat you both!" grinned judd, and diving for his suitcase he unearthed a mouth organ. in another moment he was reproducing the familiar strains of, "and when i die." the effect was almost instantaneous. doors swung open on the halls; students on the lower floors started coming up stairs; everything was in commotion. "now you've done it!" reprimanded cateye. "we'll have the whole dorm on us in two minutes! pole, ring off on that guitar!" shouts were already coming from outside. "have a heart!" "what d'ya think this is, a music hall?" "that guy with the mouth organ is a coward. no one would dare make a noise like that in public!" "let us in before we rip the panels out!" "shall we let 'em in?" pole asked, grinning. "i suppose we'll have to," cateye muttered, "or suffer the consequences." pole slipped the bolt and the fellows packed the room. "just as i surmised!" cried oole, the first man in. "pole and potts, the inseparable noise makers! as a penalty i demand a duet!" "you bet! a duet!" voiced the rest. "what'll it be?" pole queried, with an important air, "i can play anything you should choose to name, gentlemen." "let's hear you render, the last rose of summer." "in how many pieces do you wish it rendered?" asked potts sweetly, striking the key on his jews harp. "makes no difference,--just so it's rendered." pole and potts now assumed a serious air, eyed each other soberly, and prepared to play. "one, two, three! one, two, three! one, two, three! play!" cried pole, waving his arms wildly. potts started in but missed the key by at least three notes. pole gave potts a handicap, then started in to catch up. the discord was very displeasing. "kill it!" "that's the last rose of summer that i want to hear!" "enough!" potts was forced to stop through laughing, but pole kept on until strong hands compelled him to cease. "it's a pity you fellows can't appreciate real music," pouted pole, "i'm severely wounded. i shall never play for you again." "thank heaven!" breathed someone, evidently much relieved. "who was that we heard tooting the mouth organ?" demanded johnson, editor of the bartlett college weekly. "rube's the guilty man," betrayed pole, anxious to have another share his sorrows. "if they ask you to play, rube, don't do it! i wouldn't play before such an unappreciative audience." "come on, rube, give us some music!" "no, i reckon i've made noise enough for one evening," replied judd, shyly. "just one tune, please!" judd looked at cateye questioningly. "go ahead," grinned cateye, "drive 'em out, judd!" judd picked up the mouth organ. "what'll i play?" "oh,--anything!" "that's pretty broad. s'posin' i impersonate a steam calliope in a circus?" "impersonate, judd! great snakes, don't try to impersonate one of those things! the distortion would be so stupendous that you'd never look the same again!" "i reckon i'll imitate one, then," responded judd, raising the mouth organ to his lips. the moment he started playing, a hush came over the bunch. the imitation was so perfect that every fellow could imagine again the tail end of a gaudy circus parade and the steaming calliope. when judd finished he was greeted with a round of applause. cries of, "more! more!" came from every throat. judd seemed to catch the spirit of it all and to forget his embarrassment. he began to play simple home melodies and popular songs which gripped at the heart strings of every fellow present. several times the fellows started in and sang while judd furnished the accompaniments. at last, judd, thinking that he had played long enough, struck up the tune, "good-night, ladies." the fellows took the hint and departed, promising to come again and thanking judd for his entertainment. "well, judd," said cateye, quietly, "i'm proud of you tonight. you made some hit with the bunch!" "did i?" "i should say you did! i'd give anything to have the guys rave over me like they did over you and your playing." "honest?" "sure thing! how did you ever learn to play the mouth organ so well? i never imagined that instrument could produce such pretty music!" "i can't remember when i learned. seems as if i always knew how," replied judd, mightily pleased. "your popularity is assured now!" went on cateye, "you'll have a crowd in here every night." "not much!" sniffed judd, "i'm no orchestra. they'll be lucky if they hear another note for a week!" "well, let's go to bed," yawned cateye, sleepily, breaking off conversation. "i don't know when i've been so tired. for heaven's sake don't snore to-night! i want to snooze." "trust me, pal," grinned judd, "i'm not due to snore for two nights yet. you must remember, i'm runnin' on a fixed schedule." long after judd's steady breathing could be heard cateye lay awake, thinking. he had tried to go to sleep at first but found sleep, for a time at least, impossible. "good old judd," cateye mused to himself, "i'm getting so i like you better every day. you may be awkward; you may be a rube as they say; but you're a great scout just the same. bob,..." (here he addressed his friend as though he were present), "that was the best thing you ever did when you sent your green kid brother down to me. you knew how i could help him if i would and you knew what an inspiration he would be to me. this is a great old world and a great old college. what would life be without real friendship? what would one do without,--" but musing, he dropped off into the land of dreams. * * * * * the campus clock had tolled twelve very methodically and stopped for an hour's rest. cateye was still sleeping soundly but for some unaccountable reason he was bothered with bad dreams. it seemed now as if judd had turned into a raving maniac, had grasped him by the throat and was slowly, cruelly, choking him to death. try as he might cateye could not shake that death grip off. judd was grinning crazily and saying: "that's one of my failin's; i always do grip too hard!" cateye's breath began to come in short, quick gasps. he tried his best to cry out, to beg judd to release him, but though his lips moved no sound came forth. cateye tried to get free, but failed, and lost consciousness altogether. judd was also troubled in his sleep but his dreams were of a different nature. it seemed to him as if all the flies in the universe were buzzing and crawling about on his face. they crept into his eyes and mouth and even ventured up his nose. the more judd fought to keep them off the more numerous they became. finally one big fly succeeded in gaining entrance to judd's mouth and buzzed down into his throat, almost choking him. he coughed and sat bolt upright. it was hard for him to think, to act, to breathe. why! the room was full of smoke! this discovery brought judd to full consciousness with a jolt. he bounded to his feet and rushed over to cateye's bed. "cateye! cateye! wake up! the dorm's on fire! quick!" no answer. "cateye!" the smoke was stifling. there was no time to waste. judd reached over and shook cateye roughly. this not producing the desired affect he pulled cateye out of bed and dragged him to the door, shouting, "fire!" as loud as he could. from the lower floor his cries were answered and a voice here and there took up the cry. judd opened the door into the hall but was met by such a blast of hot, suffocating smoke that he quickly shut it again. what was to be done? cateye was unconscious; the hallway was black with smoke. the window! judd rushed over to it and looked down. but the dorm was three stories high and they were upon the third story! judd was baffled for a moment, then, diving under his bed he pulled forth a coil of knotted rope, one end of which was tied to a ring in the floor, provided for fellows in every room, in case of just such an emergency. he quickly made a noose of the free end, passed this around under cateye's arm pits, and pushing him out the window, lowered him to the ground. half-clad figures were already dashing across the campus. at judd's lusty hail some one took care of cateye. satisfied that his room-mate was now free from danger judd turned about to see what else he could do. the smoke was steadily growing thicker. he grabbed a towel, saturated it by thrusting it in a pitcher of water on the dresser, and wrapped it about his face; then he turned and rushed into the hall. at the further end, near the stairs, a little line of red flame sputtered. judd started back, remembering the coil of hose at the other end of the hall, and wondering why none of the students had thought to use it before. but he stumbled across a body lying in the doorway of the room adjoining cateye's. he stooped and rolled the body over so that he could see the face. "pole!" he gasped. stepping over pole's inert form and into the room, judd saw potts lying in a sitting posture, half-dressed, against the side of his bed! yells came from the floor below. "go out the window, guys! we can't reach you from below! what's the matter up there? get a move on!" judd secured the rope from under potts' bed, made another noose and let potts gently out the window. he looked out on the campus. a great crowd of students had now collected and more were coming from every direction. some had lanterns. "tie one of those lanterns on and send it up!" shouted judd, hoarsely. "where are all the fellows? there's only four accounted for! ten more up there!" inquired an anxious voice from below. "don't know!" responded judd, pulling up the rope and taking off the lantern. "i'm lettin' 'em down as soon as i find 'em!" pole's long, lean form was the next one to slip gracefully over the window sill to safety. then judd rushed into the hall, lantern in hand. the line of fire had increased into a blaze. two doors down, reynolds, a sophomore, dashed into the hall, clad in pajamas. "help!" he cried, wild-eyed. "max is asleep! i can't waken him. hurry, somebody, quick!" "make a noose of your rope an' let him out the window!" directed judd, "then join me!" reynolds disappeared within his room. judd hurried to the end of the hall, uncoiled the hose, and turned on the water. at first a feeble stream came forth, but the flow of water steadily increased until it gushed out. another student, almost choked with smoke, darted into the hall. "this is a fright!" he cried, on seeing judd. "ned is suffocated and i'm almost done for!" at this moment, reynolds, having disposed of his room-mate, dashed across the hall. "here, i'll help you!" he called. "we'll go to every room and clear the fellows out!" "that's the way to do it!" shouted judd, encouragingly. "i'll stay here an' fight this fire!" dragging the hose down the hall, wetting everything before him as he went, judd soon neared the source of the fire. it seemed to be centered about the head of the stairs. the first room on the right at the top of the stairs had been used as a store-room. its door was almost burnt away and inside it was a mass of flames. a voice called up from the second floor. "thank god, somebody had brains enough to use the hose at last! we're keeping the fire from breaking through but the building is full of smoke. where is the blaze, in the store-room?" "yep!" replied judd, his eyes smarting from the films of smoke and flying cinders. "everybody out up there?" "gettin' 'em out!" judd did not feel like talking much. "good! keep the water on that blaze and we'll have the fire out in about twenty minutes. more smoke than anything else!" reynolds and mccabe, the fellow he had helped, came running up to judd. "they're all out!" cried mccabe. "some job, though--most everyone suffocated. i never had such hard work getting awake in all my life!" "fetch the lantern," ordered judd, pushing ahead into the store-room, having extinguished the fire about the head of the stairs. the forceful stream of water soon produced a telling effect on the flames. there was a loud hissing noise and white clouds of steam. then the last tongue of flame slowly died out and all was darkness, save for the light shed by the lantern. "hurrah, we're heroes!" grinned mccabe. the smoke was still treacherously thick. neither judd nor reynolds saw any humor in mccabe's exclamation at that moment. judd continued to pour water into the charred room. some students at the second floor landing ventured up cautiously. "smudge over?" asked one. "mostly!" replied judd. "that sure was a bad one for so little a fire. four of the nine fellows who were suffocated haven't come to yet!" "how's cateye?" demanded judd. "he's one of 'em!" was the reply. "here,--somebody, take this hose! quick! i'm a goin' down stairs," cried judd, "this smoke's too much for me! ... say, fellows,--where is cateye now?" "they took him to dorm number two!" judd waited only long enough to pull a pair of trousers on over his nightshirt, and to push his big feet into a pair of slippers. he forced his way through eager crowds of questioners and elbowed many fellows from his path. the four unconscious men were laid out upon cots, drawn up in the reading room. doctor bray, college physician, and several students, were busy working over them. a great crowd stood in front of the dormitory, not allowed to enter. judd fought his way through the crowd and stepped in at the door, his face black from smoke and the upper portion of his nightshirt drenched. oole halted him. "you can't go in there!" cries of, "hold him!" "what do you think you are?" "keep him out!" came from the crowd. "cateye,--he's my room-mate!" said judd, simply, and pushed oole aside as though he were a mere toy. oole, remembering how narrowly he escaped fate at the powerful hands of judd once before, offered no resistance. "come on! you let him in. let us in!" some student shouted. "sure! he's no better than any of us!" "shut up, you guys!" bellowed oole. "cateye's in there and he's rube's room-mate! guess he has a right to go in." "i should say he has!" echoed reynolds, coming up. "that guy put out the fire and saved some lives besides!" "what! rube put out the fire?" "sure he did! there were only five of us on the third floor who weren't suffocated. that was the nastiest, thickest smoke i ever got into! benz and mann both woke up and went out the window after yelling fire." "benz and mann! the yellow,--" began somebody, but stopped short when he saw the two fellows standing shamefacedly in the crowd. "rube let down cateye, potts, and pole, and then got out the hose," went on reynolds, the crowd listening eagerly. "about this time i woke up and when i got the first whiff of smoke i lost my head. rube saw me, told me what to do, and mccabe and i lowered all the other fellows while rube fought the fire. some of the guys were half awake but so stupid that they didn't know what they were doing so we hoisted them out the window anyhow. thanks to rube the dorm is saved and i guess the fellows will be none the worse for their experiences." "bravo!" "good work, all of you!" "rube is some boy!" benz turned about and walked away. "rube again!" he muttered, angrily. "the lucky stiff!" * * * * * cateye came to with a start, looked about and saw judd. "for the love of mud, judd, never choke me like that again. why,--you almost killed me!" "choke you, cateye? i never choked you!" protested judd, "you were in a fire, pal, an' the only thing i did was to shove you out the window." "fire! where? when?" cateye sat up, then laid back again, weakly. "about three quarters of an hour ago. a little smudge at the dorm. you were suffocated,--" "so you didn't choke me after all," said cateye, much relieved, feeling of his throat. "my, that was an awful dream! gee! i smell like a piece of smoked ham! say, who are those guys?" indicating the fellows on the other cots, over whom doctor bray was still working. "pole, potts, and lawton," replied the doctor, "your room and theirs was the nearest to the fire and you got the direct benefit of the smoke. they're beginning to come around though. lucky some of you weren't killed!" "judd, you must have saved my life!" breathed cateye. "he undoubtedly did!" replied doctor bray, "another five minutes would have ended you four fellows!" cateye held out his hand, gratefully. judd took it, grinning sheepishly. "good old scout!" said cateye, softly. "be careful, ... that grip of yours ...!" chapter xii one kind of loyalty two good carpenters employed for two whole days soon righted the damage done by the blaze. pole, when he was able to navigate again and had viewed the interior of the badly charred storeroom, declared, "looks to me like matches and mice!" this seemed to be the concensus of opinion among the fellows as to the origin of the fire. the room had been filled with spare pieces of furniture, some of which were packed in excelsior. there was also a great quantity of extra bedding in the room. this accounted for the dense smoke which almost proved fatal to a number of fellows. judd was now quite an object of interest, and lauded wherever he went, as a hero. he, however, disliked publicity and oftentimes, when out walking, would make many detours to avoid encountering fellows whom he knew would lavish compliments upon him. pole and potts became steadfast friends of judd's since that eventful night. but the gulf between judd and benz had noticeably widened. judd was fast gaining such recognition on the second team as a star that it seemed probable he might be shifted to the varsity any day. cateye had earnestly hoped that his room-mate might be given a chance. just one chance! but it seemed as if that chance would never come. one night, it was now almost november, cateye was just returning to the locker room after football practice, when he came up to coach phillips and benz on the way. something that benz was saying caused cateye to almost stop in his tracks. his pace slackened. he lagged behind within hearing distance. "yes, i know judd is pretty fair,--but i'd still sort of hate to trust him in a game. of course, if you think he's better than walker, why,--" "well,--walker hasn't shown up exceptionally good lately and i'm thinking of making a shift soon," replied the coach. "walker has complained of being sick this week," bluffed benz, lamely. "he'll be o.k. in a couple of days. don't worry." cateye increased his steps and hastened past. "benz!" cried cateye, to himself, "you whiner! the only way you could get even with a man was to stab him in the back! i really thought you were loyal to your college,--to the team." the following saturday, november fifth, bartlett college met and defeated the wynham medical school, 13 to 6, thus keeping up their unbroken string of victories. but the victory was a dear one. cateye, at left guard, suffered a badly wrenched knee, and pole, at right end, nursed a sprained ankle. these men would be out of the game for at least a week. judd, who had come to admire the brilliant work of cateye, both on offense and defense, felt very bad over his injury. "you never miss the water till the well runs dry," judd told cateye, the night after the game. "they'll appreciate what a darn good guard you've been now, when they try to find some one to fill your shoes!" "bosh! there's plenty of fellows just as good as i am, judd, and better!" laughed cateye, punching judd with a crutch. "there's a guy by the name of mister billings, for instance, who,--" "do you suppose i'll git a chance now?" demanded judd. "can't help but get a chance! they've got to put you in. no one else good enough!" "would they be putting me in your position?" "most likely." "i won't do it!" "won't do what?" "i won't play your position!" "nonsense, judd. you'll play wherever coach phillips puts you." "maybe i will, but then, maybe i won't!" "why not?" "i don't want your position. i'll quit football first. that settles it!" "judd, don't talk that way. it's for the team. don't mind me. i'm out of it. i want you to show people how good you really are. i'd like to write and tell bob,--" "nothin' doin'! if they try to put judd billings in your position he'll hand in his resignation." * * * * * cateye was right. coach phillips was forced to give judd a chance. the next practice had not gone five minutes before phillips called to judd. "billings, come over here. i want you to fill in at left guard on the varsity." "i'm sorry, sir, but can't you put me in some other position?" "i'm afraid that is impossible, billings. tell me, what is your reason for not wishing to play left guard?" judd was silent. coach phillips saw a strange light in the boy's eyes. he stepped over, laid a friendly hand on judd's rugged shoulder. "well?" "... it's like this," judd began, softly, "that's cateye's position. he,--he's the best friend i've got. the fellows think i'm just a rube, but i--i appreciate a pal like cateye. i ... i'd give my life for him any day,--but take his position,--well--i just can't, sir!" coach phillips was deeply touched. here was loyalty in a deeper sense than he had ever seen it before. if judd could only be taught the same sense of loyalty toward his college! judd shifted his feet, restlessly; he was slightly embarrassed. he had planned to quit abruptly if asked to take cateye's place and the fact that he had confessed to the coach his reason for not wanting the position made judd a trifle indignant. for at least a full minute neither one spoke. coach phillips dropped his hand from judd's shoulder. "all right," he said, "i'll not try to force you. go back to the seconds. play left tackle." "thank you, sir," replied judd, brightening up. "if you ever want me to play another position," ... he added, trying to make amends. "don't worry, rube. we're bound to use you before the season's out," reassured phillips, as he turned away. "conklin!" calling to another man on the second team, "get in at left guard on the varsity. yes, i'm speaking to you! snappy now!" the energy that judd put into his work that afternoon spread joy among the members of the second team and darkened the hopes of the ambitious varsity. largely through his untiring efforts the second team pushed over a touchdown, starting from mid-field, in exactly seven minutes by the watch. such a feat heretofore that season had been unheard of! "oh you lemons!" some onlooker yelled at the varsity. "can't you stop rube?" it was apparent to all that judd, almost single-handed, was responsible for the seconds' touchdown. time and again he had opened great holes in the line through which mccabe and kinyon loped for big gains. but the varsity as well as the onlookers were destined to more surprises. with the seconds leading, 7 to 0, the varsity took the kickoff and drove the ball savagely up the field to the seconds' five yard line. but every man on the second team was fighting hard now, spurred on by the excited cries of the half hundred spectators. "hold 'em, seconds! they can't score on you! brace up, rube! stop those guys!" the varsity was determined to push across that touchdown. benz was angry. it was the first time during the season that the seconds had led in the scoring. the pill was a bitter one to swallow when he realized that it had been judd who was responsible for the showing. benz tapped neil, varsity quarterback, on the arm, and whispered in his ear: "play everything through the left side of the line. it's weakest. we got to have a touchdown!" then to himself: "here's where i show up rube! right through left tackle for a touchdown. three plays to make it in. we'll smash him to bits!" neil began calling signals. benz dashed forward, seized the ball and plunged straight toward left tackle. judd broke through the line, pushing guard and tackle aside, and dropped benz for a loss of two yards. the onlookers howled in glee. coach phillips was openly pleased at judd's showing, "that boy can play!" he told himself, then to the varsity. "you fellows are rotten, ... rotten!" he rasped. "can't even gain on the scrubs!" "we'll show you!" challenged benz, now in a rage. "just give me that ball again and, ... and interference!" the second play headed straight for the left side of the line; headed straight for, ... but not through. judd was again equal to the occasion. he toppled the entire interference and in some miraculous way tackled benz for another loss. "no wonder we can't gain!" cried benz, indignant at this failure, "when rube is playing off side!" "i wasn't playin' off side!" denied judd, quick to resent this charge. "you'd better take that back or, ..." "or what?" sneered benz, stepping up, hotly. judd, getting control of himself, turned away. the spectators laughed but coach phillips put a stop to their merriment and censured the two players. "another word from either of you fellows and i'll send you off the field. play ball!" the last try for a touchdown was an end run by gary, halfback, around left end. judd spilled the interference and mccabe grabbed the runner. the varsity had lost three yards in three downs against the despised seconds! mccabe drew judd back of the line for a punt and judd booted the ball far down the field out of danger. when scrimmage ended it found the ball in mid-field and the score still, 7 to 0, in favor of the scrubs. the onlookers gathered in a bunch. "rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! dubs, dubs, dubs!" it wasn't very often they got such an opportunity to rub it in to the varsity. most of the first team members left the field downcast and dejected. it was indeed a disgrace to be walloped by the scrubs with the season almost over. if pennington should hear of this they would take the bartlett eleven less seriously. "what d'you say we celebrate our victory?" suggested mccabe, who had played quarterback for three years on the second and considered this one of the moments in his football career. "good idee!" supported randolph, fullback. "where'll we hold the celebration?" asked parsins, center. "down by the bend in the river, to-night, eight o'clock sharp!" instructed mccabe, "everyone be there?" "yea!" "how about you, rube?" "i reckon i can be there," judd responded. "say, ... bring your mouth organ with you, will you?" requested mccabe, suddenly. "we want some music." "well, ... maybe." "all right! good!" said mccabe, taking it for granted. "eight o'clock then, fellows. by the way, don't tell a soul. it's just us despised seconds that are in on this celebration, you know." * * * * * "if you won't tell me where you are going, judd, please, ... how late will you be out?" it was cateye questioning. judd generally told where he was going when he went out but to-night he was tight as a clam. "can't say," replied judd, grinning, "don't know, rather," he added when he saw cateye's puzzled look. "judd," reprimanded cateye, "i feel like i was some sort of guardian over you. remember, benz hasn't gotten even with you yet and every move you make just heaps so many more coals on the fire!" "i reckon i can take care of myself," drawled judd, doubling up two rock-like fists. "good-bye!" chapter xiii an impractical joke pretty falls river was a good quarter of a mile from bartlett college. it was wide and deep and swift! unhappily for lovers of canoe riding the river possessed too many little falls or jagged, protruding rocks, to make this sport safe. however, there were certain swimming holes which were popular in the late spring and summer weather. on this particular moonlight night, although the air was chilly, every member of the bartlett second team gathered for a celebration near the bank of the pretty falls. the first arrivals had built a huge bonfire and the entire squad crowded around it. speeches and music of all sorts seemed to be the main program of the evening. while the seconds were, as they thought, secretly enjoying themselves, benz was busy about the campus plotting their destruction. in some mysterious way the news of the would-be celebration had leaked out. it was easy to get some fifty students to co-operate with him in the scheme. in fact, most of the first team were so enthusiastic over the idea that they led the army on the march to attack the unsuspecting scrubs. mccabe was last speaker and he was discoursing highly upon the merits of the second team, the honors that it had won, et cetera. "gentlemen," said mccabe, "to-day has marked a great day in the history of the second football team. well may we say with caesar, 'i came; i saw; i conquered.' we sent the enemy home with drooping heads, flushing with shame! their retreat to the locker room was the saddest sight i ever hope to witness. the tears shed by the vanquished would have kept noah's ark afloat for thirty years. it is with sincere regret that i order the camp fire to be smothered; the arms to be stacked; and the last bugle call to be sounded. we are out of provisions. we must retreat, ... hey! beat it, fellows! we are discovered!" with wild whoops and yells the foe, half a hundred strong, charged down upon the unprepared enemy. mccabe didn't stop to review his troops or present a battle front. he fled like antony from the clutch of caesar. judd was slow in getting under way but gave a good account of himself until overpowered by sheer force of numbers. "tie those legs!" cried one of the enemy, holding his stomach, "he kicks worse than a mule!" benz threw a noose over judd's feet and drew it tight, until he quieted down. "this is a new game to me," judd grinned, "but i reckon it's all right." the enemy laughed. outposts came up dragging other prisoners. mccabe had almost gotten away but was captured on a fierce tackle by bartz, who played left end on the varsity. "what shall we do with 'em, sir?" asked bartz, turning and saluting benz, respectfully. "how many have you captured?" "six, sir, not counting rube and mccabe." "good! make them run the gauntlet and release them!" "and what shall we do with the other two?" "hold them until further orders!" "very well, sir." the other six were forced to run the gauntlet, very unwillingly indeed, for it consisted in crawling upon hands and knees between some thirty pairs of legs, and to receive, upon passing between each pair, a tremendous whack from the palm of the hand of the owner of said pair of legs. when the unfortunate members of the second team completed the running of the gauntlet not one of them complained of the cold. the heat created was perfectly sufficient to keep them warm all the way home. in fact it was far more penetrating than the soft warmth thrown off by the camp fire. "now, skidoo!" yelled some fifty voices, and the six seconds each took a second in making their exit from the scene of the disaster. "i wonder what they can be going to do with us?" grinned mccabe, to judd. "say, ... do i look like a defeated general?" "never give up the ship!" kidded judd, then to the three fellows who were holding him down: "what's the idea of tyin' my feet?" "general's orders, sir, general's orders!" benz strode up. "escort or carry the prisoners down to the old bridge. forward march, men!" it did not take long to reach the bridge. bartz ran up to benz. "what are you going to do?" he asked, suspiciously. "surely you're not thinking of ducking 'em this time of year!" "no, ... only scare 'em! we'll hold 'em over the rail an' make believe we're going to drop 'em. savvy?" "i getcha. i thought that's what you were up to all the time," apologized bartz, then in a louder voice; "which one first, general?" "rube!" benz shouted, sternly. "here's where he shows the yellow streak," he said to himself. "before all these fellows, too! ... rube, you being the main offender, you must pay the penalty with your life. carry him up to the rail, men!" the fellows obeyed, soberly. "you're not goin' to throw me in with my feet tied, are you?" asked judd, calmly, without an effort to struggle. it was quite dark save for the reflection cast by the moon. "we sure are!" benz winked at the crowd that stood just behind, watching proceedings. "any word you wish to leave for friends or relatives? any directions as to how you want your earthly goods disposed of?" "no, i reckon i'm ready to die now. the sooner the better," replied judd, undaunted. benz hesitated. his bluff was not having the desired effect. "why don't he beg for mercy?" benz asked himself. "isn't that guy afraid of anything?" then benz did a daring thing. without stopping to think of the consequences he seized judd's shackled feet and lifted them over the low rail. a dozen hands assisted in hoisting judd's big body up and over. here was the critical moment. would he beg now? if not, the fellows must pull him back and acknowledge that he was real stuff. "how about it, rube?" asked benz, watching judd's face closely, as he helped hold him, suspended, over the river. not a muscle in judd's body so much as quivered. "you might untie my legs,..." he said again, quietly. "i never tried to swim that way." splash! it was done! judd had dropped, how, no one knew, ... except benz. there were wild cries and shouts; fellows crossed on both sides of the river to try and get trace of him. it was so dark no one saw him reappear, if he did reappear; after he struck the water. benz, his teeth chattering with fright, ran back and forth upon the bridge not knowing what to do. "he's drowned!" shouted mccabe, "no man can swim with his feet tied in that river! benz, your practical joke worked this time!" "the falls!" somebody shrieked. "they're just a little below that bend. he'll go over them and into the mill pond sure!" fellows began running along the river bank below the bend. "if we only had a lantern!" another cried, frantically. several commenced calling judd's name in the hope that he might hear and answer them. "i can never go back to college after this!" benz breathed, hysterically. "he's drowned and of course, i'll be blamed, ... but no! no one can prove that i let him drop! we'll all be held to account; ... oh why, _why_ did i do it?" * * * * * it was one o'clock and still no signs of judd. cateye was growing anxious. he got up, slipped on a bathrobe, and hobbling over to a chair, sat by the window looking out upon the campus. "judd said that he and benz had almost clashed. i wonder if something has happened to one or both?" cateye shuddered nervously at the thought. suddenly he glimpsed a lone figure running swiftly across the campus, rapidly nearing the dormitory. it was so dark that cateye could not make out who it was but the very fact that the person was running coupled with the time of night, signified that something unusual had happened. whoever it was, was climbing the stairs at a terrific rate. cateye grasped his crutch and hobbled toward the door. as he did so the door flung open with a bang. "cateye!" "judd! ... why! you're soaked to the skin and blue with cold! what on earth has happened?" "i reckon they tried to drown me," replied judd, stepping in and closing the door. "but i fooled 'em! it was a narrow squeak though. if i hadn't struck a big rock i'd have gone over the falls!" "but i thought you could swim, judd?" "hump! me swim? with my feet tied? say, it was enough to keep my head above water in that current!" "your feet tied!" exclaimed cateye, "you don't mean to tell me the fellows ...!" "yep, ... nope,... it was benz! ... benz, that's who 'twas!" judd was quite excited now and shivering with cold. he tried to remove his dripping shirt. "let me help you!" cateye ripped the shirt off. "but surely benz wouldn't do that! he wouldn't dare for one thing, ... and he isn't quite a fool!" "you'd hardly think it of _it_, would you?" judd grinned, water trickling down his forehead. "if i hadn't hit that rock....! somehow i made a grab as i went by an' caught it. then i hung for dear life with one hand an' untied my feet with the other. you know, cateye, i always did grip pretty hard. but just the same i thought that current would rip my arm right off at the shoulder before i got my feet loose! after i'd got free i hung on for a few minutes more till the fellows went on down the river searchin' for me. then i struck out for shore an' believe me, i hit the high spots comin' home!" "and doesn't anyone know but what you're drowned?" "only you, ... an' i!" "good! we'll teach the guys a lesson. here, let me give you a good rub down. darn this injured knee, anyhow. just when a fellow needs help the most i can't be of much assistance. now listen, you lay low when the bunch comes back. get under the bed or somewhere. i'll pretend i don't know where you are. we'll teach them to play any more practical jokes!" judd grinned. "that 'ud kind of be turnin' the tables, eh?" "kind of, you bet! i hear somebody coming upstairs now! take this alcohol bottle and rub yourself good to keep from catching cold. get into the closet out of sight. quick!" cateye waited until the footsteps reached the head of the stairs, then flung open the door and limped into the hall on his crutch. he met face to face with benz. "rather late turning in, aren't you? say, ... do you know where judd is? i'm getting rather anxious. it's two o'clock and after, ... and he never kept very late hours!" benz's face was a pale white; his lips were trembling; he seemed near collapse. "he's, ... he's, ... i think he's drowned!" "what!" cateye's concern was extremely realistic. "drowned!" "shss!" warned benz, glancing about nervously, "don't wake the whole dorm! step in your room here and i'll tell you the whole story." cateye backed in and sat down, turning on the light. benz seated himself on the edge of the bed and clutched the bed sheets despairingly. "great heavens, man, don't keep me in suspense!" groaned cateye, "judd drowned! how'd it happen?" "well, ..." began benz, "it all came out of a little joke!" "so it was one of your pranks, eh? drowning a man!" cateye's voice was hard and cruel. "i didn't mean it, cateye, honest! i mean, ... the joke to go so far," benz hastened to add, realizing that he had almost confessed. "we broke up a celebration the second team was having; captured rube and mccabe and planned on giving 'em a good scare. so we carried 'em down to the bridge an' held rube over the rail. i, ... we never meant to drop him, _honest_, but, ..." "why did you tie his feet?" as soon as cateye asked the question he realized that he had pulled "a bone." "why did i? ... did i tell you that?" benz asked, wild-eyed. "you sure did!" insisted cateye, seeing a way out. "well, ... he put up such a fight we had to do something," explained benz, weepingly, "and i just said we never meant to drop him!" "is anybody down at the river now?" "yes, the whole bunch. they're going to keep up the search till morning. i sent bartz down to tarlton to see the sheriff and get help. we're goin' to drag the river for his body in the morning, ..." here benz broke down completely. cateye heard judd choking a laugh and realized he had to say something or the jig was up. "and what are you doing here?" he demanded, savagely, "you, ... you who are probably more to blame for this, ... this murder than anyone else! why aren't you out doing something to help recover his body?" "i, ... i, ... oh cateye, don't rub it in so! i couldn't stand it any longer. i had to come away. oh, it's all a terrible nightmare to me. he can't be dead, ... he must be alive! let me go, ... i've got to be by myself!" cateye did not try to restrain benz. in fact he was mighty glad to have him go! as soon as benz had disappeared up the hall judd stepped softly from the closet, the towel stuffed in his mouth, and fell upon the bed, shaking with laughter. "how's that for real acting?" grinned cateye. "gee, that's worth getting drowned to listen to!" howled judd, "they're going to drag the river for me in the mornin'! did you hear that? well, ... i wish 'em luck. i hope they find me. i reckon it's rather awkward for a ghost like me not to know where my body is, ... floatin' around somewhere on the bottom of the river!" "shss! judd, don't make so much noise! this will be the richest joke on benz and the fellows for that matter, that ever came off. it'll teach benz a lesson he'll never forget. you keep out of sight till after breakfast today. the whole college will know about it by that time!" "trust me, pal," assured judd, "most people can't see ghosts, anyhow!" chapter xiv the confession benz, after breaking the news to cateye, hurried to his room where he paced up and down for a whole hour, undecided as to what best to do. finally, unable to stand the strain longer, he grabbed his cap and rushed from the dormitory. it was four a.m. and not yet light. ten minutes later the good professor windell, president of the college, was awakened by a loud thumping on his front door. he stumbled sleepily out of bed and opened the window. "what's amiss here?" he called down. "rube!" gasped benz, "oh, mister windell, come down an' let me in, quick! i want to confess! i did it! it was all my fault!" "just a minute, young man!" professor windell was waking fast now. he jerked on his purple bathrobe and jumped his feet into some house slippers and made haste to escort poor benz into the library. "have a chair. now, compose yourself! what's the trouble?" benz did not appear to notice the proffered seat but strode nervously up and down the room. "rube's drowned!" he said, suddenly, and seemed to shudder at the very words. "drowned!" repeated the president, greatly shocked, "drowned!" "yes, sir ..." benz pulled himself together with an effort, then began to explain as though it was a relief to get the matter off his mind. "you see the second team was havin' a celebration at the bend of the river last night because they beat the varsity. well--i collected a bunch of fellows and we broke up the meeting. we caught rube and mccabe an' we thought ... er ... er ... that is, i thought i'd like to scare rube. so, as i was leader, i ordered the guys to carry him down to the old bridge an' hold him over the rail." "you!" broke in president windell, excitedly. "yes,--me!" cried benz, bound to make a clean breast of it. "i didn't mean to do what i did but for some reason i ... i grabbed his feet an' ... an' when we held him over the rail ... i ... i let go!" "what!" "i don't know why i did it, sir. we only meant to scare him. i never intended that we should drop him in. honest, i didn't!" benz's tone turned to pleading. "oh, it'll just about finish my folks, mister windell. what shall i do? ... what _shall_ i do?" president windell was a highly strung, very excitable little man, well along in years. the sudden tragic news brought by benz at such an early hour had done much to upset him. "how do you know that judd's actually drowned?" he asked, after a moment of serious deliberation. "why i ... we've searched the river ... as far as we could see he never even came up!" benz answered, then added with conviction, "he's drowned all right!" "but he could swim, couldn't he?" persisted the professor, hopefully. "perhaps he ..." "that's just it!" interrupted benz, despairingly. "he might have had a good chance if he could ... but you see ... his feet were tied!" "feet tied!" president windell laid a hand upon benz and shook him. "see here--what were you young men up to? ... that's not much short of murder!" "i know ... it sounds almost like it," admitted benz. "it's apt to go pretty hard with you," snapped the president, "wait here until i go and dress. i want you to take me to where this happened. and while you're waiting, put in a call for the sheriff at tarlton. he'll have to investigate anyway and the sooner he's on the job the better." the professor disappeared upstairs. benz hesitated a moment, his hands twitching nervously. then he picked up the telephone and asked for long distance in a voice that faltered brokenly. * * * * * at breakfast that morning tense excitement reigned. news of the tragedy had just been spread broadcast and there were many vacant chairs. a great number of students had rushed for the river but a few of the calmer ones and those who loved their appetites above all else, answered the roll call and contented themselves in stowing away the usual number of pancakes. just as the meal was about over, bartz staggered in, weak and exhausted. he had run many miles up and down the river bank in the hopes of discovering judd--but a needle in a haystack might have been more readily found than judd's corpse in a river bed. a great crowd thronged about bartz, asking him hundreds of different questions, excitedly. he made no attempt to answer them; in fact, his one desire seemed to be to get a bite to eat and steady his nerves. all he would say was: "let me alone, fellows. i'm tired. been up all night. no, we haven't found his body yet. yes ... the sheriff's placed us all under temporary arrest. he's got our names an' he's coming after the bunch of us and take us down to tarlton for a hearing at nine o'clock this morning. oh, they'll drag the river all day if they don't find him. yes, we're going to wire his folks in a couple of hours. for heaven's sake, guys, let me be! i need a rest!" a decided gloom prevailed over the college. judd, although he had been called a rube had become a great favorite and very popular at bartlett. the students looked at cateye, sympathetically, when he hobbled down to breakfast half an hour later. his face was red and his eyes, ... yes, unmistakably swollen from excessive weeping. cateye was met upon all sides with sincere words of sympathy and regret for the loss of his beloved room-mate. to all these declarations cateye made the sober reply: "thanks, fellows, thanks. your grief and sympathy quite overwhelm me." then, dabbing his face sadly with a handkerchief for effect, cateye smothered many almost unsuppressible giggles. it was turning into such a rich joke! if no one discovered judd before the time was set to bring him out, it would be great! judd, meanwhile, had remained within the close confinement of his room awaiting until the time was ripe to resurrect himself. at eight o'clock president windell suspended all morning classes and the entire college practically went into mourning. benz, overcome with grief, confessed time and again his part in the tragedy wherever he could find an audience. within another hour the sheriff came down from tarlton and gravely proceeded to corral all the participants in the "foul murder." he had been newly appointed custodian of the law and was overly anxious to perform his duties well. almost the entire student body congregated on the campus shortly after nine o'clock, to witness the departure of the sheriff with those directly implicated in the plot. "i can't tell yet what i'll do with ye!" the sheriff said, addressing the students under arrest. "but this here drownin' is a serious crime and, some of ye will have to pay for it! that's just the way with ye college sports anyhow. always up to some thing and never satisfied till ye've committed some devilment. but ye'll pay for this, ... mark my words, ... and ye'll pay dear!" some students, including pole and potts, arrived at this moment. they had been helping drag the river but, despairing of recovering the body, had returned. a crowd surrounded them at once. "what luck?" "find any trace of him?" these and many more anxious questions were hurled at the weary searchers. "we found his cap down by the bend in the river, that's all," responded pole, sadly, passing the cap about for inspection. then, noticing benz in the throng: "say, have they wired his folks yet?" "... no." "well, that had better be attended to. they've got to know it sooner or later and we should notify them immediately." "i'll see that a message is sent right away," replied benz, brokenly. at this juncture, cateye, who had been watching from his window across the campus, decided that the time was ripe for judd's resurrection. in fact the time was over-ripe. if cateye had imagined what tremendous proportions the supposed drowning of judd might assume he would never have devised the plan to cure benz of his practical jokes. "you'd better be taking that stroll right away, judd," directed cateye. "the sheriff's just about ready to depart with the bunch and it looks like every last student is out to bid farewell. now do just as i told you and hurry or you'll be too late!" judd lost no time in descending the stairs and stepping quietly out of the dormitory. he stalked leisurely across the campus, passing several students on the way but they were so busy talking about the night's terrible happenings that they did not recognize him. in fact, judd actually succeeded in mingling with the crowd, so intent were they all upon the departure of the sheriff and his prisoners. he took a position by the side of benz, who was tearfully bidding good-bye. judd, for the moment, was touched but remembering the many things benz had done against him he thought the "cure" might do him good. of a sudden benz chanced to turn and caught sight of judd. at first he stared, wild-eyed, and in open-mouthed astonishment; then he recoiled from the terrific shock. he could not believe his eyes. "oh, fellows, help me! i'm seeing things!" benz shrieked, covering his face with his hands and endeavoring to get away. everyone looked in benz's direction and at the sight of judd the greater portion of the crowd dispersed to a safe distance. judd had come among them so quietly that the sight of him was a great shock. pole was the first to recover himself. "great guns, rube!" he exclaimed, astounded. "i thought you were drowned!" "me! drowned?" drolled judd, slowly, "i should say not!" "but where have you been all this time?" cried potts. those who had sufficiently recovered, at least enough to believe their eyes, began gathering about joyfully. "up in my room," replied judd, suppressing a yawn. "how did you get out? why didn't you let us know that you were o.k? what did you hold off so long for?" the questions were coming thick and fast. "i didn't think about it and besides i was busy catching up sleep." "catching up sleep!" "yep,--i didn't get to bed last night till after one o'clock. and then, i got my clothes all wet and had to dry 'em out before i could appear in public again." the joy of the students at having judd restored to them as if from death itself, finally surpassed all bounds. they made a grand rush for the big, awkward youth and lifting him protestingly to their shoulders, they bore him once about the campus before releasing him, in this manner proclaiming the glad tidings. the sheriff, disappointed at having his bid for prominence spoiled, still lingered about the students. at last he stepped up to judd. "young man, do ye wish to swear out a warrant agin any of these rascals?" "no, thanks," grinned judd, "i reckon it isn't a very serious offence to duck a feller, is it?" "not very; but er,--er, attempted murder is different! quite different!" "you might give them each thirty days for a poor attempt," suggested judd. the bunch laughed. judd turned to pole, who stood holding his cap. "i'll thank you for my lid, pole. it's the only sky piece i've got." "well, let's lift the crepe and postpone the funeral," urged potts, "the corpse has decided to take on new life and the mourners are wearing glad rags again. classes begin this afternoon at one p.m. as usual. this way out!" the crowd broke up, joyfully. chapter xv judd gains a promotion one week more dragged slowly by; dragged because cateye and judd had been suspended for their antics in regard to the drowning incident. benz escaped with only a severe reprimand. cateye assumed the entire blame for the affair and sought to have his room-mate released, but president windell declared: "one is as guilty as the other," and forced both boys to do penance. the intended cure for benz had been a splendid failure in more ways than one. true, benz felt highly elated to know that judd was not drowned but he also was indignant because judd allowed the students to think him dead and let the affair gain such prominence. since the incident benz's popularity had decreased fully fifty percent. he was greeted with taunts and jeers and nicknamed, "the impractical joker." life had grown exceedingly unpleasant. benz avoided everyone that he could, imagining that the whole college was turned against him. he remained close within the seclusion of his room during idle moments; practiced football somewhat indifferently; scarcely ever opened his mouth except when it came time to eat; and above all things he kept out of judd's sight. he was very thankful that judd had been suspended. this kept the rube from football practice and benz could again star against the seconds. poor, mis-used second team! the week following their disastrous celebration on the bank of the pretty falls river had been a trying one for them. minus their best player, the varsity had gone at them with a vengeance, piling up top heavy scores in every scrimmage, until mccabe remarked one night after an unusually crushing defeat: "fellows, i feel like napoleon after the battle of waterloo." cateye had hoped that this joke might prove an ending of hostilities between benz and judd but he now realized the foolhardiness of his plan and wished many times that he had never suggested it to judd. the return joke on benz had produced exactly the opposite effect than that desired. besides, judd had lost an entire week of valuable football practice and one week from tomorrow, upon thanksgiving day, came the great game with pennington! the contest this year meant more than formerly. the two colleges were not only intense rivals but neither had been defeated throughout the present season. reports from pennington claimed the strongest eleven in the history of the college. why, pennington had defeated the state university, 9 to 0, a short time ago, which victory rightfully gave her the title of state champion! bartlett supporters in turn, heralded their eleven as the greatest bunch of warriors ever gotten together. but, although the students were loyal to the core, deep down in their hearts they doubted whether bartlett even so much as had a chance against pennington this year. pennington, claimants of the state championship by virtue of their victory over the state university, a heretofore unheard of exploit! pennington, the rival college, which had not only defeated some of the same teams played by bartlett but had even doubled and in one case tripled the scores! on paper the pennington team seemed much the stronger eleven but despite this fact everyone at bartlett was looking eagerly forward to the day when the unbeaten colleges would clash. thursday morning, one week before the big game, pole rushed jubilantly into cateye's room. "hurrah! your suspensions are raised!" he cried. "what's that?" cateye and judd shouted, jumping to their feet. "that's what!" rejoiced pole. "gee, that's great news! i just heard about it a minute ago." "you bet it's great news! whoopee, judd, that means football practice again to-night!" cateye began to dance a highland fling of his own invention. "and my injured knee is practically well now. maybe i won't be able to hit that old line, huh?" judd and pole winked at each other. "the silly boy," grinned judd. "the news has upset him," laughed pole. the appearance of judd and cateye upon the gridiron that afternoon was the signal for a great ovation. the members of the second team crowded about their idol, judd, and immediately began plotting the destruction of the "beloved" varsity. cateye, meanwhile, was kept busy answering greetings from his old team-mates. "hello, cateye, how's that knee of yours?" it was neil, quarterback, speaking. "fine!" responded cateye, adjusting his shoulder pads. "that's good. i sure am glad to see you back. between you and me, cateye, left guard has been the weak spot on our team since you were laid up. besides, benz hasn't been playing up to standard and although we've been trimming the seconds we haven't got that old fighting spirit. the boys are due to recover their form to-day." "everybody out!" ordered coach phillips. the players trotted from the locker room onto the field. "billings, you take right guard on the seconds and cateye, your old position at left guard on the varsity. we'll have fifteen minutes of signal practice and a thirty minute's scrimmage. lively now!" practice that afternoon did go off better. benz played with a vengeance, eager to out do any play that judd might make, and he was successful in tearing off several long gains; through judd's position too! benz was elated. the explanation was quite simple. judd, assigned the position of right guard found that he was pitted directly against cateye who played left guard for the varsity. rather than show up his room-mate judd made half-hearted attempts to stem the varsity's advance, and the seconds, losing some of their confidence in judd's stonewall defence, allowed the varsity to score almost at will. a hundred or so onlookers, enthused by the varsity's exceptional showing, shouted, "oh you pennington!" until their voices were hoarse. it was a badly bruised and dejected second team that crawled off the field after scrimmage was over following one of the worst trouncings that they had ever experienced. the varsity, upon the other hand, was bubbling over with pep and renewed confidence. "guess we've found our stride again!" cried benz, almost the first cheerful words he had uttered in a week. "found our stride!" ejaculated pole, "why man, we're away ahead of our stride." "don't get too cocky over that showing," warned bartz, inclined to be cautious. "even the best of 'em fall, you know." "bartz is right," spoke up neil, "in order to keep our record clean up to the pennington game we've got to wallop paulson this coming saturday. and that'll be a hard game too. we can't expect to loaf and win. we've got to be in the fight every minute!" "we'll be there, kid!" grunted the big oole. judd and cateye walked back to the dormitory together. cateye, for some reason that judd could not understand, was not very talkative. "the varsity sure did rip us seconds up to-day," began judd, for the nth time, trying to get an answer from his room-mate. cateye unlocked the door to his room, stepped in, and swung about, facing judd. "judd, what did you do that for?" he questioned, softly. "do what?" rejoined judd, evasively. "true, you didn't do anything in scrimmage to-day," admitted cateye, "but i know the reason why." "that's easy, i haven't played for over a week," retorted judd, "i'll tell you it takes practice to--." "nonsense, judd! a kid could have played as well as you did this afternoon. don't try to bluff me; i know you too well. if you'd have played any other position on that team you'd have been a living cyclone, but just because coach phillips put you in against me you laid down!" "it isn't so!" protested judd, weakly. "it is so!" persisted cateye, "and what's more, if we have the same positions to-morrow and you play that way i'll go to the coach about it!" "well,--s'pose it is so," surrendered judd, "no man on earth can make me go back on my room-mate--." "judd, you don't look at things in the right light," argued cateye. "i know that you're true blue to me and all that but you're not true to your college,--your team." "why not?" demanded judd, kicking at a rug. "because, you are not giving your team the best that is in you! some time ago you sacrificed a chance to play on the first team because you would not accept my position. to-day, by your miserable playing, you lowered yourself in the coach's estimation and undoubtedly made me look good. but you know, and _i_ know, judd that there are few football men who could hold that line against you if you cared to get through. it is your duty to play your best regardless of circumstances." "i think more of my friends than any old football team in the country," mumbled judd, stubbornly. "there's no use talking, cateye, i'll lay down, every time he pits me against you." luckily judd was shifted to right tackle the following afternoon and a chance for further trouble was averted. the varsity was not quite as successful as on the previous day and it took a hard fight to drub the seconds in a short scrimmage. the next day, saturday, bartlett met and defeated paulson, 20 to 7, thus keeping her record clean for the entire season up to the final game. the high class of football that the little college displayed in besting paulson, a team touted to be her equal, gladdened the hearts of every bartlett rooter. the spirits of all were now fairly on edge for the coming contest with pennington, just five days away. some even conceded bartlett an equal chance but when respective records were compared the skeptics shook their heads. although both teams had clean slates as to victories, pennington had played against some stronger teams than bartlett and seemed to possess a much greater scoring machine. cateye had only played in one quarter of the paulson game. coach phillips was saving him for the big fray and taking no risks of his knee giving out. judd watched the game from the bench. monday afternoon marked the last day of scrimmage for the varsity. coach phillips had decided to spend the remaining two days at secret signal practice. consequently the college turned out almost to a man to watch their idol pigskin chasers maul the scrubs as a final demonstration of their ability to whip pennington. inspired by the wild cheers of the student body and the realization that the season's biggest game was only two days distant, the varsity fairly outdid itself. but the faithful second team was resolved to make the varsity earn every touchdown that they secured and fought fiercely to stop each play. for fifteen minutes the battered seconds withstood the onslaught and actually succeeded in pushing across a touchdown themselves. after this the game became a rout and finally ended in a 56 to 7 score. both elevens left the field, physically fit and in good spirits, but dead tired. "whew!" gasped benz, throwing a shoe the length of the locker room, "talk about marathon races! i'll bet i ran ten or twenty miles up and down the field scoring touchdowns." "great snakes! did you hear that, guys?" broke in knox, a second string man, "the swelled head only scored two touchdowns himself and yet he runs ten or twenty miles! what were you doing, benz, playing solitaire?" "never you mind," retorted benz, amid laughter; then, seeing a way out: "possibly, knox, you have never heard of miles standish. that's the kind of miles i run." "zowie!" "take him out!" "stow it!" "as bright as mud!" "call a doctor!" "a cold shower for that!" shouted neil, "that stuff is too deep for we'uns!" a dozen hands seized the unwilling benz and thrust him cruelly under a cold, cold shower. "b-r-r-r-r-r! let me out!" sputtered benz, making a tremendous struggle. "i don't mind the cold but that water is wet!" "a double dose for that!" howled pole, and benz was forced to submit to another flood of h2o. he was finally released and took his punishment good naturedly. the fun went on, first one, and then the other of the fellows being made the object for humorous attack. of a sudden the locker door opened and coach phillips stepped in. instantly all laughing and talking ceased. fellows in half-dressed attitudes hesitated before proceeding. it was evident by the look on coach phillips' face that he had something important to say. "any of the fellows left yet?" "no!" "good!" snapped the coach. "i have a little something that i want to say to you all before you go. i--" "ouch! have a heart!" benz had unwittingly slapped pole across the small of the back with a wet bath towel. a titter of laughter went up. "benz, stop that fooling and pay attention!" coach phillips' voice was unusually hard and penetrating. "fun is all right in its place," continued the coach, "i'm glad to see you fellows light-hearted and care free. that is usually a good sign before a game. but too much of this sort of business will have a disastrous effect. such mental attitudes breed self confidence. self confidence breeds listlessness; and listlessness spells defeat. now don't misunderstand me. i want you to have a certain amount of confidence, in yourselves, in the team. but beware of over-confidence! over-confidence will do more than misplays or anything else to bring defeat. just because we have gone through the season thus far unbeaten, don't for one moment imagine that we are invincible. in order to win thursday it will take all the skill, strength, and endurance that you fellows have! from now on until the big game is over i want every fellow on the varsity to forget his studies. there is no occasion to look astonished, (as several players gasped). it is a new procedure at bartlett, i know, but i believe a wise one. you have all worked hard and kept up in your marks throughout the entire season. now i want complete relaxation. don't look at a class book. work hard in football practice and memorize those plays so well that there is not a possibility of mistake. forget about the game. get plenty of sleep the next two nights. take good care of yourselves. when you trot on the field thanksgiving day i expect to see the best physically and mentally fit team that bartlett college has ever turned out. remember, it is not only brawn but brains that wins games now-a-days and you fellows must be in the fight with minds and bodies every minute!" "yea!" "i wish to thank every member of the second team for the loyal manner in which you have come out night after night in order to make a good first team possible," went on coach phillips, ignoring the show of enthusiasm. "i am sure that you will all feel amply repaid if your efforts will have made the varsity victorious in the coming big game. just as a great army depends upon those left behind to properly feed and clothe it, so does a varsity football team depend upon its second team to keep it at its playing strength and build it up through scrimmage. a good first team can hardly ever be attained without a good second team. the fact that we have had an exceptionally fine second team this year has been largely responsible for the success of the varsity. "i have already talked longer and said more than i at first intended. the second team's work is done for the year but the varsity's hardest work is yet to come. i want all of you varsity men to report for signal practice to-morrow at two p. m. all of you may go now except judd billings and mccabe of the seconds." the fellows filed noisily out of the locker room leaving the wondering judd and the elated mccabe to interview coach phillips. "what have i done now?" demanded judd of mccabe, when he was ordered to remain. "don't you know, you rube!" hissed mccabe, joyfully, in his ear. "we're promoted!" "promoted?" "yes,--unless i miss my guess he's going to tell us to report for practice with the varsity!" "that would be kind of nice, wouldn't it?" replied judd, trying to conceal his joy at the very thought. coach phillips closed the locker door and came up, facing the two eager youths. "both of you report for signal practice with the varsity to-morrow. it is possible that you may get into the game thursday, for a short time at least. remember what i told the rest about keeping in condition and not studying until the game is over. mccabe, come to my room to-night at seven. i want you to get the signals well in mind and especially some new plays. that is all." the coach turned abruptly and left the locker room. mccabe and judd stood eyeing each other, the news seeming too good to be true. finally mccabe broke the trance by running across and thumping judd joyfully. "what did i tell you?" he shouted, "and it's my first chance in four years!" chapter xvi before the game wednesday night, the eve of the coming contest with the mighty pennington eleven, found bartlett college in a state of wild confusion and excitement. the campus was lined with students and returning alumni, some of the latter having come hundreds of miles just to see the unbeaten elevens clash. news from the village of tarlton announced every hotel and place of accommodation to be over-crowded with visitors, friends, relatives, and alumni, waiting for the morrow. a delegation of students had been busy all day collecting empty dry goods boxes, odd pieces of wood, limbs of trees, and what not for the creating of a large bonfire should bartlett be victorious. all this refuse was concealed behind one of the dormitories ready to be dragged out and placed in the center of the campus pending a successful termination of the game. judd and cateye watched the throngs jostling back and forth across the campus from their window in the dormitory. the football men had been given strict orders not to mingle with the crowd and to retire early. the two chums felt rather awed by the spirit of the occasion and the significance of the morrow. for a long time they sat side by side listening to the college yells and songs drifting up to them from below. although a veteran football man, cateye was deeply affected by the display of enthusiasm and college spirit. "what a wonderful thing it all is," he found himself musing aloud. "what all is?" inquired judd. "why,--this college spirit." "hump!" breathed judd, lightly, "i thought you was talkin' about some patent medicine." the careless reply and judd's former actions caused cateye to wonder if college spirit really meant anything to the rube. cateye knew judd to be intensely loyal to his friends and wished that his chum might show that same sense of loyalty to his college or team. after a fifteen minute silence judd began to show signs of restlessness which cateye wrongly interpreted. "nervous?" he asked, softly, throwing an arm about his chum's brawny shoulders. "naw!" growled judd, disgustedly, "just anxious for fear i won't get a chance to play tomorrow." the singing and yelling did not cease until after eleven o'clock but two hours before this time coach phillips made sure that every football man was snugly stowed away in bed. judd dropped off to sleep immediately upon retiring, but nothing short of chloroform could have caused cateye to lose consciousness while the din kept up. his mind was too occupied with the trend of coming events. as the last song was sung and the last yell was yelled cateye delved into the mysteries of slumberland. for two hours his rest was undisturbed. but after this came more interruptions. cateye awoke with a start. the same sort of chill crept up his spine as on the night of judd's arrival. this time, however, cateye sensed at once just what had produced the sensation. judd was talking in his sleep again. it was his first offense since that memorable night so long ago. "gimme that ball! ... no, i'm not hurt! jes' gimme the ball an' i'll take her across! ... signals over! that's it! my number. look out, there!" the talking stopped and judd began to grind his teeth, an unpleasant sound, especially at night. this was too much for cateye. he bounded out of bed and switched on the light. at the same moment judd came out of his nightmare by emitting a loud groan and kicking the bed free of covers. "what's the matter?" gasped cateye. "oh, nothin'," grinned judd, sleepily, "i only made a touchdown." cateye crawled back into bed, shivering from the aftermath. judd soon began to snore regularly showing what little effect the scoring of a touchdown had upon him. after listening to the hoarse rumble for a few minutes cateye buried his head in a pillow and muttered to himself: "oh, for a maxim silencer!" despite the snores he soon fell asleep and did not awaken until late thanksgiving morning. by noon of the eventful day an enormous crowd of people had gathered, representing loyal rooters and supporters of the respective colleges, bartlett and pennington, as well as those impartial to either team, who were attracted for sheer love of the game itself. the college grounds shone with bobbing pennants and colors; the red and blue of pennington; the black and gold of bartlett. outside the gate to the gridiron at one o'clock a great throng of football enthusiasts clamored for entrance. one half hour later a special train, carrying the rival eleven, pennington; a band, and five hundred rooters, pulled in. as the penningtonites leaped off the train dressed in full football garb; red and blue jerseys, indian blankets of the same color design and striped hosiery, they received a tremendous ovation from the assembled crowd. led by their college band the football warriors paraded to the gridiron followed by a wild column of pennington rooters, each waving a red and blue pennant. the sight was very impressive and thrilling. when, at exactly two-twenty, the pennington eleven trotted, unheralded, onto the field and, tossing off their blue indian blankets, began to run through some snappy signal work, from the pennington stands a mass of red and blue rose and fell in perfect rhythm to the tune of "the warrior," pennington's football song. the bartlett rooters in the stands directly across the field tried their best to defeat the demonstration being made by pennington, combining the efforts of band and cheer leaders in order to do so, but the momentary enthusiasm of the visiting college at sight of their splendid eleven, for a time, eclipsed all attempts to drown them out. in the locker room sixteen bartlett team-mates, primed for battle, heard the roar that swept across the field as the pennington eleven swooped upon the gridiron. benz, pulling his shoulder pads in place, strode about the room, nervous and anxious for the fray to begin. other players showed signs of uneasiness. judd was the only one on the team who seemed perfectly calm. as the din was at its height he turned to pole, who had laced and unlaced his shoe three times for no reason whatever, and remarked quietly: "a noisy bunch, aren't they?" at this moment coach phillips entered. he had been watching the enemy eleven as they ran through light signal practice before the frenzied crowd. a few of the players gathered in a semi-circle about him, arms thrown over each other's shoulders. some were laboriously rubbing resin into their hands to insure against fumbling the ball. others, a little affected by the mighty demonstration going on from without, paced restlessly up and down. "it's going to be a real battle to-day," warned the coach. "pennington has a wonderful aggregration. their defeat of the state university some weeks ago gives them the highest rating of any team in this part of the country. a victory to-day puts bartlett on the football map as never before. and in order to win we must fight, fight, fight, every second of the sixty minutes! "pennington has been depending largely this season upon the great work of gordon, fullback. he is a giant, six feet tall, weight two hundred and fourteen pounds, and fast on his feet. he is the man you must stop! pennington has won every game this year in the first half. they use this gordon as a human battering ram, breaking up the opposing line and making victory easy. no eleven this season had been able to check his advances! "stop their slashing attack the first half, fellows, and you'll win the game. the reason general grant was so successful in his campaigns was that he did not realize when he was defeated. he advanced despite his defeats. that's the spirit i want you fellows to show! if you fail to gain ground in one attempt put just that much more strength into the next attempt. game starts in ten minutes, fellows, so you'd better be getting out on the field. benz, remember to hit that line lower. neil, call your signals fast and snappy. keep the team up and at 'em. you linemen, the fate of to-day's game is largely up to you. you must shoulder the brunt of the work and shatter the pennington attack. the men who will start to-day's game are,--" sixteen heads bobbed suddenly up and sixteen pairs of entreating eyes focused themselves upon the coach. "left end, bartz; left tackle, oole; left guard, frey; center, williams; right guard, mckean; right tackle, potts; right end, pole; quarterback, neil; left half, gary; right half, patterson; fullback, hoffmaster. now, out of here, every one of you! show lots of pep and don't let that crowd bother you! you have played in front of big crowds before and won. do it today!" the eleven fortunate men jumped nimbly to their feet and filed quickly out of the locker room. judd slapped cateye on the back as his chum arose to go. "give 'em fits, pal," he said, simply. chapter xvii the first half the appearance of the bartlett eleven touched a match to all the explosives that the bartlett rooters had stored up and a riot of deafening sound rocked the field. the crowd easily outnumbered any ever congregated at bartlett. half of the eastern bleachers had been reserved for the pennington rooters, while the section directly across was occupied by bartlett enthusiasts. the seating capacity was greatly overtaxed. at least two thousand people hovered behind the goal posts at the ends of the field and swarms were even accommodated in roped off areas between the foot of the bleachers and the playing lines. both teams appeared a trifle nervous before the game commenced, undoubtedly caused by the magnitude of the crowd and the importance of winning. mcdonald, thorpe, preston, mccabe, and judd, all bartlett substitutes, swathed in extra sweaters, seated themselves by the sidelines, in an advantageous position, to watch the game. benz, captain, conferred with melvin, pennington captain. the referee tossed a coin. melvin won the toss and chose to receive the kickoff. benz selected the north goal for bartlett to defend. the two teams lined up quickly. an avalanche of sound came from the spectators. "are you ready?" shrieked the referee to the pennington captain. melvin raised his hand in the affirmative. "ready, bartlett?" but benz was crouching, tying up a shoe lace, preparatory to kicking, and trying to overcome his nervousness. this prolonged the tenseness. after an age, it seemed, he straightened up; the referee raised his arm; the bartlett men leaned forward, expectantly; the whistle screeched; benz booted the ball; and the great game was on! it was a splendid kickoff. the ball rose, spinning like a top and with enough impetus to send it far down the field. knapp, pennington quarterback, captured the pigskin on his fifteen yard line and dodged in behind his quickly formed interference. for five,--ten,--fifteen yards he ran; his advance guard toppling man after man who attempted to reach him! the crowd was on its feet, howling like mad! "stop him!" shrieked the bartlett stands. "go on, pennington!" bawled the red and blue. a lanky individual now loomed up in the path of the oncoming trio. it was pole! he hurled himself straight at the knees of the interference and the men went down like ten pins. all save knapp. small of stature and a veritable rabbit on his feet; his interference now gone, he depended upon his own cleverness to gain more ground. he eluded the too eager arms of benz who missed his tackle completely and struck face downward on the sod. the spectators were now become fairly wild with excitement. such a brilliant run at the very outset of the game was entirely unlooked for! "he's got a clear field!" screamed some voice above the din. "a touchdown from kickoff!" cried a pennington enthusiast. knapp, in order to escape all opponents, now skirted the edge of the gridiron. he passed within a few feet of the bartlett substitutes who were wildly hoping that some one might down him. judd's quick eye saw only one man between knapp and a touchdown. that man was cateye! "get that guy, cateye!" bellowed judd, making a megaphone of his hands. in that frenzied moment, above the terrific din, cateye heard and recognized judd's voice wafted out to him. the words seemed to give him added zeal. he raced across the field toward the speeding knapp. the little quarterback, confronted with this new obstacle, turned in sharply as cateye lurched through the air, in order to avoid the tackle. but cateye had judged the distance too true and knapp had dodged too late. there was an impact as shoulder met thigh and a crunching sound as the two rolled over and over upon the turf; then mighty cheers. "that-a-boy, cateye!" barked judd, joyously, while the bartlett stands echoed his name. "yea, knapp!" thundered the penningtonites. knapp's fine sixty yard run injected a world of pep into his team and restored their confidence. the bartlett eleven, on the contrary, was badly disheartened and shaken up by the suddenness of the spectacular run. with the ball on bartlett's twenty-five yard line and four plays to make a touchdown the pennington team assailed the black and gold line viciously. on the first play the ball went to gordon, the heavy full back, who plowed through the right side of bartlett's line for eight yards. "wow! nothing to it!" roared the pennington stands. "hold 'em, bartlett!" entreated the supporters of the black and gold. an end run netted five more yards, placing the ball on the twelve yard line. gordon then took the pigskin, plunging straight through the center of the line for four yards. the bartlett eleven seemed wholly unable to cope with the swift, varied, smashing attack of the visitors. it was evident to the onlookers that knapp's brilliant run at the start of the game, coupled with gordon's tremendous line bucking, had completely bewildered the bartlett team. it was the first time during the entire season that any eleven had been able to gain consistently through the line and this fact further discouraged the black and gold. "hold 'em, fellows!" begged benz, from the backfield. "don't let 'em get a touchdown!" the line stiffened and shifted to meet the next attack. they were already fighting in the shadow of their goal posts. gordon again carried the ball and the play came direct for cateye. by exerting a great effort cateye broke through the pennington line and dropped the huge gordon for a slight loss. the bartlett stands became a mass of color. cateye's name was on every bartlett rooter's tongue. pennington, as coach phillips had said, was using gordon, almost exclusively, from the outset of the game, as a battering ram to wear down the bartlett line. once the line was shot to pieces victory would be easy. the bartlett eleven, encouraged by cateye's checking of the pennington advance, regained in a measure their lost confidence and every yard thenceforth gained by the rival college demanded a royal struggle. but pennington was not to be denied the spoils of her rapid advance. her dashing, smashing attack had progressed too far to be immediately and successfully blocked. bartlett was beaten stubbornly back until the players crouched upon the very goal line with pennington two downs to take the ball across. the red and blue tried an end run but benz tackled the man with the ball before he had gained a yard. benz was fairly outplaying himself and sobbing like a baby. the bartlett stands shrieked encouragement, while from the pennington bleachers came yells of, "touchdown! touchdown!" on the last down, with less than two yards to go, gordon ripped straight through the line and over the goal for a touchdown. amid a cascade of yells and wild demonstrations the bartlett eleven lined up under their goal posts, awaiting the try for goal. knapp, the star pennington quarterback, to whom much credit must go for the sudden overwhelming of bartlett, threw himself face downward on the turf and held the ball at arms length to allow bowen, halfback, to kick. bowen paced a short distance back, carefully, then turned and running lightly forward, toed the ball squarely over and between the goal posts. score, pennington, 7; bartlett, 0. the pennington rooters began to chant the score with the hopes of further disheartening the bartlett eleven. "we want more! we want more!" volleyed pennington. "rah! bartlett, rah! fight 'em! fight 'em! fight 'em!" answered the bartlett stands defiantly. there were seven minutes left of the first quarter. pennington kicked off. potts caught the ball and advanced it eight yards to the twenty-six yard line. it was the first time during the game that bartlett had the ball in her possession and the bartlett supporters were hopeful. neil called on patterson, right half, for an end run, but the play barely netted a yard. benz shot through the line for four yards. the bartlett stands roared. gary, left half, attempted a run around the other end but was downed with no gain. benz dropped back and punted forty yards. the ball was pennington's on their own twenty-nine yard line. using the same tactics as before and working one forward pass to advantage, pennington began another steady march down the field. bartlett was being completely outplayed in every department of the game. the quarter ended with the ball on bartlett's seventeen yard line and pennington's first down. the teams exchanged goals and play started again. gordon hammered his way through the line for nine yards with three tacklers hanging to him. the bartlett defense seemed to grow weaker every minute. a trick play was good for three more yards, and with the ball on bartlett's five yard line knapp got away for a wide end run and a touchdown. the pennington stands cheered madly. why, this was no game; bartlett was being outclassed! it had taken pennington only three minutes to put over the second touchdown from the seventeen yard line. bowen was forced to attempt the goal kick from quite an angle and the ball went wild. score, pennington, 13; bartlett, 0. again pennington kicked off. cateye received the ball and advanced it back twenty yards in a pretty, dodging run. neil tried vainly to enthuse the fallen spirits of his team-mates. they were not playing true to form; they were suffering the slump of the season and during the biggest game! benz was forced to punt again, the eleven not being able to make a first down. gordon & company started another triumphal march toward the coveted goal. this time the progress was easier than before. after each play several bartlett men were seen to hobble wearily to their positions. the strain was beginning to tell. soon the game would become a rout. a fumble! bartlett's ball! the stands came to life. pennington's advance was at least momentarily checked. neil called on benz to carry the ball. he made three yards. neil used him again. benz tore off seven yards around end and bartlett had made its first down! patterson and gary, halfbacks, could gain very little on respective attempts. neil was forced to call on benz to make the yards. benz was good for six. in a fake punt formation benz tried a pass, but norton, pennington right end, intercepted the ball and carried it fifteen yards to the bartlett thirty yard line before being downed. bartlett's slight revival of form was thus ended. there were six minutes left to play of the first half, and pennington meant to have another touchdown. every play was good for a few yards at least. cateye, who had played a wonderful game at left guard, was tiring fast. knapp had chosen the left side of the line to direct a good share of his smashes at and cateye had borne the brunt of the attack. now, after each play, he was the last man to crawl upon his feet, and fall back into his position. pennington fought its way to the seven yard line. there were three minutes left in which to score a touchdown. gordon took the ball, intending to drive his way through cateye's position for a substantial gain. but cateye, calling forth one last, great effort, broke through and tackled gordon for a one yard loss. the crowd gave him a mighty cheer but cateye heard it not. he lay where he had fallen. benz rushed up, knelt down beside him, then motioned to neil. "help me get him to the sidelines, will you? he's knocked out!" someone rushed up with a blanket and pail of water. cateye was carried to the sidelines. the substitutes crowded around. judd pushed them aside. "cateye! pal! wake up! what's the matter?" judd shook him rather roughly. cateye began to come to. "my knee! my knee!" he gasped. judd jerked off cateye's shoe and sock. the bandaged knee was already badly swollen. coach phillips came to cateye's side. "tough luck, old man. you played a great game. judd, take off your sweater. you're going in cateye's place. it's up to you. hold 'em!" "me? naw,--well," judd hesitated, glancing at his room-mate. "go in, judd, and stop that gordon! there's two more downs and two minutes to play. don't let 'em make a touchdown!" cateye pleaded. judd still lingered, uncertain. a strange voice was heard outside the group. "let me in i say! that man was my former room-mate!" "why,--bob billings!" exclaimed cateye, delighted, and forgetting his badly wrenched knee for the moment. "i didn't know you were here!" "just arrived a few minutes before the game started," replied the great bob, reaching out and grabbing his open-mouthed younger brother, "hello, judd! what are you doing standing here? the crowd's calling for you. i supposed you'd gone out. hurry up! don't stop to argue. it's time for play to begin again. i'll see you at the end of the first half. save the game, old man!" without a word judd ripped off his jersey and dashed out upon the field. so bob was here! and cateye laid out! and,--bartlett was being beaten! well, he'd do his best to please bob and cateye, but how could he save the game? "gosh!" thought judd, "the game's lost already!" nevertheless he jumped peppily into cateye's position. just as his presence had inspired the second team so did his presence now cause new life to appear in the varsity. benz rushed up to judd, throwing an arm about his shoulders. what did this mean? another trick? but--no--it couldn't be----! that look in benz's face and then--benz was holding out his hand! judd gripped it in a daze as the stands roared. all this action took place in two minutes time but to judd it seemed like hours. so much had happened in those two minutes! and here judd found himself actually playing in cateye's position, something he had vowed that he would never do! besides this, benz had become his friend. wonder of wonders! but judd had no more time to contemplate. the referee's whistle shrieked, and he became painfully aware that he was in the direct path of the onslaught. he braced himself; hit the opposing line low, and as a mass of legs passed over him he grabbed an armful and hung on. the roar in the stands became a rumble. judd had stopped the great gordon without a gain! he staggered to his feet, a numb feeling in one hand, and benz patting him joyfully on the back. "get him just once more, rube, old man," yelled benz, in his ear, "and it'll be our ball!" judd crouched in his position, his whole being concentrated on one object, gordon. would they use him again? or might pennington resort to some trick play to put the ball across? judd saw knapp look at gordon as he knelt to receive the ball; he saw the ball snapped back; saw gordon dash forward and apparently take it from knapp's hands, plunging into the other side of the line. all was confusion. all were mislead but judd. he burst through his side of the line just as gordon started forward. he saw the fake pass; saw all his team-mates lurch toward the right in a frantic effort to stop the much feared gordon. but above all this he saw knapp, running free, with the ball tucked under his arm! and knapp saw judd, the only obstacle between him and a touchdown. seven yards to go! time almost up! knapp ran straight at judd; then as the rube dove for a tackle, he jumped clear. pennington gave a lusty cheer,--then a groan of dismay, for judd had rolled quickly over and made a frantic grab at the flying feet as they passed him. his right hand came in contact with knapp's right ankle and closed over it like a vice. knapp fell his full length prone upon the ground. such a cheer as went up from the bartlett stands! everyone was on their feet lauding judd. and just then the whistle blew calling time for the first half. it was a much different team that left the field after that last two minutes of play. a new spirit now prevailed. although woefully battered, out-generaled, and outplayed, beaten by a 13 to 0 score, judd's presence had produced the tonic which revived their spirits and restored the punch which had been sadly lacking. benz and neil escorted judd to the sidelines whispering happily in his ears. "you stopped 'em, old fellow! you saved another touchdown! great stuff! just wait until next half!" "say!" exploded judd, ignoring the praise, "that little sucker is a spry one, isn't he? a shoe-string more an' i'd never have caught him!" chapter xviii the second half bob rushed out and greeted judd before he reached the sidelines. "fine work, old man! you're a wonder! i knew you would be if they ever gave you a chance. why, say, it was worth coming a hundred miles just to see those two plays! shake hands, buddy. you don't know how glad i am to see you. hold on, what's this,--blood?" "yep," grinned judd, gazing a bit ruefully at his right hand which was swollen and bleeding. "that big jumbo gordon put his foot on it." "here, let me fix it for you." bob hunted up some tape and bandages. judd sat down in the circle of football men. coach phillips had a kind word for every man. he praised judd especially for his great work during the last two minutes of the first half. the rube's face glowed with pleasure. for the first time he was beginning to feel the college spirit and a great ambition surged up within him for bartlett to win the game. but the word which gave him deepest satisfaction and fired him with determination came from cateye. "i'm proud of you, pal. remember--you're fighting for bartlett and for me!" a tremendous roar swept across the field as the two teams trotted upon the gridiron for the beginning of the second half. judd was given another cheer by the bartlett stands. he seemed totally oblivious of it all. benz shouted to him. "rube, they're cheering you!" "are they?" was the rube's careless rejoinder. the coach had told him to watch gordon and judd intended above all else to follow instructions closely. pennington kicked off. judd watched the ball sail into the air; then realized, with a sudden start, that it was coming to him! he braced himself for the catch. benz and potts shot past him. "follow us!" they shouted. the stands were yelling wildly. judd dodged in behind his interference. he crossed three white chalked lines without trouble. then the interference crumpled and went down in a heap. judd saw a big, dark looking face come close to his own, and eager outstretched arms. instinctively he stuck out his hand and the face vanished. but another and yet another figure loomed up ahead! judd turned to the left hoping to escape, but he was struck by two tacklers, one from each side. he crawled to his feet with team-mates thumping him on the back, and looked about him. the ball was on pennington's forty-five yard line. judd had made a twenty-five yard run! he had barely time to catch his breath. neil was yelling signals and the next play came straight through his position. judd strained every muscle, felt the opposing line give, and saw benz shoot through for a six yard gain. a succession of plays gave bartlett first down! but pennington was fighting desperately. although bartlett rushed the ball to the twenty yard line it went over on downs and pennington punted out of danger. the greater part of the quarter was very evenly contested. the ball changed hands many times, neither team being able to gain consistently. judd's great defensive work, he seeming to be in the heart of every play, helped wonderfully toward breaking the backbone of the pennington offense. in the latter part of the quarter, with the ball in bartlett's possession on the fifty yard line, benz negotiated a pretty twenty yard run around the left end of the line. while making a sharp turn to avoid a tackle, however, benz sprained his right ankle. time was taken out and the ankle bandaged up. this was a serious blow to the team as benz had been called into service extensively to punt bartlett out of danger. he also had been the best ground gainer. the team was again disheartened as they changed goals prior to the playing of the last quarter. judd sensed the drooping spirits of his teammates and called out encouragingly: "never mind that, pals. let's die fightin'. we're not whipped yet!" pole and potts, right end and tackle, respectively, were both badly bruised and exhausted, but game to the core. benz was staying in the line-up though he could scarcely stand. left tackle, oole, playing next to judd, had done nothing for the last five minutes, but fill the gap at his position. the rube had been doing the work of two men most of the quarter. the score still stood, pennington, 13; bartlett, 0. the last quarter opened with harriett's ball on pennington's thirty yard line. now that benz was practically laid out, neil called upon patterson and gary to do the bulk of the work in carrying the ball. bartlett made a slow but steady advance. neil, finding that judd opened big holes on every play, sent most of his plays through that side of the line. benz limped along, helping what he could as interference. the stands were quieter now. the great game was three-quarters over. bartlett had put up a wonderful fight against a much better team, and lost. the penningtonites were just toying with them now, playing a defensive game. but, what's this? the stands came to life with a jump and a howl! neil, quarterback, had taken the ball and dodged through a hole in the line made by judd. he passed by his interference and the pennington linemen. as he did this and entered the open field, gordon, fullback, rushed in and made a clean tackle, hitting neil so hard that the ball was knocked completely out of his grasp. judd, who was following up on the play, saw the ball bound away and was after it. instead of falling upon it he scooped it up and, although tackled by two men, he dragged them the remaining five yards for a touchdown! "rah! rah! rah! rah! rah! rah! rube! rube! rube!" boomed the bartlett rooters. "bully work, rube!" shouted benz. "say,--did you ever try kicking goals? my ankle's no good,--" "well,--i reckon i can if i have to." benz held the ball. judd poised it to his liking. he seemed unconscious of the tremendous ovation the stands were giving him. plunk! the ball whizzed over the goal posts! score, pennington, 13; bartlett, 7. "say!" gasped neil, weakly. "take me out! i'm all in!" the heavy tackle by gordon had shaken him up badly. potts and judd helped neil to the sidelines. "rip 'em up gang! we'll trim 'em yet!" were his parting words. mccabe, substitute quarter, alive with pep and joy at his chance, jumped in at neil's place and helped revive the gathering spirits of the team, exhorting every man to do his utmost. judd kicked off to pennington. mccabe, inspired by his first chance, shot off down the field like a flash, eluding the advance guard, and downing the pennington runner single handed, on his thirty yard line. bartlett was now fully alive and fighting hard but pennington was battling just as stubbornly. pennington made her first down largely due to the work of gordon who went through the right side of the line, three successive times, for big gains. pole and potts had been giving their last ounce of strength to prevent the pennington line from breaking through, but to no avail. a halt was called in the game and two other bartlett subs, thorpe and preston, got their chances. now pennington shifted her attack to the other side of the line and judd, almost worn out, was called upon to give all the power he had to stop further gaining. knapp slipped away for another long run. the ball was on bartlett's fifteen yard line and eight minutes left to play. a fresh man was now sent in to oppose judd, and pennington's determined drive toward the goal resumed. judd had eyes only for gordon. he dropped the big fellow twice as he tore through the line. an attempted forward pass failed. gordon charged through the line for three yards, but this was not enough. the ball went over to bartlett on her nine yard line. benz limped up, and grasping judd by the arm, shouted in his ear: "i'll switch positions with you. you drop back and punt that ball out of danger! punt it hard!" "but i've never punted in a real game!" protested judd. "never mind that! you're the only man that can do it. quick. time's almost up!" judd needed no further urging. he took benz's position. "hold that line, fellows!" he begged, as he held out his big hands for the ball. "get through and block that punt!" screamed knapp. the ball snapped back. the pass came high and judd was forced to jump for it. he saw a form lurch before him and a pair of hands go up. then he kicked. his right toe caught the ball squarely and drove it high and far down the field. when it finally fell, mccabe and thorpe were waiting for the man to receive it and downed him where he stood. everyone in the bartlett stands had risen to their feet. such playing, such a reversal in form, had never before been seen! judd's punt had carried sixty yards! the ball was pennington's on their thirty-one yard line and four minutes left to play! pennington made a desperate attempt to gain but bartlett was growing stronger every second in her effort to recover the ball. even gordon's line plunges were repulsed. now the pennington coach relied on strategy to keep the bartlett eleven from threatening the red and blue goal line in the short time left. he sent in a substitute for the left end who advised knapp to call for a punt. this knapp prepared to do; melvin, pennington punter, dropping back to make the kick. benz saw the action with sinking heart. a long punt now with two minutes left to play meant sure defeat for bartlett, and while they were within striking distance he felt a fighting chance. "break up that punt, fellows!" he pleaded, "you've got to get through and block that punt or the game is lost!" the pennington line braced for what they felt, the final effort. judd, fairly outdoing himself, flung guard and tackle aside and fell through. mccabe jumped over his prostrate body and leaped in front of the kicker. the ball struck him full in the face and bounded over his head to the forty yard line. benz fell on it, joyfully. mccabe, blinking dazedly from the blow, marshalled his battered forces for the last supreme attempt. patterson made five yards on an end run. mccabe had his men up on their feet and into the game immediately after the play. there was no time to be lost! mccabe had been especially drilled in trick plays as coach phillips imagined if he were used at all it would be toward the end of the game. he now worked the first one, a double pass behind the line, benz hurling the ball to gary who shot around left end for fifteen yards. the great crowd had gone mad by this time! timekeepers began consulting their watches. pennington stands entreated their eleven to "hold 'em" while the bartlett rooters shrieked, "touchdown! touchdown!" with half a minute left to play mccabe relied on a great trick play to win. the crowd was making such a noise that he had to call his backs in to give them the signals. he repeated these signals twice to make sure that they were understood, despite each precious second of time. the ball was on pennington's twenty yard line. the success of the play depended largely upon judd and benz, and a complete deception of the opposing line. benz had been hardly more than a mere figurehead in the last quarter and pennington would not be expecting him to carry the ball. mccabe shifted the right side of his line over. the ball was snapped back to benz. judd swung out of the line and raced across as interference. oole filled the gap left by judd with his body, and--before the pennington line realized the trick benz was well on his way toward the goal. the play took nerve, a great amount of nerve, on benz's part. he forced himself to run swiftly, bearing his weight equally on his injured ankle. "catch hold of my belt!" cried judd, as he lurched ahead of him. "i'll take you through!" benz placed his hand on judd's broad back and strove to keep pace with him. he stumbled dizzily across two chalk marks and was vaguely aware of shaking off some tackler from behind. a few more steps. everything was getting black! his hand pushed heavily against the lunging judd, for support. then, directly in front of benz, danced the jeering face of gordon! he felt judd's body slide away from him--lost sight of gordon. there was a dark, struggling mound at his feet! he made a desperate jump and cleared it; fell forward upon his knees; crawled a few paces; then pitched over upon his face. when benz came to himself the great game was all history. a howling mob was upon the field dancing about a huge bonfire which dispelled the falling darkness. a few of his team-mates surrounded him. "if it hadn't been for my sprained ankle, fellows," sobbed benz, "i'd have made that touchdown. i,--i kept up as long as i could but,--but,--" "what are you talking about, man? you made a touchdown!" yelled a bartlett enthusiast. "me! made a touchdown?" benz was recovering fast now. "sure! you crawled over the goal line on your knees!" "zowie!--and then?" "rube kicked goal." "great snakes, ... we won!" benz was too overjoyed and excited to speak. at last, "come on, guys, tell me a little more details. this suspense is awful," he begged. "well," volunteered mccabe, "it was the prettiest play of the game. you and rube got away to almost a clear field. you legged it along all right for ten yards, then you commenced to limp. rube slowed up for you and knapp struck you from behind. but somehow you shook him off and stumbled on. gordon came tearing up and dove at you but judd threw himself between and gordon hit the ground like a ton of bricks. you jumped over the two of them and staggered on. my, but those were anxious seconds! at the three yard line you fell upon your knees and crawled the rest of the distance while three tacklers were beating it up to get you. just as you reached the line all three seemed to hit you at once and knocked you forward. then the whistle blew! when the referee untangled the mess and rolled you upon your back he found you froze to the ball, a foot over the line. talk about a death grip--they had to pry that old pigskin loose! say, benz, after that,--you missed the biggest lot of noise that ever happened!" "tell me about rube," pleaded benz, "my touchdown only tied the score. his kicked goal won the game!" "oh yes," went on mccabe, "you made your touchdown at the right side of the field. time was allowed for the try at goal. rube was forced to attempt the goal kick at a frightful angle. the crowd was making such a demonstration, some people even running on the field, that i don't see how he ever did it. i held the ball for him. he took his time, fixed it just so; then stepped back. he was cool as a cucumber. the pennington bunch glowered at him from between their goal posts. then when the play came the field got suddenly quiet. everyone was standing up holding their breath as rube booted the ball. it sailed up, scraped the goal post, just clearing the bar, and the game was ours! after that, ... skyrockets!" "say! where is rube now?" "heaven knows! a second later the crowd pounced upon him like a tribe of indians. i thought they'd tear him to pieces. they carried him off with them." "the lucky stiff!" laughed benz, but there was no malice in that remark now. the students bearing judd faced about in front of the crackling bonfire. cries of "speech! speech!" came from bartlett rooters. judd sat on their shoulders, blinking from the light of the fire and stage-struck at the sea of flickering, ghostly faces in front of him. "say something, quick!" whispered mccabe, who stood eyeing the rube, proudly. "i'd give a kingdom to be in your shoes now!" "you can have my place for nothin'," offered judd, generously. the crowd quieted down and waited expectantly. the rube was so well known and such a favorite by this time. finally judd calmed himself enough to face the ordeal. he raised his head and looked out over the crowd. "fellows, before i say anythin' more..." he started. but such a flood of laughter and cheering greeted these words that he could get no further. "gee!" complimented mccabe, "you've scored a touchdown from kick-off!" bob and cateye came pushing their way through the crowd, supporting a limping benz between them. "rube ...!" started benz, face beaming. "i ... er ... mean--_judd!_" bartlett's hero of the hour grinned. "no you don't benz ... you mean rube. you couldn't really call me anything else and i wouldn't want you to. i reckon that name fits me best." "all right, then!" conceded benz, cuffing judd playfully, "though i claim i'm really the rube for calling you a rube!" and then cateye said something about the team's planning to make judd next year's captain and bob brought cheers by giving out that he was returning to college next fall. "gosh, that does me out of a room-mate," said judd, suddenly, with a mischievous glance at his brother. "not necessarily," spoke up benz, "what do you say, rube, to ... er ... bunking with me?" benz and judd--room-mates! this would astound the college. "i've been known to talk in my sleep," judd warned, grinning. "_yell_ and see if i care!" accepted benz. and so, feuds ended, there came to one judd billings the tingling realization of what real college spirit meant. it had taken him all this while to get back in step after starting in college on the wrong foot. he had developed so very much in the past few years from a timid, awkward youth at trumbull high who had fought so hard to live up to his brother bob's contract--and later, as a freshman at bartlett, unused to the ways of the fellows but with his old-time fear conquered. but now judd knew, happily, that he was one with all the fellows for a cheer was being proposed in honor of "bartlett's big four"--bob and cateye and benz and--rube! and the ones who were responding to this cheer the loudest were his own team-mates! book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from google books.) recognised athletic warehouse alexander duncan, wholesale jeweller gold and silver badges. holds the largest stock of prize specialities and presentation goods in the city. new designs in badges. unique and artistic. [illustration] all government stamped. at wholesale prices. football and other clubs supplied at prices considerably less than any other house in the trade. patronised by all the leading clubs throughout the country. specimens and prices post free on application. in ordering say whether football or golf badges are wanted. special designs to order. over 100 cups always in stock, 10s. to £30. over 200 gold and silver badges in stock at wholesale prices. compare with others. (one stair up.) 75 buchanan street, glasgow. (one stair up.) * * * * * comfort for the feet. corns and bunions may be removed, and enlarged toe joints reduced, by using thompson's french corn plaster. "it is as thin as silk, and comfortable to the foot. since using thin plaster i can walk almost any distance." lady maude ----. packets 1s. 1½d. each; post free, 14 stamps. ask for thompson's plaster. --> and see you get it. [illustration] * * * * * "good news." thousands of sufferers will welcome the "good news" that nervetonine is a positive, permanent, and safe cure for all nervous affections, nervous exhaustion, nervous debility, mental depression, loss of memory, sleeplessness, and weakness of all kinds. nervetonine will also cure indigestion, constipation, and piles. nerve pains, neuralgia, sciatica, lumbago, rheumatism, etc., instantly relieved and permanently cured with nervetonine bottles 1/9, 2/9 and 4/9, post free, from _sole proprietor_, m. f. thompson, chemist, 17 gordon street, glasgow. 97 princes street, edinburgh. caution. each genuine bottle of nervetonine has m. f. thompson's name on label. sponges, bath gloves, friction gloves, flesh brushes, tooth, nail, and hair brushes, and every toilet requisite at the above address. the trainer of the rangers football team writes: "sir,--i use herbuline extensively, and find it of great value. i have never been disappointed in my results from using it. it is superior to any preparation i have hitherto tried, and i strongly advise those in want of a safe, reliable liniment to give it a trial.--i am, yours respectfully, "ibrox, _february 6th, 1890_. john taylor." neuralgia and tic cured by herbuline in 20 minutes. lumbago " " " 24 hours. toothache " " " momentary. cold feet " " " 5 minutes. rheumatism " " " 24 hours. herbuline is superior to mustard for poulticing. salient points--clean, easily applied, a more endurable heat. no liability to chill after using. it is a wonder to those who use it, and never disappoints in its results. _of chemists and patent medicine vendors_-price 1s. 1½d. net. if posted, 3d. extra. the herbuline manufacturing coy., 67 renfield street. * * * * * waterproofs. gentlemen's coats in all the newest styles and patterns. inverness capes, sleeveless coats, etc. waterproofs for tourists, cyclists, etc. [illustration] travelling requisites. fishing requisites. shooting requisites. lawn tennis, cricket, footballs, shin-guards, etc. _lists on application._ _prices strictly moderate._ north british rubber co., ltd., 106 buchanan street, glasgow. works: castle mills, edinburgh. * * * * * [illustration] ask for henry thomson & co.'s old irish whisky. as supplied to h.r.h. the prince of wales, h.r.h. the duke of connaught, and the houses of parliament. sole agent for scotland-robert brown, 17 hope st., glasgow. * * * * * thomas cook & son, general railway and steamship passenger ticket office, foreign money changers, &c., (tickets for personally-conducted parties and independent travel issued to all parts of the world). 162 argyle street, glasgow. * * * * * allan & stewart, 163 & 165 argyle street. our specialties in gentlemen's outfitting department are-hawick made hosiery, in all weights and sizes, gent.'s knickerbocker hose, gent.'s white and fancy shirts, and our famous serge clothing. corner of st. enoch square, glasgow. * * * * * the emporium for portmanteaus, bags, trunks, and all kinds of travelling requisites. lawn tennis, cricket, football. [illustration] gladstone bags, warranted cowhide, 16", 13/4; 18", 15/; 20", 16/8; 22", 18/4; 24", 20/. saddlery, harness, horse clothing. foreign saddlery a speciality, highland dress sporrans, dirks, skene dhus, brooches, etc. price lists on application. leckie, graham & co., 116 union st., glasgow. * * * * * important to club officials and players. george bell, photographer, 57 argyle street, glasgow. every description of portrait and group work executed in the best style, and on the shortest notice. copies of the 3rd lanark and renton (record) teams can be had on application. price, 3s. plain; 3s. 6d. enamelled. note the address-57 argyle street. * * * * * h. & p. m'neil cricket and lawn-tennis. shirts, white, 3/6, 4/6, 5/6, 7/6, and 10/6 each. shirts, white, laced fronts, 5/6, 7/6, and 10/6. shirts, silk stripes, 8/6 and 10/6 each. trousers, white serge, 7/6, 10/6 and 12/6. caps, velvet and flannel, 6d., 9d., 1/, 1/6, and 2/. belts, all colours, 6d., 9d., 1/, and 1/6. racing knickers, 2/, 2/5, 3/6, 4/6, and 6/6. racing shirts, 1/, 1/6, 2/, 2/6, and 3/6. racing shoes, 7/6 and 9/6. flesh gloves, lawrence's, 5/ per pair. boxing gloves, 7/6, 8/6, and 10/ per set. swimming pants and costumes. send for price lists. * * * * * football. celebrated footballs, buttons and buttonless, guaranteed best cow-hide, 16/6 each. free. m'neil's celebrated footballs, 8/6 each. m'neil's match footballs, 7/6 each. m'neil's practice footballs, 6/6 each. boys' 1, 1/11; 2, 2/11; 3, 3/11; 4, 4/11. knickers, white, 1/6, 2/, 2/6, 3/6, and 4/6. knickers, blue, 2/6, 3/6, and 4/6. shin guards, 1/, 1/6, 2/, 2/6, and 3/6. football boots, 8/6, 10/6, and 12/6. football bags, 4/6, 5/6, 6/6, and 7/6. jerseys, all colours, 1/, 1/6, 1/11, 3/6, and 4/6. send for samples. 91 union street, glasgow (opposite "mail" office). * * * * * football spectators should wear nothing in stylish hats but the pure fur felts, which never crack or break, no matter how many times they are taken off to assist the cheering when a goal is scored. sold at 4s. 6d., 5s. 6d., and 6s. 6d. they are admitted to be the best value ever offered to the public. thomas stewart, the popular city hatter. 71 argyle street (near dunlop street). sign of the clock hat. branches--73 trongate (tron steeple), and at temporary premises, 134 norfolk street. * * * * * scottish football reminiscences and sketches. by d. d. bone _glasgow._ glasgow: john menzies & co., 15 drury street. hay nisbet & co., 25 jamaica street. edinburgh: john menzies & co., hanover street. 1890. * * * * * [illustration] union billiard rooms, 42 argyle street, glasgow. * * * * * largest billiard room in the kingdom. 20 full-sized billiard tables. 1s. per hour. pool every evening * * * * * handicaps. during the season, handicaps, open only to frequenters of the rooms, will be held, and handsome prizes in cash will be given. no entry-money. * * * * * football rendezvous. results of all important matches received by telegram. secretaries of clubs are invited to forward these. * * * * * preface. in bringing my first edition of football reminiscences and sketches before the public, i do so with a sense of profound regard for the game and its players, and heartfelt gratitude to numerous friends--some of whom, alas! are no more--for advice and assistance. if my readers consider it worthy of one who has devoted a quarter of a century in attaining that experience necessary to criticise the players of the dead past and those of the living present with fidelity, i will have gained something to be remembered, and be amply repaid for what i have done to assist the spread of the association game in scotland. many of my sketches, under different names, have already appeared in various journals, including the _daily_ and _weekly mail_, _bell's life in london_, and the "scottish football annual," but i have remodelled some of them very considerably, and indulge in the hope that they may while away an hour or so at the fireside of the player and spectator after a big cup tie or other interesting match. the author. * * * * * waterproofs. caoutchouc. [illustration: thoroughly waterproof] _we are noted for_ superior quality, moderate prices, unrivalled selection. every garment guaranteed. currie, thomson & co., (late thornton, currie. & co.). 43} jamaica street, {43 45} {45 47} glasgow. {47 no. 56. | buchanan street branch | no 56. ladies' saloon. (opposite _herald_ office,) * * * * * telegraphic address--"moses," glasgow. the old-established booking office for tourists, travellers, & emigrants. through tickets issued to all parts of the world, by best lines and at lowest rates. agency for "guion," "national," "cunard," "white star," "american," "inman," "dominion," "anchor," "allan" liners, etc., for the united states and canada at special low rates; also, "currie," "orient," and other lines, for south africa, australia, new zealand, india, and south america. through railway tickets issued at reduced fares to the principal cities and towns in canada and the united states. free land warrants of £20 value granted to queensland passengers. list of sailings, dates, fares, and all particulars on application to moses buchanan, 62 buchanan st., glasgow. * * * * * contents. page i.--football: ancient and modern, 17 ii.--the football wave, 20 iii.--a "sweep for the cup;" or, how pate brown kept his engagement, 21 iv.--famous association players--past and present, 26 v.--the pioneers of association football in scotland; or, "the conqueror's football boots," 63 vi.--how clubs were started long ago, 71 vii.--the great international; or, ned duncan's dream, 73 viii.--the patrons, spectators, and popular players, 79 ix.--a dream of the past, 82 x.--the duel near the football field, 86 xi.--the final tie for the association challenge cup--1889-90, 93 * * * * * aerated waters (corry & co.'s). medal--paris, 1878. gold medals--london, 1873; paris, 1875. medals and diplomas-philadelphia and brussels, 1876. [illustration] since offering to the public in 1850 these delicious and unrivalled aerated beverages, the sole and lasting aim to which messrs. corry & co. have directed all their efforts has been, not to force sales by venturesome and questionable efforts, but by the real fact of the superiority of the beverages they offer to merit universal patronage. judging from the world-wide favour, which they find yearly increasing, and the unprecedented success which has attended their efforts at all the universal exhibitions, or wherever they have competed, this aim (so far attained, and which their experience has proved to be a fundamental principle of success) will be steadily pursued. since 1850 many mere imitators have come and gone, and many still remain; but the public are requested to insist on having corry's waters, not imitations. to be had at all the first-class hotels, restaurants, and from family grocers, wine merchants, chemists, also on board all first-class river and ocean-going steamers, etc., etc. john mercer & co., 16 ann street, glasgow, agents for scotland. * * * * * wallace, the only large maker of sausages in glasgow who has always used first quality only of beef and pork. certified, but not by dr. clark, city analyst. note addresses-273 argyle street, 19 bridge street, 19 wellington arcade, 123 crown street, and 77 paisley road (west). established 1843. john wallace, (late thomas barr), provision merchant, 271 argyle street. established 1835. * * * * * telegraphic address--"football," glasgow. connected by telephone. george gillespie, wine and spirit merchant, 170 dumbarton road, 242 berkeley st., and 9 stobcross st., glasgow. * * * * * brown bros., new central hat warehouse, 195 argyle street (a few doors east of jamaica street), one stair up. felt hats, the very latest shapes and shades to suit gents., youths, and boys. prices, 3/6, 4/6, 5/6, 6/6, and 7/6 silk hats, newest london and paris shapes, 8/6, 10/6, 12/6, 15/6, and 18/6 also at 25 main street, anderston cross, glasgow. * * * * * football reminiscences. _i.--football: ancient and modern._ "then strip, lads and to it, though cold be the weather, and if, by mischance you should happen to fall, there are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, for life is itself but a game at football." --_sir walter scott._ in scotland, so closely associated with traditional lore, and the acknowledged birth-place of romance and patriotic song, it would be almost dangerous to incur displeasure by attempting to refer to the early history of anything associated with the amusements or recreations of the people, without actually touching on tradition--a point held by some in far greater regard and reverence than actual fact. under these circumstances, then, i do not want to run the risk of complete annihilation by ignoring the traditional, and even territorial, aspect of football. that the game was played as early as the tenth century there is any amount of authentic evidence to show, and that it continued to be one of the chief recreations of the people there can be no doubt. coming much further down, however, the game of football is referred to, both by historical and romance writers. in sir walter scott's "lay of the last minstrel," we find that the english and scotch soldiers, in a few hours' actual cessation from skirmishing on the eve of a battle, engaged in "the merry football play." our forefathers, however, must have played the game in rather a rude and undignified fashion, if we can believe certain authorities--actual brute force and superiority in point of weight being the indispensable concomitants of a successful side. the matches, too, must have been played utterly regardless of science. just fancy a couple of crack teams meeting on a heather-covered field, with the "hailing spots" about a mile and a-half apart, and playing a match lasting four or five hours! could any of our young men nowadays stand such rough-and-tumble work? happily it is not required. it has been found that a match lasting an hour and a-half, with the ball ever and anon passing in front of one on a level field, is quite enough, even for the strongest back, half-back, or forward. experience has sufficiently proved that, even in this age of scientific play. so much for the past, and i will proceed to touch briefly on the spread and popularity of football. to those who only know football as promoted by the queen's park, and subsequently by the vale of leven, clydesdale, granville (now defunct), 3rd l.r.v, and lastly, though not leastly, by the scottish football association, we are almost compelled to offer some information. a quarter of a century ago a union was formed in edinburgh to draw up a code of rules to encourage the game of football, and matches were played between schools and other clubs. these rules were a combination of the present association and rugby, dribbling being largely indulged in, but the goal-posts were similar to those now in use under the latter code of rules, and a goal could not be scored unless the ball went over the posts. this game made considerable progress in edinburgh, being vigorously promoted by scholastic clubs and students attending college. some years later, when the number of young gentlemen sent over from england to be educated in scotland, particularly edinburgh, began to increase, these old rules were subjected to considerable alteration, and eventually assimilated to those of the english rugby union, and all the known clubs in scotland at that time adhered tenaciously to these rules, and under them many exciting games were played between eastern and western clubs, the glasgow academicals and edinburgh academicals being the leading ones. eventually, however, the new clubs springing into existence in the western district of the country did not care to play these rules, and, following the example of similar clubs in england, adhered to what they considered an improvement on the old system of football, and joined the english football association, formed in 1863. the first to do this was the queen's park, the mother of association football in scotland, in 1867, and the example was soon followed by the clydesdale, 3rd l.r.v., vale of leven, granville, and others, a few years afterwards. well can i remember witnessing several exciting tussles on the queen's park recreation ground (then the only meeting-place of the premier association club), between the vale of leven, hamilton, east kilbride, clydesdale, granville, and 3rd l.r.v. since then the spread and popularity of the association style of play has been so often written about that it is, so to speak, bound up in the actual history of the western district of scotland. in edinburgh, however, the new rules have not made so much headway, the rugby code being there as extensively played as of yore. some advances, however, have taken place, and the edinburgh university has an association team, and that city several promising clubs, including the hibernian, heart of midlothian, and st. bernard, and, in leith, the athletic, that made such a plucky fight with the queen's park in a recent cup tie. no one, except a close observer, can believe the earnestness and enthusiasm imparted into the game by the formation of young clubs, but there is one danger which should be avoided. there is such a thing as overdoing; and, depend upon it, if this is continued, the game will suffer. to those who love and appreciate everything in season, the advice i am about to impart will be doubly significant. football is a winter game, and while it may be all right to practice in spring and autumn, the line is bound to be drawn somewhere, and why attempt to force it down the throats of cricketers, athletes, yachtsmen, and even lawn-tennis players, in the heart of summer? it must not be forgotten that some of our best and most influential football clubs have also cricket clubs and kindred summer recreations attached, and, in the interests of football, these should be encouraged; and to this end i am confident my remarks will be treated with some respect. i am also sure that no one who has taken a deep interest in the game from its comparative infancy, but can look back with extreme pleasure on its development, and even go the length of registering a vow that he will do his utmost to make and uphold it as an honest and manly game, despite isolated assumptions by a few traducers who question such earnestness, and i will endeavour to point them out, and draw comparisons. "what came ye out to see?" might often be asked by an uninterested spectator who had ventured forth to look at some of the matches. a crowd of young men pursuing a round object, called a ball, with great earnestness of purpose. to the young cad, who can think of nothing but the colour of his latest pair of kid gloves, or the check of his newest acquisition in the shape of fashionable trousers, all out-door amusement is considered an interminable bore, the game of football has, of course, no charm. there is too much hard work for him, and the training required to put one in condition, fraught with all that is called self-denial, he could never endure. the musty old duffer, too, looks upon the game in the light of a deadly sin, which can never be associated in his mind with anything short of idiocy and the most virulent fanaticism. to some of his young men he remarks--"and you call that a grand game, running about a field trying to put a ball near a pair of upright posts, and knocking the first lad down who attempts to retard your progress! do you call that manly, eh? would anyone but a pure lunatic run the chance of getting his shins cut, or collar-bone dislocated, indulging in such work, and donning coloured stockings and fantastic shirt the while to make the matter all the more absurd!" he seems to forget that "all work and no play makes jack a dull boy," and the real meaning of a dull boy and a dull man is irregularity and vexation in the counting-house and office. there are amusements and amusements, and recreations and recreations, but i know of none adapted for the winter months which can be so cheaply indulged in, with so much profit to health, as football. accidents do happen occasionally, i admit, but they are exceedingly few when the number of young men engaged in the game is taken into account, combined with the fact that, last year, some of the leading association matches were played much more roughly than in previous years, it is an astonishing fact that no fatal accident occurred in scotland. there are, of course, many, if the whole truth must be written, whom the exciting and manly game has failed to touch by its magic and fascinating influence, but they should not be courted, and fortunately their patronage is neither sought nor needed, for they are the men most to be avoided on a wintry saturday afternoon while one is on his way to see an exciting "cup tie." depend upon it, they will allure you to some haunt where the language is not even so choice as where the "final" is being played between two leading clubs. i am fully convinced that when the game was first improved and adapted to stand side by side with others requiring both pluck and skill, the thought never entered the heads of its promoters that some of the laws might be abused, not used. unfortunately, such is too true, and the sooner these things are discouraged the better. the old precept about warriors feeling a stern joy when they knew they were opposed to foemen worthy of their steel, should never be forgotten by the biggest back, half-back, or the smallest forward. to put it in another way, gentlemanly conduct towards an opponent in the field is pleasing to see, and, indeed, civility is worth much, and costs nothing--only a small effort of self-denial. in this enlightened age, the nation who crows too much over a vanquished foe is naturally detested, and why should not this spirit regulate the game of football? if this were carefully remembered during the season, there would undoubtedly be such a close bond of fellowship and good feeling amongst football players that nothing could disturb. and again, i cannot allow the present opportunity to pass without protesting against a practice, now, unfortunately, too largely followed by a section of the spectators who turn out to all the big events--viz., betting. about as long as i can remember, and it may be before football, perhaps, was played, many an honest wager was made by the leaders in all out-door sports that they would be the victors, but the practice, i have been assured, never went further. now it is quite a common thing to see cash dancing about a ring of spectators at a big match, and often the loss of cash to certain individuals means a proportionate loss of temper, and the practice is all the more to be deplored. it is for this end, it is for this avowed purpose, that one and all connected with its development and culture, will strive to their utmost to ennoble and raise football to a higher and purer level, and consequently discourage, by every legitimate means, betting in all its phases, and the slightest tendencies amongst the players who take part in the various matches towards rough play, and a disposition to indulge in unnecessary charging. _ii.--the football wave._ like dogberry's idea of certain kinds of novel writing, both association and rugby football seem to come to the scotchmen by nature. my readers can, perhaps, easily remember the clever _jeu d'esprit_ on the antiquity of the gaelic tongue which appeared several years ago advocating the claims of that race as lisping the first "speech" heard in eden in a manner that must have stirred the blood of professor blackie. as the history of association football, with which i have only to deal under the present circumstances, is so well-known and a thing of yesterday, its origin, like that of the gaelic language, is not shrouded in mystery, but actually known (or should be known) to all who take an interest in the game. in my previous article, i tried to trace the origin of football in its rudest form as played by our forefathers, when goal-posts and bars, to say nothing of corner-flags, were unknown. football now, however, has been reduced to something like a scientific game, and to the credit of england be it said, the association rules there first saw the light. scotch players in the western district soon emulated their southern brethren, and from the parent club, which had a humble and unassuming origin on the recreation ground at queen's park, sprang hundreds of clubs, spreading over the length and breadth of the land with remarkable rapidity. the wave soon rolled all over glasgow and suburbs, submerged the whole country, and eventually invaded the heart of midlothian itself, where the rugby code had hitherto reigned supreme. the schoolboys who played cricket and rounders in the summertime came out on a wintry afternoon to see their seniors engaged in association football, and soon felt the desire creep over them to be members of a club containing lads like themselves. the young men engaged in the city all day thought on the health-imparting exercise it afforded, and had the necessary funds raised to form a club. the artisans, too, from the dusky foundry, the engineer shop, and the factory, soon began to dribble about. the young ones, and even the seniors themselves, had many a collision with mother earth ere they could rely on keeping their pins with any degree of accuracy, and it was rare fun to see a bearded man turning a somersault as he missed the ball in trying to make a big kick. football is easily acquired in so far as the rudimentary part is concerned, but a great deal of probation is required to convert one into a crack player. among those who now practice football, and their name is legion, the superior players can be numbered in (to give it a wide scope) hundreds. in fact, to be able to master all the details requisite to win a first-class match, one has to be capable of dribbling, middling, heading, and passing in a way that would do credit to solving a complicated problem in euclid. it is all very well to talk about brute force and lasting power, but unless these are accompanied by scientific application, they are worth little, and cost much. "the race is not always to the swift," says the old proverb. in at least eight cases out of ten, the match is to the scientific and careful, but of this more anon. there is one thing that can be said about football which in the nature of things must recommend it to all lovers of out-door exercise. of late years bicycling has obtained a great deal of popularity all over the three kingdoms, both for its usefulness as a speedy means of conveyance, and exercise to the limbs, but that it has its drawbacks has just been made apparent by undisputed medical authority. "the bicycle back," the effect of hard work on the "iron horse," is beginning to appear on the handsome young man who thinks nothing of doing his 50 miles a day, and while walking occasionally with the young lady with the "grecian bend," the contrast in his case is amusing. to say that there are no dangers of any kind attached to football would be making an assertion which i cannot substantiate, but these are comparatively few. all sports, of whatever kind, have the elements of danger attached to their pursuit, but, with great care, these can be reduced to a minimum. although i have certainly never observed the round-shoulders of the bicyclist in the football player, i have not unfrequently seen the "football leg." that is a series of cuts about the shin bone, administered by a vicious opponent while (as it generally happens) playing a "cup tie," and last season they were more plentiful than ever. in fact, i heard from the lips of a member of one of the crack clubs that in not a few of the ties they retired from the field "greatly impressed with the unmistakable signs of muscular ability shown by their opponents." this means most undoubtedly hacking and tripping, under the guise of tackling, and if association football is to go on and prosper such disgraceful acts of tyranny on the football field must forever cease. these "accidents" can, of course, be avoided, and as there are distinct rules forbidding them, clubs would do well to see that these are rigidly enforced. _iii.--a "sweep for the cup;"_ or, _how pate brown kept his engagement._ "what do you say, old fellow, about a 'sweep for the cup.' why, a 'sov.' is nothing to the like of you, and there will be such fun at the lifting." this was said to me one morning about nine, just as i was preparing to get my shaving utensils into working order before turning out to the warehouse. pate brown used to make fun of me about my scanty hirsute appendages, and many a time caused me to blush before sundry members of the druids when he emphatically declared that i was one of those effeminate individuals who shaved, not because they had whiskers, but because they hadn't. this was in september, and a more open year for the respective chances of the clubs in the cup had, perhaps, never come round. i was unattached then. i was, in fact, neither a member of the druids nor the nomads, but simply a friend of both, and an enthusiastic admirer of the game. my big brother angus, it is true, was one of the best men in the conquerors, and he and i sometimes had animated discussions about the respective merits of the clubs. "why, jack, this is only september, it will be more sensible for us to postpone the affair till after the preliminary ties. a lot of chaps to whom i have spoken consider it next to nonsense to draw the 'sweep' so soon." after a great deal of talking and another meeting, it was agreed to go right ahead with the "sweep," and accordingly the necessary arrangements were duly made, and subscribers' names taken, as well as their cash. the warehouse of ball & field was the largest in the whole city. their trade connection extended to every known country on the face of the globe. there was a decided charm about the way in which the firm did business, and the kindly, not to say considerate manner, in which they treated employés, who really deserved it. the two leading members of the firm, in fact, were not insignificant prototypes of dickens' cheeryble brothers (with the exception that they were both married). i verily believe that in an hour's notice a couple of excellent teams could have been picked from the house to make a decent match of it anywhere. the senior himself was an enthusiastic admirer of the game, and one way or another did much to encourage it by his presence on the field at all the big matches, and if any of the lads, such as myself, brown, rose, wilson, or m'nab wanted away to play in a big affair, a hint reaching the governor's ears to that effect was amply sufficient. the manager, however, was of a different sort, he hated football like poison. he even relegated the grand game to a pastime suitable for pure and unadulterated lunatics, those, as he put it, "who were too daft to get into gartnavel." fancy that! woe betide the unfortunate half-back or forward, who in a weak moment relied on the magnanimity of "sour plums," as he was called, to let him off to a match, without first consulting the governor himself. sometimes m'nab forgot to do so, and as his club were frequently in great straits to get him to play, he had to steep his brains to think on a strategic movement to get free, and succeeded; but sometimes with the aid of a "crammer." brown, for reasons best known to himself, but which will duly come out as my story advances, was very anxious to be at the "draw," and accordingly duly appeared at the marie stuart hall, crosshill. there were a lot of pale faces in the room when pate drew the queen's park, dick wallace the "vale," bill weldon, dumbarton, and sandy m'bean the rangers. a rosy-cheeked, country-looking lad belonging to the q.p. drew cowlairs, and a general titter ran through the august assembly when that same lad remarked, "he was quite satisfied with his draw, the other crack clubs notwithstanding." tom vincent got kilmarnock athletic, alf. grant the clyde, blower fleming drew the heart of midlothian, and bill fairfield the hibernian. i was unlucky enough to secure one of the many insignificant clubs who never survived the first round, and so my "sov." was a dead letter. the entire "sweep" came to a fine round sum, as the subscribers included a good many of the rank and file of football enthusiasts, and even two "football-daft" members of the upper strata of the glasgow police force, and three of the fire brigade, went the length of taking a couple of tickets. there was also luke wood, the representative of the "kick-off," who knew a thing or two about the game. he was in for a pair of tickets, too, and drew the invincible and morning star. he was thoroughly disgusted at the prospect (more particularly as he had been one of the leading hands in getting up the "sweep"); but, as the yankees say, he gradually "cooled himself down," and got thoroughly reconciled to his loss. the cowlairs had to play the queen's park in one of the ties, and a determined tussle it turned out to be. the "boys" bore a wild look that afternoon as they emerged from the pavilion at hampden park. you could read the anxious and determined character of their mission on every face. they had fully made up their minds to fight hard for the cup, and really they did. several of the team were big powerful fellows whom not a few cautious half-backs would think twice before "going for," and two of the forwards were very smart on their pins, but wanted that true mastery of the art of passing and dribbling at the proper time which make up the refined and superior association player. as for endurance, they did not toil among iron wheels, steel axles, and brass fittings for locomotives, to say nothing of generating steam on the shortest notice, without being "hardy." no, no. they were in the best of condition for the game. the queen's took them too cheaply, and nearly paid a lasting penalty for their carelessness. the game, in fact, was so closely fought that the teams were unable to overcome one another, and two goals each was the result. meeting a second time, however, the q.p. made short work of them, and won by nine goals to none. the evening before the memorable tussle which put the half of dumbartonshire into a state of excitement, bordering on the football fever, "mary, the maid of the football inn," came to the door of the little hotel repeatedly, and after casting sundry glances at the roadway and scanning the passers-by, muttered something about being jilted, and how shamefully she had been used by bob. her own bob, who was always so punctual, and occasionally treated her to a nice walk along the leven, past ewing's big work, and even went the length of composing verses in her honour. "what had become of him? had nancy pringle waylaid him, as she positively swore she would do, on the first opportunity, and start the probationary stages of a drama in real life?" the fact was bob never came, and no wonder. he was collared by the dumbarton captain, and carried off to the field to practice for the great fight of the next day, under pains and penalties. he pleaded for mary, but it was of no avail. "he had," he went on to remonstrate, "promised on his word of honour to meet her that evening and take her to luckie m'latchie's booking." luckie and tam m'murtrie (an old footballer) were to be spliced a fortnight afterwards, and the "cries" were in. with a serious air the captain lectured bob till he was blue in the face, and told him if he did not put himself in condition for the great battle of the morrow he would be stoned by the town enthusiasts. he remembered when a boy at school scribbling as best he could on his copybook, "discretion is the better part of valour," and the sentence flashed across his heated brain with all the force of actual conviction. "what was he to do?" "was it to be football first, and mary afterwards?" something whispered "yes; mary could afford to wait, but the 'cup' was a transitory article, and the splendid chance his club had of winning it might pass away like a dream." "why, there was joe laidlay, he was in something like the same dilemma so far as his 'lass' was concerned, and if joe, he thought, could afford to put off his sweetheart, maggie jackson, in the same way, he (bob) considered that he should be able to conclude the arrangement, and make the best excuse to mary." quietly speaking, bob had an ambition in his football, and it consisted in being a member of the eleven who would at one time or another "lick" the queen's park, and went into the practice game with his whole heart, and played all through in good form. just a year or so before this the "vale" would have given the same dumbarton lot short shift and no favour on any of the grounds, but matters were altered. they wanted a lot of their old blood, which had in years gone bye carried them through many a doubtful battle. they had lost their grand goalkeeper, and the crack half-back had vacated his favourite position to keep the ball from going between the uprights in "time o' need." some of the daring forwards had also bade farewell to the game, and were scattered over the length and breadth of the land. the match, however, had to be played--it would brook no delay--and the spirited captain resolved to make the best of it, although a score of misgivings passed through his mind as to the issue. there was one thing in favour of the "vale," they had their own ground to play upon, and that was reckoned as worth a goal any day. before the start johnny freer told his old chums to keep their "weather eyes" open for sudden rushes by the dumbarton forward division, and before the game was very old, they discovered that the advice did not come a moment too soon. keeping close on the touch lines till well down among the half-backs, maclure and his light companion, "the bird," assuredly did not allow the grass to grow under their leather bars. the ground was a little sloppy from the recent rain, but, strange to say, the dumbarton men seemed to keep their feet in a remarkable manner. m'luckie and big walton tried their very best to intercept the dribblers, but at times they were completely mastered, and dick wallace had to come away from his place at back and assist. the most of the dumbarton lads were much faster on the ball than the "vale," and this, added to a slice of luck, aided them in scoring twice, and they consequently won a hard battle by two goals to none, and earned the proud distinction of being the champions. after the great crowd had dispersed, and lots of silver had changed hands, a solemn silence reigned in that part of the pavilion utilised by the "vale." "there is no use denying the fact, chaps," said the captain of the defeated team, "these fellows have beaten us on our form this season, and we'll have to make the best of a bad bargain." not so, however, in the other end of the house. the victors were "blowing" a good deal of the bad luck they had had, and how they ought to have scored a dozen goals if "sandy had not repeatedly allowed the ball to graze the goal-posts, instead of attempting to kick it out. they had, however, beaten the 'vale,' and that was all they cared for, in the said tie. the rangers they declared they did not fear, and from all they could hear, they were now quite able to meet the queen's park face to face." with the rangers, however, they had just sufficient to do on their own ground in the first match, but in the second came off victorious by five goals to one. one saturday evening we took forcible possession of jack cook's lodgings, which were situated near the marie stuart hall, crosshill. jack was very fond of billiards, and sometimes pocketed several "pools" of an evening, when a few choice spirits congregated in "the rooms." jack's landlady had frequently threatened him with pains and penalties for treating anything approaching "elders' hours" with contempt, and once intensified it to instant dismissal, bag and baggage, for encouraging a lot of his chums in leading the chorus of dickens' bacchanalian song: "we won't go home till morning, till morning, till morning, we won't go home till morning, till daylight doth appear," at four o'clock a.m., under her kitchen window after a big cup tie, which the conquerors had won. jack, as a matter of precaution warned us that we were to comport ourselves with decency, and not rouse the aforesaid lady. our friend had something in the bottle. we were comfortably seated, and the room filled with tobacco smoke, when a dim shadow was noticed at the door, and turned out to be willie fairfield, of the flying blues, who had just called to let us know he had received a telegram from edinburgh announcing the defeat of the hibernian in the protested match with dumbarton, by six goals to two. willie, it may be mentioned, had drawn the hibernian in our "sweep," and was, i may inform all concerned, well pleased with his luck when the ticket came out the bag; but now much crestfallen. bill weldon, however, who had secured dumbarton in the same drawing, jumped off his chair at the success of the club he had secured, and remarked--"look here, boys, dumbarton are just about good enough to win the association cup, and i'll take evens on't." "done," said a chorus of voices, and mrs. blank's parlour was for a few minutes transformed into a betting house on a small scale. we had a long chat as to the respective merits of the rangers and dumbarton, who were to play their tie over again, in consequence of some informality, and after draining jack's bottle, were accompanied to the door with solemn injunctions not to kick up a row on the stairs. weeks passed after this little incident, and the clubs left in our "sweep" were getting small by degrees and beautifully less. the rangers, partick, south-western, northern, 3rd l.r.v., arthurlie, kilmarnock portland, alexandra athletic, thornliebank, heart of midlothian, and even the plucky little clyde were cleared off the list, and the queen's park had their own ado with kilmarnock athletic, and only beat that sturdy ayrshire club by three goals to two. all that now remained in the tie, in fact, were q.p. and dumbarton. it was weldon and pate brown for it now, and both began to dream of a good pocketful of "sovs." pate, who was engaged to charming little lizzie green, had been living very carefully for a time in prospect of shortly calling lizzie his own, was only now a casual visitor to cook's lodgings. one evening, on his way home from ball & field's, pate began to reckon up his chances of winning the "sweep." "one hundred and five subscribers at a 'sov.' a-piece," said he, "why that makes £105. the odd 'fiver' will pay all the expenses, and if the q.p. win the cup, why all that will be mine. oh! glorious q.p., invincible q.p., you must and shall win the cup," raved excited pate. "lizzie, my own dear lassie, i have not told you about my speculation, nor will i till the tie is over, and we'll get married this summer yet." i do not intend to weary my readers with a detailed account of the final cup ties, for everybody knows there were two played. in the first, when the clubs tied, and dumbarton had the best of the game, little pate brown nearly lost his senses with excitement, and had frequently to lean heavily on the shoulder of lizzie green to prevent him from falling under the grand stand. "what is it, dear, that makes you so terribly pale at a match?" she said to him in a gentle whisper. "you must be ill, for i have never observed you so excited before." little did the young lady imagine what was at issue, and the cause of pate's nervousness; but she knew afterwards, and had a jolly laugh over it in her own tidy little house at govanhill. who does not remember the real final tie on cathkin park? such a match will, perhaps, never be seen in scotland again. how both queen's park and dumbarton played with all the force and dash they could command, and how at length the queen's park were the conquerors, and pate brown won the double prize. a few nights afterwards pate received one hundred sovs. (there were no second and third prizes) in the "marie stuart," and when he told the young fellows assembled that he was about to get wed to lizzie green, every soul of them (not even excepting bill weldon himself, who had drawn dumbarton in the speculation, and lost a few "sovs." on them too), congratulated him on his choice, and called pate a "lucky dog." they all knew and admired the neat little girl who, among other blithe and gentle faces, turned out to see the leading football matches, to cheer the players when they won, and chaff them when they lost. they were married--pate brown and lizzie green--and in presence of his old club companions, whom he had invited to spend an evening at his new house, pate told the simple story of how he had got married to his little darling a year sooner than he expected, all through drawing the queen's park in a "sweep for the cup." _iv.--famous association players--past and present._ little did the comparatively small but orderly group of enthusiastic spectators who met around the ropes at hamilton crescent ground, partick, eighteen years ago, to witness the first international association match, imagine the ultimate development of the association style of play in scotland, and in after years the triumphs which awaited her sons in contests with england. i was present, and shall never forget the manner in which the teams--both scotch and english--acquitted themselves, and made a drawn game of it. ~the five dead internationalists.~ the ranks of the past crack players are beginning to get thinned by the common enemy of mankind. when i think of the busy feet, blithe and happy faces, and merry voices that joined in the game twenty years ago, a sense of sadness comes over me which it is difficult to dispel. "the first international, sir;" yes. five of the gallant eleven who fought scotland's battle are dead. poor gardner, smith, weir, leckie, and taylor, football players, have cause to remember thee! it was a hard struggle to keep up football in those days, and as there were no club funds all the items of expenditure had to be brought forth from the capacious pockets of the members. they loved the game, however, those primitive players, and engaged in it for its own sake, without ever thinking of reward. in the words of a great poetess, "we shall sing their praise ere long;" and while it may be thousands of dribblers of the present never heard their names, it is but right that the young ones should not forget what they owe to the association football pioneers. yes, the boys of the old brigade are falling out of the ranks in which they served so well, never to muster again on this side the grave; while others, still toiling on, are "scattered far and wide, by mountain, stream, and sea." ~joseph taylor.~ the admitted chief of the five who have gone to their rest was joseph taylor. of a quiet and unassuming disposition, blended with remarkable firmness, no man who captained the queen's park was so much respected both on the field and in private life. none hated unfair or rough play more. he could not endure it in a club companion, and this was particularly so if his team were playing a comparatively junior combination. taught in the early school of association football, when the rules were much more exacting than they are now, he had, along with his colleagues in the queen's park, to fight their preliminary battles, and overcome the prejudices consequent on introducing the "reformation," so to speak, in football. taylor developed into a first-class back when comparatively young, and was chosen to play for his club against england in 1872, when the queen's park met that country single-handed, and played a drawn contest. considering his light weight, he was a fine tackler, returned very smartly to his forwards, and, possessing remarkable speed, completely astonished an opponent by clearing the ball away before the forwards of the opposing club were able to obtain any advantage. he had always a kind and encouraging word to young players, and in 1875 and 1876 was chosen captain of the scotchmen, and played, in all, five times against england. he died in govanhill about three years ago. ~robert gardner.~ as the first captain of the queen's park in the international of 1872, and also chosen to that post next season in london, gardner, who has also joined the great majority, was the most extraordinary player of his day. he was so versatile that i have seen him at work in all the different positions of the field--goalkeeper, back, half-back, and even forward--but it was as a goalkeeper that he excelled. a very indifferent kicker out in front, when the ball came up, he sometimes made mistakes with the feet; but when i remember the brilliant men who have since stood between the posts in internationals and final cup ties, each in their line famous, i must confess that none ever used their hands and weight to greater advantage than gardner. possessing a peculiarity of temper which had much of the scotchmen's sturdy independence, he had a difference with some of his friends, and left the queen's park to join the clydesdale, and did much to assist that club to attain at the time the second position in scottish association football. members of both clubs will not easily forget the manner in which gardner kept goal for his new combination against the queen's park in a cup tie, when three matches had to be completed before the senior club won. he retired from the game some time before his death, which took place at south queensferry a year and a half ago. ~james e. weir.~ who could dribble and keep possession of the ball like weir? in a football sense he was in everybody's mouth sixteen years ago, when crack forwards were few, and neat dribblers fewer. in all the contests the queen's park engaged in for ten years, none was more popular among the spectators, and emulated by the then young generation of players, than weir. he always worked on the right side, and with william m'kinnon, angus mackinnon, h. m'neil, t. lawrie, and t. c. highet for companions, the exhibition of dribbling and passing, with the six forwards, was finer than is the case now with the five. the ball had then to touch the ground after being thrown in straight from the line before being played. under those circumstances, heading by the forwards was never seen in the field, unless after a corner-flag kick. well can i remember the match at hampden park against the london wanderers, whom the queen's park defeated by six goals to none, when weir, being tackled by the hon. a. f. kinnaird and c. w. alcock, put his foot on the ball, shook off the two powerful englishmen, and made a goal. the sad news only arrived lately from australia, whither weir had gone some years ago, of his demise. deceased played in two internationals, including that of 1872, and no finer dribbler ever toed a ball. he was, in fact, at the time designated the "prince of dribblers." ~joseph leckie.~ in every condition of life, no matter the sphere in which one is placed, he has his own peculiarities, and, in a football sense, leckie, above all the gallant throng who have disappeared for ever from the field, had his. comparatively short of stature and powerfully knit together, with splendidly moulded limbs, leckie was one of the most tenacious forwards. while dribbling past an opponent with the ball at his toe, his peculiarity asserted itself in such a way that, once seen, could never be forgotten. weir, smith, w. m'kinnon, h. m'neil, and, later on, fraser, highet, and richmond, among the army of forwards brought out by the queen's park; to say nothing of m'lintock, m'intyre, and baird (vale of leven), j. r. wilson and anderson (clydesdale), t. vallance and p. campbell (rangers), and a. kennedy and j. hunter (3rd l.r.v.), of whom i will say something later on, had all their imitators in the younger clubs, but leckie had none. he was, in fine, a player by himself. when he obtained possession of ball, he guarded his body with extended arms drooping from his side, with the back of his hands in front of the thighs, and thus formed a barrier to an opponent who attempted to tackle or take the ball from him. he took part in the first international. he died about three years ago in south africa. ~james smith.~ the least known, perhaps, of the original international men, but one whose name will ever be honoured by many of the older school of players, and locally queen's park members, is mr. james smith, who died some years ago in london. mr. smith was, in conjunction with his brother robert, early associated with the game in scotland, and was an original member of the queen's park. mr. archibald rae, the first secretary of the scottish football association, and at one time an active member of the queen's park (and a beautiful dribbler in his day), tells an amusing anecdote of smith, while playing against the hamilton club, leaping on the top of a hedge to win a touch-down, which in those days counted a point in the game. this entirely coincided with poor smith's play, as he was sometimes very impetuous. he played in the international of 1872 as a forward. ~william m'kinnon.~ dealing now with the past players who are with us in the body, for a long series of years, and, indeed, till within a short period of retiring from the field, no centre forward of his day, and very few since, have equalled m'kinnon in that trying position. when the 3rd lanark rifle volunteers started the dribbling game on the old drill ground at govanhill, or rather when that small burgh was "no man's land," m'kinnon was one of its most active players. it is in connection with his membership of the queen's park that i wish to recall incidents in his career. in 1874 i made my way over to the south-side park to witness a match between the queen's and the vale of leven. association football was then a very insignificant affair--the rugby code, with such fine clubs as the glasgow academicals and west of scotland as exponents--engaging all the public attention. the game was free to all. "ladies and gentlemen, no charge for admission. come and see our game. kick-off, 3.30." well, m'kinnon, along with the rest of the team, emerged from the old toll-house, close by, to meet their gallant opponents, and mr. parlane, of the vale of leven (who kept goal so well for that club in many of her best matches), "chaffed" the q.p. man in amusing manner about his boots (see "the conqueror's football boots"), which were new, and differed considerably from the style then worn by players. all through the contest, which, by the way, was drawn, with no goals on either side, m'kinnon was a little stiff, and scarcely played so well as was his wont. he never discarded his old companions, however, and those very boots in after years kicked many a goal both in internationals and final cup ties. as an indication, in fact, of his genuine ability, he was chosen to play against england oftener than any man in scotland, with the single exception of mr. charles campbell, who was selected no fewer than ten times as a half-back. mr. m'kinnon was engaged in eight, including the first, and in these his country was victorious four times, and two were drawn matches. as a centre forward has to bear the brunt of an attack from the opposing side first, m'kinnon was the very man to lead on the advance guard. his pluck was immense; and while he rather delighted to dodge an opponent and leave the charging to his backer up, he was a close and beautiful dribbler; could play a hard match without any outward signs of fatigue, and no man before or since could take a corner-flag kick like him. he used to practice this kick, and could place the ball within a few inches of the spot aimed at. mr. m'kinnon is still in our midst hale and hearty, and when a good thing in football is announced he generally turns out to see his favourite game, and is not afraid to criticise the form shown by his successors. ~david wotherspoon.~ mr. wotherspoon was early associated with the queen's park; indeed, one of the original members, and did much in his day for football. when the senior club found it a matter of difficulty to get up an eleven to play in the country, some times at east kilbride (for you must know that important agricultural centre had a club nearly twenty years ago), alexandria, and hamilton, wotherspoon and gardner were generally the first volunteers. there were no fares paid in those primitive days out of club funds, and each individual had to square up his own account, like the scottish cricketer of the present. although retired now for a number of years, and out of the run of the game, wotherspoon, who is in business in the city, is always delighted to hear of its development, and proud of what he did in his youth for it. if ever a man had neatness of style, combined with gentlemanly conduct to an opponent on the field, it was wotherspoon. considering the fact that he was a light-weight, under 10st., he many a time astonished both opponents and spectators by his magnificent returns at half-back, and i may mention, in passing, that in a match at hampden park i actually saw him kick a ball from the centre of the field right through the goal--a feat that very few of our younger half-backs could accomplish now. as i saw him in two internationals (1872-73), however, it was not as a half-back, but as an accomplished forward, dribbling with great judgment, and passing in a most unselfish way. mr. wotherspoon left the queen's park to join the clydesdale a short time after his old companion gardner, and the two were associated with that club when it numbered among its members such fine players as messrs. f. anderson, g. m. wilson, j. r. wilson, w. wilson, j. p. tennent, j. m'pherson, w. gibb, j. t. richmond, and david's brother, j. wotherspoon. in the first of the long string of matches which have been played between sheffield and glasgow, dating back to 1874, mr. wotherspoon was one of the players; and it may be mentioned that, in the same contest, the glasgow representatives were made up entirely of queen's park and clydesdale men, and that each city scored a couple of goals. ~james j. thomson.~ no player among the half-backs of the old school was so much thought of in association football as thomson. once seen and met by an opponent, he could never be forgotten. tall and stern in appearance, he carried every pound of his heavy weight with the greatest ease, and, what was of more consequence to his club in a hard battle, used it well. he tackled with consummate skill, and had remarkable confidence in himself. for the first three years of his membership no player ever turned out more regularly to practice, and, for a stout man, none could show an opponent a cleaner pair of heels. all the time he was available in the queen's park, an international without thomson as one of the half-backs was out of the question, and for three seasons (1872-73-74), he was selected for that post against england. in the last event, when scotland won at partick by two goals to one, the brilliant manner in which thomson played will not easily be forgotten by those who witnessed the contest. while f. anderson (clydesdale), and a. mackinnon (queen's park), scored the goals for scotland, thomson never worked harder in his life, and when the english forwards got near his side, he rarely, if ever, failed to take the ball away from them. just before leaving for manchester, mr. thomson was chosen captain of the glasgow eleven against sheffield. some years ago he went to liverpool, and is now secretary of the extensive butcher business of eastmans company (limited). in addition to his ability as a football player, mr. thomson was a splendid sprinter, and carried off a large number of prizes both in glasgow and edinburgh. ~william ker.~ mr. william ker was captain of the queen's park when they leased their first private ground, and did much by his tact and ability to bring on our senior club to seek new conquests in england. mr. ker--of whose brother george i shall have occasion to refer by and by--was a most gentlemanly young fellow, and made himself respected by club companions and opponents alike. in the early history of the game a half-back, and even back, did not consider it _infra dig._ to dribble a bit and bring up the ball to goal, provided the match was against a much weaker club, and while ker was a grand back and beautiful kicker with his left foot, he was also an accomplished dribbler. in a match he never lost sight of the ball for a moment, and when any of his team made a mistake in following up, ker frequently stepped into the breach himself, and did his best to get the player out of a difficulty. he was too gentlemanly to upbraid a member of the team on the ground, like some captains now-a-days, but awaited an opportunity, and the advice imparted generally did the careless player a world of good. in the famous match at partick in 1872, ker showed some very fine play, both in clever tackling and returning the ball; and, if i mistake not, he was opposed on the opposite side by the english captain (mr. c. j. ottaway, since dead), and the manoeuvring between the pair was something to be remembered. mr. ker did not play very long after this game, as he left glasgow for canada. ~robert smith.~ unlike his brother in the manner of his style, mr. robert smith was not by any means an impulsive player, but took in the situation quietly; and while no man ever worked harder in the field, or did more for a club, he was not what could be called a brilliant forward. the brothers, however, did well in the international i have referred to, and considerably helped the eleven to make a drawn battle of it. it may be mentioned that both were then also members of the south norwood club (one of the best in england at that time), as they had previously left scotland for london. mr. robert smith, so far as i am aware, is now in the united states. ~alexander rhind.~ a rare but light dribbler was mr rhind. one of the old members of the queen's park, and associated with men whose names i have already mentioned in its early struggles, he knew, if i may be allowed to use a simile which is likely to force a smile, what football poverty was, for is it not a fact that he was a member of the q.p. finance committee when the annual subscription was _sixpence_, the yearly income £3 9s. 8d., and as the expenditure amounted up to £4 2s. 4d., the deficit of 12s. 8d. had to be made up by a levy? i never remember mr. rhind playing in a match after the international. he is now in aberdeen. ~the first final cup tie.~ the first final association cup tie, on hampden park, i remember well. the clubs fated to meet each other were the queen's park and clydesdale, and the match, considering the fact that the players were comparatively young in the practice of the dribbling game, proved a very fine one indeed. it was on a saturday afternoon in the middle of march, 1874, and a crowd of fully 2000 spectators attended. the hampden park of to-day, with its splendid pavilion and accessories, and beautifully laid-off turf, was not then conceived in the minds of the match committee. it was the hampden park of yore, now cut up to form a railway embankment. mr. hon. secy. rae and his companions in office never for a moment imagined that in sixteen years afterwards the new ground, which is crowded nearly every saturday afternoon with excited spectators, would be made to satisfy the cravings of a football public, and the exigencies of athletic life. there was no such thing as a pavilion then, only a kind of "wee house" at the gate end of the field, for all the world like an overgrown sentry-box, did duty instead. the grass on the field was not even cut in some places, and at the top corner-flag was long and turfy. the spectators, however, of whom a large number were ladies, enjoyed it very much, and the enthusiasm imparted among the youths who were present had a wonderful effect on the spread of the game. it was thought that a draw was inevitable, so well did both sides play till within twenty minutes of the finish, when mr. wm. m'kinnon scored a goal for the senior club, and this was followed by a second from the foot of mr. leckie, not long before no-side was announced, leaving the q.p. the winners by two goals to none. i must, however, go back a little way and say something about the ~association challenge cup,~ which has caused a new order of things to arise in scottish football. well, during the previous year, and, in fact, not long after the first international at partick, new clubs were formed in many quarters, but more particularly glasgow and dumbartonshire, and it was on march 13, 1873, that the queen's park convened a meeting of representatives of clubs, and what is now known as the scottish football association was formed. eight clubs responded, and created the great association. the eight, who deserve much honour at the hands of players, were:--queen's park, clydesdale, vale of leven, dumbreck, eastern, rovers, 3rd l.r.v., and granville, and those clubs were represented on the committee by mr. arch. campbell (clydesdale), president; mr. w. ker (queen's park), hon. treasurer; mr. archibald rae (queen's park), hon. secretary; with the following committee:--messrs. ebenezer hendry and wm. gibb (clydesdale), j. turnbull (dumbreck), d. macfarlane (vale of leven), w. e. dick (3rd l.r.v.), t. mackay (granville), j. m'intyre (eastern), and r. gardner (queen's park). next in order came the challenge cup, and the competition for that trophy was in full swing. the necessary funds were soon forthcoming, and a very neat, but plain, specimen of the silversmith's art was brought forth. the subject for ornamentation was taken from a cut in the _graphic_, representing a player in the act of dribbling at the first international, and made by messrs. george edward & sons. there you have it now, gentlemen, rather dry reading and technical, though, but nevertheless the infant life of a great competition. by a strange coincidence in the respective matches, and one which the players of a former era will look upon with a sense of sadness, consists in the fact that of the twenty-two who took part in that game seven are dead. of these the senior club has the misfortune to claim five--messrs. j. j. taylor, j. b. weir, j. leckie, j. dickson, and a. mackinnon; while the clydesdale, so far as i am aware, has only two, mr. j. r. wilson and mr. robert gardner. as i have already given short sketches of messrs. taylor, weir, leckie, and gardner, under the head of "dead internationalists," and j. j. thomson and w. m'kinnon under another, i have only to deal with r. w. neil, j. dickson, t. lawrie, c. campbell, angus mackinnon, and h. m'neil (queen's park), and the whole of the clydesdale, with the sole exception of r. gardner. ~charles campbell.~ mr. campbell seems to have had no real starting point in his football career. the love of the game and its early associations came to him as if by nature. i am told that when he was quite a boy he used to appear on the ground at queen's park to see his brother edward playing with old club companions. he soon began to dribble about, and afterwards show splendid ability in long-kicking and tackling, and in 1873-74 played for the queen's park in her best matches. the final cup tie, however, was his first big event, and no doubt the lessons and confidence he obtained in that match served him well in after years, when he was destined to be the greatest favourite both among players and spectators that ever took part in any cup tie or international. mr. campbell has now retired from active duty on the field, but his love for the game, and the welfare of the players engaged in it, induced him to accept the presidentship of the association for 1889-90, and one and all are alive to the fact that he discharges his duties with the greatest fidelity. as a brilliant tackler and neat kicker at half-back, it might honestly be said of him that he had no equal. men who played against him on great occasions (for mr. campbell always rose to his best form in these) have good cause to remember how he could "head" the ball away from goal at a critical moment, and get it through quite a forest of legs. as he was not one of the cracks in the final cup tie of 1874, i must honestly confess i can't remember how he played, but as his club scored a victory, and he was one of the half-backs, he must have done well. mr. campbell rarely, if ever, spends a saturday afternoon away from hampden park in the winter time; takes a lively interest in his mother club, and, what is of more account, can still play in his favourite position with great dash and precision. he has the unique distinction of playing in ten internationals with england, and been an office-bearer of his club since 1873. ~thomas lawrie.~ mr. lawrie has done much for football in connection with his club and the association, both by example and precept. in the early days of the queen's park he was one of their most brilliant forwards, and in several of the cup ties, notably that between the queen's park and renton, proved the best man on the field. he never shirked his work, or left hard tackling to the half-backs, but sprang on the ball and opponent at once, and generally had the best of it. of all the fine forwards who received their football education under mr. j. j. thomson's, and later on mr. c. campbell's and mr. joseph taylor's captaincy, none could keep his feet better on the field; and it was quite a rare thing to see lawrie grassed by an opponent. although not much above the middle height, he was a perfect football hercules, and not long before retiring from the field opponents in some of the matches would frequently make earnest inquiries about whether he were to be included in the q.p. team on that day. but for an accident to the knee which made him retire, after being chosen to play in the international against england in 1874, mr. lawrie would have then represented his club. after giving up active duty in the field, he has rendered noble service by being president of the scottish football association, and loves the game as dearly as ever. ~harry m'neil.~ the first final cup tie brought into prominence one of the neatest little dribblers and passers that ever played on the left wing of any club. methinks i see him now, with his quick action, short step, and unselfish play, gliding down the side of the field, dodging an opponent close on the touch-line, and causing the spectators to laugh immoderately. spectators are prone to make favourites, and while mr. campbell was assuredly one at half-back, mr. m'neil was none the less loved among the forwards. while playing in the leading games he was always ready with his joke, and i'll back him to be the best man in the world to explain away a defeat and magnify a victory for the club he loved so well. mr. m'neil was chosen seven times to play against england and wales, and i remember his efforts and their results with pleasure. the only time he was sorely beset was in the international of 1876, when mr. jarrett (cambridge university, i think), one of the english half-backs--a powerful young fellow--tackled him severely. the gallant little queen's park man, however, withstood the charges well, and came up from mother earth smiling. that match, however, ended in favour of scotland by three goals to none. mr. m'neil was a member of the 3rd l.r.v. at the start of his career, and also of the rangers, but joined the queen's park in 1872. ~robert w. neill.~ mr. neill kept the late mr. j. j. taylor company at back in many of the most trying and critical q.p. matches of 1876, '77, '78, and '80, and in all those years was a familiar figure in the internationals against england and wales. as we have previously said about the deceased mr. leckie, players have their peculiarities, and neill had his. he was a really brilliant back and pretty sure tackler, but relied too much on his feet while defending goal, instead of using the breast and head. his individuality consisted in meeting the charge of an opponent with bended knees, and he had the knack of taking the ball away and making a brilliant return in a style that roused the cheers of the spectators. he was a very hard worker to the last, and only retired from football to go abroad some years ago. he has, however, returned to glasgow, and may frequently be seen at some of the best matches of the season. his play during 1877 and 1878 was exceptionally good, and in those years was in the best form of any back in scotland. ~john dickson.~ poor fellow! mr. dickson had but a short career, not only in football, but in everyday life. he caught a severe cold one bleak evening coming from hampden park after a practice match, and succumbed to the malady of inflammation of the lungs at the age of 28. he started his football life as a back; but when the queen's park lost mr. gardner he was tried as goalkeeper, and did very well. tall and gentlemanly in appearance, with neatly trimmed sandy whiskers and moustache, dickson kicked out in front of his goal very neatly, and was not afraid to meet the charge of an opposing forward. an incident in his career caused a great deal of amusement at the time, however, and is worth recording, just to show the immense faith he had in the infallibility of his old club. it was in a cup tie with the vale of leven, when that club beat the queen's park by two goals to one. dickson appeared at goal with an umbrella, as the rain was falling fast, but when the vale scored their first goal he was obliged to throw away his companion, and work harder than ever he had done before. ~angus mackinnon.~ a powerfully-made young fellow, above the medium height, mr. mackinnon was a very fair forward, and always played in the centre with mr. william m'kinnon, his namesake, and the pair were a "caution" to meet in a hot tussle. the six forwards took part in the play then, with two on each wing and a couple in the centre, and it was a treat to see how well the mackinnons worked in their places. mr. angus, however, was rather short in the temper, and often had a "few words" with both companions and opponents during a game. he played a very indifferent game in the final tie and some of the matches previously, but was really in excellent form at that same year's international against england, and scored one of the goals. mr. mackinnon died about four years ago in canada. ~frederick anderson.~ if there is one player more than another that deserves to be remembered by his old club, the clydesdale, for the manner in which he brought it before the public by scoring one of the goals in the third international at partick in 1874, it is anderson. he was a very fine dribbler, and about the most difficult man in the clydesdale forwards to get the ball away from after he had obtained possession. although not one of the original members, he was early associated with the clydesdale, and played in the best games of seasons 1874, '75, and '76. he was a bit of a sprinter, and very fast on the ball, with very fine staying power. many of the backs who played against him during his best days were afraid of anderson when he got near the sticks. he is now in manchester. ~john m'pherson.~ mr. john m'pherson, of the clydesdale, is a much older player than his namesake of the vale of leven. when the clydesdale went into the game with a dash that astonished even the q.p., he was one of their finest forwards, and, possessing great speed, was not easily tackled by the best backs of the day. he always played on the right wing, and was a dangerous man at goal. mr. m'pherson did much both for football and cricket in inveraray, and even now takes an interest in his favourite pastime in rothesay, where he assists his father in the management of the queen's hotel. it may be mentioned that, in addition to his other qualifications, for "he was so versatile," m'pherson has acted on more than one occasion as outrider to her majesty when she visited the highlands. in 1875 he played against england. ~william gibb.~ i am sorry to say mr. gibb is dead, and that the sad event severs the link that bound the whole of the clydesdale eleven together, with the exception of the blank left by the loss of their accomplished goalkeeper. mr. gibb was a tall and powerful young fellow, and i have frequently seen a few of his opponents feeling rather shy before attempting to oppose his progress towards goal. during the winters of 1873, 1874, and 1875, the clydesdale forward play was good. so brilliant was his form in 1873 that he was taken to landon to play against england, and scored one of the goals got by scotland, who were defeated by four goals to two. mr. gibb's only fault on the field was a disposition to over-run the ball. he died about two years ago in india. ~a. h. raeburn.~ in the first final cup tie mr. raeburn was one of the half-backs, and played up with great dash and pluck. if my memory serves me right, he was one of the original members of the granville cricket and football club when the ground was at myrtle park, about a couple of stone-throws from hampden park. he was very fond of the game, and no man in the clydesdale had more enthusiasm. mr. raeburn was a fine tackler, and not easily flurried when meeting an opponent, and with such men as the mackinnons to face in the centre and weir on the right that day of the final, he had his own ado. he did not play very much after this game. ~ebenezer hendry.~ mr. hendry was more of a cricketer than a football player, and made many fine scores for his side during the early years of his career. with the exception of mr. gardner and mr. anderson, all the members of the clydesdale could play cricket, and it was more for the purpose of keeping members together during the winter months that the dribbling game was started on kinning park (the old home of the senior cricket club of glasgow). mr. hendry was a slow tackler, and took too long to get on the ball, but when he got a fair chance, was a very neat kicker, and showed good judgment. ~j. r. wilson.~ during the past season, mr. wilson, who had been abroad for a number of years, made a visit to his native city, and was welcomed back by his old friends of the field with remarkable pleasure. no man in the club was more highly beloved and respected, and, in after years, when his brother walter joined the club and played in several of the leading matches, the pair rarely if ever missed a practice evening. mr. wilson was very fast on the ball, and went right ahead when he got possession. in 1874 he was chosen to play for glasgow against sheffield. in the cup tie which is now under notice he made some very fine runs, and did much to make a name for the old clydesdale. it is with much regret i have to announce that mr. wilson died in glasgow only a month ago. ~james m'arly.~ a hard worker and plucky tackler was mr. m'arly. for a long series of years he was one of the finest batsmen in cricket that glasgow produced. contemporary with mr. thos. chalmers (caledonian), the pair often met on the field for their respective clubs; but so far as football is concerned chalmers played the rugby game for the glasgow academicals, while his contemporary was half-back in the association clydesdale. about a dozen years ago he went to manchester, where he is engaged as partner in a large calico printing business; and the other day i had a chat with him about old times, and he enjoyed it immensely. ~john kennedy.~ pressed into the service of his club on very short notice, mr. kennedy played in the tie as a substitute. he had only been a few weeks at the game when the match took place, but the young and rising generation of players must remember the substitutes were few in those days, and it is not the first time i have seen a match played with one of the clubs a man short. kennedy played as a forward, but afterwards developed into a very fair back, and showed capital judgment in that position. ~j. j. lang.~ originally a member of the 3rd l.r.v., lang left that club and joined the clydesdale in 1874. he played in the final, i think, as centre forward, and backed up mr. j. r. wilson. possessing splendid dribbling powers, he was a very "showy" player, but his short steps did not make anything like the progress with the ball one imagined at the time. he was a somewhat heavy charger when he got the chance, and frequently preferred to take his man before the ball. ~a final charity cup tie eleven years ago.~ bringing my reminiscences down to 1879, the year above all others when association football was, so to speak, in a kind of transition stage, the clubs that earned the greatest fame, and justly so, were the queen's park, rangers, and vale of leven. who, among all the gallant throng that played in those clubs--and, for that part of it, the spectators--can forget the exciting tussles engaged in by the trio? in this year the rangers met the vale of leven in the final tie for the association challenge cup, and also in the final for the charity. party, or shall i say club, feeling ran as high, if not higher, than now, the excitement was great, and intensified by the fact that the leven men had been eventually awarded the association cup without playing off the drawn match, in consequence of the rangers not turning up. later on, too, the crack dumbartonshire eleven overthrew the queen's park in the semi-final of the charities, on glasgow green, by four goals to none. well, it was on tuesday evening, 20th may, that the battle came off on old hampden park, and both the rangers and vale of leven mustered in strong force. lovely weather helped to swell the crowd, and some 12,000 people were inside the ground. the vale of leven scored almost at once by mr. m'dougall, and this looked like the prelude to victory. the rangers, however, set their teeth, and before the contest closed vanquished their powerful opponents by scoring a couple of goals--one by mr. struthers, and another out of a scrimmage. since then eleven years have come and gone, and with them a new generation of football players. seeing that the rangers were the victors, i shall proceed to give sketches of their eleven who played on the occasion, and deal with the vale of leven afterwards. ~george gillespie.~ in connection with the dribbling game in glasgow, it should be generally known that mr. gillespie supplies the link which binds the players of the dead past to those of the living present. he is still to the fore, and does duty as well as ever. early in his football career mr. gillespie was not a goalkeeper, for i am certain i saw him play at back in some of the early matches of the "light blues." nature, metaphorically speaking, never intended him to be anything in the game but a goalkeeper, and a brilliant one, too. how he kept goal in this great match, and dozens of others, is still fresh in the memory both of old players and spectators. he is the only man on the active list who played ten years ago, and had the distinction of appearing against england twice and wales three times. from the rangers he joined the q.p. about six years ago. ~thomas vallance.~ the early history of the rangers--their triumphs, misfortunes, joys, and sorrows--have all been shared in by mr. thomas vallance, and he still sticks to them like the veritable leech. who could captain a young team like he? when vallance led the rangers to victory in this final charity tie, i am sure he was barely out of his teens, and i don't think would even yet hesitate to don the blue jersey of the club were it hard up for a back. vallance was a back, indeed, and for several seasons, but more particularly that of 1879-80, none in scotland showed better form. his returns near goal were neat and clean, and without being in any way rough with an opponent. vallance's length of limb and good judgment often saved his club from losing goals. the whole of the rangers "lo'ed him like a vera brither," and at practice his word was law. he played four times against england. ~alexander vallance.~ with quite as much pluck, but awanting in finish and style, the younger of the brothers, mr. alexander, was nevertheless a fine back. lighter made and more easily tackled than thomas, he had a way of his own in running out the ball before making the final shy, and when this was done well, as it frequently happened in a first-class match, young vallance received a perfect ovation from the crowd. alexander was in fine form in this tie, and some of his returns were splendidly made. instead of going at an opponent with the air of an infuriated bull, as some backs are prone to do now-a-days, he kept close to his man, and waited for an opportunity, which was at once taken advantage of. like his brother, he is still in the city, and takes a kindly interest in his mother club. ~hugh m'intyre.~ mr. hugh m'intyre and mr. j. drinnan were the half-backs in this contest. no such new-fangled device as three half-backs was ever thought of in scotland at that time, and you may be sure the pair had hard work. of all the players sent out by the rangers, m'intyre was in many respects the most powerful. he was, however, to be outspoken, the coarsest. woe betide the light and gentle forward who tried to pass mr. hugh! he pounced on his man at once, and with raised back--for he was somewhat round-shouldered--gave the excited spectator the idea that he meant to have the ball at any cost. his weight gave him an immense advantage in tackling, and i think old players will be at one with me when i say that he was the best at that kind of work in scotland. he was about the first to leave glasgow and accept an engagement in england. he played against wales in 1880. ~james drinnan.~ in the list of the rangers' eleven who took part in the match under review, the name of mr. drinnan does not occur, and i am obliged to proffer an explanation. in the report of the contest one "r. jackson" is credited with keeping h. m'intyre company on the occasion. as the incident is past, and mr. drinnan no longer amenable to the laws of engineer apprenticeship, he did in this match what a great many men have done before him--viz., played under an assumed name. he was a very fair back, but not sufficiently brilliant to obtain notoriety, and never had the distinction of playing in an international. he was, nevertheless, a very useful all-round player, and could take his place as a centre forward at a moment's notice. ~peter campbell.~ the rangers a dozen years ago without mr. peter campbell would have been like the queen's park now with mr. william sellar left out. he was the life and soul of the forward division, and it is not too much to say of him that a finer dribbler and harder worker never kicked leather. poor campbell, like so many more of the old lot, is gone to his account! in a terrible storm in the bay of biscay, which left many a home desolate, seven years ago, the steamer in which he was chief engineer foundered, and not a soul was left to tell the tale. quiet and unassuming in manner, mr. campbell was beloved by all, and his untimely death is still mourned by the rangers, for whom he did so much. in 1878-79 he was in such good form that he was chosen to play against wales, and in 1876 and 1878 did duty for glasgow against sheffield. ~moses m'neil.~ the m'neils are quite a football family, and, what is of more account, have gained distinction in the game. is it not a fact that mr. peter was one of the founders of the famous club nineteen years ago, and that messrs. harry, william, and moses kept the ball rolling on kinning park with credit for many a day? moses is the youngest of the lot, and consequently what may be termed the most modern. he was quite a boy when this cup tie came off, and played with a dash and finish on the left wing that completely astonished all who were present on old hampden park that may evening. mr. moses, too, was more than a mere local player, and through sheer force of ability was chosen to play against england in 1880, and acted in the same capacity for scotland against wales in 1876. he is still young and active, and resides in the city. ~william struthers.~ an original member of the partick, when that club could boast of having as good a team as now, struthers was associated with the old pioneers in messrs. boag, james s. campbell, love, sutar, bell, and smith, and joined the rangers the previous year before the tie. he was a beautiful dribbler, after the style of mr. t. c. highet; went right ahead with the ball close at his toe, and was the most difficult man to tackle in the rangers. he left scotland some years ago for england, where he played for the bolton wanderers. in brilliant form in the match, he made some fine runs in company with mr. campbell and mr. hill, and was successful in scoring the first goal got for the rangers. mr. struthers is now in england, where he has settled down. ~david hill.~ a most unselfish player was mr. hill. he was slow, but sure, and if ever a man showed an example in the field by at once passing on the ball when necessary, and never opening his mouth from kick-of to time call, it was he. one of the prominent figures all through quite a decade of seasons for his old club, mr. hill rendered the rangers valuable service, and never failed to turn up when he was wanted. in the final association challenge cup match with the vale of leven, played shortly before the one i am touching upon, and which ended in a tie, some splendid passing was witnessed between him and mr. wm. dunlop, who, by the way, could not play in the charity event in consequence of an injury sustained a week before. ~alex. steel.~ like the other members of the rangers, mr. steel was very young when he joined that club. his enthusiasm for the game, however, was unbounded, and i have been told by an old rangers' man that he was one of the original "moonlighters" of the club. this phrase gentlemen, requires some explanation. it does not refer to ireland and its agrarian grievances. no, no. it was only a few choice spirits of the rangers who, determined to win all matches, used to practice at full moon, and frequently frightened some of the belated lieges in the vicinity of kinning park, who swore the place was haunted. ~charles m'quarrie.~ although retired from active duty on the field, mr. m'quarrie is even now in football harness as the treasurer of the partick thistle. he did not play in many of the first eleven matches of the club, but being a promising lad was always available as first reserve forward. he was rather a neat dribbler and good backer-up, but a little slow in tackling. he was always a steady player, and did very well in this game. he did not play very much after this tie, but gave up football altogether, till his old love for the game returned some years ago, when he joined the thistle, and is one of their most earnest committee workers. ~robert parlane.~ i now proceed to the vale of leven men who played in this tie, and goalkeepers, beware! and, let me tell you, don't think too much of yourselves nowadays! we had a great man who stood between the posts a dozen years ago, quite equal at all points to you, and his name was parlane. who did not know mr. robert parlane a decade ago? in the early history of association football some of the best players ever scotland produced were also good cricketers, and parlane was one of these, and a grand wicketkeeper. without saying too much of the men who have over and over again distinguished themselves, i cannot help saying that a better goalkeeper never chucked out a ball. mr. parlane did very well in this match, his only fault being a disposition to go away too far from his charge. he kept goal for scotland against england in 1879, and is now in belfast. ~h. m'lintock.~ for six years no man ever did better work for his club than mr. m'lintock. in fact, the vale of leven would as soon have scratched altogether in a cup tie as entered into a doubtful contest without him and their other great back, mr. andrew m'intyre. m'lintock did more than any of the old school now living to popularise a style of back play which ten years ago was emulated to a large extent all over the country. he had a most graceful way of turning the ball when it came dangerously near the goal, and running it out by dodging an opponent. he used both feet with equal freedom, and was decidedly the cleanest kicker that ever played in the vale of leven. it is a curious fact, and one worth noting, that mr. forbes adopted much the same style. m'lintock played against england in 1875 and 1876. ~andrew m'intyre.~ mr. andrew m'intyre was a terrible fellow to meet in a hot scrimmage, and no matter the forwards who opposed--and i have seen three at him in a close tussle in front--m'intyre generally had the best of it and got the ball clear. his powerfully-knit frame served him in good stead in all the great matches in which he took a prominent part. in the one under review m'intyre was sorely beset by the pick of the rangers' forwards, but was always in the right place. no player of his day could work as well in so little space, and get the leather away safely. his only fault was to be a little demonstrative in the field with opponents, and tell them a bit of his mind during the game. in 1878 he was chosen to play against england. ~j. macintyre.~ the play of the two namesakes was as different as the poles asunder. of a fair height and good appearance, mr. j. macintyre was one of the most excitable men that ever stood in front of a goal. he generally warmed up at bit, however, and even showed more daring when his old club were playing an uphill game, and i know for certain that in the great drawn matches for the association challenge cup, between the vale of leven and rangers, no man ever did harder work. he was slow to get on the ball, and at times very erratic, but rarely if ever lost an opportunity. very rough in tackling, he, above all others in the club, was severe on the opposing forwards. ~j. m'pherson.~ among the vale of leven back division, which was so powerful long ago, none was more devoted to the game than mr. m'pherson, who held his place for several years as one of the backs of whom caledonia felt proud. without the least show or fussiness, m'pherson did his work quietly, and had the credit (and a good one, too) of being next to mr. john ferguson, the best-natured footballer in dumbartonshire. he could play a magnificent game when he liked, and one season particularly--that of 1883--when he was one of the scottish eleven against england at sheffield, ably assisted his team to win a hard match by three goals to two. ~j. macfarlane.~ the vale of leven at the time this tie was played had a rare forward combination, and in some of their best matches the dribbling and passing among them were something to be remembered. macfarlane, however, was certainly not the best of the lot, but a very safe man, and could play equally well on the left wing or the centre, and, if i mistake not, work excellently as a backer-up to j. m'gregor. now, when i think of it, he was severely tackled in this match by h. m'intyre, and was not in such good form as some of the other forwards. ~r. paton.~ there are few, if any, old players in dumbartonshire, and, i should say, spectators as well, who cannot remember the familiar figure of mr. robert paton. a nicely-featured little fellow, with a joke for every acquaintance, he was full of vivacity, and an intense love for his old club, the vale. yes, "the vale." nobody ever called it anything else. paton, above all the other forwards who did so much to make the leven men beloved at home and feared "abroad," even to the next parishes and the big city of glasgow, was a fine player, and never kept the ball longer than was necessary if he saw a chance. he played against england in 1879. ~j. baird.~ mr. james baird was a fair average player, without anything very remarkable about him. the combination, as i have already said, was so good among the vale of leven at the time when this great contest took place that an inferior or selfish player would soon have found his level. the forwards, in fact, were all pretty much alike, but with clearly defined degrees of brilliancy, and mr. james baird was one of the lesser lights. he was a good runner and smart at following up, but his dribbling was sometimes too wide for the others when following up on the enemy's lines. when hard pressed he often lost the ball, but in a scrimmage in front of the posts he was a rare shot at goal, and scored a good many for his club. ~j. c. baird.~ of all the forwards who learned the game at alexandria, on the old ground belonging to the vale, perhaps, in many respects, mr. j. c. baird was the most distinguished, and, at the same time, the most gentlemanly. when the vale of leven beat the queen's park for the first time in one of the ties for the association challenge cup, on hampden park, mr. j. c. baird played a perfect "demon." on the slippery ground he kept his feet against all comers, dribbled and passed on splendidly, and fairly took the breath away from john dickson when scoring the goal which gave his club the victory. mr. baird was chosen to face england in 1876, and again in 1880. ~j. m'gregor.~ if one had met mr. m'gregor off the football stage, so to speak, they would never for a moment have taken him for a brilliant and accomplished player at all points. he was all nerve and sinew, and always in grand form. his disadvantages in appearance and weight, however, were kind of blessings in disguise to his club, for the opposing backs sometimes treated him with indifference, and even contempt. this was m'gregor's opportunity, and never man used it better. if ever he made his way past the backs, and was alone with the goalkeeper, ten to one but his team was a goal to the good in a few minutes. he played against england in 1877, 1878, and 1880. ~j. m'dougall.~ two years previous to this final tie, mr. m'dougall was the most brilliant forward in scotland, and he and mr. j. t. richmond (queen's park) were the first two forwards selected to play against england. a fine figure on the field, and a capital dribbler, without being showy, m'dougall was always near the ball when wanted, and it sometimes took a couple of opponents to get the leather away from him. for three years in succession he was selected to appear against england. in the tie with the rangers, mr. m'dougall was captain of the team, and scored the only goal made for the defeated club. ~the great international of 1882.~ the eleven who were chosen to do battle for scotland in this contest, close upon nine years ago, were considered in many respects the best that had ever donned international caps in any tussle before or since, and a better illustration of the wisdom of the association committee in their selection could not have been given than the result itself--viz., scotland, five goals; england, one. hampden park was the meeting-place, and as one of the football giants of the day (e. fraser) is, like some of my dear old friends, now lying in the grave, and others who took part in the memorable event divided by thousands of miles from those with whom they fought and won for scotland, i should like to pay a tribute of respect to their football ability, and let the young and rising generation of players know that such men appeared in the arena, and played the game as well as it is done now. the match took place on the 11th march, 1882, and as england mustered a very powerful eleven, the issue was doubtful. about a quarter of an hour, however, after the start, mr. ker and mr. harrower had a fine run, and harrower made the first point for scotland but at half-time the score stood--scotland, two goals; england, one--ker having added the second, and vaughton the one for england. in the last round, the scotchmen, although playing against a good breeze, had it all to themselves, and scored other three points by messrs. m'pherson, ker, and kaye. in giving short sketches of the international eleven, i have only to deal with eight of the players, as messrs. charles campbell, a. m'intyre, and g. gillespie have already been noticed in previous articles while engaged in other matches. i shall accordingly begin with ~andrew watson (queen's park).~ mr. watson did a great deal for football in the glasgow district a dozen years ago, both with his ready purse and personal ability in the game. it was in a great measure owing to his interest and energy that the young parkgrove club obtained proper ground, and was fairly put on its way rejoicing. the parkgrove had a lot of very fine young fellows in its ranks, and for several years made a capital record in numerous matches under the captaincy of mr. watson. in this international he played as right-side back in company with mr. andrew m'intyre, and, as an indication of how he and his companion behaved, it is necessary to say that only one goal was got against them. mr. watson was a rare "header-out," and was famed for his fine tackling and neat kicking. he had one fault, however, and this consisted in kicking over his own lines occasionally when hard pressed by a dashing forward. in the previous year he was the scottish captain against england, in london, and led his team to victory by 6 goals to 1. ~peter miller (dumbarton).~ when mr. miller played in this match, the dumbarton club was a power in the land, and not easily beaten. he was left half-back, and had as his companion mr. charles campbell, who captained the victorious eleven. mr. miller was remarkable for his magnificent tackling at close quarters, and possessed weight, which told against england in the contest. again and again i saw him shake off both mr. cursham and mr. parry, two of the southrons' ablest forwards, and once mr. mosforth and he had an amusing bit of play near the scotch goal, in which the sheffielder came off best. mr. miller was, altogether, a very fine back, and when he retired a few years ago the dumbarton club had considerable difficulty in getting a good man properly trained to supply his place. next season (1883) he was also chosen to play against england and wales. ~e. fraser (queen's park).~ lost to his club and the thousands of delighted spectators who witnessed his brilliant ability as a right-wing forward, but not forgotten by the members of the old q.p., fraser, "though dead, yet speaketh." i question very much if any forward of that time among the mediæval class of players, so to speak, exercised such a potent influence over the spectators, and no style of play was more followed by the younger dribblers than that of fraser. a son of the manse, he was a highly cultured young fellow, and loved football so devotedly that no amount of hard training was ever shirked by him when under probation for the first eleven. dribbling beautifully up the side of the field, he had the knack of "middling" the ball at the proper time, and for six years no man ever assisted at the scoring of more goals. he was also included in the following season's eleven against england, and in 1880 did duty for scotland in the welsh match. poor fraser died in australia, a few years ago, shortly after arriving there. ~william anderson (queen's park).~ in the international of 1882 mr. anderson and mr. fraser played on the same side, and made a very good pair. the former, although not above the medium height, was powerfully built, and few, if any, of his formidable opponents were able to bring him down to mother earth. when he did fall, however, he was never in a hurry to rise, and took matters easy. if one could imagine such a thing as an easy-going football player, it was anderson, but his failing sometimes came in handy, for he would occasionally make a gallant spurt, and pilot his way through the opposing backs in a way that completely astonished his team and their friends. he showed very well in this match, and the manner in which he and his companion dodged the englishmen, not even excepting mr. bailey, the crack clapham rover half-back, will be easily remembered by those who were present. mr. anderson is now abroad, and it is something to his credit to say that he played four times against england. ~j. l. kaye (queen's park).~ like a good many fine players of the glorious past, mr. kaye received the best of his football training in the ranks of the 3rd l.r.v., and a couple of years, i think, before this big event, joined the forward division of the black and white stripes. of a good-natured disposition, and a genial fellow to meet both on the field and at the social board, mr. kaye was a great favourite all round, and much sought after outside the pale of his own club. he was a very fine forward; a good dribbler, but was much more easily tackled than anderson, and occasionally felt shy at meeting an opponent who had frightened him in a previous match. he must have done well in this contest, as he is highly spoken about in the newspaper reports, and scored the fifth and last goal got for scotland. he was also an old and tried hand at internationals, as he faced the english division three times, and wales also in the same number of matches. ~r. m'pherson (arthurlie).~ what might be honestly termed the illustration of a fair field and no favour, mr. m'pherson's name was added to the international players of that season through sheer force of ability. i saw him play in several matches that year, and his style and smart passing up from the left wing was justly admired. he was mr. kaye's companion in this contest, and ably assisted that player to bring up the ball in several splendid runs. since m'pherson's retiral from active duty, and also the fact of mr. turner, their famous goalkeeper, giving up the game, the arthurlie have gone back a bit in football ability, but during two seasons they were able to have two nominations for international honours, as mr. turner kept goal against wales in 1882. possessing great speed and judgment, m'pherson was a very neat and steady player, and for two seasons at anyrate, a star among all the renfrewshire forwards. ~george ker (queen's park).~ a sketch of an international, cup tie, or, in fact, a first-class contest of any kind ten years ago, would be altogether incomplete without some reference to mr. george ker, now abroad. from 1880 to 1883 he was scotland's best centre forward, and the originator of what is now known in football parlance as the "cannon shot" at goal. many players have since tried it, and made fairly good attempts, but ker alone could do it to perfection. in this international he gave the englishmen a taste of his ability in this line. he passed mr. greenwood, the english extreme back, and when fairly in front watched how the goalkeeper (mr. swepstone) would take in the situation. ker spun the ball hard from his toe at the proper moment, and sent in a "flyer," which took effect. i am all but certain that if a vote were taken among players and spectators about the place to be assigned to centre forwards, ker would come out the admitted chief. international honours were his thrice against england. ~w. harrower (queen's park).~ the queen's park had no fewer than five forwards in this season's international, and mr. harrower was one. he played in the company of mr. ker, and the central division of the scottish team was unusually strong. in fact, i distinctly remember some remarks made at the meeting of the association, at which i was present, about the combination at that point being the most powerful ever sent out by scotland. mr. harrower was really a beautiful dribbler, not easily knocked off his pins, and the most unselfish player i ever saw. he has the credit of earning the first goal got for scotland in the match under notice, and was in the best of form the whole of that season. he took a leading part in the hard work of the queen's park for five years. ~a narrow shave in the 1885 international.~ there are yet other two internationals, which introduce new faces into the field of play, and the first is that of 1885 at kennington oval, london, and ended in a tie, each side scoring one goal. kennington oval--in the winter time, at anyrate--is to football in london what hampden park is to scotland in general and glasgow in particular. the weather was delightful on that afternoon (saturday, 21st march), and the spectators mustered in considerable force. not, of course, so largely as we can show in glasgow, for it takes an enormous amount of attraction to gather a big crowd in london. there was little or no wind to interfere with the play, and as both teams were in the pink of condition, it was an illustration of greek meeting greek in the open. the scotchmen, however, were the first to make matters exciting by scoring a smart goal from the foot of mr. lindsay, and this was all the effective work done in the first round. the second forty-five minutes of the play was also of a very give-and-take order, and once mr. allan hit the english goal bar with a hard shot, but the ball rebounded into play, and was eventually sent behind. towards the close, however, the englishmen, led by messrs. bambridge, cobbald, and brown made a fine run, and the former put the game square for england. the contest, therefore, as i have already indicated, ended in a tie. as in all the other events that i have already touched upon, many of the players are now scattered far and wide. some have given the game up altogether, while others are still playing on, and doing football duty as well, if not better, than ever they did before. taking the eleven in the order of positions, i shall begin with ~j. macaulay (dumbarton).~ among the brilliant array of goalkeepers who have sprung up to distinguish themselves during the past ten years, none deserves a more kindly notice in any football reminiscences than mr. macaulay. the present match was the third he stood sentinel before scotland's stronghold, and he also played in '86 and '87. his first was at sheffield in 1883, when i saw him save several splendid shies from the feet of the english forwards, and it is something to add of him that he was included in the scotch teams who never lost a match with england. in the 1885 contest he kept goal in his best form, and was frequently cheered for the manner in which he got out the ball and dodged the english forwards. mr. macaulay was very quiet and unostentatious in his manner, and did his work brilliantly. he returned to scotland the other day from abroad, and may yet play for some of our leading clubs. ~walter arnott (queen's park).~ second in the order of teams, but premier in all that pertains to back play, comes the name of mr. arnott. out of all the fine players who acted as extreme backs, none has done better work for his club and, let me say, international matches. it is all very well to say that there were giants in those days, but you all know what befell goliath, and i cannot help saying that if you were to ask me candidly (taking the question in an all-round way) who was the best back you ever saw, i should have no hesitation in answering that it was walter arnott. in the words of the old english ballad, "he feared no foe," and never in the history of football of the present time has such a brilliant man arisen. he has so many remarkable points that i cannot tell them in a brief notice, but as he is still playing well, spectators are at one in admitting his grand ability. ~m. paton (dumbarton).~ the match under review was mr. paton's second appearance against england, and he acquitted himself very well. somehow or other the committee of selection in international matches, while they honestly do their duty, sometimes move in a mysterious way, and the selection of mr. paton to stand alongside mr. arnott in this contest was, at the time, considered somewhat risky. not by any means because mr. paton was not a good back, but in consequence of the diversity of play shown by the pair. mr. paton was nothing if he was not allowed a little latitude, and in some of the matches he came off with flying colours. arnott and he, however, acted well together. to give mr. paton his due, he was a most gentlemanly young fellow, and did his very best for the game. ~j. j. gow (queen's park).~ it has just occurred to me, and i can't see how the illustration might not with equal force be applied to football as in the honest range of every-day life, that if a "round-robin" were sent about the clubs that tackled the q.p. in their best matches in the past decade, i am certain that the verdict about the man who was most feared in all the elevens, the name of mr. j. j. gow would come out first. he was, in fine, a half-back that the q.p. had reason to feel proud. half-backs might come and go--as they undoubtedly did--but gow seemed in his football career to go on for ever. the most mysterious thing about him was that he was always in the same form, and never had any practice. football at half-back seemed to come to him by nature, and cost him no effort. he could return splendidly, but at close tackling, and in clearing the ball away, he was sometimes a little slack, and had to make it up by sheer force of hard work. ~alexander hamilton (queen's park).~ not long ago, while "doing" a match at hampden park (i think it was q.p. v. battlefield, in the glasgow cup), i met my old friend in the pavilion looking on and enjoying the sport. like the m'neils, the hamiltons are a football family, and while mr. james, who is now an active member of the present q.p., will come under my pen later on, i have only at present to deal with mr. alexander. well, he was something in his day, and by no means to be despised as a forward. he was not a fast dribbler, but when hard work was required, and wasn't it just in the great match against the professional preston north end, when the q.p. were able to hold their own, mr. hamilton never played better in his life. ~william sellar (queen's park).~ i have for the most part been dealing with the past, and it is no force of imagination to come straight to the living present, and add that a better left-wing player never appeared in any club or combination of players than mr. william sellar. he has a style of his own which is, to give the battlefield its due, peculiar to that club's ability in the dribbling game. mr. sellar did not learn all his football in the queen's park, but really perfected his style on hampden park, and he is undoubtedly, at the present time, the most brilliant forward in scotland. gentlemanly in every sense of the word, sellar is the fairest player that ever faced an opponent, and no man is more respected on the field. in addition to this contest, he played against england in 1886, 1887, and 1888. it may be mentioned that in 1890, in playing against the 3rd l.r.v., he played from the left in a style never excelled by any forward. ~joseph lindsay (dumbarton).~ before this date, mr. joseph lindsay was what might be called an old hand at internationals, as he had appeared before england in 1881 and 1884, and wales in 1880, 1881, 1884, and 1885. it is not too much to say of him that he was the most dangerous forward (to an opponent, i mean) of his day, and if the backs were in any way slack, lindsay "spread dismay around," as he was a dead shot at goal, and rarely, if ever, missed a chance if he got within a dozen yards of the sticks. lindsay was the best forward in many respects that ever toed a ball for dumbarton. he was, however, sorely tried in the finishing year of his football life, and in many of the leading matches so closely watched by the opposing backs that he was sometimes fairly done for, and could not get the ball away. ~david s. allan (queen's park).~ like sir roger de coverley's definition of a great ethical question to one of his numerous friends, "that much might be said of one point," the illustration holds good when applied to mr. david allan. popularity has its duties as well as its privileges, and there is not a single forward in broad scotland who is so popular and so much beloved by club companions and opponents alike as mr. allan. he is, in fine, the most useful man in the queen's park, and while all of us seem to grow older as each season comes round, allan has always that juvenile look which undoubtedly betokens an easy and contented mind. he is not what might be called a brilliant and showy forward, but i'll back him to do the best hour and a half of heavy work in the world without any outward sign of fatigue. i verily believe if allan were forced to do it, he could play in any part of the field with a few minutes' notice. ~r. calderwood (cartvale).~ in consequence of mr. r. m. christie, who had played in the international, of the previous year, meeting with an accident in one of the trial matches, mr. calderwood did duty as left-wing forward in this match, and played very creditably. he was by far the best man in the young cartvale, and a finer country player never came under the eye of an international referee. he was a veritable dodger among the opposing backs, and in this contest gave the englishmen, but more particularly the walters and amos, a lot of trouble. he played a fine game in combination with the rest of the scottish forwards. in the same season mr. calderwood played against wales in the principality. ~the final association cup tie of 1886.~ the clubs left in the final tie for possession of the blue ribbon of association football glory in this season were the queen's park and renton. queen's park led off by scoring from the foot of mr. lambie, and this was all the effective work till ends were changed, when the renton team made a brilliant charge on the queen's park goal, and forced the ball through in a scrimmage. the play immediately after this was so even that a draw looked certain, but the queen's park eventually assumed command, and scored other two goals (one by mr. hamilton and another by mr. allan), and won a hard contest by three goals to one. as most of the renton players who took part in the match were considered famous in their day, and have not been already introduced to you, i shall give short sketches of their style of play. so far as the queen's park team are concerned, however, i have only to deal with new faces in messrs. r. m. christie, g. somerville, and j. a. lambie, as all the other eight (messrs. campbell, watson, gow, harrower, hamilton, arnott, allan, and gillespie) have already been disposed of in the present volume. ~j. a. lindsay.~ somehow or other the renton club were never very strong in goalkeeping when the perfect form of their forward division was taken into account, but mr. j. a. lindsay was decidedly their best. he had what might be called his good and bad days, however, and while he was always clever with his feet, he sometimes misjudged the ball and allowed a "soft thing" to take effect. in the present contest he had hot work in keeping the q.p. forwards clear. mr. lindsay showed such brilliant form in the trial matches of 1888 that he was chosen to represent scotland on hampden park. he was somewhat unfortunate there, however, as england revenged bannockburn to the extent of five goals to none. ~a. hannah.~ who does not remember mr. hannah's fine fly-kick and powerful tackling? in meeting and judging the ball in the air he rivalled the great q.p. back himself, but wanted the ability to follow up an advantage. in nearly all the matches in which he took part that season, hannah worked hard and earnest. he had a peculiar way of turning round to an opponent and taking the ball away from him with the side of the foot, and no man in the renton team was more feared by an opponent than hannah. he never played against england, but in 1888 was picked out to represent scotland against wales. ~a. m'call.~ in this tie mr. hannah had as his companion at extreme back mr. a. m'call. in some of the earlier matches in which the latter appeared he was a wild tackler and erratic in charging--rather going for the man, and never minding the ball--but by and by he mellowed down, and returned the leather beautifully from a besieged goal. i remember seeing him in several of the leading games that same year, and he showed a neatness of style which won for him golden opinions. he played against ireland in 1888. ~r. kelso.~ mr. kelso was a tower of strength to the renton team at half-back, and did his duty in this contest. rather a shade rough on an opponent at times, mr. kelso could also be generous to the foe when he liked, and sometimes made a brilliant hit at half-back by clearing away the ball from the feet of an opponent, just when the latter was poising for a shot at goal. like mr. leitch keir, of dumbarton, he was, and is, a magnificent half-back, and had international honours against england in 1887 and 1888. ~d. m'kechnie.~ in connection with mr. m'kechnie's name in juxtaposition with renton's crack half-back, i must honestly confess i am like cuddie headrigg--"between the deil and the deep sea." i can only remember seeing him twice. i come to the conclusion, then, that he must have been a substitute, and if i am wrong in my supposition i shall be glad to stand corrected. he was at any rate not sufficiently brilliant to get his name handed down to posterity, although it must be said of him that he was a fair average player, and did very well in this game. ~j. thomson.~ although he had a disposition to "poach" a little now and again, as some forwards are apt to do, for you all know it is human to err, thomson was a grand player, and made the most of his speed. he never kept the ball longer than was necessary, and if he thought his club would benefit by it, shied quickly in from the touch-line no matter where his companions or opponents alike were stationed on the field. he was really a fine shier, and his dribbling powers beyond dispute. ~j. m'call.~ the renton team had now risen to the acme of their fame, and no player helped them more to attain that position than mr. j. m'call. some clubs carry their position through sheer force of medium ability all round; some have rare luck with their goalkeeping and backs; but, there is no doubt about it, renton was strong in front, and i question if any man during that season played a better game than the younger m'call. he represented scotland in the contests with england in 1887 and 1888 as left-wing forward, and played a fine game. ~a. grant.~ when the renton men carried off the glasgow charity cup that same season, the forwards showed great ability. mr. grant was a very neat player. if my memory serves me right, he backed up mr. barbour in this game, and did it very well. he was, however, rather slow on the ball, and was often sent to the right-about by messrs. gow and watson. like mr. m'kechnie, he does not seem to have played in many of the renton's first-class matches, and his name is not found among internationalists. ~a. m'intyre.~ mr. m'intyre was one of the best forwards in the county which has produced so many fine association football exponents, and acted as centre forward. like mr. d. gow, of the rangers, when he got fairly on the ball there was no getting it from him and he excelled in hard tackling. possessing considerable speed, m'intyre used it to the best advantage, and he had such a liking for dodging round the backs that he sometimes fairly carried away the spectators, and was loudly cheered for his manoeuvring. ~a. barbour.~ in this event mr. barbour was the best man on the renton side, and kept his feet on the slippery ground in a manner that completely astonished all who saw the contest. he was sometimes fairly puzzled by the clever heading of mr. campbell and the terrible tackling of mr. arnott, but fought gamely to the last. in close dribbling he was the nearest approach to mr. william m'kinnon (q.p.) i have ever seen, and while he was quite as tricky, wanted the tact to lead an opponent astray. he played against ireland in 1885. ~j. kelly.~ what mr. marshall is to the 3rd l.r.v., mr. berry to the queen's park, and mr. groves to the celtic, mr. kelly was to his old club, the renton--viz., a grand man. kelly, i think, first came out as a forward, and played as such for his county against renfrewshire in 1885, and also in this tussle on cathkin park, but he eventually developed into a very fine half-back, and played against england as such twice--in 1888 for his mother club, and last season for his new love, the celtic. his proper place, however, is undoubtedly at half-back. ~r. m. christie.~ slowly but surely mr. christie passed all the probationary stages in the queen's park on the way to develop a brilliant player, and in 1884 appeared in the international with england. he was in the best of form, and caused the strangers a deal of trouble. he was very strong on his legs, and about the most powerful opponent of his day to meet in a close match. the passing between christie and harrower that day was splendid, and fairly astonished the renton backs and goalkeeper. ~g. somerville.~ mr. somerville was a very fine all round forward, with a good deal of ability in backing up and middling the ball in front of goal. mr. hamilton and he used to make the spectators laugh at the way in which they annoyed the opposing backs by passing the leather to one another in a tantalising way, right in front of the uprights. he was a sturdy player, something of the same make as mr. david davidson, of 3rd l.r.v. and latterly queen's park fame, with a nerve of iron and, shall i say, a frame of steel. he played against england in 1886. ~j. a. lambie.~ a comparatively short career had mr. lambie on hampden park, but it was fraught with much distinction. he was a grand forward among a fine division, and scored a lot of goals for the queen's park. he was, indeed, at it again in this match, and, as i have already said in the introduction, took one more for the black and white stripes. when nearing the keeper, if he were fortunate enough to pass the backs, he generally looked about for one of his companions to follow up, and was quite an adept at the "screw-kick." lambie appeared against england in 1888, and is now an active member of the corinthians. ~the association international of 1887.~ as the international of 1887 is, so to speak, a thing of yesterday, i have only introduced it here for two reasons. the first of these is to give me an opportunity of bringing new faces into my reminiscences, and shortly criticising their styles of play, and the second to show you how the admittedly best eleven sent out by england in all her matches with scotland were vanquished on their own soil by three goals to two. the event came off at blackburn in presence of some 10,000 spectators--a much larger crowd than ever appeared in london to see the international. the weather was dry overhead during the early stages of the tussle, but a heavy shower of hail fell later on, and this, added to a mud-covered ground, made matters anything but pleasant. the scotchmen were the first to score, which they did through mr. m'call against the wind, half-an-hour from the start; but the englishmen soon bore down on the scottish lines, and mr. lindley equalised, so that at half-time both nationalities were on terms of equality. not long after ends were changed, the scotchmen made one of those determined charges for which they have been famed in many of the international games, and shoved both goalkeeper and ball through between the posts. no sooner, however, had the leather again been started than mr. dewhurst, the crack english forward, sent in a shooter, and once more squared the game. it was now "night or blucher" for scotland, and after a grand run between messrs. marshall and allan, which was loudly cheered, even though an enemy did it, the young queen's park forward made scotland one goal up. till the close the englishmen had several brilliant sallies on the strangers' goal, but the backs--messrs. arnott and forbes--held their own, and scotland won by three goals to two. mr. macaulay kept goal in fine style, and was the captain of the victorious team. the englishmen chosen to meet the scotchmen on the occasion were--messrs. roberts, a. m. walters, p. m. walters, n. c. bailey, g. howarth, j. forrest, e. c. bambridge, w. n. cobbald, j. lofthouse, f. dewhurst, and t. lindley. besides the six who are mentioned below, messrs. arnott, macaulay, kelso, j. m'call, and w. sellar (who have already been noticed) also appeared against england in the same contest. ~j. forbes (vale of leven).~ like certain cricketers who can only cut, and are weak on the leg-side, there are several backs playing for fair medium clubs just now who can only return the ball properly if they have plenty of room to work, but mr. forbes, who played in this match along with mr. arnott, was none of these. you were, in fact, not five minutes in his company as a spectator at a match before you were captivated with the style and finish of his play. in the excitement of the game you imagined it was "all up with the vale," when a crowd of opposing forwards were observed getting the ball nearer goal. all the time, however, forbes was maturing his mode of attack, and like the unsuspecting animal that darts upon its prey, the crack vale of leven back dashed in, and you were sure to see the ball flying away down the field, with a magnificent return. while kicking he always got his toes well under the ball, and it was quite a rare thing to see forbes kicking high into the air. a great favourite with his club and opponents as well, mr. forbes first appeared against england in 1884, when scotland won by one to none, so that in both internationals in which he took part his team were on the winning side. he is now in business in england. ~l. keir (dumbarton).~ when in the spring of 1887 mr. leitch keir was chosen as companion to mr. kelso (renton), and mr. auld (3rd l.r.v.), in this great event at blackburn, almost everybody had confidence in them as half-backs, and i am happy to say that this confidence was not misplaced, for no better trio ever did duty in an international at that important position in the field. for good, even-down tackling, and hard work, both in heading and clean kicking, keir was one of the very best men who ever played football. so proficient was he at a "free kick," that when a "hand" was given against the opposing team, in most of the dumbarton matches, keir was invariably intrusted with the ball; and when the infringement took place near the goal, the opposing team always dreaded his shot. he was also a very fine dribbler for a half-back, and could run out the ball in fine style from a hotly-pressed goal, and send it spinning down the field. in the succeeding year he was chosen to appear against england on hampden park, but, like the rest of the scottish representatives in that fatal contest, he did not show to the best advantage. ~j. auld (3rd l.r.v.).~ during the past four or five years, mr. auld has been one of the best half-backs in scotland, and was a decided success in this contest. no club in britain has produced a string of better backs and half-backs than the 3rd lanark rifle volunteer athletic and football club. long ago, many of their most brilliant victories were won by back play alone, and this means preventing their opponents from scoring, and keeping what they had got in the earlier stages of a contest. among these old and tried hands i must remember poor john hunter (who is dead), mr. alexander kennedy, who still goes out to see his old club, and delights to give the young ones an advice; mr. william somers, the gigantic high-kicker, now in america, and many more, whose names shall long be remembered in football history: but to mr. auld. he is yet a brilliant half-back, and while by no means a heavy kicker, one of the most judicious men in front of a hard-pressed goal i have ever seen. he is a terrible tackler, and sometimes hugs an opponent so tenaciously that he forces the ball away and saves his side. the 1887 match was the only one in which he played for scotland against england, but he appeared that same season against wales. ~j. marshall (3rd l.r.v.).~ for two seasons, at any rate, and, i think, i might almost say three, mr. marshall has maintained the honoured position of being about the best right wing forward on any field. gifted with an amount of speed, which he uses to the best advantage, combined with rare dribbling powers, he is the pride of the 3rd l.r.v. forward division, and no man is more missed from a match. in connection with the last observation, the volunteers had to play the rangers in the third round of the glasgow cup without mr. marshall, and at the committee meeting before the contest, when this became known, it was like a funeral lodge of freemasons--nobody cared to speak except the r.w.m. and m.c. mr. marshall and mr. robertson (dumbarton) were the right wing forwards on the occasion, and several brilliant runs were made from their side. at the present time he is about the best at middling the ball in front of goal of any player going, and is one of those forwards who never seem to get into a fagged state near the close of a match. ~w. robertson (dumbarton).~ some players are fortunate in easily securing their positions among crack teams, while others have to struggle on before their genuine ability is properly recognised. long ago, ability in selecting a team went for very little, and positions, like kissing, by favour. mr. robertson, however, received no favour from any combination, and was selected on his merits. in that same season, i am almost positive, i saw him play in brilliant form in the final cup tie, when the hibernian overcame the dumbarton on hampden park by two goals to one, and several of the other matches about the same time. he was a very fine backer up, possessing first-rate dribbling powers, and although a little shy in meeting his opponent when he saw a charge inevitable, rather preferring to use stratagem, was by no means afraid to go into the heart of a scrimmage and face up to much heavier men than himself. this was mr. robertson's first game against england, and he has no reason to be ashamed of the way in which he helped scotland to obtain victory. on the monday following this match he played against wales at wrexham. ~j. allan (queen's park).~ when mr. allan made his appearance in the first match of any consequence for the queen's park, he did so well that both club companions, opponents, and spectators were completely astonished at his beautiful dribbling and speed. in ayrshire, when he played for the monkcastle club, he was looked upon as a very fair young forward, but a few practice games on hampden park seems to have had a remarkable effect on him, and in one short season he was such a good man that international honours were given him at once. in this tussle, which was one of the most trying of the meetings between scotland and england, allan played a grand game, and scored the third and winning goal for his country. the run that resulted in the score was started by mr. marshall, and was one of the finest ever seen in any contest. in a football sense, however, to use a simile, mr. allan was like octavian's prosperous star, but with this difference, he vanished from the scene as quickly as he came, so far as first-class matches were concerned, and only re-appeared on ibrox park recently against the 3rd l.r.v. and his old club, queen's park. ~glasgow charity cup final tie of 1888.~ the renton eleven are to-day in the proud position of winning the glasgow charity cup four times in succession--from 1886 down to season 1888-89, and even now the holders of that handsome trophy. in these finals they polished off the vale of leven in 1886 by three to one; next season the same club by one to none; in 1888 (the year which i have singled out for review) vanquished the cambuslang by four to none: and last spring overcame the queen's park by three goals to one. in 1888 the renton men held both cups, and what was of more account, won them by long odds against precisely the same opponents, viz., cambuslang. in the final for the association challenge cup the victory was one of six goals to one, and in the glasgow charity cup four to none. this was, indeed, the largest score made in the former, and was equal in the latter to that made in 1877 (the first year of the competition) by the queen's park, when they defeated the rangers. cambuslang, however, were at this time a power in the land, and had previously carried off the glasgow challenge trophy in its first season. in addition to this, they are also credited with the record of fast scoring--having taken four goals from the queen's park in the last ten minutes of the fifth round of the scottish challenge cup in 1886, but as the queen's park had five points on previously, they saved the game by one goal. the event of which i have presently to deal came off on hampden park on the 12th may, 1888, and ended in favour of the renton, as has already been indicated, by four to none. the cambuslang men played well at the start, and a close match was expected. through some cause or other, however, they fell away considerably as the game advanced, and j. campbell scored the first goal for renton, and this was soon followed by a second from the foot of j. m'call, the record at half-time being two goals to none in favour of the crack dumbartonshire club. the second round, strange to say, was also well contested at the outset, but the grand forward combination of the renton told the tale of defeat to the cambuslang men, and other two goals were added. as none of the cambuslang team have previously come under my pen, i give them first, and will include three of renton who have not been noticed. ~mr. dunn.~ more genuine progress has been made in goalkeeping among the scottish association clubs during the last decade than the average spectator cares to admit, but it is nevertheless a fact. mr. dunn played in most of the best matches of that year, and while he did very creditably in some of the ties, had the misfortune to lose four goals in this contest. the renton forwards, however, were too smart for the bulk of the cambuslang backs, and woe betide a goalkeeper when he is not properly supported there! mr. dunn had a lively time of it in the contest, and saved some splendid shies from taking effect. ~j. smith.~ the cambuslang team were never famed for the brilliancy of their back play. it was what the forward division had done for that club in some of the most severe and uncertain of their matches that forced them to be looked upon in scotland as one of the crack elevens. mr. smith was rather of the quiet and unassuming order of players, who thought much but said little, and did his work well. he was a fine kicker with either foot, and his tackling was severe, but honest and clean. with a good wind in his favour, few backs could equal him in a long kick, but he sometimes made mistakes near goal when he was hard pressed. ~mr. m'farlane.~ the best back in the cambuslang eleven that season was undoubtedly mr. m'farlane. he reminded me very much of the style of mr. a. h. holm (queen's park), who captained the scottish team against england at sheffield in 1883. he had rare ability in close tackling; used to get the ball away by clever heading, and was the most plucky young fellow to go to the assistance of a half-back one could see anywhere. his only defect--and it was a very bad one--consisted in getting up to an opponent and trying to take the ball away from him in the rear. sometimes it came off well, but at others his club had to pay the penalty with a free kick. ~mr. russell.~ in the present contest mr. russell was one of the three half-backs, and in no match during that season had a trio such terrible opponents to encounter as the two campbells, m'call, and m'callum, who were perfect demons among the renton forwards. russell held out bravely for a time, but was eventually cornered, and, in the second half particularly, "lost his head," and allowed the renton men to get up to dunn too often. in some of the smaller matches of the club he played brilliantly, but did not really rise to the occasion in this memorable cup tie, and in most of the tackling came off second best. ~john gourlay.~ it has often been said about cambuslang that it was a club of three names! those names, however, both individually and collectively, were fearless opponents to meet in any tussle, let alone a cup tie, and to the credit of cambuslang be it said, no combination of players ever served a club so well, and had such pleasure in their hard work, as the buchanans, gourlays, and smiths. they were more feared than admired by the members of the clubs twenty miles around, than the elliots, and armstrongs, or, shall i say, the græmes, of the "debatable land" long ago. both mr. james and mr. john buchanan were famous players in their way, but the back was decidedly the best man, and was selected to play against wales the same season. ~a. jackson.~ cambuslang's style of play, with their fast following up and jerky kicking, suited, or, i might say, favoured the old style of six forwards and only two half-backs, but they insisted on being in the fashion. the three half-backs, however, were only names to conjure with, but nothing in real practice, for mr. jackson was always made the kind of "flying man" of the team, and was nothing more or less than a forward. he always joined the latter division when they were attacking an opponent's goal, and retired well up among the backs when his club were pressed at the lines. in 1886 mr. jackson played against wales, and was also included in the team against ireland in 1888. ~john buchanan.~ although mr. john buchanan developed into a very fair half-back, and was selected to appear against ireland last spring, he was included in the present match under notice as a forward, and i think he then played on the right. he was the fastest dribbler in the team, and a capital tackler. the combination among the cambuslang forward division, however, on the occasion was completely spoiled by the superior tactics of the renton eleven, and that fine passing for which the village team were so justly famed was awanting that afternoon on hampden park. ~james buchanan.~ although similar in name, the play of the other buchanan was quite different from that of mr. john. he was always cool and collected, and had a fine style of dribbling and passing which sometimes rose to perfection itself, but in his runs he was fond of showing off, and was easily tackled in consequence. but for this fault he would have been chosen to play in one of the internationals the previous year. no player, however, loved the game and his old club so much, and practised more self-denial to attend the field on the eve of a big match, and do his best for victory. ~j. plenderleith.~ every club undoubtedly has its own ideal type of player, and i am almost sure that plenderleith was the favourite among the cambuslang forwards. he had speed--and rare speed, too--and with a kind of long kick that he followed up in a style of his own, made great progress down the field. he kept too close on the touch-line, however, and his great fault was kicking out--a dangerous thing when too near goal in this age of smart throwing in--for i notice a great improvement in this art during the past few years. we are, however, still behind the englishmen in this respect, as most of them play cricket in the summer, and are consequently good shiers. ~g. smith.~ mr. george smith was what i might honestly term a fair forward, not brilliant, but steady, and a good backer up. he was, however, always getting too near the line, and often had to submit to the indignity of being pressed into touch, and thereby losing the leather. the fact was he took too much room to work in, and was slow in following up an advantage. to give him his due, however, he was a very earnest worker, could stand a deal of tear and wear during a season, and was always available when wanted in a hurry by his club. ~james gourlay.~ there is not a more steady player going at the present day than mr. gourlay. he showed remarkable ability in passing and middling, and his fast shies at goal were really splendid. in this event he was at his very best. once or twice he started well with the ball at his toe, and made tracks for the renton goal, but was badly supported in the following up, and often got collared by the opposing half-backs. he possessed great speed, like most of the other cambuslang forwards, and scored a lot of the goals for his club that season in their best matches. ~h. campbell (renton).~ the two campbells were young players in the renton team three years ago, and in this match were considered sufficiently good to be included in the forward division that did so well against cambuslang. mr h. campbell was a very fine dribbler and passer, and good at close tackling. the passing in this tie between mr. j. m'call and he was splendid, and went a long way in winning the match. he was also a veritable dodger when he got up to the opposing half-backs, and the partisans of the clubs who played renton in 1888 used to hold their breath when they saw campbell in front. ~j. harvey (renton).~ unknown to fame as a regular player in the renton eleven until the season when this event took place, or it may be the preceding one, mr. harvey was one of the victorious forwards. he showed fair judgment, and middled the ball very neatly to the campbells and m'call. his dribbling, however, was a shade too wide, and as he had excellent speed, sometimes he over-ran the ball at a time when the other forwards were following close up, and lost chances to score. ~j. campbell (renton).~ of all the young forwards who graduated in the dribbling game at the village of renton, there never was a better shot at goal than mr. j. campbell. smart on his legs, with a good appearance, he dribbled splendidly, and half-backs caught a perfect tartar when they came close up and attempted to take the leather away from him. his style near goal reminded me very much of dr. john smith, who scored so many goals in the half-a-dozen internationals in which he took part against england. campbell never waited a second before making his parting shot, and sometimes the goalkeeper failed to get the ball before it went spinning through. ~the final association cup tie of 1889.~ this tie was decided at hampden park on the 9th february, 1889, between the 3rd l.r.v. and celtic, and ended in favour of the 3rd l.r.v. by two goals to one. the same clubs, however, had previously met to decide the contest, but both played under protest in consequence of the weather. this naturally caused that additional excitement, which culminated at the final meeting on hampden park that saturday afternoon. the 3rd l.r.v. had long worked for possession of the coveted prize, and twice it was within their grasp, for they played and were defeated in the final ties on two previous occasions--viz., in 1876 by the queen's park, who scored two goals to none, and again in 1878 by the vale of leven, who overcame the warriors by one to none. if ever a team deserved victory in this event it was the 3rd lanark rifle volunteers. the celtic were more than foemen worthy of their steel, and considering the fact that the 3rd l.r.v. had come through the ties so creditably, and had that season vanquished the crack english professional combination, the victory was a most popular one all round. as for the celtic, they are a young and powerful club, and can afford to wait a season or so for victory, for you know "everything comes to those who wait." the crowd was large, the weather fair, and the enthusiasm great. the volunteers played with the wind, and made their first point out of a scrimmage about twenty minutes from the start, and this was all the scoring in the first round. the play after this was very even, and the celts were showing off some grand combined efforts, but were unfortunate at goal. at length, however, the irishmen made a brilliant sally on the volunteers' stronghold, and mr. m'callum put the ball between the posts. after this the play was so even that a draw seemed inevitable, and it was only by the determined play of the cathkin park team that at length the celtic goal was taken for the second time by mr. oswald, junior, who was ably assisted in the successful run by messrs. marshall and hannah. the cup--that trophy which had cost some kind hearts (now silent for ever), an unsatisfied longing, and a constant anguish of patience--was safe to the old club at last! i accordingly give the players who took part in the tie, and start with the 3rd l.r.v. ~downie (3rd l.r.v.).~ mr. downie deserves credit for the manner in which he has kept goal for the "warriors" during the past two seasons, when his club played and defeated some of the best in scotland and england. in this event he had terrible work to perform, and got through it with much credit. so far as i can remember--and it is, indeed, no stretch of imagination--the goal got by mr. m'callum could not have been saved by any keeper, as it came out of a scrimmage from the celtic man's foot like a rocket. mr. downie is a very neat kicker-out in front, and shows fine judgment with his hands in clearing the ball away from a crowd of opposing forwards. ~a. thompson.~ mr. thompson is one of the best backs that last season produced, and had it not been that the two queen's park men--messrs. arnott and smellie--had played together so well, and pleased the committee of selection in most of the best matches, mr. thompson would have been in the great international. as it was, he got the next best position, being chosen to play against wales. he is a rare tackler, sometimes a little rough, but the finest kicker in front of a besieged goal i have ever seen. sometimes in the heat of a scrimmage he loses the ball, but has the knack of recovering himself in an instant. ~j. rae.~ the volunteers were remarkably well served with their backs in this tie, and mr. rae made a capital companion to mr. thompson. he is scarcely such an accomplished tackler, but for neat kicking and feeding the forwards when they are playing an open game, i know none better. he is a splendid man for judging distances, and if he is certain the ball is nearer one of his companions than himself, gets close behind and backs up at once. to see mr. rae placing the leather in front of his forwards in a good match is a treat of no ordinary kind, and it may be mentioned that he played against wales last season. ~a. lochhead.~ the three half-backs in the present tie with which i have to deal were messrs, auld, lochhead, and m'farlane. mr. lochhead has been long one of the "shining lights" of the 3rd l.r.v., and while in some respects inferior to mr. auld, has one grand virtue to recommend in a football player--viz., patience. his perception is keen and decisive, and if he imagines a daring forward on the other side can be successfully met without close tackling, he never fails to out-manoeuvre him, and let the spectators see some rare half-back play. mr. lochhead took part in the welsh international in the spring. ~mr. m'farlane.~ the 3rd l.r.v. were in perfect training condition in the tie, and well can i remember both auld and m'farlane coming in for a large share of hugging by excited partisans as they made their way up the steps towards the pavilion of the queen's park club that memorable saturday afternoon. mr. m'farlane is really a fine all-round player, and this season is keeping up his form in a way that both astonishes and delights his old friends. his "heading" in front of goal is very fine, and has saved many a shot from taking effect. ~j. oswald, junior.~ no better pair of dribblers ever served a club than the two oswalds--senior and junior--last season, and had more genuine success in the games in which they played. the forward combination, with these two men at their best, was decidedly the most powerful in scotland, and undoubtedly won the match for the volunteers against the celtic. mr. oswald, junior, however, was the better of the two, and the manner in which he scored the second goal, which gave the third the victory, was quite a treat to all who saw the tie that day on hampden park. ~j. oswald, senior.~ the senior oswald, as he was called, to distinguish him from his companion of the same name, played against england in the spring, and was as good a dribbler, but not so fine a judge of a goalkeeper's ability to get at the ball when the forwards were crowding round, and sending in shots thick and fast. the passing among the forwards of the 3rd l.r.v. that day was so good as to defy criticism, if that were possible, and oswald, senior, was no exception to the others. the pair, however, loved the loaves and fishes of england better than the 3rd l.r.v., and are now "o'er the border and awa'." ~j. hannah.~ in some of the best games of the 3rd l.r.v. last season the passing and following up between mr. hannah and mr. johnstone were not to be beaten anywhere for splendid judgment and properly matured forward play. there are what is known to the player as certain degrees of pluck and endurance, and while i have in my mind's eye some forwards in other clubs, including mr. william berry, the queen's park light-weight, who must of necessity come under the first, i am inclined to rank mr. hannah among the second. he is, however, a first-rate man. ~w. johnstone.~ last in order of forwards, but by no means lacking in genuine ability, with rare dribbling powers, comes the name of mr. w. johnstone. he played a very steady game all through this tie, and was as fresh as paint after the whistle sounded the finish. although not such a determined tackler as some of the other forwards not only in his own team, but in the celtic as well, he is the most earnest worker in the whole club, and in his probationary days would practice unceasingly to attain perfection in certain points of the game in which he was deficient. he played against wales in 1889, and in 1887 against ireland. ~j. kelly (celtic).~ although mr. kelly is, so to speak, unknown to the game as a goalkeeper, he promises to become a good man below the bar. the ability of the celtic goalkeeper, however, is certainly not equal to the back and half-back play; and, while kelly did very well in this match, his duties were rendered less difficult by the splendid defence shown at back by mr. m'keown, and the grand half-back efforts of mr. m'laren. he has several good points, including the clever fisting-out of the ball, but is not a strong kicker, and sometimes goes too far away from his charge. ~p. gallacher.~ when the celtic were hard pressed on several occasions, mr. gallacher always fell back on his goal, like the prudent general who covers his retreat, and no man did more heading and breasting in running the ball out that day. he wants the judgment of his companion in the same position, but makes up for it by fearless and unceasing work. he was hard pressed several times by marshall and oswald, sen., and had the worst of the tackling, but he generally came up smiling, and renewed hostilities with spartan bravery. ~m. m'keown.~ mr. m'keown was decidedly the best back on the losing side that day, and his defence near goal splendid. he is not, however, particularly careful in his returns, and sometimes kicks over his own lines when hard pressed, but there can be only one opinion as to his genuine ability in close tackling--he can do it to perfection. during the game, even marshall, who is not afraid of anybody, sometimes steered clear of m'keown by passing up the ball to johnstone instead of keeping possession to the last. he played against ireland the same year. ~w. maley.~ the celtic had as their three half-backs in the contest under review messrs. w. maley, j. m'laren, and j. kelly (the latter of whom has already been mentioned in a previous article). mr. w. maley, if i am not mistaken, is a young member of a very young club that has made a name for itself in a couple of seasons. he has, however, a deal to learn before he can be classed alongside kelly and m'laren. he is kind of slipshod in his mode of tackling, wanting finish, but nevertheless a dangerous man to meet in a charge. ~j. m'laren.~ the finest half-back of the irish combination is undoubtedly mr. j. m'laren, and in this tie his play was really magnificent. when the volunteers' forwards again and again got near the celtic goal, he was the first to checkmate them, and, not contented to work his own place successfully, frequently went to the assistance of some of the forwards when he thought they had more than enough to do. he played for his old club, the hibernian, against wales in 1888, and in 1889 against england for the celtic. ~m. dunbar.~ mr. dunbar was one of the most active men in the celtic forward division in this match, and showed very good dribbling, but was easily tackled when getting near goal, and more than once "removed" off the ball by auld and lochhead. he is, however, a steady worker, and most reliable when backing up. mr. dunbar, if i am not mistaken, was at one time a member of the cartvale, and played for scotland against ireland for that club in 1886. ~r. m'callum.~ in his general style of play mr. m'callum was not unlike mr. william m'kinnon (dumbarton), who flourished from 1881 to 1885, and was one of the best forwards in that county. he was not such a tricky and cunning tackler, however, but faced up to his man with a confidence that betokened superiority. he was, like the rest of the celtic forwards, a good dribbler, and possessed considerable speed. for a young player he was also very judicious in passing the ball, and during this contest he helped to start some of the best runs of the day. he played against ireland, at belfast, in 1888, and is now located in blackburn, where he partners harry campbell on the right wing of the rovers. ~w. groves.~ it was in the final tie for the scottish challenge cup between the hibernian and dumbarton in 1887, which the crack edinburgh team won by two goals to one, that brought mr. groves into special notice, and it may be, for aught i know, caused him to be carried off by the celtic later on. like a good many other players, he varies a bit in his style. some days he is easily tackled; while at others not a single back or half-back on the field has a chance with him, and it must be said of him that he is one of the neatest dribblers of the day. he played against wales in 1888. ~j. coleman.~ among the forward division of the celtic, mr. coleman was a decided acquisition, and during that same season scored a lot of goals for the new irish combination, which came to the front with something like the rapidity of "jonah's gourd." a beautiful dribbler and runner, he made several grand spurts towards the 3rd l.r.v. goal, but had a weakness for keeping the ball too long, and was often tackled by the sure feet of rae and thomson. in speed and general play he reminded me very much of mr. william miller (3rd l.r.v.), an international against england as far back as 1876. ~t. maley.~ when the whole of the celts were at their best, and this happened pretty often last season in their challenge cup ties, mr. t. maley generally rose to the occasion, and led his team brilliantly. his steady-going style is much liked, not only by his colleagues, but spectators, and it is quite a rare thing to see him grassed by an opponent. when approaching the goal with the ball, he is like the priest who had a "wonderful way wid him"--slipping through the backs in a manner that is sure to make the goalkeeper gnash his teeth, and wish maley was far enough away. _v.--the pioneers of association football in scotland;_ or, _"the conqueror's football boots."_ my football boots are getting what might be called shabby genteel now, and no wonder. if they could speak they would tell you many a strange episode in the life of an association football player, and how he kept his place in a leading club for nearly a dozen years. they have been old and dear friends, those well-worn boots, and although now somewhat curled up at the toes, have kicked many a good goal out of a hot and exciting scrummage in front of an opponent's upright posts, and even in an international tussle; but now that they, like myself, have retired from active duty, and may reasonably be supposed not to be encumbered with existing prejudices, which in the nature of things might more or less interfere with expressing an honest opinion about the association football player of the past or his colleagues and successors, i will introduce them to you, and in figurative language allow them to tell their own unvarnished tale. my last advice, however, to you, my old friends, before leaving you to the tender mercies of a scribbler, is not to answer all the questions he thinks proper to put. please don't tell him what you heard or saw after leaving the football field clinging to my sole and instep, of my love intrigues, my stolen interviews with blue-eyed annie, and when she jilted me and got married to charlie quilter, who played "left wing" in the flying blues. charlie must have regretted what he did more than once. the blues used to play us a couple of games in the year, and not long before charlie got married he was, as a matter of course, one of their eleven. on that occasion i felt nettled to think that a big, broosy-faced, lisping fellow like charlie should have "put my eye out," and could not resist the temptation of frequently crossing to his side during the game, and "going" for him. oh! how my old companions, my boots, behaved on the occasion--the very laces almost burst with indignation; but quilter, poor soul, never gave a winch, and bore it with becoming fortitude. he has now, like myself, got settled in life (i am a confirmed bachelor), and we are still the best of friends, for that "blue-eyed annie loved him, too," was one of those things i could never forget. it is too bad, however, in me to block the way with this dissertation, and not allow mr. boots to begin. i shall leave the rest to him with confidence. well, once upon a time (began mr. boots), i was a combination of circumstances. that is to say, i went through many processes even before i became mature leather, and one afternoon i was brought to a small shoemaker's shop in crosshill tied up in a bundle. there were lots of cuttings in that bundle--butt, ben, wrapper, cordivan, kid, calf-skin, and even sheep-skin--but i was then a shapeless piece of wrapper, kipp, and calf-skin. when i was trysted there were few, if any, football boots made, and the old man who was entrusted with my construction was a strange old "cove." he could make a pair of ordinary boots with any one, but was not so sure about me. i was ordered by a genteel, nice-looking lad, with red cheeks and clear black eyes. he addressed the representative of st. crispin in a musical voice, but i then formed an opinion of my future master, that he would be a little conceited and arrogant at times, and this has proved correct. the instructions about covering my soles with bars was specially impressed on the old man's memory, and every detail was carried out to the letter. when we were completed, my brother and i, you would have admired us. if it were possible to have anything handsome in the boot line, except, perhaps, a tiny, fur-lined lady's slipper, it was us. we were sewed with substantial rosen-end, the division between the inseam and soles was filled up with real leather skivings, and not the trashy "jump" which makes up the bulk of the soles of football boots nowadays. the more, in fact, i think of it, the more i am convinced that the present make of football boots is a new-fangled device in the shoemaking trade, for are they not now got up of american leather, brass nails, and other abominations, free of import duty! my master, i remember, came for me (please consider that i am also representing my brother, for, like the siamese twins, the one can do nothing without the other) on a saturday. he told the old man that he was going to play a match with the leven crowers that very afternoon, and must have me. i was barely finished, but tate's son got the bars put on all right, and i was handed over to the tender mercies of my new master. he was quite delighted with my appearance, and looked with pride, and even satisfaction, on my well-polished uppers and wrapper soles. there was even a half-'un going at the paying. the leven crowers were a young and powerful club, possessing more speed in running than any real football ability at the time. the club to which my master belonged was the first to introduce the new ideas in the game, as they were then called, in scottish soil, and as there were only three clubs in existence at the time of which i am referring, the contests, as a matter of course, were few and far between, and, consequently, looked forward to with more than ordinary pleasure. the other two clubs were the greenvale and the kilback, but they were not of much account (so my master had often said, and he was supposed to be a good judge). i heard him say the conquerors had "licked" these clubs over and over again, and that they weren't in the same street. when i was being laced up, however, for the fray that afternoon in the old toll-house on the road to battlefield (the conquerors had no such modern requisite as a pavilion then), i heard bob gardens express quite a different opinion about the greenvale, and even go the length of saying that they had a draw with them on the previous evening after a hard fight. this demonstrated a fact that was useful to me in my subsequent career, viz., never to credit what other folks (especially football players) said about the ability of opponents in the heat of a tussle. talking about the leven crowers, they were not to be despised. although the haughty conquerors had given them their first lesson in association football, they were fast coming up on them in some of the points of the game. i heard my owner say that the first lesson was given at alexandria, and on that occasion the crowers, who were then crack shinty players, arranged themselves in the field as if for a match at that ancient scottish game. that they had not forgotten their first game with the conquerors was amply illustrated in the present, which, i might again repeat, was my first outset in public life. i was stiff at first, and pressed my master's instep rather hard shortly after the kick-off. the contest was played on the recreation ground, and was witnessed by very few spectators. true, there were certainly many choice spirits residing near the spot, who came out to see us and enjoy a quiet outing, and have a friendly crack. little did these club companions imagine that that small but enthusiastic gathering of spectators was the harbinger of crowds composed of thousands of excited spectators who now assemble to witness big association matches every saturday, not only to see the conquerors, but other clubs, very slightly removed from them in ability, playing "cup ties." the crowers' forwards showed great pace, and one of them, will cumming, repeatedly got past me, despite the smart manoeuvring of my master. will, however, was somewhat wild in his dribbling, and could not keep the ball close enough to his toes. jim wild was my master's backer up on the occasion, and as jim was decidedly the finest dribbler that ever toed a ball, and kept his place for ten years against all comers, afterwards the pair managed to intercept cumming before he got close enough on goal to make a shot. the crowers' goalkeeper was a good one, and could clear his place of defence with great ability, but the backs were not of much account. pate m'wherry and luke m'tavish did the work at half-back, but their kicking was somewhat feeble when compared with those of the conquerors, tom james and willie keith. the conquerors were far too anxious to score, and for some time kept up a close cannonade at their opponents' goal without effect. bob prentice used his hands cleverly, and, though the goal was again and again endangered, not one of the forwards on my master's side could get the ball under the tape. a fine run was made by wild, lucky, grind, short, and my master, and the ball brought up to within a few feet of the crowers' goal, but at the last second, johnny forrester, one of their centre forwards, kicked it behind. this gave the conquerors the corner flag-kick. my master, who was quite an adept at corner flag-kicks, was sent to the spot, and placed the ball in a good position, but bob prentice got it up in his hands at a critical moment, and threw it clear. good runs were eventually made on both sides, and once the crowers nearly lowered our colours, but nothing was got by either, and the game was drawn. in those days the rules observed were somewhat different from those in vogue now. the game was far prettier. there was none of that heading which forms such important factors in the style of modern playing. when the ball was thrown in from the touch-line the rule insisted that it had first to land on the ground before being touched, and consequently head play was unnecessary, and dribbling was, as a matter of course, considered the most important point, combined with taking smart possession of the ball as soon as it touched the ground after being thrown in. my master was smart at getting on the leather, and, next to jim wild, he was the most accomplished dribbler in the conquerors. if there is anyone capable of telling what he could do, 'tis i. how he used to keep my toes in a circle as he left the grass behind his heels, piloting the ball past the opposing backs, i know to my loss, and a very great depreciation in tear and wear. he was a veritable "dodger," this owner of mine. never afraid of a charge, he would, in order either to secure the ball or keep it, attack the biggest man in an opposing team, aye, and knock him over, too. sometimes he lost his temper when things went against him, and, while his remarks to an adversary were somewhat cutting and at times verging on impertinence, they were always within the scope of "parliamentary." in after life, however, my master found several foemen worthy of his steel amongst backs and half-backs in the flying blues, the crowers, the cedargrove, red cross, and north western, and he sometimes came off second best. it is all very well to say that there were "great men in those days." so there were, but the same remark can be made equally applicable now, for they are even more common, and you find them scattered over the length and breadth of the land. it would decidedly weary you, my friend and reader, were i to detail all the games in which i have taken an active part, and you will at once admit that i may succeed in pleasing you better if i give a short sketch of the leading clubs and players who have wrought so hard and done so much to make the association game so popular. jim wild has been mentioned in connection with his club (the conquerors), but it is necessary to give him a line or two more. there was no other association club in scotland when the conquerors were put into ship-shape order, and consequently no opponents to play. they could not challenge themselves to mortal combat, and there were none but rugby clubs, whose members treated the new order of things in football as childish amusement, and unworthy of free-born britons. "give us," they said, "the exciting runs, the glorious tackling, the manly maul, and the beautiful dropped goal, and we will meet you a bit of the way, but not otherwise. we don't believe in loafing about the field at times, when only one or two of the side are engaged; we want to be active." "well," said the conquerors (one of whom had been offered a place in the twenty in the rugby match between glasgow and edinburgh), "you don't know association rules, or you would never make such absurd assertions about the new game. if there is really any inactivity in football while being played, that inaction is clearly shown in a rugby maul, where the one half of the side are merely spectators. besides, your game is only half football; in fact, a combination of football and handball knocked into one. your run with the ball under the arm is only a display of speed; it has nothing whatever to do with football. we want the grand dribbling run with the ball at the toe, the smart passing and middling of the association, and we will enjoy it." such good-natured banter went on at first between two opposing interests, but by and by the difference culminated into something more. as a sort of _quid pro quo_ for the courtesy extended to an association player by the rugby contingent in the inter-city match, tom chaloner, the very _beau ideal_ of a rugby player, was asked, and promised to play in the first international association match at partick in 1872. tom even came out to the recreation ground at crosshill, and practised with the conquerors as goalkeeper, and promised well in that position, but through some cause or other he did not play when the eventful day came. if ever a man could handle a ball and kick a goal as a quarter-back in a rugby game, it was chaloner. he was the pride of all the rugby clubs in the country side, and was as well, indeed, if not better known in his brilliant career as a cricketer. who in scotland could bat like tom? he was not a hitter to a particular side of the wickets; all was alike to him. he could cut, drive, hit to long and square-leg, and oh! how far! he would have made a grand association football player, but he preferred to stick to the rugby style, and was equally successful, at least to his club's satisfaction. the first match between england and scotland at partick, nineteen years ago (which, by the way, is worthy of note, was played by members of the queen's park exclusively), did a great deal to spread association rules in glasgow and district, and, in fact, eventually all over scotland. hitherto there used to be a couple of months of interval between the end of the rugby football season and the starting of athletics and cricket, lasting from march till may, and as the football players of the old dispensation were still in trim, but with exhausted fixtures, not a few of them, belonging to two of the leading clubs, did not consider it _infra dig._ to have a "go" at the new rules, "just to see how they could stand it." the outcome of this hastily-formed notion was that a sort of nomadic team, calling themselves the western pilgrims, was formed, and three or four matches, and good ones, too, were played between them and the conquerors and also the cedargrove. the pilgrims showed themselves no mean opponents in the new game, and, after holding their own with the cedargrove in a drawn game, had a good tussle with the conquerors on the recreation ground at the park, and were only beaten by a goal to none, the goal, i remember, being made in the last five minutes by bob gardens (who could dribble and play forward as well as keep goal). a few of the pilgrims took kindly to the association rules, and while that season lasted two of the leading forwards joined the cedargrove, and turned out capital players. another joined the druids, and became a famous goalkeeper, even going as far as playing for his country in the international match, and the fourth turned out a leading man in the holyrood crescent. talking about the above goalkeeper, aleck m'gregor was one of the finest fellows that ever stood with his back to a goal. there was the cheerful disposition, the gentlemanly demeanour to opponents or associates whenever he appeared on the field. his knowledge of the rugby game made him a most useful man at goal, where the keeper of that charge is the only man under association rules who is allowed to touch the ball with his hands. with the ordinary goalkeeper the punt-out kick, when dexterously executed, was considered the most effective mode of saving the ball from going under the tape, when the use of the hands to knock it out was not deemed necessary, but aleck preferred the drop-kick, which is one of the redeeming features in the rugby style of play, and this he could do almost to perfection. i have seen him (for i have, by-the-bye, taken part against him in several matches) lift a ball after it had come pretty smartly from my right toe, and dropping it on the ground before him, kick it as it rose, bounding away over the heads of the conquerors' forwards as they besieged the goal like a hive of bees on a june morning. he had decidedly the advantage over the modern "punter," inasmuch that the leather was always sure to go higher out of reach when the place of defence was besieged, and farther out of the way of lurking backs and half-backs, who, as a matter of course, crowd down behind the forwards when an attack is made on an opponent's stronghold. there were other instances which came to my knowledge (that is, if my reader can imagine anything so queer as a pair of boots possessing such an immensely human gift) of converts from rugby to association style of play, or rather perverts, as they were designated, but enough has been said to show how association football gained a hold on the young and rising generation, and how it spread all over the western and north-western portion of the country, and, like the proverbial eastern magician's wand, caused goal-posts and corner-flags to spring up in every village and hamlet with remarkable rapidity. close to the shores of several highland lochs, where a big kick by a stalwart half-back endangers the ball being swept away by the tide, one can see the game played of an evening by the village youth with great earnestness of purpose. by and by the new rules made remarkable progress, and as the public liked the game, and deserted the rugby matches to see what they considered the most easily understood rules, the breach between the rival contingents widened, and eventually the jews had no dealings with the gentiles, and so they both continue playing the games they consider the best. what changes have taken place in clubs and players during the last few years! faces, blithe, happy faces, now gone forever, can be remembered by the old spectators, although the present scarcely ever heard their names; but i will not go very far back. poor dixy (for he is dead now)--well can i remember his first introduction to the conquerors. my master had been indulging, in company with bob gardens, jim wild, willie keith, and others, in a punt about on the evening preceding a match with the red cross, and, after shaking hands and passing the usual compliments, the practice game was started, and in it the newcomer showed well, and kicked cleverly with both feet. he was, however, just a shade too slow, and i frequently tackled him, and secured the leather, giving it a deal of "toe" after passing close in on goal. the club were badly off for a goal-keeper after willie keith left for america, and, as john was not backward in making a display of his ability, he offered to act as goal-keeper. it would take too long to recount the games in which he and i were engaged in the subsequent career of the conquerors, but an incident or two will not be considered out of place. if dixy had one weakness more than another it consisted in a lively sense of his own importance as a crack goalkeeper, and the supposed invincible qualities of his club, which he often declared could not be beaten. he improved wonderfully in his new position, and, while playing some of the junior clubs, which were by this time beginning to spring up, it was positively amusing to see how john would advance quietly from his goal when it was besieged, and punt the ball contemptuously away with quite a crowd of young ones close up, awe-stricken at the agility shown by such a bulky form. a few of the red cross and cedargrove forwards sometimes gave him a fright, and in one match with the leven crowers he was fairly outwitted by boyd and ned m'donald in a cup tie. i fought hard in that memorable battle myself, and never got such a saturation with water and mud in my career; but we were beaten. i will not easily forget dixy as he came to the field on that occasion, carrying his umbrella to the goal-posts, and laying it against the left one. he, poor fellow, expected his club would have an easy victory, and this belief was shared in by not a few of the eleven besides, including my master, who had, by the way, emerged into a centre forward since the last match with the kilmarackers, and as a consequence he gave me a deal of extra work as a backer-up to mat. angus. in fact, not long after i was carefully laced and ready for the fray that wet afternoon, the conqueror's eleven had a confab about the tactics they should pursue, and joe sayler, our captain (who is now no more, and lost to his club for ever), remarked it would take them all their time to beat the crowers. he had, i could see by his anxious looks, grave doubts on the issue. at the outset of the game the rain poured down in torrents, and as most of the play was on the crowers' portion of the field, the umbrella was put up, amid the laughter of the partisans of john's contingent and the pent-up indignation of the followers of the crowers, who mustered strong on the occasion, and demonstrated a strength of lungs truly astonishing. john, by and by, when the battle became hot, had to discard his old friend and comforter, and work in front of his fortress in a way that he had never done before, and when the terrible tussle ended, the conquerors were beaten by two goals to one. when chaffed on the "umbrella incident" ever afterwards dixy was silent, and declared that in using it he did not hold his opponents too cheaply, but simply with a desire to save himself from a ducking. john was also a capital oarsman, and when he was suddenly cut away in the pride of his manhood, he was barely 30 years of age. he was greatly lamented, and his handsome figure is missed from the football field. john's death reminds me of a young and promising forward named smith, who used to play on the left wing of the cedargrove in company with a smart companion named seward. young smith was a very enthusiastic football player, and missed few, if any, practice games. poor lad, i met him twice in one season in matches with the cedargrove, and it took all my master knew to prevent him from getting clean past the conquerors' backs and scoring. he was a nice dribbler, and like fred adamson (an old member of the same club), went straight ahead with a splendid hold of the leather. talking about fred, i remember that player, in company with johnny m'phedran and james wilton, going for big thomas, who was then the conquerors' captain, and played at half-back. thomas was an awful fellow to meet in a charge, and a hundred to one was sure to send his opponent to grass. johnny, however, who was a little bandy-legged, held tenaciously to the ball, and while thomas was eagerly watching his opportunity, fred sent him flat on his back, and the ball was close on goal in an instant. there was a hard scrummage, and in the nick of time, joe sayler (who was then the crack sprinter of the conquerors), dashed up and got the ball clear before it reached the keeper. poor smith, he caught a severe cold one evening, and eventually succumbed to a painful malady. the cedargrove were at one time hard to beat. in fact, in the early history of the scottish football association challenge cup, they pressed my master's club hard for the trophy, and were only vanquished--after three games--by one goal to none. the red cross were also dangerous opponents, and possessed not a few capital players. there were john huxter, sandy kenneth, jack williams, joe drummond, and bill millins. they were not easily beaten. sandy kenneth, though rather a quiet-looking customer to meet in the street, developed into one of the finest half-backs that scotland ever produced. he was always cool and collected, and, although by no means a very hard kicker, could judge the ball to a hair-breadth. sandy was especially clever in tackling, which he could manage without deliberate charging. if the ball got up close on the goal which he defended, he would follow the dribblers, and with a clever manoeuvre on the left foot, obtain possession, and after nursing the ball for a few minutes, would, amid the applause of the spectators, send it spinning down the field. then there was bill summons. he was rather a volatile customer, and a perfect football coquette. there was scarcely a club of any pretensions in glasgow but what bill had wooed. he, however, stuck well to the red cross, and did some splendid service in their best matches, but eventually left them and joined the conquerors, who, by the way, were just a shade too ready to take over the best men of other clubs by holding out tempting baits in the shape of big matches. bill, with all his faults, was a grand back, and i question if anybody in glasgow could make a finer kick when he set his mind to it. he had his failing, to be sure, and who hasn't? he was sometimes most erratic while playing important matches, and, especially on a windy day, would make grave mistakes with too heavy kicking. jack huxter, too, of the red cross, was a very fine player, and a "caution" to get past at back (poor fellow, he, too, like dixy, has gone to his account). he was a dangerous man to meet in the heat of a tussle near the goal-line, and woe betide the daring forward who would attempt to take the ball from jack there. his only weakness was a frequent desire to "go" for the man instead of the ball, and charging rather heavily. although a back, he was by no means an inferior dribbler, and possessing good speed, sometimes astonished the members of his own club by the smart runs he would now and again make in company with the forwards when the leather was in an opponents' territory. he stuck like a veritable leech to the red cross, and turned out most faithfully to all their important matches. i must not forget willie millins, who was one of the neatest dribblers of his day. he has given up football now. getting a clear start, many an exciting and clever run he made for the red cross. i heard my master say that in a match for the association cup between his club and the cedargrove, he once made a goal after dribbling the ball almost the entire length of the field. then there was a lot of smaller fry, including good players belonging to the dumbrook, north-eastern, gallowgate rovers, the locomotive slashers, thornians, northern jumpers, edinburgh irishmen, partick unfortunates, and last, though by no means least, the flying blues. there was no club in scotland, except, perhaps, the vale crowers, that had made so much progress in the game as those flying blues, and few, if any, were gifted with the same amount of self-confidence. the blues, nevertheless, had good reason to feel proud of some of their members, for they were young and active, and the very ideal of smart football players. it was a lucky thing for them when they migrated from the north and established themselves in the old ground vacated by the cedargrove. had it not been for that lucky arrangement, they might have wasted their football lives in obscurity, and gone down to association posterity "unhonoured and unsung." their success was as remarkable as it was swift and decisive. possessing any amount of pluck, they tackled all and sundry in the district, and the second year, after gaining something like a first-class reputation, won nearly every game they played. their captain, tom vincent, was a grand back, and, indeed, one of the crack men in that position, of whom scotland has now so many to select from; and then there was bentback, bill donoup, jack drummer, and mat neil, all fine players at their respective positions. never shall i forget the match between the blues and the conquerors for the association cup a dozen years ago, about the last big match in which i took an active part. my master's team had had bad luck though, for after pressing the flying blues till within a few minutes of the game, the blues beat the conquerors by one goal to none, bill donoup sending the ball under goal at the last minute, although the story goes that he had a bet of a "sov." that the conquerors would win, and it was even admitted that he was heard to say, when kicking the goal, "here goes my blooming sovereign!" although now stowed away in the corner of a large chest, side by side with jerseys, caps, knickerbockers, and other football requisites, as a remnant of the glorious game, my master sometimes visits me to think over the past, and i often hear him say that, although he does not play now, he still goes to see some of the leading contests, and at them picks up many queer stories of the modern players. last year's crack men, as he sees them crowding in his "mind's eye," are not, he says, unworthy representatives of those of the past. _vi.--how clubs were started long ago._ when the summer game of cricket was far more extensively played in glasgow and district than it is now, those who understood the feelings and aspirations of young men engaged in it repeatedly considered the question in all its aspects, and a combination of circumstances have occurred within the last decade which had seriously affected that game. the city of glasgow could not, of course, afford to remain in a stationary condition to suit the convenience of a few thousands of cricketers. new streets had to be formed, new houses built all round, and with this advance upon civilisation came the deadly blow to cricket--at least juvenile cricket--and those clubs soon disappeared from the field. ground after ground was swallowed up, and on the scene of many a hot and exciting match blocks of houses, railway stations, churches, and public works may now be seen. the scotch youth, and for that part of it (just to give the sentence greater weight), the british youth, loves some kind of manly sport. cricket he could no longer play for want of good and level ground, but then there was another game which, at least, could be played or learned under easy circumstances, even on a quiet street or big "free coup," and that was association football. they soon took to it kindly, and many of them struggled hard and procured a ground. not one, of course, like that on which they used to have their cricket matches long ago, but one on which farmer lyon grazed his cows and sheep, and they had it for a trifle. what did they care about ridges and furrows, or that it was a difficult matter to see the lower goal-posts when you were at the east end? not a straw. the only matter which annoyed them (and this only happened occasionally) was lyon's bull. their club colours were red jerseys, with a small white stripe, and "jock" (that was the animal's name), used to scatter the lads about on the friday evenings when they were engaged in a big side. the players generally managed to clear out in time, but the infuriated animal once goared the best ball the club had, and next morning, as they had to play the "invincible" of glasgow green, a subscription had to be raised for a new one. football can thus be played under much more favourable conditions than cricket, or almost any other out-door game, at less expense, and this, in a great measure at least, is the secret of its popularity amongst the masses. it can also be played under nearly every condition of the atmosphere. nothing seems to frighten the scotch association football player. rain, hail, snow, and even frost, is treated with cool indifference. in england the ball is quietly laid aside with the advent of april and forgotten till the autumn leaves are yellow and sear, but in scotland association football seems to have no recognised season at all, so far as the younger clubs and even a few of the seniors are concerned. with the sun making one's hair stick to his head with perspiration, and the thermometer at 90 degrees in the shade, they play away in the summer-time, and at christmas attempt to dribble in half-a-foot of snow. meantime the question about football being blotted out can, i think, be easily answered in the negative, and upon these will depend the future prospect of association football in scotland. there are, in fact, "breakers ahead," and a strong and determined hand will have to take the wheel. the greatest of these is the "professional" football player, and the next the "greed of gate-money." "o! we never heard of a professional football player in scotland," exclaims a chorus of voices; "there is no such thing. it's only in england." my remark, of course, is only beginning to be realised. the definition of professional in athletics "is one who runs (plays) for gain." everybody knows what that means. if you receive any money whatever, directly or indirectly, from your club (except out of the private purses of the members), you are a professional. are there not clubs, with great reputations, who have such members? if these are allowed to continue on the club books simply because they are good players, the committee are doing a great injustice to the other members, it may be under a mistaken notion. now, as football has always been looked upon as a purely amateur game, and played by young men for their own amusement, it is to be hoped that the day is far distant when the professional football player, or even worse, the professional football "loafer," who does not work, but preys upon his fellow-members, will appear in a general form. in all conscience, if the public wish to see professional football (and i know from experience they don't), what would they think of the all-scotland eleven against the champion eleven of england? that might sound all right, but with the recollection of how professional athletics of all kinds (with the remarkable exception of cricket) are now conducted, and their low associations, woe betide football when the professional element is introduced. it will assuredly be the signal for its decline and fall. as for the greed of gate-money, of which some clubs are so fond, much might be said. when i refer to the clubs who try to gather as much cash as they can during the season in order to pay their legitimate obligations and meet the heavy item of ground rent, i show up an honourable example, and one worthy of imitation; but when i hear of clubs who have gathered ten, yea twenty times more than is required for such purposes, and even get handsome donations besides from their patrons, deep in debt at the end of the season, i begin to wonder where all the money has gone. i ask a young gentleman who has only lately become a member, and he tells me he knows nothing about the finance committee, but throws out grave hints about sordid motives and bare-faced applications for pecuniary assistance. in this respect clubs must be above suspicion, if they want the delightful game to hold its own and prosper. as a _quid pro quo_ for this vicious practice, however, there is no game whose players are so charitable as those connected with association football. there is not a club in the association that is not ready to play a "charity match," and far more has been given to the funds of charitable institutions by the actions of association football clubs than all the other games in scotland put together. _vii.--the great international;_ or, _ned duncan's dream._ ~scotland v. america, 1901.~ while on holidays, enjoying myself at a quiet and beautiful sea-side village on the shores of the firth of clyde, i received a note from a friend reminding me that an old football chum was still on the sick list, and making little or no progress towards recovery. in fact, his life, which had recently been enfeebled by an incurable malady, was slowly but surely drawing to a close. last time i saw him he referred to the fact that he had some ms. which he wished mr. john m'dowall, his successor in the secretaryship of the s.f.a., and myself, to read over, and when this came into my mind i resolved to repair to glasgow at once, ere it might be too late. it was just as well that i did, for poor ned duncan was fast sinking when i got permission from his widowed mother to visit the bedside. ned, i may mention, was one of the most enthusiastic players of his day that ever kicked a ball, but was obliged to give up practice in consequence of the unfortunate circumstances i have just mentioned, and of late had only been a spectator at the leading games. he received me that evening with a kind smile of recognition, and his pale face beckoned me to come near. i was certainly much touched with my old friend's appearance, and tried as much as possible to cheer him, but it was of no use. he said he knew he was going to the silent land. the doctor, in fact, had told him he had only a few days to live, and he was glad i had come to bid him farewell, and take over some straggling notes he had compiled last summer about the football of the future. "going home one evening," he continued, "after an international match, i fell into a deep sleep, and had a remarkable dream. i thought i saw a great match between scotland and america. real genuine players glided past, scrimmaging with each other for the ball; thousands of spectators, new and beautiful youthful faces, graced the area allotted to spectators; the hum of thousands of excited voices greeted my ears, and"----here poor ned's voice failed. after a few minutes repose, the old player gasped, "but what need i tell you more. here is the ms., and make what use of it you like." my dear old friend is now under the turf he loved so well to play on when in the zenith of his fame. having eventually opened the packet, the first sentence which met my eyes was "ned duncan's dream; or, the great international of 1901." i will, therefore, leave poor ned to tell his own tale, and what he saw in his vision, which at any rate has the merit of originality about it. as more extraordinary dreams have come to pass, there is no saying what the beginning of the twentieth century may bring forth, for international football matches with australia, america, and canada have been talked of, and some of them even played, during the past year or two, and may become accomplished facts. i must, however, return to the ms., which reads after the following style:-"it was in april, 1901, on a saturday afternoon, that the yankees came to scotland to play a match with our crack eleven. the universal postal service, which scattered letters all over the world at the rate of one half-penny per ounce, conveyed a formal challenge from the americans to scotland that the yankees would be delighted to meet an eleven of that country in an even game of football. the new world men of course meant business, and our secretary, who was a capital fellow, much liked by the scottish football association for his kind and obliging disposition, was instructed to accept the challenge and welcome the strangers to glasgow. "previous to the time i speak of, the americans had beaten the australians and canadians, and were considered by their own friends invincible even to the extent of a couple of goals. the canadians, by the aid of the electric express line's fast steamers, had been able to leave montreal in the morning and return in the evening from new york, defeated but not disgraced. the australians were a little longer on the way, as the improved appliances for driving ships had not yet attained that perfection there which had been shown in most of the ports and rivers of the british isles. they were experimenting, however, and some good in that direction was looked for daily, and a new express company floated. the americans had also beaten the englishmen the previous year at new york, and, as their own newspapers had it, 'came over to crow in the land o' cakes.' the great shipping trade of the clyde ere this was, so to speak, causing a new order of things to arise all over the world. large and beautifully-built steel and bronze vessels left the clyde every day for all parts of the earth. "they had annihilated space and bridged the atlantic in earnest, and the 'electrics' (once called steamers) could go from glasgow to new york in little over twenty-four hours. yes. 'daily to new york, montreal, california, and new mexico. splendid accommodation for first-class passengers: 120 knots per hour, and no vibration.' so read the advertisement in the leading glasgow newspapers. why! what did it all mean? one hundred knots per hour--3000 in twenty-four hours! to new york in a day! i had certainly heard of the swallow taking an early breakfast at the uttermost part of england and picking up a late dinner on the shores of africa, all in one day; but 120 knots an hour with an 'electric,'--it was just enough for flesh and blood to comprehend at once. "'well,' said a friend of mine with some experience in the marine engineering line, 'i have long thought on electricity as the great motive power of the future, provided it could be properly stored, and now you see what it has come to.' "in fact, our coal supply--one of the sources of britain's greatness--was getting exhausted, and electrical appliances had become an absolute necessity. the strain could no longer be borne of one huge vessel consuming 500 tons of coal in twenty-four hours, and those blessed electrics were not introduced a moment too soon. "the learned men of france, who had long been working earnestly to solve the problem of electric economy, were beaten in the race, and a perfect system of stored electricity introduced and successfully applied to the propulsion of ships, patented by professor scotland thomson, nephew of the late sir william thomson, of blessed memory. "lots of other remarkable events had been occurring in our history, but none so marked as the introduction of the 'electrics.' the people of scotland had very nearly lost their individuality. old caledonia was to be simply a name. englishmen invaded glasgow, edinburgh, dundee, and even _ultima thule_, and overran the country with their ideas of social life. they made slow progress at first, but came in hordes, and the invasion was irresistible. they, of course, introduced all their newfangled ideas about games and pastimes, and compelled us to submit. "parliament had got so mixed up and thoroughly disgusted with the question of irish home rule, which cropped up every session, that in an evil mood it had threatened puir all scotland with assimilation of the law of jurisprudence, but failed. king albert the first, however, had, out of respect to the great city of glasgow--the second city in the empire--created his third son duke of glasgow, for you must know the house of peers was still extant, but greatly reformed and limited in power. it could only veto a law passed by the commons once, and there was no more about the matter. "the match, you may be sure, was the general topic of conversation all over scotland several weeks before it came off, and on the friday evening, when the americans arrived and put up at the express hotel, glasgow, the excitement was great. the preparations and arrangements for the struggle were on a grand scale, and good weather alone was wanting to make it a success. that evening several of the scotch team strolled into the billiard-room of the express hotel to welcome the young americans, and had a chat with them about football in general, and the spread of the rules all over the world. "the eventful day at last dawned, and a finer april morning could not have been desired. play was announced to begin at 3.30 p.m., and long before that time bruce park, cathcart road, was half-filled with spectators, and presented a fine sight. "the crowd around the field was certainly the most remarkable that had ever gathered together in glasgow. as the game was no ordinary one, they flocked from all quarters. most of the towns in scotland supplied their quota to swell the multitude, and as railway travelling was cheap and convenient now compared to the original football days of the queen's park, clydesdale, vale of leven, rangers, dumbarton, granville, 3rd lanark volunteers, partick, clyde, alexandra athletic (of which poor duncan was hon. secy.), and a host of other clubs, a two-hundred-mile journey, which was easily accomplished in an hour, was considered next to nothing. they were there--young men and maidens from london, manchester, liverpool, edinburgh, blackburn, darwen, bolton, and sheffield--all bent on making a day of it. the road to bruce park, indeed, was a sight to see, despite the fact that the cathcart railway carried its thousands that afternoon to the south-side. there were not a few buxom country girls in the crowd, enticed thither by no great love of the game--which, of course, they did not understand--but by their sweethearts, just to let the young persons of the place see that they had lads as well as their neighbours. there was one winsome lassie among them, however, who would have done credit to burns' incomparable 'queen o' the glen.' "emma was the only sister of a young farmer in the district. it is a mistaken notion to suppose that farmers in scotland are by far too plodding a class to indulge themselves in anything savouring of english games and pastimes, particularly football, but this is a mistake. i know several farmers in the country who love the dribbling game dearly, and do their best to promote its interests in the way of supplying ground to not a few young clubs dotted over the country. in fact, emma was the beauty of the whole parish, and all the young men for miles around were well aware of it. no one could deny it, and even the most unreasonable of fellows, charley m'gowan, the schoolmaster, and alfred walker, the lawyer's clerk, were forced to acknowledge it. "'talk about sydney's heavenly geraldine,' said young m'gowan to me one afternoon on the road to practice, 'she beats her hollow.' m'gowan, however, was a bit of a cynic, and emma soon cast him off for walker. he was a fine singer, and in after years, when he became a confirmed bachelor, delighted to sing songs about the inconstancy of the fair sex. he used to hum out goethe's 'vanatos,' and more particularly that verse with reference to the fickle fair ones, which ran "'i set my heart upon woman next- hurrah! for her sweet sake was oft perplexed; but ah! the false one looked for a daintier lot- the constant one wearied me out and out- the best was not easily got.' the yankees, however, had a high opinion of our feminine beauty, and the impressions made on the gallant youths that saturday afternoon were of the most favourable order. the romans, in fact, were not more captivated with the beauty of the sabean maidens than were the young americans with the lovely scottish girls who gave them such a hearty reception at bruce park in april, 1901. "walt vanderbilt, their captain, was a fine-looking young fellow, about 25 years of age. ere this the young americans had completely discarded whiskers, and walt formed no exception to the rule, with his closely-shaven cheeks and well-formed moustache. good work in the field in the way of practice had made walt's form show complete development, and i am inclined to think that a finer specimen of a football player never toed a ball. the goalkeeper of the team, too, young lincoln, was rather a nice-looking fellow, nearly six feet high, and well-proportioned, with eyes sparkling with humour, but he lacked the fine open countenance of his captain. "the other members of the team were much of the ordinary type of humanity, just like our average football club men, with any amount of nerve and energy. if they felt excited at the magnitude of the work they had in hand they concealed it well, and looked as if they were merely entering the field to do a little practice. they wore the sign of the american eagle, dotted over with the emblematical stars and stripes. our fellows had also an imposing appearance, with the lion-rampant on their jerseys, and, although looking rather douce and uncertain about the game, determination was depicted on every face. "the names of the gentlemen who entered the field were as under:-"_scotland._--f. wallace (south-side swifts), goalkeeper; t. glen (queen's park), d. smollet (vale of leven), backs; w. m'millan (dumbarton), f. m'neil (rangers), half-backs; k. m'geake (pollokshields athletic), p. livingstone (kilmarnock), k. watt (edinburgh rovers), t. stewart (volunteer a.c.), t. d. coats (paisley combination), and g. f. turnbull (clyde), forwards. "_america._--w. r. c. lincoln (new york caledonian), goalkeeper; v. h. grant (texas rovers), w. c. vanderbilt (hamilton state swifts), backs; j. h. armstrong (chicago association), d. steel (nebraska electric), half-backs; d. c. bramey (victoria boys), r. s. chandler (utah gentiles), p. whitehouse (newhaven), j. s. bryan (alaska pilgrims), w. d. bangle (san francisco racers), and t. lawrence (washington house), forwards. "_umpires._--j. w. marindin (south australia), and d. y. jones (canadian association). _referee._--w. h. littleton (english association). "before the game began, the yankees offered to bet level money, and some of their red-hot plungers even went the length of two to one on their chances; but they were promptly told that the days of betting and wagering at football matches, cricket, horse-racing, and all genuine sport, were now numbered with the past in the united kingdom. "gentlemen, in fact, who loved and enjoyed sport for its own sake, and for that part of it, ladies too, had voted betting 'low and unmanly,' and even degrading, and as parliament had been repeatedly petitioned on the subject, a bill was almost unanimously passed in the dying year of the nineteenth century abolishing betting. "the loyal irish party (late home rulers), and the rado-toro democratic party (led by lord randy chapel-mountain), whose hair was beginning to get silvery-grey, and his long moustache to match, did not even oppose the bill, and it passed. never did a legislative enactment work such improvement among the masses as this bill. it completely banished all needy souls and black-legs from the arena of honest sport, and left the field to those who came out of an afternoon and evening to enjoy themselves in an honest way. "the coarse language, too, of which our forefathers justly complained twenty years ago, had almost disappeared, whether through the effects of the school board, i would not like to say, but one could now take sweetheart or wife to enjoy themselves, provided always, of course, the weather was at all suitable. "as for professional football players, no such thing had been heard of for years. they certainly died hard, but eventually no club would have anything to do with them. "'what is that?' 'oh, it's the bell to begin.' "well, the game did begin in earnest, immediately after a fair lady had thrown out the leather ball from the grand stand at the right-hand side of the field. there was no tossing for choice of ends, for a new rule had been just added to the revised code enacting in a most chivalrous way that strangers or visitors be allowed to select the side of the ground they preferred to play on for the first half-hour--for you must know, my readers, the term now allowed for the game was one hour, and that when the ball was kicked into touch, there was no throwing back into play with the hands, but it was kicked from the touch-line straight out before play was again resumed. "for some time the forwards kept the leather close to themselves, and the yankees on the left wing, by a fine piece of manoeuvring, were successful in getting it away, amid tremendous cheering. chandler, who was one of the fastest sprinters in the world, and had beaten the record in san francisco in the fall of last year, got through his men in brilliant form, and came down on the goalkeeper like 'winkum.' just as he was poising himself, however, for a final shot, m'neil deliberately crossed the field from the opposite side, and after dodging about the young american, rushed in and took the leather away, and keeping it between his feet for a couple of seconds, kicked it clear of the scotch goal. a good deal of heading afterwards occurred near the home goal--the ball getting close on the lines several times, and even passing them. many considered before the game began that the americans would never have a 'look in' at all, and great was their dismay when they actually beheld their champions hotly pressed on their own ground, and look like losing the day. with a brilliant charge the yankee forwards crowded round the scotch sticks like a hive of bees on a june morning, and a straight shot from the foot of d. steel, who rushed in from his place at half-back, caused the ball to glide past the scotch goalkeeper like a rocket. "this was the signal for tremendous excitement. crowds of partisans and friends who had come over with the strangers, and many enthusiastic lovers of the game and fair play, raised a loud cheer, again and again renewed, at this piece of grand play on the part of the yankees. the intensely interested scotchmen, however, while they certainly admired the pluck and fine play of the visitors, and cheered in a mild kind of a way, even though an enemy wrung it from them, kept very quiet, and not a few white faces might have been seen about the wire fence which kept spectators and players apart on bruce park on that memorable day. they, however, kept their own counsel, and quaintly said to the yankees who chaffed them on the point, that howling was a very good thing in a way, but it should not be indulged in till people were out of the wood. "the teams then faced each other in midfield, and the ball had no sooner left the scotch captain's foot than it was taken away, and dribbled down the centre by bryan, whitehouse, and lawrence, and when half-time was called the latter was just finishing a good shy, which sent the ball over the bar. according to the new rules a quarter of an hour was allowed as an interval, and during that time speculation ran high as to what was destined to be the final issue. "to indulge for a moment at the idea of the americans beating the scotch on their own ground in the great international was a sore point for the bulk of the spectators with scotch faces, but they said very little. they had a secret hope that their champions would eventually pull off the game, even though they had a goal to make up, and only half-an-hour to do it. they had, it was remembered with pride and satisfaction, pulled through many a doubtful match before, and scotchmen, it was well known, were not easily beaten. "the young lady again threw up the ball, and tam glen, getting a good hold of it at his left foot, made one of the finest fly-kicks ever seen in a match, and the forwards on the scotch side following well up, completely puzzled the yankee backs and half-backs by their brilliant passing. before you could say jack robinson, m'geake shied for the american goal, and the ball knocked off the cap of the goalkeeper, and, hitting the bar, bounded back into the field of play. a hard and exciting scrimmage followed, and amid breathless excitement the yankees cleared their goal. five minutes of very even play followed, and then the scotchmen set their teeth and made a desperate effort for victory. "only ten minutes of the game now remained to the good, and there was, you may be sure, no time to lose. one goal behind, and at the great international, too! it would never do to allow america to whip creation, even at football! one final effort; no, two final efforts, and it was done. "the scotch captain was seen to whisper something to his team, and in a few minutes the grandest run which was probably ever witnessed since football became a scientific sport in the world, was started, and, before the american backs, half-backs, and goalkeeper could realise their position, the scotchmen bore down on the visitors' goal, and literally dribbled the ball clean through. this was, you may be sure, the signal for an outburst of cheering, which must have been heard over the half of the big city of glasgow, which now contained over a million of inhabitants. "the game, however, was not yet won--it was only a tie--and when the representatives of brother jonathan again started the ball only four minutes remained, but it proved a bad four minutes for the representatives of the stars and stripes. another run, backed up by a shooter from the left foot of turnbull, settled the great international for that year at anyrate. those who had hitherto viewed the game in moody silence began to come out of their shells (talking piscatorially) and join in the universal huzzah. "the yanks were now fairly cowed, and when another grand piece of play by stewart, backed up at the proper moment by watt, put a third goal to the credit of the scotchmen, the visitors, in the most gentlemanly way, heartily joined in the cheering for the victors. when the referee's whistle was sounded, the scotchmen were declared the winners of a hard-fought field by 3 goals to 1. the crowd completely besieged the pavilion at bruce park at the close, and cheered lustily as the scotch champions made their way up the steps. nor were the vanquished americans forgotten. they came in for a round of hearty cheers for their pluck. "there was a dinner given to the distinguished strangers in the evening, and the usual complimentary toasts proposed and duly acknowledged; but, as i was not present, i am unable to say who spoke best and gave the most enjoyable song. "at anyrate, a happy evening was passed, and, after spending a day in glasgow, the yankees sailed on the following monday morning for new york, where they duly arrived without any mishap, after the fastest passage on record, having covered the distance from greenock to sandy hook in twenty-three hours fifty-nine and three-quarter minutes." such is "ned duncan's dream; or, the great international." _viii.--the patrons, spectators, and popular players._ they are to be found in all ranks and conditions of life, from the lord of the manor down to the apprentice-artizan and newly-fledged young man from shop and warehouse. like love, football, for the time, at least, levels all distinction; and albeit i know, for that of it, many a well-matched pair, who have met for the first time on the grand stand at hampden park, looking back with feelings of intense pleasure to the time when their "infant love began." were it not, in fact, that caledonia is at times so "stern and wild," and that football and frost can never flourish together, the game would be far more extensively patronised by the fair sex. at a cup tie or an international match, it is quite a common thing to see the convener of an adjacent county,[a] the city magnate, the suburban magistrate, the free kirk minister, and the handsome matronly lady, standing side by side with the horny-handed mechanic, the office-boy, the overgrown schoolboy, and the buchanan street "swell." they all watch the game and surroundings in their own particular way. i once heard a quaint, but nevertheless true, idea of how some of the more familiar visitors give way to a certain failing, which in itself can scarcely be called such, but is not unfrequently looked upon with amazement by the stranger. the scotchman, it is said somewhere, is not so much respected for the manner in which he goes about a thing as the way in which he does it, and the remark, when applied to this particular case, will be all the more potent. here it is:--"where are you going to howl to-morrow (the query is put on friday), jack?" "oh! the queen's and vale, of course; they will have a close thing of it, and there will be rare fun," says jack. "old anderson was very indignant last saturday, and declares that he will never stand near me again at any such matches. he was quite ashamed of my howling, and positively charges me with digging my thumbs into his ribs, and nearly strangling his youngest son at every scrimmage near each goal." "it serves you right, tom. i was always afraid something of that kind would happen; you shouldn't be so demonstrative." tom was silent. he was as jealous of his own propriety and good behaviour as anybody could be, but being of a most excitable nature, he did things in the heat of a tussle for which he was afterwards very sorry, and many ignored the fact that he was an old rangers man, who scored the first goal for that then young club in a close and exciting game with the once powerful clydesdale. as the association rules are very easily learned in theory, the great bulk of the spectators show an acquaintance with them which is pleasing to see, and when an assumed infringement takes place, it is generally heralded from some part of the field by a partisan of the contending elevens. the only apparently unintelligible point to them is the "off-side" rule, and i have seen a goal kicked in this way hailed with deafening cheers and waving of hats and handkerchiefs. these manifestations, however, were turned into low growling when the leather was sent away by a free kick. the ladies, too, talk about "free kicks," "corner-kicks," "heading," "hands," "beautiful passing and dribbling," as if to the manner born. i cannot, however, dismiss the subject of spectators without referring to the use and abuse of a free and unrestrained vent to pent-up feelings. there is the low, vulgar fellow, whose collarless neck and general coarseness of exterior and language indicates that he possesses all the vices but none of the virtues of the "honest working man." work he will not, except he is compelled, and although to "beg he is ashamed," he would be the first to do a mean action if he had the opportunity. it is he who, by his foul tongue and very breath, contaminates the atmosphere he breathes, and brings some of the matches into disrepute. unfortunately he has paid his money at the gate (sometimes he gets over the fence), and you can't turn him out; but he makes hundreds miserable. he is, in fact, one of the "unimproving and irresponsible," and moral suasion has no power over his hard and stony heart. sometimes in an evil moment his vulgar remark is challenged by one of the players on the contending sides, and this gives him an air of importance. there is nothing, however, which shows a want of gentlemanly bearing in a team more clearly than paying the least attention to exclamations from excited spectators. they should treat them with silent indifference, and if needs be, contempt, and play away as if there were nobody present at all. it is sometimes, nevertheless, very hard for country clubs to come to glasgow and play for the city charities, and get howled at by this class of spectators at certain stages of the game. the great bulk of those around, however, are indignant at such conduct, and regret it all the more on account of being utterly unable to prevent it. there is another spectator, too, who not unfrequently forgets himself, and he is to be found on what might be termed the "touch-line" of society. he is the fast young man, who considers you a perfect nonentity if you don't bet. i don't mean betting on football pure and simple, for he only lays a few "bobs" on it, but on the latest quotations for the derby, the st. leger, the waterloo cup, or the university boat race. his "screw" is not very big at the best, but he can always lay "half a sov." on the event, whether his landlady's bill is paid or not, and touching that little account of mr. strides, the tailor, why, he'll pay it when he "makes a pile." he thinks too much of himself ever to get married, and the young ladies of his acquaintance may indulge in a sigh of relief at escaping from the toils of such a consummate fool. when he has something "on" a match, and sees that it is lost, he not unfrequently opens out, and is not over choice in his language. the game, however, goes on, and is greatly enjoyed by the general spectator, despite such drawbacks, and if you happen to go to the same locality on a similar occasion, you are all but sure to see old and familiar faces crowding round the stand and area. [a] the late lamented mr. a. b. stewart, convener of the county of bute, was an enthusiastic admirer of the game, and many will miss his handsome firm and kindly remark when future matches are played on the leading grounds in scotland. the modern association football player is a man of some ability. as a rule he is temperate in his habits, with a good appetite, and sound in limb. long before he knew what football was, he was blessed with a large share of health. when a boy at school he used to be remarkable for punctuality, but occasionally got into trouble from neglected lessons, in consequence of a weakness for indulging in out-door sports. he loved the rude style of football, then played, dearly (he knew of nothing better), although goal-posts, touch-lines, corner-flags, and other modern appliances were totally unknown. as for "hacking," it was endured by all and sundry with the air of martyrs. why, if you had not nerve enough to "give and take" in that line, your chance of getting near the "goal score" was remote indeed, and you were looked upon as a coward and the verriest noodle. he, of course, grows older, and by and by joins an average club, and gets on very well. the crack football players, however, have many maturities. they generally come slowly, but surely, and leave behind them powerful impressions. they are like the occasional planets, not the stars which are seen every evening if you care to look towards the "milky way." they are mostly fine-looking fellows, with pleasant countenances and grandly-moulded limbs. they have just passed a severe course of probation in the football field, without even an outward trace of anxiety. the vagaries of the game admit of no distinction of class. the crack player is, in fine, found among all classes--in the gentleman's son, in the clerk at the desk, and the lad in the workshop. there may be different ways of working out the latent ability, but sooner or later it begins to show itself. some thought it was scarcely fair in the duke of wellington to say that "waterloo was won at eton." there is not the least possibility of doubt such a remark might be misunderstood, and many feel inclined to charge the "iron duke" with ignoring the services rendered by the non-commissioned officers and men of the british army, for everybody knows that none but the sons of the opulent class can ever gain admittance to eton. it looked, in fact, very like the credit being given to the officers for winning that great battle. wellington, however, had his eye on the football and cricket grounds when he spoke these words, and no doubt intended to convey the idea that these games went a long way in bracing up the nerve which served so well on the battle-field. close adhesion to the practice of any game really and sincerely creates fresh possibilities of that perfection and discipline. and why should this not be so in football, particularly as it is a game regulated by sharply-defined maxims? everyone can't be the captain of an eleven; and as for wellington's remarks, the most humble member of the team may show the greatest ability. you may belong to the most "swellish" of clubs, and have a fair reputation, but you are not chosen to play in the international. your father may be the "great mogul" himself, but that has no effect. the coveted place can only be attained by merit, and this is one of the most successful and meritorious traits in scotch association football. you don't, as a rule, even get a place now by reputation, and so much the better. when clubs were few and good players fewer, you were not unfrequently favoured with one, whether you deserved it or not, but now the matter is different, and justly so, since we cannot go into a single town or village in scotland without seeing the practice ground and goal-posts of the now omnipresent football club. _ix.--a dream of the past._ i am getting old and stiff now, at least in a football sense, but have seen and played in, perhaps, more big matches in my time than many will be inclined to give me credit for now. somehow or other the modern player does not seem to go into the game for the pleasure it affords nearly so heartily as his representative of yore, but it may be that the compulsory clause in the education act has made him more refined, or, if you like it, a good deal more cunning in hiding his animal spirits and exuberance of innocent fun. be that as it may, the association football of to-day does not really possess the same charm to me as it did ten years ago. i was once a very fair player, but never considered sufficiently brilliant to get my name handed down to posterity as the crack half-back of the "invincible club" of bygone days, or proclaimed aloud in the secret recesses of the great "houf" where football players now retire to spend a social hour after finding themselves the victors of a hard-fought field. i must admit, however, that i did some clever things which the newspapers of that era ought to have at least given me a "puff" for, but they didn't; in fact, i never, like byron (lord byron, i mean), awoke one morning to find myself famous, because my football was that of days long ago, in an obscure (to football, at least) country town; and, besides, the game then was conducted in rather a rude and undignified fashion. talk about rules, we had those which might, for all i know, have been framed by the "chief souter of selkirk" himself to suit the peculiar mode of playing on the streets at shrovetide (a practice still in vogue near that border land). our captain knew nothing of such new-fangled devices as the rugby code, and far less of the football association. ours, in brief, was a sort of combination of both styles of play. to win a "hail," as it was termed, the opposing side, with shoving, hacking, and other descriptions of horse-play, had only to pass the ball over the line, and it was won. touch-lines, corner-flags, twenty-five flags, and even upright posts, and the usual concomitants of the scientific game of to-day, were unknown. this leads me, then, to the point of tracing the rise and progress of the game in scotland during the past dozen years, leaving its antiquity and origin, about which there are mere surmises, an "open question." that it was played, however, in edinburgh and glasgow at least twenty years ago, under rules somewhat similar to those now adhered to by the followers of the rugby union i can well remember, and this was the only kind of football known by the young athletes of that time. over a dozen years ago many were the exciting contests engaged in by not a few of the clubs still in existence. the oval ball, with its historical associations, has a charm for them. they then talked about the association style of play with something akin to contempt. "what," they might have been heard to say, "is the fun of looking at people 'bobbing' a ball about with their heads, and the half of a team doing nothing, while a couple or so of the players are engaged at a time? give us the closely-packed maul, the exciting individual run, with the ball under the arm, the gallant struggle to ground it over the opposing line, and, above all, the beautifully dropped goal." "but nobody goes to see your matches now," remarks a newly-fledged convert to the association style of play, who has come to see the "inter-city," "they got disgusted with your never-ending mauls and shoving matches, preferring to witness scientific manipulation of the ball in dribbling, and passing with the feet." "pshaw! do you imagine we care a straw for gate-money? we play the game for the love of it, and the genuine exercise it affords," retorts the old rugby adherent, "and respect it all the more on that account." "oh! it is all very well to tell one that, but don't your leading clubs still charge for admission to their matches?" "yes; but this is more in the way of keeping out the roughs from the field than for gain." such conversation i have overheard myself, and none of the sides made much by it. well can i remember the birth of association football in scotland, and look back to the time when there was not as many clubs as i could count on the fingers of one hand. in 1870, a semi-international contest, under association rules, was played in london between scotch men living in england and an english eleven, and continued till 1872, when, on november 30th, the first real international match between england and scotland took place in glasgow. in that same year, early in the season, the celebrated queen's park club (to whom scotland owes the introduction of the game), entered the lists for the english challenge cup, and were drawn against the london wanderers. it was at that point that the matches which had hitherto been played in london between london scotchmen and englishmen were given up in favour of an annual match between scotland and england, to be played alternately in london and glasgow, and, if possible, so to arrange the contest that the association match might be played in england the same season that the rugby match would be played in scotland, and _vice versa_. it might be as well here to say that the celebrated scotch club and the wanderers, then in the zenith of their fame, played a drawn game with no goals on either side, but finding it too difficult a job to meet the englishmen again, they scratched. since then, however, the rugby and association internationals take place regularly as each season comes round, in scotland and england alternately. it is a curious fact, and one worthy of record, that the scottish rugby football union and the scottish football association were both constituted in the same year--viz., 1873. the union was formed after the international rugby match at glasgow, dr. j. chiene, of edinburgh, being in the chair on the occasion. the scottish football association was formed under the presidency of mr. robert gardner, the once famous goalkeeper. the annual competition for the association cup, when the clubs who entered for it the first year only numbered 16, were proceeded with in a much more gentlemanly way than is the case now, but the reason is obvious. hitherto young and inexperienced clubs never dreamt of entering against opponents with whom they knew they had no chance, and, consequently, the competitions were left to be fought out among the cream of exponents of the dribbling game. as each year came round, however, and young clubs began to multiply exceedingly, many of them considered they should have a shy at the "cup," and as the entry-money for membership to the association was only a nominal sum, they competed, and were never heard of after the first tie. no one who has watched the progress of association football in scotland can for a moment deny the fact that the challenge cup has been the chief factor in assuring its popularity and rapid development all over the western district of scotland, and when its original promoters inaugurated the competition, it was done with the honest conviction of spreading a knowledge of the association rules, together with generating a spirit of friendly rivalry amongst clubs. that it has been eminently successful in the former respect is admitted, but i can't say the same thing so far as "friendly rivalry" is concerned, and one has only to remember the manner in which some of the ties are conducted to point out that the term "questionable conduct" would be more appropriate. when i hear of men and lads deliberately kicking one another, and charging wildly when the ball is about ten yards away in front, i begin to consider that the time has positively arrived when the scottish football association, if it wishes to retain its hold, should interfere, and make a selection of clubs to compete for the "blue ribbon" of association glory. quadruple the subscriptions to the association if necessary, and, above all, revise the bye-laws in such a way that what is known as a "rough game" would be impossible. it is but fair, however, to the scottish football association to state that they have long been alive to the fact, and have since taken the matter up while deciding protests. the association rules, however, are immensely popular with the people, and in some of the big matches it is quite a common thing to see 10,000 or 15,000 spectators. i have heard of such people as those who actually hate cricket and football, and make it a constant aim to prevent those over whom they have some influence from engaging in the manly sport. they occasionally flit across one's path like an evil spirit, and disappear as rapidly, but leave behind a chilling effect on the imagination, far more intense than the terrible nightmare after a disastrous defeat. they cannot see the fun of spending valuable time in such a way. if you follow one of those gentle "cads," however, at the close of an evening, he may be seen, cue in hand, earnestly engaged at the billiard table. he is not in a happy mood, for he is one of the losing side, and there is a wild look about his eyes. he sometimes gets home rather early in the morning, and is not particularly careful of his choice of companions at times. they are childish amusements, these games at cricket and football, "and none but silly people," he continues, "would ever think of engaging in, or even encouraging, them any way." and another thing. there is a sort of prejudice to football, and, in fact, to a lot of healthful out-door exercises, in scotland, among the older people, who can scarcely endure the thought of spending time under any circumstances; and parents are often the cause of degenerating a kind of deception more common than one would believe--viz., playing under assumed names. surely it is much better for the young men to spend a spare afternoon on the football field, enjoying the fresh air, than being, perhaps, engaged in questionable "time-smashing," in the way of playing cards, draughts, or drinking. on asking a well-known dribbler the other day how it came about that he played under a _nomme de guerre_, "was he afraid to let his real name be known?" the answer was conclusive. the governor was sometimes inexorable, and treated him to a lecture on filial obedience and the inevitable consequences of neglecting business. he positively debarred him from playing again, but tom was not to be done. taking advantage of the old fellow's absence from home, he yielded to the solicitations of his captain, and played under an assumed name, dribbling and passing in such beautiful form that thousands of spectators applauded his efforts, and his side won in a canter. as the non-indulgent parent did not observe tom's name in the papers, his little deception was never found out, and he continued doing duty for his club in this way for a couple of seasons. and of the yet fine player who thinks he will retire as each season comes round, something must also be said. his eye has not yet lost the gleam of honest rivalry, and he snorts like the war-horse as each season comes round to be in the thick of the fight. he retired, it may be, last season, for good, as he thought, but the fascinations of the goal-posts and flying corner-flags was too much for him as a spectator at the first big game, and he yielded for another year, but it will be his last, for maud, his beloved and beautiful maud, will claim him as her own before june. "we have been long engaged," he is heard to say to an old club companion, "but this blessed football, of which i am very fond, has been the cause of putting off the marriage." i once knew a fine young fellow, a crack half-back, who was so anxious to play in an "international," that he positively swore he would never get married till he was one of the chosen team. he kept his word. he played twice for his country, got married, and, as the "unexpected does not always happen," is now the father of what may some day prove a race of stalwart football players. his handsome, though now slightly-bent form, is still often seen when a great event is being decided, accompanied by his wife and children, and woe betide the captain of his former club if he allows it to be beaten. "well played; keep him off the ball, can't you!" he is heard to exclaim, till he is red in the face, and he goes home to dinner with something like an appetite. none but those who have positively come through all the grades of football probation really know what amount of labour, to say nothing of self-denial, is needed to make a crack back, half-back, or skilful forward. sometimes one has to be contented with a place in the second eleven for years, before some incident, it may be, brings him to the front, and reveals true merit. in football, of course, as in other things, i have found that the best men were not always in their best places, and when this was the case, what is known as favouritism came in bold relief, but in the end the club in which such stupidity was rampant suffered very severely. it did all very well when the club were engaged in ordinary contests with weaker opponents, but it came out in some of the big events, in which the guilty club predominated in the selection of men to represent a city, a university, and even a country. fortunately, however, i can honestly say that during the last few years there has been little of this practised, and scotch football under both rules is all the better in consequence. while every enlightened mind is willing to go a long way in advocating equality, the line must be drawn somewhere, and i am inclined to think at that stage where gentlemanly feeling and courtesy are absent. a very obscure individual may, by his conduct on the field, show that he at least can be a gentleman. in all such manly sports social distinction ought to be sunk, and that great and noble equality--that equality and love of honest worth which is so dear to the scotch (and let me also say english heart) be ever remembered, when team meets team on the football field. we are shown noble examples of how in days gone by, peer mingled with peasant on the cricket field, strove with each other on the curling pond, and why should not such things exist in football? let me hope that as each succeeding season comes round the noble winter game will in proportion show greater improvement, both in club and individual integrity, as well as higher scale of moral worth. _x.--the duel near the football field, and the cause of it._ "and you tell me, frank, that the old ground is at last cut up to form a railway embankment?" said bob smith to frank green (whose sister, by the way, had got married to pate brown last season), as they met one evening at crosshill. "they will be long in finding a ground like hampden park, i'm thinking," replied green, with the recollections of pleasant games and glorious victories for the black-and-whites, to say nothing of numerous gains to scotland in matches with england and wales. since this meeting of bob and frank, however, the said black-and-whites have got pretty far forward with a new ground quite close to hampden park, and it is now being levelled up and put into condition. the railway embankment referred to is part of the cathcart railway, which will assist very considerably in opening up rapid communication between glasgow and the whole of the suburban burghs lying south. while referring to the southern suburbs, which, it may be mentioned, are closely associated with the rise and progress of association football, i cannot refrain from alluding to several genial souls who have helped to make them what they are. none, however, is entitled to claim more consideration and credit than provost goodfellow, of suburbopolis, whose official life, so to speak, has been spent in the cause of suburban organisation, accompanied, of course, with a due regard for association football. you must know, my brave scotch readers, and those hailing from south of the tweed, that the provost of a scotch burgh or town occupies the exact position of the english mayor. he is the head of the municipality, and is, in fact, a kind of ruler of all he surveys, but about his "right to dispute," particularly when the november election comes on, why that is purely a matter of opinion. well, the ruler of suburbopolis was not a despotic man. he was certainly a little pedantic, and who, i should like to know, would not be inclined to lean that way if they had taken part in a great annexation fight with the chiefs of the big bouncing city of glasgow, and beaten them too? some years ago, it may be briefly explained, the glasgow authorities devised a scheme, whereby all the suburban burghs were to be taken under the wing of glasgow and lose their entire independence, and suburbopolis, being close on the touch-line, was to be attacked first. glasgow, in fact, was to act as the veritable annaconda, and swallow it up, but she didn't. scotch radicals, talking politically, had not hitherto much faith in what they considered an effete hereditary legislature, such as the house of lords, but if there was one thing more than another calculated to bring about a conservative reaction among the glasgow suburban authorities, it was the attention paid to their vested interests by the peers. the commons had spurned their entreaties to maintain independence with scorn, and even relegated them to bumbledom, but their lordships, to whom the case was appealed, literally strangled the said annaconda before she began to devour, and suburbopolis, along with other five thriving burghs, were saved from municipal death, and still retain their provosts. provost goodfellow was a most genial soul, and particularly fond of association football. he could talk about dribbling, passing, and backing-up, as if to the manner born. the only thing, in fact, which he did not fully understand was the "off-side rule," and many of greater pretentions were as far at sea regarding that said rule as the worthy provost. he was the life and soul of charity cup ties, and never failed to turn out to patronise them. even the charming young ladies of the family (for you must know his honour had three handsome daughters) knew a good deal about the rules, and had several excited discussions with their brother archie (who was a member of the camphill), and bob lambert (of the black-and-whites), as to the respective merits of sundry clubs. these young ladies, too, had a long string of admirers, and no family acquaintance was more eagerly sought after than that of the goodfellows. suburbopolis, however, was by no means devoid of a galaxy of feminine beauty and well-developed male forms, who might have been seen of an evening leaving the handsome villas and terraces around the park (for which the inhabitants were not taxed). there were, of course, the families of colonel black (an old warrior, who had been through the crimea and indian mutiny), the redpath girls, whose mother was a widow, the snodgrass young ladies (three in number), the misses bland, residing at jessimine lodge, and, of course, many more lesser luminaries. the colonel's daughters, or "golden slippers," as one of them was called by several members of the camphill, who had caught her in the act of watching a practice game on the eve of a big cup tie, wearing a pair of fur-lined slippers, and had her heart set on the camphill beating the black-and-whites, was, indeed, the most handsome girl in the burgh. i would not dare to attempt a pen-and-ink sketch. it would fail in its effect. it's all very good for you fellows who have no soul for feminine loveliness to talk about girls, like babies, being all pretty much alike, but you are wrong--entirely wrong. jenny was, in fine, a "bonnie, bonnie lass," and scores of young fellows, i know, would have gone considerably out of their way to have received "ae blink o' her bonnie black e'e." emma, although scarcely so tall, was very like her sister, only shorter in the temper. after sundry matches at the field, jack black used to take a few of his companions up to the hillhouse, and the young ladies received them graciously--congratulating them when they won their matches, and "chaffing" them unmercifully when they lost. there were at least three suitors for the hand of jenny, but one of them resided in london, and the other at skyview villa, a couple of hundred yards from hillhouse. it can be easily imagined that the local man had the advantage in the courtship, being, as the special correspondent always prides himself in adding to his communications, "on the spot." bob lambert was, to be sure, a welcome visitor at jenny's residence, and a fast companion of her brother jack, and what was more, bob was quite a favourite with the old colonel, who admired his fine appearance in the football field, and the brilliant manner in which he could "back-up" when that was needed to win a game. bob, i must confess, was really a nice-looking fellow, with black curly hair, and a good broad chest. his features were well formed, and he possessed penetrating dark grey eyes. there was one thing, however, which told against bob in many ways, and that was his hasty temper. he could brook no rival in his position as the best forward in the black-and-whites, and a word or two from the captain at a practice game was sure to upset him. he sometimes, in fact, took the pet altogether. once, when playing a cup tie with the athletic park, he met his match in charlie walker (another of jenny's sweethearts), who played at half-back, and the work done all through that eventful match was seen between the pair. talk about coming in contact with "mother earth," why that was positively child's play when the two met. walker was also a powerful fellow, and it was a case of greek meeting greek. "bumping at oxford," to use an aquatic term, why it was nothing! at one time bob was seen tossed up in the air as if from the horns of an infuriated bull, and at another charlie was observed lying on the field at bob's feet. what did they care about the ball being fifty yards off? not a straw, so long as they tackled and kept each other away from it. "that's not football," says one, "it is horse play." "never mind about football in a cup tie," says another, "let the heaviest team win; go into the fellow." "oh! gentlemen, gentlemen, fie, fie, association football is an amateur game, and as long as i play it," said the captain, "there shall be no cruelty done on either side." little did the spectators know the real cause of the inordinate tackling done by bob and charlie, but the secret soon came out. the pair had previously been rivals for the hand of jenny black, and bob was looked upon as the winner. at least charlie had not been seen at the black's villa for two or three months, and before this he always made it his house of call. but what about harry carts, jenny's english sweetheart? why, i had almost forgotten him. a team of cantabs had played the black-and-whites just a year previously, and harry was one of them. he had been invited to spend an evening at the colonel's house, and had fallen desperately in love with the bonnie scotch lassie. bob was also specially invited and was present that evening, and although trying to be as affable as possible to the friendly stranger and opponent, could barely hide his jealousy when the gallant english forward kissed the lovely girl's ruby lips in a game at forfeits. bob said nothing about it to jenny, but emma, the youngest sister, whispered to her brother jack that bob's eyes had a wild look that evening. the matter, however, was soon forgotten, as harry carts left glasgow the next evening for london, after his gallant team had played a drawn game with the scotch black-and-whites--the first one ending in that way, be it observed, that had ever been played between them and an english team on scottish ground in the memory of the proverbial "oldest inhabitant." harry carts, to give him his due, was one of the best association football players ever england produced. when mr. c. w. alcock and a few choice spirits in london, it is true, first opened the eyes of many football players to the value of the association rules, and inaugurated the football association in 1863, harry was a mere child. appearing at college, however, he soon showed a liking for the dribbling game, and never lost a moment in doing his best to acquire everything he was likely to know about it. just the season before our story opens, he had been chosen from an imposing array of names sent in by his club, and also the branch associations, for an honourable place in the "great international." his superiority, in fact, put his place beyond doubt, and he stood to represent his country first, and club afterwards, in a tussle which proved disastrous to england; but it was admitted by all who witnessed the match that harry was one of the best men on the field, and, in company with his half-back, showed the best form and pluck--the victorious scotchmen notwithstanding. how the pair above mentioned tackled and passed up, to say nothing of backing and nursing the ball, i know full well, for i saw the game. harry and his companion, in fact, were again and again cheered for their magnificent dribbling, and when the eventful game was over harry was carried shoulder-high, in real scotch form, to the black-and-white's pavilion. the incident did not escape jenny and her sister, who were standing on the gravelled walk in front of the pavilion. jenny was sympathetic when she saw the handsome young englishman cheered by the excited crowd, and when the excitement culminated into carrying him shoulder-high to the pavilion, a brilliant flash from her eye told the tale of regard. the young lady, despite assertions to the contrary, must have at least admired the young englishman; and among the blithe and gentle faces who swept their cambric handkerchiefs over their heads, none were more demonstrative than the black girls. they saw, with something akin to pride, harry let gently down at the pavilion door, followed by their brother jack, jim wallace, and bill m'clelland, all of whom had done great work in the big match. harry did not lose sight of the handsome face which had haunted him all the previous summer, notwithstanding his flirtation with the italian girls in venice. venice, beautiful venice! it was in thy classic city, close to the scene of the great italian poet's labours and triumphs, that poor jack vincent (who used to play left wing in the swifts) was found drowned, after attending a ball. poor jack, i think even now i can see his handsome, but withal, comical face, when he used to dodge sundry half-backs while playing for his club. poor fellow! grave hints were held out at the time that he had met with foul play, but nothing more was ever heard about the matter, and jack's friends never got any satisfaction. i am, however, going off the line with my brief story. carts, in fact, felt jenny's face haunting him wherever he went, and on the earliest opportunity came back to scotland, asked the dear little girl to be his wife, got the crusty old colonel's consent, and the pair were all but apparently engaged to be married at an early date. harry was splendid company either on the field, at the black-and-white's room in battlefield hotel, or at the villa. he could sing a good song, tell a good story, and crack a wild joke. harry used to sing a new song about football, the chorus of which jingled out: "in measured blow, the dancing feet, now moving slow, now galloping fleet; with a leap and a curl, with a sweep and a twirl." he declared that the song was original, but archie, who was a bit of a book-worm, and never neglected taking in the "monthlies," expressed grave misgivings about having seen something like it applied to a skater in "scribner's magazine." bob lambert and charlie walker, the other two young fellows who were looked upon as jenny's admirers, were terribly shaken in heart and spirit when they heard of her flirtation with the handsome young englishman; but such a thing as an engagement between them was never for a moment entertained. bob was too much a man of the world to suppose that jenny would ever give him up for another; and poor, soft-headed charlie, why, he was sure the colonel's favourite daughter loved him still. matters went on in this way for some time. the football season was now about closed, as the month of may was at hand, and all the big matches had been lost and won, including the challenge cup tie, which dumbarton had carried off. for several evenings bob and charlie had not come across one another (although charlie was also a member of the black-and-whites, as well as the athletic park). bob had blamed charlie for telling some stories about a fine young girl whom the former had promised to make his wife a year previously. the poor girl, it was hinted, had been jilted to such an extent by bob, that she had broken her heart, and pined away and died. one evening the pair met at the entrance to the pavilion on hampden park, where a lot of the players were lounging about smoking, after having done with their sides. most of the club fellows knew that lambert and walker had not spoken to each other for a long time, even to the extent of exchanging the usual salutations about the weather. they were, therefore, much astonished to see them in earnest conversation. menacing looks were exchanged, and something like curses--not deep, perhaps, but loud--were heard from the rivals' lips. the fact was, the men had arranged to settle their "little difference" with swords. what do you think of that, my nineteenth century intelligent reader, with all your boasted approach to civilisation and sacred respect for life? why, a cold-blooded duel with swords, and in the french fashion, too! both hot-headed youths knew comparatively little about the handling of the chosen weapons, nothing more, indeed, than what they received while training in the volunteers; but it was a "point of honour," and they would do their best. several of the black-and-whites, who had heard about the proposed "meeting," had a secret consultation with ned m'gill and davie merricks, who, it was whispered, had taken the friendly job of "seconds," and the whole affair was "adjusted." with swords this was impossible, and they resolved to resort to the respectable and honourable weapon, the revolver. the two men who were to face each other in terrible earnest, you may be sure, slept little or none during the preceding night. "four o'clock sharp, mind, at the grass field, near hagg's castle," said the brave seconds, "and it will be all over in a few minutes." charlie shuddered when he heard the last words (which, by the way, were deliberately intended for him). "_a few minutes, and all will be over_," charlie muttered; "what if i should be killed?" his very teeth (which he used to whiten with cigar ashes, and was so proud about), were chattering. thousands of ideas floated across his heated imagination. he saw his past life before him, and the only consolation, if it could be called one, lay in the thought that, should it come to the worst, jenny black's eyes would be dimmed with tears at his misfortune. he felt sure the dear lassie loved him, and he would brave death a thousand times rather than endure the anguish of seeing her married to a useless fellow like bob lambert. bob, on the other hand, was really a cool and determined fellow; and while charlie was in the throes speculating about probable dissolution before the morrow's sun should rise, bob was actually priding himself on superior ability in handling a revolver. he was, in fact, far too arrogant a man to imagine that _he_ could be shot by a silly boy like walker. he had made up his mind to shoot straight when the signal fell, and indulged in the devilish pleasure it would afford him to read a "true and particular account" of the duel in the glasgow evening papers, if good luck would favour him in escaping to the continent. "these fellows are not going to come up to the scratch," said ned m'gill to the other honourable gent--as they passed the clydesdale cricket ground a few minutes to four o'clock on that memorable morning. ned, however, was wrong. through the grey dawn a muffled figure was observed crossing the pollokshields athletic club's park, and making direct for the old castle. almost simultaneously came a second individual from the vicinity of crossmyloof, smoking a cigar. there was no doubt about it, for on closer inspection the figure was that of lambert, who generally indulged in a good cigar, as he had a friend in the anchor line who was always supplying him with "weeds." a very short time sufficed to measure the distance, but the would-be _murderers_, no doubt, considered it an age. when the seconds advanced along with their men to the fatal spot, and placed them twenty paces apart, charlie put one in mind of the poor misguided boy in "the rivals." his hand shook, and his knees almost touched one another. _the signal was given_, and bang went the revolvers from both sides. none of the young men, however, seemed to have been hit; and while charlie was almost sinking on the ground from excitement, bob might have been seen examining his weapon with suspicion, at the same time casting a glance at his rival and wondering why he did not fall. a second or two more, and the latter fired another shot, and this time poor charlie dropped his pistol and fell back on the grass. bob was satisfied he had done the business now, and taking the advice of davie merricks, he fled for his life; getting the early train for greenock and thence per steamer "golden eagle," to the isle of man. the "seconds" (and a few strange figures that were seen lurking about) of course, lifted the supposed dying man from the grass, and as his "life's blood ebbed away," they whispered about being willing to fill a last request. poor charlie's brow was covered with blood, and as he himself expressed the terrible sensation of "feeling a pistol ball bobbing about in his brain," arrangements were hastily made for having him consigned to relatives. accordingly his lodgings were sought after and easily found by the excited hansom driver who had taken them near the fatal spot. all the time the affair was going on the driver threw out grave hints about reporting the whole matter to the police. when they reached greenfield avenue, however, there was still some life in charlie, but he said he "knew he was dying," and forgave everybody who had taken part in the rascally business. higgins, the hansom driver, was as good as his word, and after leaving the place, went direct to the suburbopolis police office, and got the whole matter reported. not very long after the police surrounded the house in greenfield avenue, and provost goodfellow (who, it may be remarked, was the only magistrate at home when the affair took place, and had to be aroused for the purpose), came in all haste to take the "dying deposition." meanwhile dr. barrister, one of the best of the local surgeons, was in attendance. the doctor, however, suspecting something soon after feeling the supposed wounded man's pulse, and judge of the surprise, to say nothing of indignation, when the doctor, and then the provost, began to indulge in a hearty fit of unrestrained laughter. the "seconds" knew their business well, for they had _loaded the weapons with blank cartridges and a few drops of bullock's blood_, and some of the contents of bob's pistol had hit charlie on the brow. poor charlie, he was so terribly shaken and nervous after being hit that he was long in getting the better of the fright. like the french prisoner whom the cruel authorities of the "inquisition" determined should be experimented upon as a victim of imagination in the way of supposed bleeding to death, charlie, although he had not received a scratch, thought he was dying fast, till the doctor informed him of the imaginary wound. a few days afterwards the affair was "hushed up," and nobody was better pleased when he heard the true state of matters than bob lambert himself. his friend jim campbell had sent a letter to douglas post office, to be called for, under a fictitious name, and bob soon returned to glasgow. when little jenny black was told the same morning of the duel, that charlie walker had been shot by bob lambert, she fainted clean away, and afterwards refused to be comforted. "to think that she, a poor weak girl, should have been the cause of such a terrible tragedy," she was heard to say to her sister, "i'm afraid i'll never get over it." when the true state of matters, however, was revealed, and the whole affair brought up in its real light, it afforded immense merriment all over suburbopolis, and when football players met to spend a social hour, the duel between bob lambert and charlie walker is, of course, alluded to as a standard joke. a few months afterwards there was a nice wedding at colonel black's villa, and strange as it may seem, both lambert and walker were there, together with quite a crowd of football players and their sweethearts. the reader will, of course, easily make out who wore the bridal dress, and looked lovely in it, too. surprise, however, not, it is to be hoped, altogether unmixed with satisfaction, will be expressed, when the bride-groom appears in the person of charlie walker, jenny's own love. harry carts, the handsome englishman, she certainly admired, but did not actually love sufficiently to make a husband of. he, in fact, seemed to have been too fond of company, and in correspondence a coldness had sprung up between them, and ended in two parting letters. jenny loved charlie walker best, and accordingly gave him her heart and hand. "what he had suffered for her sake," the young lady was heard to express to a confidant, "no one but himself knew." they are, however, now a happy pair, and when cup ties and big matches are being played near suburbopolis, you will be sure to see charlie and his handsome wife on the field. as for bob lambert, who was forgiven, he became more of a man in subduing his temper and general disposition, and one evening told his old rival that he would never forget till his dying day--"the duel near the football field." _xi.--the final tie for the association challenge cup--1889-90._ _two memorable matches._ a couple of matches had to played before the final tie for the association challenge cup was decided, and at the earnest request of numerous friends i have reproduced my articles on both games, which appeared in the daily mail, and trust they will be considered worthy a place in the volume. the following is the ~first match.~ this important contest, which had to be postponed the previous saturday in consequence of the dense fog which enveloped the city and suburbs in semi-darkness, came off at ibrox park, and resulted in a draw--each side scoring a goal. early in the forenoon the weather in every particular looked like a counterpart of the previous saturday, and it was not till well on in the day that the association committee finally decided to go on with the match. even with this short notice, combined with the fact that heavy rain came on and continued till well on in the second half, the attendance of spectators was large, about 11,000, and this is borne out by the cash lifted at the gate, some £500. of this the association gets a third, and the other two-thirds are equally divided between the contending teams. the proceeds of the stand, however, went to the rangers' funds, as that club gave their ground free of charge to the association to play off the tie. paisley road and govan road presented a scene to be remembered from two o'clock till well on for 3.30 p.m., being thronged with vehicles of every kind, from the carriage and pair, the hansom and cab, down to the modest van. pedestrians, too, were numerous, and on the govan road the vale of clyde tramway company, with extra cars, reaped a good harvest. on the way down, and in the field itself, the usual good-natured banter was largely indulged in, and as football enthusiasts, like the rest of impatient spectators, are only human, they were in better temper at the start of the contest than was the case at the finish. the meeting of the queen's park and vale of leven, in fact, revived old times among the once brilliant players of both clubs, many of whom were present on saturday to "fight their battles o'er again." "dae ye ken," said an old man as the game proceeded, "i wis present at old hampden park on the wet hogmanay afternoon long ago, when the vale licked the queen's by two to one in a cup tie, and i wish'd ye'd a' seen the queen's park committee men and their supporters that day when the bare fac' wis kent. i'm thinkin' they didna craw sae crouse, and maybe they'll get a fricht the noo." when the vale scored their goal a wag, primed with a fair-sized pocket pistol, no doubt containing the best--well, every public-house salesman will tell you at anyrate, it is the "best," and charge for it, too, as "special"--began to lilt a verse of the popular pantomime song, "their funeral's to-morrow," hinting heavily about the decline and fall of the queen's park. many saw the point, and laughed; while others gave the jolly fellow a look that betokened contempt and dismay. "wait till the second half," said a quiet supporter of the senior club, "and ye'll see what they can dae; they're only making some fun." in pressing forward, leaning against the pailings, were not a few critical rivet boys and iron-workers, whose running comments were amusing in the extreme. of some young fellows who came down from the city dressed up in style, one of the "black squad" was heard to say, "don't they look blooming 'swells,' with their gloves and g.o.m. collars, and you wid think that the whole landed property about is theirs, even to ibrox park itself. crush up, bob. we've paid our money as well as the lot, and must get share of the view. crush up." "man, jock, they've got a new ile for training and rubbin' up the fitballers noo. it's whit they ca' herbuline, and it keeps out the cauld and warms ye unca' much; but the smell's sae strong that it nearly blin's ye." no doubt some kind of specific was required on such a trying day as saturday, for it was indeed a clear case of illustrating the old adage, when exclusively applied to man, about the survival of the fittest. there is this about ibrox park, however, which certainly recommends it to the impartial spectator--fine even turf, without a flaw, and no advantage even to the home club itself when playing matches. it is well sheltered, and the arrangements for the big crowd were ample, and well carried out by the rangers' committee and the scottish football association, for whom mr john m'dowall, the secretary, acted with much credit. the govan policemen (at least most of them) love a good game at football as dearly as the old highland landlady lo'ed a lord, and what is more, their respected chief shows them a good example, as he is generally to be found at ibrox park, in company with other burgh officials, when there is a good thing on. the early editions of the evening papers were largely in request, not by any means for the purpose of reading, as all attention was directed to the game, and in the anxiety to see the players before the contest began, but for the sole purpose of being "sat on." the supply was soon exhausted, and one speculative newsboy, taking in the situation at a glance, disappeared for a short time, but came up smiling towards the grand stand ten minutes afterwards with a bundle of brown paper wrappers, which he disposed of like penny pies at twopence per sheet. the judges of the game had very difficult duties to perform, and to their credit be it said they did the work without fear or favour, and we are quite certain gave general satisfaction to the players. the spectators, however, treated the unfavourable conditions of the atmosphere with indifference, and even contempt, and long before the time announced for the kick-off they crowded around the pailing and surroundings to get a good view of the game. in consequence of the wet weather very few ladies were present compared with what has turned out at previous finals. the vale of leven emerged from the pavilion first, and were well received. a few minutes afterwards came the queen's park, who were also loudly cheered with cries of "good old q.p." the toss between the two captains was watched with much earnestness, and when the leven team ranged themselves in front of the ball from the gate end, it became apparent that they had won. the queen's park, by hamilton, kicked off against the wind, and a short run by berry was successful in sending the ball so near the vale of leven goal that one of the strangers put it behind, and gave the queen's park a corner-flag kick. this was followed by a close scrimmage, in which the ball came near whitelaw, who sent it down the field. a "foul," however, by paton gave the queen's park a lift, and in a second scrimmage the ball was again put behind the lines. another corner-flag kick was the consequence, and it took the queen's park well in on goal, where the tackling was very severe. the ball again bobbed about the posts, but the vale men showed splendid back play on the slippery ground, and sent it clear. after this bruce and m'millan had a good run on the left for the vale of leven, and the former had a shy that went past the left post. the kick out by gillespie was followed up by a steady run on the part of allan, berry, and gulliland, and the former shied wide past the right post. after the kick out, the queen's park kept up the pressure, and it was some time before the ball emerged from vale of leven territory, which it did from the foot of rankin. some even play ensued, and then the vale had a run by the right forwards, and, in kicking clear, arnott slipped a bit, and the ball, getting the upper of his boot, rolled over the lines and gave the vale of leven a corner-flag kick. it was taken by m'lachlan, but he cut the distance too fine, and the ball rolled harmlessly over the bar. in turn, gillespie's kick-out was followed by a run on the part of sellar and hamilton, and a "hand" by one of the vale of leven backs gave smellie a chance of doing something with a free kick. it was very hard work, however, for both, and the opinion began to gain ground that the team who could keep up their stamina longest would be the winners. the ground, in fact, was a bit treacherous, and in some cases when the ball landed, after a long kick, it bounded clean over the heads of the backs, and some mis-kicks now and again occurred. seven minutes from half-time, the vale men made a smart spurt, and, after some clever passing, the ball was taken possession of by m'lachlan, who jumped in and headed it between the posts--just a few inches from the right side--amid cheers and counter cheers. the teams then faced up in the centre, and, from a good start, the queen's park got up to their opponents' lines, and berry just missed the goal by a foot. after this the vale of leven had a good run down on the queen's park lines, and a fast shy by osborne was caught up and punted out by gillespie, and another immediately afterwards, from the foot of bruce, was cleared by smellie. the half-time signal, however, was given, leaving the vale of leven one goal ahead. the strangers had now the kick-off, and made considerable use of it, for the forwards backed up well, and a slip by one of the half-backs of the queen's park gave the vale of leven a corner-flag kick. the ball was fairly managed, but bruce, who had it at his toe, was tackled by smellie, and sent down the field. the queen's park had now a brilliant turn at the leven goal, and several hard shies at the posts were cleverly returned by the backs. the queen's men, however, kept pressing on, and had a corner-flag kick, which was taken by sellar, and splendidly sent out by wilson. the play after this was straggling a bit, and falls were frequent in vale of leven territory, but the queen's men were very unlucky at goal, and could not get the ball through--gulliland, with a hard shy, only missing by a shave. the ball eventually passed the leven lines in a scrimmage not long afterwards, and as it was put over by one of the defenders, another corner-flag kick was the consequence. time was now wearing on, and do all they could, with hemming in their opponents and making innumerable shies at goal, the queen's park could not score, and a corner-flag kick did not mend matters. after this the vale team improved very much in their forward play, and m'lachlan and bruce again had a fine run up the field, and as arnott, in tackling, let the ball go over the lines, the leven team had a corner-flag kick. the shot from the pavilion end was very well taken by one of the half-backs (m'nicol), and the queen's park goal had a narrow shave, as the ball was caught by robertson in the nick of time and cleared. the queen's park were soon at it again, however, and not only drove their powerful opponents off, but completely invaded their stronghold. crowding round allan, berry, gulliland, sellar, hamilton, and even the queen's half-backs had shies at the leven goal, but wilson saved brilliantly. when time was drawing to a close the excitement became very intense, and while the friends of the vale of leven were jubilant and hopeful about the issue, the partisans of the senior club, who came to see their favourites conquer, were proportionately sad and crest-fallen. "they cannot do it now," said a chorus of voices well up on the stand, "but see this, boys," remarked an old football follower, as arnott rolled up the sleeves of his jersey with a determination which gave new life to the game; and as it has been said frequently before that the queen's park can rise to a great occasion, assuredly they did on ibrox park on saturday. one minute or so more and all would be over. pressing their opponents very hard with shots at goal, corner-flag kicks, scrimmages almost under the goalkeeper's feet, they were again and again repulsed by grand work on the part of wilson, and as the ball emerged out of the pack after a free kick it was sent a bit down the field towards the queen's park half-backs. here bruce, the most prominent forward of the country club, got possession, and was about to beat stewart, when arnott and smellie came to the rescue, and the ball was immediately sent back to the vale goal, where, after a terrible scrimmage, from a "free kick," it was put between the posts by smellie. the vision of a glorious victory for the q.p. had by that time faded away like a dream, and a crowd of the senior club's followers had actually left ibrox park in disgust, when a tremendous cheer burst forth from the ground signalling a point for the queen's park, who had "turned" the doubtful day again. the scene which followed was truly exciting. the q.p. followers gave vent to their strained feelings with an outburst of cheering which must have been heard in some of the neighbouring police burghs, including partick on the other side of the river, while those of the vale kept quiet in disappointment. the teams then began the struggle anew, and from the kick off the vale of leven men made a grand run up on the queen's park goal, and had a couple of corner-flag kicks in succession, but the queen's park backs sent the ball clear, and a few seconds afterwards the whistle sounded, leaving one of the most remarkable games ever played in the final tie for the association challenge cup drawn, with one goal all. the following are the teams that played in both games:--queen's park--goal, gillespie; backs, arnott and smellie; half-backs, m'ara, stewart, and robertson; forwards, gulliland, berry, j. hamilton, allan, and sellar. vale of leven--goal, wilson; backs, whitelaw and murray; half-backs, osborne, m'nicol, and sharp; forwards, m'lachlan, rankin, james patton, bruce, and m'millan. ~second match.~ the destiny of the challenge cup has at length been decided for the season, and the queen's park are the conquerors after one of the finest games ever seen on ibrox park--the victory being the narrow one of two goals to one. the game, it may be remembered, was drawn on the previous saturday, when each side had scored a goal, and, strange as it may seem, the queen's park only saved themselves then, as they have done now, towards the close of the contest, and converted what looked like a defeat into a victory. between 12,000 and 13,000 spectators were present, and as the weather was fine the match was a most enjoyable one. the cash drawn at the gate amounted to fully £600, and, as on the previous meeting, will be equally apportioned among the two clubs and the association. the city cabbies made a day of it, and pocketed a good round sum. they handled the ribbons with a dexterity which in some cases was really alarming, and threatened the lieges with accident. "drive us to ibrox park, mind, in ten minutes, or we'll be late for the kick-off," and the promise of an extra sixpence did the business, although jehu's old friend and brother must be passed on the road. in some cases this was overdone, and a horseless machine with only one wheel might have been seen near bellahouston academy, awaiting "alterations and repairs," and on the same road some "spills" also occurred. the remarks round the pavilion, stand, and approaches were, as usual, both instructive and amusing, and let the impartial spectator know how the land lay, and the kind of company he was for the moment keeping. all sorts and conditions of men and boys were there to see the match. a hasty glance, in fact, revealed the astonishing fact that nearly all classes in the country were represented--city magnates, iron-masters, shipbuilders, ministers of religion, doctors, schoolmasters, clerks, mechanics of all kinds, and a much larger contingent of ladies than we have seen on any previous occasion. from the cheers and counter cheers which greeted the goal-scoring by the senior club it was apparent that their followers were in the majority, but when the young vale of leven got the first point, the cheers which followed showed that they had also a large number of partisans, who honestly believed in the club's ability to win the cup. in the first round, indeed, the vale players showed much better combination all over than the q.p., and reminded many of the vale of yore. the second half, however, revealed the senior club at their best, and from the manner in which they acted together and kept up their staying powers, they really deserved to win. as we have already said, the gossip among the spectators was both bright and original. a demonstrative supporter of the senior club was rather personal with his remarks, and was asked by a lover of the game, but not a partisan of either club, to keep quiet "and not let everybody know he was a born fool." "oh! yes; it's all very fine, but the band at alexandria 'ill no play at the station yet: the vale canna' win noo," said he, as the queen's team put the ball through a second time. a well dressed young fellow on the stand near the press table was very funny, and if ever a man enjoyed the game it was he. in the exuberance of his joy at the q.p. scoring, he danced on the little spot allotted to him on the stand, and in doing so nearly overbalanced himself. "ye'll be the better o' a half yin after that narrow escape," said one of his friends, handing him a bottle. after he had swallowed a fair amount of the liquor he stole a hasty glance at the bottle, and found to his disgust he had been drinking "the vale of leven blend." "it's a' richt," said his country friend, "ye'll maybe need it a' yet; the vale are not beaten the noo; the queen's man tak' anither goal before that occurs," and so they did. "oh! a' say," remarked a born east-ender, for whom we are perfectly certain the clyde and thistle, according to his self-importance at any rate, had played their best on barrowfield and beechwood, "look at that; it's no' fair to gie the vale a free kick for that; it's the auld way; gie't ta the yin that mak's the maist noise." "yes," said another, who looked every inch a dyer from the celebrated football county of dumbarton, and maybe the vale of leven district itself, "did ever ye see the likes o' that, and frae sic a swell club, tae?" as robertson bowled over bruce on the grass, and cleared the ball away. wilson, the vale of leven goalkeeper, came in for a fair share of praise; and so did arnott, smellie, sellar, gulliland, and gillespie for their brilliant play, but many were in ecstacy about young wilson. "his mither 'ill be a proud woman the day when she kens how well he kept goal for the vale; there's nae doubt about it, wilson's the coming man between the sticks for the international on hampden park on 5th april next," said a red-faced man, wearing a glengarry. old and respected members of both clubs were again present to cheer on their successors to victory, and we observed several original members of the once-famous clydesdale, including two who took part in the first final tie for the cup on old hampden park. several old rangers were present, too, who remembered well the series of exciting matches played by them against the vale of leven, when no fewer than three hard battles had to be fought before the destiny of the cup was settled for the year. the sad news, too, was announced in the papers of the sudden death of another famous forward (mr. j. r. wilson), who took part in the first final tie between the queen's park and clydesdale on behalf of the latter club. many of the "old brigade" viewed the contest with mixed feelings. "you seem excited, bob," said a friend to an old q.p., and no wonder; time is fleeting fast; the game will be done in a quarter of an hour, and, dear me, the queen's have not even scored. "not at all, not at all," said the q.p. old player, tearing at his moustache in a manner that threatened that hirsute appendage with instant annihilation, "i think they will, at anyrate, make it a draw, for see how they press the vale now. oh! they've done it; see that," as hamilton sent the ball between the posts. "the extra half-hour is sure to be played now," said another, as the vale of leven men brought down the ball to mid-field, and kicked off. there was, indeed, great excitement, and as the queen's park again and again pressed their opponents, and finally scored a second goal, it was a dozen times intensified, and the subsequent play made the q.p. men more bold and determined. the vale of leven, as on the previous occasion, appeared in the field of play first, and had a punt about with the ball for a few minutes, when their opponents emerged from the pavilion and had some practice round the upper goal, while the umpires and the referee were arranging the preliminaries. the visitors won the toss, and played with what little wind there was in their favour. hamilton kicked off, and berry followed his forward companion, but murray turned the ball, and m'millan and bruce had a nice run, and caused the ball to get near the queen's park goal, but smellie caught it on the rise and sent it down the field. it was taken up on the left side, and sellar ended a brilliant run by passing the leather fairly across the goal to gulliland, and that player made a rare shot at goal, but wilson was on the alert, and caught the ball very smartly, and sent it out. here a close scrimmage was followed by another shot on the part of allan, but the ball went over the lines. after the kick-out, the vale of leven men made a fine run up on the queen's park goal, and m'lachlan had a long shy that caused gillespie to throw away the ball in a hurry. the strangers played well together, and had by far the best of it, and made the q.p. backs work about as they had never done before. paton had another shy, and then the left outside forward had one that came so close on the bar that gillespie had again to chuck out in double quick time. after this, gulliland had a fast run down the field, and ended the run with a parting shot that went past on the right post. some even play then occurred, but the leven forwards manoeuvred together better than those of the queen's park, and a fine piece of passing by sharp, osborne, and bruce ended by the latter making a shy that touched the tips of gillespie's fingers and went through the goal, close to the post. the point was so smartly made that it fairly took away the breath from the queen's park friends, and caused the faces of the supporters of the country club to beam with delight, while the cheering for the then successful team was long and loud. the players then faced up in mid-field and renewed the battle, and not very long thereafter the queen's park gained their first corner-flag kick, but it was a poor one for sellar, and the ball was soon cleared away by the vale of leven backs. the queen's team, however, kept well in front of their opponents' goal, and another corner-flag kick was succeeded by an exciting scrimmage, and then a shy by gulliland was cleverly cleared away by wilson. when half-time came, however, the leven men were swarming round the q.p. posts. the contest was then renewed in terrible earnest, and the queen's park, with one goal against them, had the wind in their favour now. the vale of leven, however, had the kick-off, but the ball was at once returned by m'ara, and the queen's park found themselves right in front of the leven goal, where one of the backs fouled the ball close on the right post. the shy was taken by allan, and the ball hit the bar, but after an exciting scrimmage it was cleared by the vale backs. the queen's park, however, were soon on it again, and the next five minutes' play was nearly disastrous to the leven team, as no fewer than five corner-flag kicks were given to the queen's park, in consequence of kicking behind on the part of leven men. the defence, however, was excellent, and by slow degrees the ball was worked clear, and m'lachlan had a run down on the glasgow club's goal, where the whistle of the referee told the spectators that the dashing forward was off-side. he did not seem to hear the whistle a bit, but coolly went up to the queen's park posts and kicked the ball through without the least opposition. the kick-out in front was followed by a fine run on the part of gulliland and berry, but whitelaw managed to tackle the q.p. young forward, and the ball was soon sent back. it did not go far, however, for the q.p. forwards kept it among them for a time. the leven men had now a good run on the left by sharp, and stewart sent the ball behind his own goal. rankin took the corner-flag kick, but arnott got on the leather in an instant, and sent it spinning up the field by one of his famous returns. from this point till the call of time the queen's park were fairly in it, and played, perhaps, as they had never done before. defeat stared them in the face, and the game was fast drawing to a close. barely a quarter of an hour and the destiny of the cup would be settled. as on the previous saturday, however, the queen's men played worthy of a great occasion, and won the trophy. pressing their opponents up on the goal, they kept them there for a time, and although the ball was seen to go out and in among the shoal of busy feet a few yards from the posts, wilson and the backs cleared brilliantly. at length, however, allan had a corner-flag kick, which was managed so neatly that hamilton got the ball in a good position and headed it through. this gave new life to the senior club and their supporters, and the cheering was again renewed when a few minutes after the next kick-off the queen's park drove the vale team before them, and again had hot work near wilson. the queen's half-backs, who had hitherto not acted so well together in the earlier stages of the game, metaphorically speaking, "came out of their shells," and, along with the forwards, took an active part in the siege. shots were aimed thick and fast at the goalkeeper, and at length stewart, with a shooter, sent the ball spinning through, making the second goal for the queen's park. the teams then faced up in the centre, and the tremendous cheering which greeted the scoring of the second goal had scarcely died away when the vale team made one last but brilliant effort to equalise, but they were driven on by smellie and arnott, and at length the whistle sounded, leaving the queen's park the winners of a match in every way worthy of the final tie for the challenge cup by two goals to one. although the strain now and again was pretty heavy on the players when at close quarters, the contest all through was conducted in the most friendly way, and showed a marked contrast to some final ties played a few years ago. it may also be mentioned that the premier club have not held the trophy since 1885-86, when they defeated renton by three goals to one; but of the seventeen matches played in the final the queen's park have carried off no fewer than nine, while the vale come next with three. * * * * * _h. nisbet & co., printers, 25 jamaica street, glasgow._ * * * * * [illustration: forsyth's "acmé" shirt. glasgow "the acmé"] thomas naismith (formerly of thomas naismith & co.) respectfully intimates that he has opened those central premises, no. 2 dunlop st. with a fresh stock of glass, china, earthenware, and ornamental goods. direct from the factories. * * * * * established 50 years. john kinnaird. dyer, 94 canning st., 285 garscube road, 176 main st., anderston, 71 paisley road, west, and 808 govan road, govan. works: springfield road. * * * * * gentlemen's suits cleaned from 2s. 10d. athletic suits cleaned on shortest notice. ladies' plaids, shawls, ulsters, dresses, cleaned or dyed. no unpicking. carpets, table covers, curtains in damask, and lace of all kinds, carefully cleaned or dyed--any colour. * * * * * see scott's free insurance see scott's free insurance see scott's free insurance * * * * * the conqueror's football boots. spectators who value their health while attending football matches in all kinds of weather should get gray's 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and 122 main street, anderston, glasgow. dick hamilton's football team or a young millionaire on the gridiron by howard r. garis author of "dick hamilton's fortune," "dick hamilton's cadet days," "dick hamilton's steam yacht," "from office boy to reporter," "larry dexter's great search," etc. _illustrated_ the goldsmith publishing co. cleveland made in u. s. a. copyright, 1912, by grosset & dunlap press of the commercial bookbinding co. cleveland [illustration: "grab him! don't let him get past you!" called tom coleton.] preface my dear boys: in writing this, the fourth volume of the "dick hamilton series," telling of the doings of the young millionaire on the gridiron, i have had one particular thought in mind. that was to make as interesting a story as possible for you. now that it is finished, it is for you to say whether or not you like it. i trust i may be pardoned if i say i hope that you will. when dick returned to the kentfield military academy after his vacation on his steam yacht, he found the football team of which he was a member, in poor shape. in fact the eleven was laughed at by other military schools, one of which refused to accept a challenge that kentfield sent. how dick hired a coach from princeton and one from yale, and how they "whipped" the team into shape, how championship material was made from them, you will find told of in this book. there is also related how dick worked to save his father's wealth by getting possession of certain electric road stock, which was held by a crabbed old man who disliked cadets and football. of course there is also something about the bulldog, grit, in this book, and about uncle ezra larabee, and the doings of our hero's friends and enemies are fully set forth. again expressing the hope that you will find this story interesting, and that you will care to hear more of dick hamilton, i remain, yours cordially, howard r. garis. contents chapter page i. turned down 1 ii. war on mr. hamilton 8 iii. dick's plan 15 iv. football practice 26 v. disquieting news 36 vi. mr. duncaster again 45 vii. the coaches arrive 54 viii. the try-out 64 ix. the accusation 72 x. dick is rebuffed 78 xi. a rivalry 89 xii. the midnight alarm 96 xiii. the rescue of dutton 101 xiv. the election 111 xv. the game with dunkirk 118 xvi. a daring plan 126 xvii. uncle ezra arrives 135 xviii. another fruitless attempt 142 xix. a great struggle 151 xx. joining the league 169 xxi. ready for blue hill 175 xxii. the blue hill game 182 xxiii. sore hearts 199 xxiv. treachery 205 xxv. a desperate race 212 xxvi. another game 222 xxvii. dick is summoned 231 xxviii. "line up!" 238 xxix. hammer and smash 246 xxx. the winning touchdown 255 xxxi. the trolley stock--conclusion 264 dick hamilton's football team chapter i turned down "well, if those fellows haven't got nerve!" "i should say so! why it's a direct insult!" "we ought to challenge 'em to a sham battle. i know we could put it all over 'em at that game, if we can't at football; eh, fellows?" "sure thing!" came in a chorus from a group of cadets who surrounded a rather fat, good-natured companion. the latter held an open letter in his hand, and had just finished reading it, the contents causing the various exclamations. "say, beeby," spoke paul drew, "are you sure it isn't a joke? maybe they're just trying to have fun with us." "fun! this is serious enough," replied the stout youth, "frank anderson, manager of the blue hill academy eleven, takes pains to be very explicit. listen." once more beeby read the note. "in reply to your challenge for a series of football games, in the military league, and your request that we give you a contest at an early date, we regret to say that our team cannot play yours. to be frank, we do not think that your eleven is in the same class with ours. we won nearly every game we played last season, and, you know, as well as do we, that kentfield was away down at the tail end. "it is the sense of the athletic committee of blue hill military academy that we must play with teams of greater strength and in a better class than the one that represents kentfield. if you wish, perhaps i can arrange some games with our second team, but not with the first. "regretting very much that we cannot accept your challenge, i remain, "yours very truly, "frank anderson, manager." "well, wouldn't that put a crimp in your bayonet?" demanded john stiver. "they'll condescend to let their second team come over and beat us!" exclaimed ray dutton sarcastically. "bur-r-r-r-r!" "oh, say, this makes me mad!" spluttered beeby, and he made as though to tear the letter to shreds. "don't! wait a minute!" begged paul drew. "let's talk this over a bit, first. something's got to be done about it. we can't let this insult pass. i wish dick hamilton was here." "where is he?" asked beeby, as he folded the crumpled letter. "he went to town to send a message home, i guess. he'll soon be back." "let's go to the sacred pig, and talk this over," suggested dutton, as he opened a few buttons on his tightly fitting parade coat, for drill among the cadets was just over, and they had not yet gotten into their fatigue uniforms. "yes, let's plan some scheme to get even with those blue hill snobs," added paul. "say toots," he went on to one of the janitors about the academy, "if you see mr. hamilton, just send him over to the sacred pig, will you?" "i sure will, mr. drew," and toots, so called because he was generally whistling some military air, saluted. the cadets still talking among themselves about the churlish letter they had received, passed on toward a society chapter house--that of the sacred pig--one of the most exclusive organizations among the cadets of kentfield. "if anderson wanted to turn us down why didn't he simply say that all their dates were filled?" demanded beeby, on whom the blow fell especially heavy, as he was manager of the eleven. "well, if the truth _had_ to be told i suppose it might as well come out first as last," spoke paul frankly. "the truth!" demanded innis beeby, half indignantly. "yes! kentfield hasn't a good team, and we all know it. it's no one's fault in particular," went on paul, "but we don't practice enough, we don't play well enough together, and we were the tail-enders last year. we might as well face the music." "even if it isn't particularly harmonious," commented innis bitterly, as he walked up the steps of the handsome society house. "well, let's see what we can do." the rest of the cadets followed, to be greeted by a number of other students who were already gathered in the pleasant reading room. there was a general movement toward the newcomers when the news quickly flashed around, and the letter was passed from hand to hand. there were more comments, caustic ones in the main, and had manager anderson been present he would probably have had several challenges to fight, for the feeling was bitter against him. "you can't beat this for nerve!" declared jim watkins. "i say, let's get up a good team, and force 'em to play us," suggested teddy naylor. "how are you going to force 'em?" demanded frank rutley. "why, play such fast and snappy games that they can't refuse us--get in the champion class--_make_ 'em recognize us." "oh, it's easy enough to talk," murmured innis, "but when it comes to a football team----" "what's the matter with the football team?" demanded a new voice, and a tall, good-looking cadet, bronzed almost to a copper color, came in. "are we going to have practice to-day?" "hello, dick!" "glad you came in, hamilton." "you're just in time to hear the news." these were some of the expressions that greeted the advent of the newcomer. dick hamilton pressed up into the group of indignant lads, and accepted the letter which innis held out to him. "read that!" spluttered the stout lad. as dick read a dull flush crept up under his coat of tan. "um!" was his only comment for a moment. then he said: "well, he didn't soften it any. but how about it; isn't it almost true?" "that's what i say," cried paul drew. "we haven't a very good team, that's a fact," admitted jim watkins, who played centre. "oh, bosh! you fellows make me tired," declared innis. "you are almost as bad as anderson." "well, we ought to perk up." "oh pshaw! we can play all right." "all we need is practice." "and a little harder work against the scrub." these and other comments flew back and forth. dick hamilton strolled toward an easy chair near a table. casually he picked up a paper, and glanced over it as the discussion waxed warmer. there were two sides, one set of cadets holding that the eleven was not so bad, and the others maintaining that the players should not shut their eyes to facts, but endeavor to correct their faults. both factions numbered members of the team, so it could not be said that prejudice shaped the opinions. "well, what do think about it, dick?" asked paul at length, as he sat down beside his roommate. "about what?" asked the young millionaire, somewhat absently-mindedly. "well, for the love of mustard! have you been dreaming while all this racket was going on? and you read that letter, too! i say, dick, what's up?" "oh, yes, i remember now. i was thinking of something else," and dick recovered himself with an effort, seeming to bring his thoughts back from some distant point. "the football team." "of course, the eleven--or, rather, the woeful lack of one. what's to be done, dick? i rather thought you might have a scheme, when you heard the news." there was silence in the room for a moment, and nearly all eyes were turned on dick hamilton. "a plan--yes--i might--by jove, fellows, i believe i have a plan!" he exclaimed suddenly. "it ought to work, too. we've got to have the best team on the gridiron in the military league, and just now i thought of something that will bring it about." "then in the name of the two-horned rhinoceros speak it quickly!" begged innis. "say something so i can get back at this dub anderson. i'll write him a hot one!" "oh, it will take a little while to put it through," went on the young millionaire, "but i believe i can do it. now my plan is----" at that moment one of the pages employed at the society house, which was sort of cadet club, approached the eager group of students. "beg pardon," the page said, "but here is a telegram that just came for mr. hamilton." dick tore open the yellow envelope. he read the message at a glance and seemed to start as at the receipt of unwelcome news. "i've got to go out for a while," he said to his chums. "i'll be back as soon as possible. this is important." "but your football plan," begged innis. "i'll tell it when i come back," called dick hamilton as he hurried out, leaving a much-wondering group of cadets looking after him. chapter ii war on mr. hamilton "the rumor is true then," mused dick, as he hurried out of the chapter house, and started toward the telegraph office. "i rather hoped it would prove to be _only_ a rumor, but if dad has heard it also, there must be something in it. now i wonder if i can get hold of any more news, so i can wire him? let's see, what is it he says." dick glanced again at the telegram that had been brought to him. it was from his father, mortimer hamilton, a multi-millionaire, and was in answer to a message the youth had sent his parent that day. * * * * * "have heard rumor you speak of," the father's message read, "see if you can learn more. wire me at once. our trolley interests are threatened. they are trying to get me out of control." * * * * * "if they do that it will be a hard blow for dad," said dick, as he hurried along. of late mr. hamilton had put much money in an important trolley line, and had called in several other investments so that he might buy more of the stock. a large part of his fortune was now involved in the electric road, and if he lost the controlling interest it might mean his ruin. consequently our hero was not a little alarmed. only that day he had heard the disquieting rumor. it came from a fellow cadet, sam porter, whose father was very wealthy. in the hearing of dick, sam had accidently mentioned a deal his father was putting through, involving the very electric line in which mr. hamilton was so vitally interested. but then sam did not know how much of the stock mr. hamilton owned, in fact he did not know that dick's parent was at all interested. but the young millionaire--for dick was that in his own right--had taken alarm at once, and had immediately wired his father. "and now i must see if i can get any further information," mused the lad. "it will hardly be safe to ask porter directly. i wonder if i could pump him through jake weston, his crony? i'll try it, after i wire dad that i'm on the job." while dick is on his way to send the message i will take the opportunity to explain to you something more about him, and also something about the previous books in this series. as i told you in the first volume, entitled "dick hamilton's fortune," he was left a large sum by his mother, who had been dead some years. but he must comply with certain conditions of mrs. hamilton's will, before he could get control of his millions. one stipulation was that he must use his funds to make some sort of a paying investment. if he failed in this he would have to spend some time with a crabbed old uncle, mr. ezra larabee, who lived in a gloomy place called dankville. dick tried several schemes to make money for himself, but, as may be imagined from a lad who had had no experience, one plan after another failed. but, at the last moment a small investment he had made, to help a poor, but fine-charactered lad, named henry darby, start in the junk and iron business, proved wonderfully successful, and dick fulfilled the conditions of the will. uncle ezra was much provoked that he was not to get control of his dead sister's son, and his millions, but he was routed, and had to flee from grit, the prize bulldog dick owned. "dick hamilton's cadet days," was the title of the second volume. in that i told how dick, to further comply with the instructions in his mother's will, went to the kentfield military academy. there he was to make his way, unaided by any influence of his millions. he had an up-hill struggle, for there was a prejudice against him. but he was delighted with the military life. he took part in the drills, in the cavalry exercises, he helped to win a victory in a big sham battle, and he fought a duel that had a curious outcome. he was wounded in a broad sword combat, and was the means of saving the life of his enemy dutton, who later became his friend. kentfield academy was located in one of the middle western states, near lake wagatook. colonel james masterly was superintendent, major henry rockford, commandant, and major franklin webster, of the united states army, was the instructor in military tactics. captain hayden was head master, captain grantly in charge of the science classes, and captain nelton of those in mathematics. dick, while attending there, was the means of solving the mystery of the identity of "toots," the whistling janitor, and when the society house of the sacred pig burned down, and it was found that the insurance had expired, dick rebuilt the meeting place in much handsomer style than formerly, thereby gaining the everlasting admiration of the cadets. dick and his chums had many social pleasures, and if you care to know how well they could dance, miss nellie fordice, mabel hanford, nettie french or mildred adams could tell you. dick spent his first summer's vacation at hamilton corners, a town named after his father, who was the principal citizen there, as well as owner of many local enterprises, including a bank. in the fall dick returned to the academy, and was promoted to a captaincy. in the third volume of the series, entitled "dick hamilton's steam yacht," i told of a long trip our hero took in a steam yacht which he purchased from his ample fortune. with a party of friends he went to cuba. uncle ezra larabee thought that dick did very wrong to spend so much money, so the crabbed old man conceived a plan of kidnapping the youth, and taking him in charge, to "teach him frugal ways," as he said. mr. larabee hired a small steamer, and set off after his nephew. he did kidnap a youth--or, rather the men he hired did--but it was not dick, and that made all the confusion. however, dick had trouble enough, for his yacht was stolen, and he was left marooned with his friends on a lonely island. how they built a raft, set out to sea, how they were rescued, and the pursuit after dick's yacht, aboard which was his mean uncle--all this you will find set down in the book. after his trip dick came back up north. all too soon the academy opened, and our hero had to dock his fine vessel, don his uniform, and get back to his studies. but he did not mind, once he was among his classmates again, and he had been "buckling down to hard work" as he expressed it, for a few weeks, when the events narrated in the first chapter took place. dick's interest was divided between anxiety over the plight that might befall his father, and the "slump" that hung over the football eleven. "i hope my football scheme works," he said. "but i can't think about that now. i must help out dad. it's too bad, after all the work he put in on getting that trolley line in shape, to be threatened with the loss of it. i must do all i can to stop it. i'll just wire him that i'll be on the lookout, and then i'll see what i can pick up from porter or weston." dick knew where to find the two cadets in question. they were first-year students, and were not members of the sacred pig, though they would have given much to join. dick was not especially friendly with them, but he now resolved to cultivate their acquaintance, at least long enough to see if he could get on the track of the men who were seeking to wrest the control of the trolley line from mr. hamilton. after sending his second message, dick strolled toward a "fashionable" pool club in town, where many of the more "sporty" cadets spent much of their time, when not at study. "hello, hamilton!" greeted porter. "have a cue. i'm tired of playing weston. he's too easy." dick was a good pool and billiard player, and had two fine tables at home. but somehow he did not play well on this occasion. porter easily beat him. "i'll try again," said the young millionaire, and when the second game was well under way he gradually led the talk around to business matters. "my dad is great on business, and deals," chuckled porter as he made a good shot, and finished up with a run of six. "he's got a deal on now that will put a few crimps in a couple of people that think themselves some pumpkins." "yes?" queried dick, as he missed what seemed to be an easy shot. "sure. that trolley deal i mentioned. but i forgot, i'm not supposed to talk about it. only there's some gazabo of a millionaire, down east or somewhere, that will get the gaff all right. say, i hear your dad is pretty well up in business, ham?" "yes, he has a number of interests," spoke dick, as he chalked his cue for a billiard game. he was hoping it would not develope that he was the son of the "gazabo" in question. "well, my dad is the limit," went on porter. "when this trolley deal goes through, as it will, he'll be several millions better off. it's war to the knife, so he told me. i don't know who he's fighting, but it's some one." dick knew, but he kept still. "it sure is war," he reflected as he made ready to shoot. "i must learn all i can about the plans of porter's father, and the men who are in with him. then i can help dad. and then--there's the football trouble. well, dick hamilton," and he paused for a serious moment before making a nice shot that required plenty of "english" on it, "you sure have your hands full." chapter iii dick's plan rain was coming down heavily when dick finished the game, and he looked out from the poolroom with rather a rueful face as he heard the downpour. "i'll run you back in my car," offered porter. "we can stop at martin's on the way in, and have a jolly little supper. what do you say, ham?" dick rather resented being called "ham" by a youth who had known him but a short time. likewise he did not care to stop at martin's. so he covered his dislike as best he could, and answered: "no, thank you. i have some business to attend to, and i don't want to keep you. go on back to kentfield, and i'll take a taxicab when i've finished with my matters." "oh, i suppose you follow in the footsteps of the governor, and are in business too," almost sneered weston. "well, i help my father whenever i can," answered dick, as the blood surged up under his coat of tan. "sorry i couldn't beat you, mr. porter. i hope to have better luck next time." "you want to bring along all the luck you have, hamilton," declared the rich lad, as he put on his coat, while dick settled for the games, which he had almost purposely lost in order that he might have a better excuse for talking to porter. "i'm a pretty good shot," and he laughed in dick's face. "so i see," agreed dick. "then you won't motor back with us?" asked porter, for he had an expensive machine, which was in the repair shop a good part of the time, owing to his reckless driving. "no, i've got several matters to attend to," answered dick, and he watched the two cronies going out together. the storm continued, the rain coming down harder than ever, and, as dick had no umbrella he decided to go down to the telegraph office in a taxicab, a service but newly installed in the college town, but which was taken advantage of by many students. dick was not a spendthrift, and he knew the value of money. still, when he did not have to count his dollars, he did not see the harm in spending a few in hiring an auto cab, when he had no umbrella. a few minutes later he was bowling along the rain-swept streets toward the telegraph office which he had but recently left. "dad will think i'm making the wires hot," he mused, as the taxicab careened along, "but i guess i'd better keep him informed right up to date. that mr. porter means business, if i'm any judge. probably he has a syndicate of rich men back of him, and they are trying to get control of father's interests. but we'll put a stop to that if possible. "what a cad that porter fellow is, with his billiard shots, and his cigarettes! i could have beaten him easily, if i'd wanted to, but if i had he might have turned sulky, and wouldn't have talked so much. as it is i've gotten some good information out of him." dick leaned back on the cushions and let his thoughts wander free. as he had said, there were two big problems ahead of him. he wanted to see the cadet football team triumph on the gridiron, and he wanted to help his father get ahead of his enemies. both matters were important to dick, for he realized that his father's interests, being now so much bound up in the trolley line, would suffer seriously if antagonists got in control. as for football, our hero, who was one of the best members of the team, wanted to see his eleven at the head of the military league. and, for several seasons past kentfield had been the tail-ender, and practically out of the league. true, they had won some games, and big ones, too, but it was more like a sudden spurt, and then the cadets seemed to go "stale," and played in such poor form that inferior teams beat them. "it's got to stop," said dick to himself. "we've got to win, and if i can put my plan through, and i don't see why i can't, we'll be at the top of the heap pretty soon. that is if the fellows will work. and they've got to! by jove i'm not going to stay at a college where a little dinky team like the one from blue hill, can put it all over us, and write such letters as beeby got to-day. "poor beeby! he felt it a heap. it was like the time when we were marooned on that island, and he managed to snap-shot a lot of birds, and came in to tell us about them. we thought he meant he had killed them for dinner. oh, that was a time all right!" and dick fell to thinking of the adventures he had gone through when he was taking the first voyage in his steam yacht. the taxicab came to a sudden stop. the young millionaire looked out, and through the rain he saw the telegraph office. "i guess the man will think i'm running a regular brokerage business," he reflected as he alighted and went in. he sent a message to his father, telling what he had heard from porter during the billiard game, and warning mr. hamilton to be on the watch for treachery. "there, i guess that will make dad get busy," said the lad. "now i'll wait for further instructions, and devote a little time to planning out what i want to do for the football team. we've got to be champions of the league or i'll know the reason why. what's the good of money if it can't get you what you want?" "where to now, sir?" asked the taxi-driver, as dick got in the machine again. "like to go around town for a while? most of the cadets do when they get out." "back to the college," ordered dick a bit curtly, for he did not like the familiar tone of the man. "hum, he must be one of those tight-wads," thought the driver, as he threw in his gears and started off. "i like a fellow that spends money." if he had known how much dick hamilton _could_ have spent had our hero been so inclined, the taxi-man might have had a different opinion of him. the machine was bowling along at a good speed, through the principal street of the town, preparatory to turning off on the road that led to the military academy. it was a cab with the front of glass, and dick could look out at one side of the driver, and observe what was going on. suddenly, as they crossed a side street, an elderly man, with a big, old-fashioned umbrella held low over his head, ran out directly in front of the cab. "look out! stop!" cried dick, involuntarily jumping up. "you'll run him down!" the driver was on the alert, however, and jammed on the brakes with a practiced hand, and a quick foot. with a shudder of springs and a shriek of metal the cab came to a stop. not before, however, it had run into the man with the big umbrella, upsetting him, though so gently that he was not hurt. his rain-shield however, was crumpled up and his legs were entangled in it. before the driver could leave his seat, dick had jumped out and gone to the aid of the pedestrian. "i hope you're not hurt!" the lad exclaimed, as he helped the aged man to arise. "i'm very sorry it happened. i guess you held your umbrella so low that you couldn't see us coming." for clearly it was not the fault of the driver that the accident had occurred. "ha! hum! so that's what you think, eh?" demanded the man in a rasping voice, as he fairly grabbed the broken umbrella from dick's hand. "here i be, walking peaceably along the street, trying to protect myself from the rain, when you reckless military students come along in one of those fire-snorting new-fangled automobiles, and run me down. it was all your fault, and if i could see a policeman i'd have you both locked up! how many of those tin soldiers from the military academy have you in there anyhow? cadets! humph! much better be at some honest business instead of learning to kill folks! are there any more of you? if there are, come out, and i'll give you a piece of my mind! learning murder as a fine art! how many in there?" and he glared at the taxicab. "i'm the only one," said dick modestly. "hum! too mean to let some one else ride with you, i reckon. well, it was all your fault, and you'll have to settle with me. duncaster is my name, enos duncaster, and i don't intend to be imposed upon." dick could not help thinking how like his uncle erza mr. duncaster was. "it was your fault, you old hayseeder!" cried the taxicab man with a nervous voice, for he had been mortally afraid of a fatal accident. "what do you want to run under a machine that way for? hey? why can't you look where you're going?" "young man!" exclaimed mr. duncaster in a calm voice, "if i didn't know that you were excited you'd pay dearly for this. you don't know me, but i'll say, for your information, that i own enough stock in this taxicab company to have you discharged. i'm sorry i ever invested in it, but i didn't know them machines were so rip-snorting. now you can go on, but first give me your names." "what for?" demanded the driver suspiciously. "oh, in case i find i have worse injuries than a broken umbrella," replied the elderly man with a half-smile. "i may want to bring suit against the company in which i hold stock." "well, my name is martin," replied the driver, "james martin. i certainly didn't mean to run you down, mr. duncaster. but the rain was in my eyes, and----" "that will do," said the man with an air of authority. "now who are you--my young soldier lad? i don't believe in this war business, but the country seems to be going crazy over it, so i might as well keep still. who are you?" "hamilton--dick hamilton is my name." "hum--hamilton--no relation to mortimer hamilton; are you?" "he is my father." "what." "i say he is my father." "why that's odd--i'm--no, never mind--so you're mortimer hamilton's son; eh? i heard he had one, and that he was going to some sort of military school. i'm sorry to see it. and so you're the one who ran me down? and you haven't a crowd of roistering students with you?" "no, i'm all alone. i've been attending to some business for my father." "hum! business, yes. that's about all mortimer hamilton does. well, you may go. i know where to find both of you in case i want you." the odd old man gathered up what was left of his umbrella, and, declining the aid of a policeman who came up to see what the gathering crowd meant, mr. duncaster walked off. "we got out of that lucky," commented the taxi-driver, as dick re-entered the vehicle. "i sure thought he would fire me. who'd think old man duncaster would be up here?" "is he really a wealthy man?" asked dick. "you bet he is. he lives away down in the country somewhere, and all he does is to cut off the interest coupons from his bonds. he's a millionaire, but you'd never think it to look at him. the idea of walking, when he could hire a machine and ride. but he's close--awful close." "i hope he doesn't make trouble," commented our hero. "if he does, let me know. in spite of who he is i think it was his own fault that we hit him." "sure it was," declared the driver heartily. dick was soon back at school and his first visit was to the society house of the sacred pig. he found only a few of his cadet chums there, as it was nearing mess time, and they had gone to dress for the meal. "well, you're a fine fellow to run off and desert us the way you did!" cried innis beeby, as he clapped dick on the shoulder. "what's your great scheme about a football team? the fellows are half wild trying to guess. couldn't you explain before you hiked away?" "no, didn't have time." "then tell me now." "no, i'd like all the fellows to be together when they hear it and then they won't get it twisted. i'll meet you all here after grub, and tell you what i think of doing." "all right; it's a go." dick found a goodly crowd waiting for him in the main room of the club house, for word had gone around of what was about to take place. our hero wasted no time on preliminaries. "boys," he began, "you know as well as i do, that we have received an insulting letter from the blue hill academy. our football team, of which i have the honor to be a member----" "hurray for the team!" cried paul drew. "long may she wave, o'er the land----" "order in the ranks!" cried innis beeby, who was presiding. "our team needs strengthening," went on dick. "there is no use ignoring the facts before us. we never have had a first class team--that is, to judge by the records of the past. we have not a good team now, and i'm as bad as the worst member, so i'm not shielding myself. that being the case, what's to be done?" "get a new team!" called someone. "revamp the old one," cried another. "that's my idea exactly," went on dick. "we must use the material we have, but with this restriction--there must be a fair field and no favors. the best men must be picked on the team." "sure!" cried someone. "but who's going to do the picking?" demanded beeby. "that's what i'm coming to," went on dick. "i was going to tell you my plan, when i had to leave this afternoon." "tell it now!" was the general shout. "this is it!" replied the young millionaire. "you know what good coaching can do for a team. i think that's what we need, and it is casting no reflection on the present coaches, for we all know they can devote only a little time to the work. now what i propose is this: we can get two of the best coaches in the country--say one from yale and one from princeton. they can come here, and in a few weeks i'm sure they can whip our team into shape. we have the material--all it needs is to be developed." "that's right--but how can we afford to pay for a yale and a princeton coach?" demanded george hall. "i'll attend to that end," replied dick calmly. "this is my treat. i want kentfield to have the best eleven in the league, and if coaching can do it we'll have it. then we can win some games. i'll pay for the coaches, and we'll see what they can do. that was my football scheme. what do you think of it, fellows?" chapter iv football practice for a few seconds no one spoke after dick hamilton had mentioned his plan for improving the kentfield eleven. but at length, with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction, innis remarked: "dick; you're a trump!--a brick!--an ice-cream brick on a hot day!--you're all to the mustard!--a----" "cut it out!" cried our hero, "can't you see how i'm blushing? but seriously, fellows, is my plan all right?" "i should say it was!" exclaimed paul drew. "but look at what it's going to cost," objected george hall. "those yale and princeton coaches are high-fliers--that is, if you can get them to come--and then besides their salary, we'll have to board 'em. though i s'pose we could put 'em up at the pig, provided they won't scrap all the while over different training plans." "oh, i fancy that part will be all right," remarked teddy naylor. "but do you think you can get any yale or princeton coaches to come here--to kentfield--with her poor, old, broken-down team--that is according to anderson," spoke frank rutley. "well, of course we'll have to take a chance on that," replied dick. "if we can't get men from those two colleges we can try some others. but dad is an old princeton grad. and i have sort of a distant forty-second cousin who was once a star half-back at yale. i might get them to put in a good word for us." "hurray!" cried innis in the excitement and exuberance of the moment. "that's the stuff! now we'll wipe up the ground with those blue hill snobs! whoop-la!" he shot out a sturdy fist, and squarely hit a football that teddy naylor was balancing on his hand. the spheroid flew straight and true across the room, and caught john stiver on the chin. stiver at that moment happened to be looking at the sporting page of a paper and did not see the ball coming. consequently it was quite a surprise, and he went over backward against paul drew, both going down in a heap. "i say, who did that?" cried john, as he arose with the symptoms of wrath in his eyes. "i did, old chap!" confessed innis contritely. "you see i felt so good i wanted to start something. i beg your pardon." "granted. but you certainly started something all right," remarked john grimly. "there goes drew's nose bleeding. you sure started something all right." "oh, i don't mind," responded dick's roommate, as he went to a toilet room to staunch the flow of blood. "if we get a good team and play some stiff games i'll probably have worse than this before the season is over." innis went out with paul to assist in attending to the bleeding member, and the others resumed their football talk. there was but one opinion about dick's plan--everybody said it was just what was needed, and to all suggestions that it would cost a mint of money, the young millionaire declared that it would be worth all it cost him. "what's the use of having a fortune if you don't spend it?" he asked with a smile. "though i suppose if my uncle ezra hears about my latest scheme he'll try again to kidnap me, to stop me from carrying it out. but he isn't here, is he grit, old boy?" and dick stooped over to pet his bulldog, who crouched at his feet, the animal being an honorary member of the sacred pig society. grit growled at the mention of the name of uncle ezra. he had a deep antipathy to that gentleman, and with reason, for mr. larabee hated dogs, and kicked grit on the sly every time he got the chance. "then it's all settled," remarked dick, when paul and innis had come back to the general room. "i'll get busy writing some letters, and we'll see what we can do. it's lucky the season hasn't started yet, for we have plenty of time to get into shape." "yes, and we'll not only do up blue hill good and brown, but we'll put it all over mooretown and some of the other teams in the military league," declared innis. "but you fellows must get at practice, and try and harden yourselves. i wish bert cameron was here--i don't know how he's going to take to this new coaching idea." "oh, bert won't mind," declared jim watkins. "he'll be only too glad to be relieved of the coaching, for i heard him say he was trying for an extra exam. in maths, and he needs all the time he can get." bert, who was a star football player, had given up active participation in the game to act as coach for kentfield. but, as his chums well knew, he had not the necessary time to devote to the work of telling them what to do and how to do it, and the team suffered in consequence. however, the mention of this gave dick an idea. he did not want to hurt the feelings of bert, and, when the coach entered the club a little later the matter was mentioned to him. "go ahead, grand idea," he declared and his enthusiasm was not forced. "i know i haven't been keeping you fellows up to the mark, and i'll be glad to see some one here who can. besides, i need all the time i can get to bone away at my maths." "then i'll go ahead," declared the young millionaire. "i'll have the new coaches here in a week if i can get them, and i'll meet any financial demand they make." "that's the way to talk!" cried paul, clapping his chum on the back with such energy that dick uttered a protest. when our hero turned in at taps that night, his mind was filled with two main thoughts. one was the future of the football team, and the other was the trouble that threatened his father. then another remembrance came to him. "i wonder who that mr. duncaster is that we so nearly ran over?" mused dick. "he must know dad. he's a queer sort of a character, i guess." dick little thought of what an important part in the future of himself and his father this same mr. duncaster was to play. "well, i'll see if i can get any more information from porter about the deal his father is in," said dick to himself, as he turned over to compose himself for sleep. "there must be more than one man in the game, and it's up to me to find out who the others are, so dad can be on his guard. i hope he doesn't lose control of the trolley, for a lot of small investors have put all their money in it, and if other interested men get hold of it the investors might lose all they have. i guess that's why dad is so worried. i'll cultivate the acquaintance of porter and weston, though i don't care much for them." a better day for football practice could not have been desired. there was just enough crispness in the air, and the gridiron, newly marked with its chalk-lines was green under the autumn sun as a crowd of cadets released from drill and studies, flocked over the campus, shouting and laughing. "line up there, you scrubs!" called paul drew. "this is where we walk all over you. here, dick, catch this!" and he kicked a puzzling spiral toward the young millionaire. dick made a jump for the ball, but it slipped through his fingers. "wow! rotten!" he cried. "that wouldn't do in a game." "that's right," agreed innis. "but you're no worse than the rest. look at watkins miss that drop kick he tried to make." shouts of derision from the scrub greeted the effort of watkins to boot the pigskin. the scrub, in spite of its unenviable position, had been doing better in practice than the regular team. captained by tom coleton the lads had scored many a touchdown on their superiors, and they were proud of it. "line up, fellows!" called teddy naylor, the varsity captain. "we'll see what we can do." the game at kentfield was played under the old rules of halves, instead of quarters, and, in fact, all the teams in the military league preferred that style. goals were chosen, and it was announced that two ten minute halves would be played. dick was to play at quarter-back, john stiver at left half-back, ray dutton at right half-back, paul drew at left guard, george hall at right tackle, teddy naylor at full-back, frank rutley at left tackle, jim watkins at centre, innis beeby at right guard, sam porter as left end, and his crony, jake weston, at right end. the scrub were to kick off, as teddy wanted to see how well his men could rush back the ball. not that he expected much, but somehow, under the stimulus of the new plan proposed by dick, there was a more confident feeling among members of the varsity eleven, than had existed in some time. "i think we'll surprise 'em to-day," remarked paul drew, as he took his place beside jim. the signal was given, and hal foster made a big dent in the side of the ball. it came sailing toward the spread-out varsity team, and was caught by dick. he started back over the chalk marks, well protected by interference. "grab him! don't let him get past you!" called tom coleton, who was in charge of the scrub. dick's helpers shoved aside several impetuous lads who tried to break through to tackle him, and it looked as though he might make a sensational run. but when bart gerard slipped past paul drew, and got in to the running lad, there was a quick, fierce tackle, and dick went down heavily. "not so bad! line up!" cried bert cameron, who stole a few minutes from his studies to come out and see how the play was going. "get ready, fellows!" cried dick, as he took his place behind jim, while the big centre leaned over and prepared to snap back the ball when the signal was given. dick called out a string of numbers which indicated that ray dutton was to take the ball between the left guard and tackle of the scrub. the ball came back, and with all his might dutton leaped for a hole that beeby and hall made for him. on and on he struggled pushing and being pushed. "brace, fellows! brace!" implored coleton, and his men tried, but there was no withstanding the fierce rush of the varsity. through they went, and when dutton was finally stopped he had gained five yards. "it's been some time since we did that," commented dick, as he looked back at the ground covered--ground whereon were strewn fallen players for the rush had been a fierce one. again came the line up, and again the advance with the ball, stiver taking it this time for a run around end. he made a good gain. then followed more rushing tactics, until, when in reasonable distance of the goal, dick gave the signal for a try for one from the field. straight and true the ball came back to teddy naylor, and the next instant it was booted over the crossbar. "wow!" cried beeby capering about. "that's the stuff. now if that was against blue hill i'd stand on my head!" "impossible, old chap--i mean impossible to stand on your head--you're not balanced right," panted dick, for the last few minutes of play had been strenuous. "but it was good work all the same." "you can't repeat it," declared coleton, half chagrined yet glad that the varsity was picking up. but the varsity did even better, for they rolled up two touchdowns in that half, a thing they had been unable to do since practice started. they did not have things all their own way, however, for the scrub played so fiercely and with such desperate energy in the next half, that they, too, got a touchdown, and would have had another but for a splendid tackle porter made. "good!" cried teddy encouragingly, for porter was not a good player, and would not train properly. but he had been picked on the team early in the season, when available material was scarce, and the captain did not like to drop him now. his fine stopping of the man with the ball, however, showed what he could do when he tried. the play was resumed. there were only a few more minutes left, and the scrubs were trying with all their might to score again, while, on their part, the varsity was trying to stop them. the scrub had the ball on the varsity twenty-five yard line, when the signal came for a play through centre. dick half guessed that it was coming, and when the man with the ball made his appearance in the hole torn for him, our hero met him with a suddenness that shocked them both. "i've got you!" cried the young millionaire. there was a revolving struggle, and then something hit dick on the head. it became black all around him, and he went down in a limp heap, while he heard some one crying: "get up, fellows, hamilton's hurt!" chapter v disquieting news there was a singing in dick's ears. he seemed to be on a heaving, rolling sea, and he dimly wondered how he happened to be back on board a boat. then he felt a dash of water on his face--cold, stinging water,--and he half imagined himself back on the raft with a sea breaking over him. next he felt some one lifting him to his feet, and he heard the murmur of voices. "that was a nasty blow." "yes. who did it?" "shall we send for the doctor?" "i'm--i'm all right," protested dick feebly, as he opened his eyes. he came back to earth with a shock, and the boatlike motion suddenly ceased. "i--i----" "are you sure you're all right?" asked paul anxiously. dick put his hand up to his head. a big lump was beginning to form, and was tender to the touch. his head started to ache and hum. "that was my fault," contritely confessed hal foster, of the scrub. "i was trying to stop you from making that tackle, when my feet slipped from under me, and shot right at your head, hamilton. i hope you're not much hurt. i'm awfully sorry." he took hold of dick's arm in a brotherly fashion. "it's all right--don't mention it old chap. it was no one's fault. i shouldn't have jumped in so quickly. i'm all right again. come on, we'll finish the game." "no, the time's about up," announced teddy. "we've had enough for to-day. and it's been better practice than we've had in a long while. i guess we're all anxious to get on hamilton's team." "hamilton's team?" asked sam porter, in a curious tone. "since when has it been _his_ eleven?" "oh, i forgot you hadn't heard the news," went on teddy. "why dick is going to pay for two of the best coaches in the country, and we're going to have a team as _is_ a team. that's why we all played so well to-day, i guess--even the scrub." "thanks!" exclaimed tom coleton. "we'll do you up good and proper to-morrow just the same." "not with dick hamilton's team," cried teddy with a laugh. "it isn't going to be my team at all," declared dick, as he supported himself on paul's shoulder and walked along, after his head had again been bathed in the cold water. "i don't want it known as that. i'm only doing what any fellow would do--putting up some cash to help out. it isn't my team at all." "i should say not!" sneered porter. "hamilton's team--that sounds like playing favorites all right." "yes, if it keeps on this will be known as the kentfield-hamilton military academy," added his crony. dick heard, and his face flushed. he took a step toward the two lads, but he was unsteady on his feet, for the blow on his head had been severe. "you'll have to take that back mr. porter," said our hero a bit stiffly, "and you too, mr. weston." it was seldom that the cadets addressed each other thus, and only when there was some feeling engendered. "take what back?" demanded porter. "what you said about favorites," went on dick. "i won't stand for that." there was that in his look and manner, and in his words that impressed not only his friends but the two cronies as well. they realized that dick as an upper classman, had considerable influence, and, though they had their own following, due to their wealth and their willingness to spend money, they doubtless felt that they had gone too far. "oh, well, i didn't mean anything," said porter, half sulkily. "i--i was only joking." "i don't like such jokes," declared dick grimly, and he looked at weston. "same here," muttered porter's crony. "i was only fooling." "your apologies are accepted," was dick's reply. he walked on, half supported by paul, and when his chums saw how evidently weak he was they wanted him to go to the doctor's office. but dick would not. "i'll be all right in the morning," he said. "all i need is a little rest. we're getting right into football good and proper," he added with an attempt at a smile. "yes, starting off with a hospital list," added teddy. "don't have too much of it, though." dick was rather lame and stiff the next morning, and his head was in poor shape for study, so he cut some lectures, and got excused from drill and artillery practice. in the afternoon however, he was much better, and insisted on going through light practice in signals playing one half against the scrub, his place being taken by a substitute in the second period. whether it was because dick was off the team, or because the scrub played with fiercer energy, due to their defeat of the day before, was not manifested, but the varsity was beaten by a score of fourteen to eleven, and once more there was a feeling of gloom in the ranks of the first eleven. "oh, it's all right," teddy assured his players. "we will make up for it to-morrow. by the way, dick, when are your coaches coming?" "i've written, and i expect an answer some time this week. it may take a little longer than i hoped, but i told them not to let money stand in the way. i have made an offer to burke martin of yale, and wilson spencer of princeton." "martin and spencer!" cried teddy in delight. "say, if we get them here they'll make even the goal posts play the game. there aren't any two better coaches living." "it pays to get the best," said dick, with a smile. "i have had my father send a line to the athletic committee of the tigers, and i told him to write to our distant relative who once went to yale, and get him to put in a good word for us." "fine!" cried the captain. "i fancy they'll make the team all over again when they get here. i may lose my place." "nonsense!" declared dick. "but the way i feel about it is this--we want the best men to represent kentfield, and we'll let the coaches do the picking. i don't want to play unless they say i'm better, in my particular place, than some other fellow. it's a fair field and no favor for me." "same here," declared naylor. "i'll step out the minute i'm asked to. it's for the honor of kentfield, not for any particular player. but it would be rubbing it in if they turned you down dick, after what you've done--putting up all that money." "say, look here, that's a matter i want to speak about!" exclaimed dick with sudden energy. "i don't want the coaches to know who is putting up the money--i don't want it known that i am doing it. they are both fair men, and i know you couldn't influence them with a million dollars. but let this matter be kept quiet, and have it given out that the athletic committee of kentfield is supplying the funds. then there can't be anything said against me." "i guess that would be the best way," assented teddy. "i'll call a meeting right away and we'll settle it. but you say you have already written to the coaches." "i did, but i wrote in the name of the committee," said dick. "i took that liberty, as i wanted to conceal my part in the affair. i thought it would be all right." "sure. i'll see that it is." the athletic committee at a meeting that night, endorsed the action of our hero, and the members were bound to secresy in the matter as to who was supplying the money with which to pay the coaches. for the next few days practice went on, and there was a distinct improvement in the playing of the varsity team, to the disquieting of the scrub, for those unfortunate players were shoved all over the gridiron, and several were laid up with bruises, as the first eleven was playing for touchdowns, and secured several. still their playing was anything but what it should be, and the lads themselves realized it. but they were willing to learn, and anxiously awaited the arrival of the coaches. dick, meanwhile, had spent some time with porter and his crony, though he did not like their companionship. he played many games of pool and billiards with them, losing occasionally, and again, by some brilliant cue work, making the two gasp with astonishment and chagrin. "i don't see how it is that you don't win oftener," spoke porter a bit suspiciously one day. "oh, well, it's luck i guess," declared dick, and then he steered the conversation around to the topic on which he wanted information--the plan to wrest the control of the trolley line from his father. but porter either did not want to tell more, or could not. he declared that his father's plans were coming along in great shape, and that mr. porter was a wonder as a financier. "there'll be some surprised millionaires when my dad gets through with them," he boasted. "is he doing it all alone--i mean hasn't he some men associated with him?" asked dick as carelessly as he could as he made a neat carom shot. "oh, i guess there are some pikers in along with my governor, but he's the main squeeze," declared porter. "he lets some fellows trail along so he can use 'em when he wants to. but he gets most of the dough, and he keeps it too. i hope the deal soon goes through, for i want my allowance increased, and the governor promised to raise the ante as soon as he gets control of this electric road. by the way, it's somewhere out your way, hamilton. you must have heard of it." "i have," answered dick as quietly as before. "is your dad interested? i hear he has scads of money. maybe he's in with my father." "no, i fancy not. it's your turn, weston," and dick turned aside to conceal a grim smile on his face. that night there was a letter for dick from his father. it contained disquieting news, for it bore the information that the enemies of the millionaire were getting more active. * * * * * "there is some other man besides mr. porter who is in this matter," wrote mr. hamilton. "i can't just learn who he is, but he holds a large number of shares, that he has bought up in little lots from the original holders. if i could learn who he is, and get in touch with him, i might persuade him to sell me some stock, so i would have the controlling interest. then i could bid these others defiance. if you can learn who this man is, dick wire me at once. i'll do the same for you, but as things are now they certainly look bad for the hamilton family. but keep up your spunk." * * * * * "poor dad," mused dick, "i guess managing finances is about as hard as trying to re-shape a slumping football team. but we'll both do our best. i wonder who that unknown man is?" chapter vi mr. duncaster again "i say, dick, are you in?" it was a cautious voice making this inquiry after a gentle knock at the door of the room where our hero and paul drew lived when they were not playing football, drilling with the other cadets, or reciting their lessons. "who is it?" whispered dick to his chum. "blessed if i know. sounds like beeby, and again it might be teddy. going to let him in?" "sure. no one's around this early and it's safe. unbolt the door. i've done enough boning to-night." it was shortly after dick had received the letter from his father, in which the disquieting news was given, and the two cadets were preparing their lessons for the morrow. but as this was ever-wearying work, to be disposed of as quickly as possible in case any pleasure was available, the two friends welcomed the disturbing knock. "come on in," invited our hero as his chum opened the portal. "what's up, anyhow." "something doing," replied innis beeby cheerfully as he slid inside the room, and carefully closed the door. "are you fellows ready for a little fun?" "it depends on what kind," answered dick. "are you going to run one of the six-pounders up on the chapel steps, or turn the flag upside down?" "neither. but did you know that porter and weston were giving a little spread to-night?" "a spread? no! and those fellows only freshmen of the freshest kind," answered paul. "say, we ought to take 'em down a peg." "exactly what i think," agreed beeby. "i came over to see if you didn't want to join in the fun. we're going to invade their spread, take porter and weston captive, and carry them into town." "then what?" inquired paul eagerly. he was always ready for fun. "we'll make them do 'sentry-go' in front of the town jail. have them march up and down with wooden guns on their shoulders. maybe they won't feel sick!" "but will they do it?" asked paul. "they'll have to if we make a freshman matter of it. otherwise they'll go to coventry for the rest of the term. oh, they'll do it all right. how about it, dick?" now our hero had shown a curious lack of interest in the matter of hazing porter and weston, from the time their names were mentioned. he seemed to cool down all at once, though he had always done his share heretofore in making the first year men feel their inferior positions. "well?" asked innis beeby, after a pause, as he glanced at the young millionaire. "oh, what's the use?" inquired dick. "can't we let 'em alone? it might make trouble in the football team if we put them through the third degree too strong." "bosh!" cried innis. "they need it. besides, if any fellows take offense at a little hazing they're not fit to play on the football team. eh, paul?" "sure not." but dick was thinking what effect his participation in the affair would have, especially when he still wanted to get some information from porter, and depended on keeping in with that worthy in order to secure it. "come along, dick," urged innis. "oh, i don't know," and the young millionaire paused before a case full of books--a case seldom opened. "i ought to do some boning, and----" "what!" cried beeby aghast. "don't speak of such a thing again. you nearly gave me heart disease. come along and have some fun. we don't often have a chance at it, but there is a faculty pow-wow to-night, and the coast is unusually clear. that's why porter had his spread i guess. we'll go over, make a rough house, and take him and his friend out for an airing. then we'll all feel better. come on, dick." there was no help for it, and, somewhat against his will, our hero made ready to accompany his chums. he did not like to go, as he feared to get on bad terms with porter. it was a very much surprised party of surreptitious midnight feasters on which our hero and his chums burst half an hour later. the spread was being held in the apartments of porter, for he had hired a sitting room as well as a dormitory chamber. both were well filled with most of the members of the "sporting" set. "what does this mean?" demanded porter indignantly, as the upper classmen made their appearance. "i think i did not invite you to my little affair." "no, we didn't wait for a bid, porter, though it was mighty careless of you to overlook us," retorted beeby. "but we came, anyhow. now i guess you can come with us, porter and weston. we're going to initiate you into the mysteries of the gun club." there were significant glances from the other cadets for they knew what this meant. many of them had been through it on previous occasions. "we're not coming!" exclaimed porter aggressively. "no, and you haven't any right to interrupt us in this manner," declared his crony with dignity. "leave here at once." "with you, dear friend, and not otherwise," put in teddy naylor. "come on, it's part of the game." but porter and weston could not see it that way. they protested, and made a show of fighting. they appealed to the other cadets, but the latter said they had better comply with the demands of the upper classmen. even then the two cronies remained ugly, and made a show of resistance, until beeby and the others, tired of the delay, made a sudden rush, tied the captives with ropes that had been brought for the purpose, and marched them quietly from the building. "here, you let go of that rope, hamilton!" cried porter, as he saw dick holding one end of the cords that bound the hands of the two captives together. "can't do it--nohow," was the grim answer, and yet dick wished that he might, for he was afraid that this would prove an insurmountable barrier to future talks with the son of the man who was seeking to ruin mr. hamilton. "then i'll get even with you," threatened porter. "i'll make you fellows sorry for this night's work, you see if i don't." "don't mind him--he's talking like a cannon-swab," said beeby with a chuckle. in a little while the two captives had been placed in front of the town jail, with instructions to march up and down before it, bearing on their shoulders grotesque wooden guns made for the hazing purpose. "and if you desert inside of an hour, you know what it means," threatened jim watkins. "you'll belong to the down and out club after that. so keep on the job." porter and weston knew better than to disobey, for their chums, who had been present at the spread, had whispered to them of the dire penalties that would follow a disregard of the hazing instructions of the upper classmen. so the two cronies marched gravely up and down the dark street, while occasional pedestrians paused to gaze, chuckle silently as they realized what was in progress. "i'm not going to stand it!" indignantly declared porter after a half hour of the ordeal. "we'd better," counseled weston. "i don't want to stay at kentfield for a month with not a soul to speak to but you. we've got to do it." "all right. but i'll get even with hamilton for this. i think he started it. i'll get square with him." "same here," and weston shifted his gun to the other shoulder, and marched forward wearily. the night wore on, and in the shadows of several buildings the upper classmen who had originated the joke on the two freshmen, looked on and chuckled in mirth. occasionally they called out a remark to the sentries. more people passed, and some paused to laugh, to the anger of porter and weston. policemen walked by, but they were familiar with that form of hazing and did not make any complaint of the odd sight. some of the prisoners in the jail peered out from their barred windows and jeered. all this was bitterness to the two. after a time beeby and his chums wearied of the joke, and on the invitation of george hall went to a nearby soda fountain for some chocolate. "they'll skip out as soon as we're gone," declared ray dutton. "no, i think they'll stick," declared innis. "anyhow, dick, you go back and take a look. we'll keep your chocolate for you." our hero did not relish the task, but did not want to object. accordingly, he walked back to the corner where he could look down the street and catch a glimpse of the two cadet jail-sentries. they were still on their posts. dick turned back to join his chums, and, as did so he almost collided with a man coming around the corner in an opposite direction. "i beg your pardon!" exclaimed the cadet. "i didn't see you." "very evidently," was the rasping reply. "that's the trouble with you young men, you never look where you're going. ah! i see, another one of the soldiers--and if it isn't the same one who nearly ran me down the other night in an automobile." dick recognized the aged mr. duncaster. "i--i'm afraid it is," our hero faltered. "i--i didn't mean to, i'm sure. i didn't hurt you this time." "no, but it's not your fault that you didn't. you came around that corner under a full head of steam. have you run down any more persons in your auto?" enos duncaster asked sarcastically. "no, and that time it wasn't my fault." "hum--let's see--your name is hamilton--son of mortimer hamilton--i know him--a hard man in a bargain. well, i'll let you off this time. who are those two young men marching up and down over there--chums of yours?" "yes--we--we're hazing them," faltered dick. "ha! hazing! a senseless and foolish proceeding! but just what i would expect of you soldier lads--heartless and cruel. well, let me pass, i've wasted enough time on you." mr. duncaster's voice was grim and harsh. he brushed by dick roughly and passed on down the street, muttering to himself about the foolishness of youths in general, and in particular regarding those boys who attended military schools. dick, having assured himself that the hazed ones were still patrolling their post, returned to his chums and helped get away with some chocolate soda. there was a telegram awaiting our hero when he reached his room later that night, porter and weston having been released from their hazing duties. "hum, i guess that's from dad," mused dick. "i wonder what the new developments are?" rapidly he scanned the few words. they were these: "dear dick: enos duncaster is the name of the man who holds a lot of trolley stock. see if you can locate him for me. i understand he lives somewhere in the vicinity of your academy. trouble is thickening. i need help." "whew!" whistled dick. "enos duncaster! he's the man who holds the stock, and whom both sides are after. and i'm in his bad books if ever a fellow was! whew! i can see the finish of this without any spectacles!" chapter vii the coaches arrive cavalry evolutions were ordered for the next day, followed by a field drill, and a service march of several miles, so that there was no chance for football practice. "and we need all we can get, too," remarked dick to paul. "let's suggest to colonel masterly that he give up lessons and drill while the gridiron season is on," suggested paul with a smile. "yes, i can see him doing it," cried the young millionaire. "which horse are you going to ride, paul?" "the little black--i'm fond of him, though he is a bit vicious." the boys were on their way to the cavalry barracks, and in their wake, and ahead of them, were other cadets hastening to secure their mounts, for the bugle was impatiently calling. "do you think spitfire is safe?" asked dick, naming the steed paul had said he would use. "why don't you take the little gray i used to ride? he's a good steady mount, though a bit slow." "that's the trouble," was the answer, as dick's roommate tightened the belt of his sabre. "i want to keep up with the rest of the bunch. no, i'll take spitfire. i reckon you'll ride rex; eh?" "sure," for dick had brought his own fine horse to kentfield with him, together with his bulldog, and grit was now ambling along behind the two chums, occasionally uttering a low bark of satisfaction, for the dog loved to go along on the practice "hikes." "well, be careful," cautioned the wealthy youth, as paul went in to saddle up. "all right," laughed his chum, but there was a serious look on the face of our hero, and he resolved to keep near his chum that day. artillery practice followed the cavalry drill, and the cadets, sitting as straight as ramrods on the caissons while the horses galloped around at full speed, leaped off the moment the sudden halt was made, unlimbered, fired rapid shots and, limbering up again, went off at a mad gallop to repeat the operation. "forward march!" signalled the bugler when arrangements had been made for the "hike," and the eager horses, astride of which were the no less eager cadets, started off. it was a pleasant day, though a trifle cool, and the service overcoats, with their flashily yellow linings, showing gaily in the sun when they flapped back, felt very comfortable. at first the march was in orderly array, while major webster, and some of the other military instructors, passed here and there among the new cadets, telling them the proper way to manage their horses. dick and his chums, however, having passed several terms at the academy, needed no hints. "don't hold your snaffle reins that way, mr. porter," said the major to the new lad as he rode up beside him. "you can't control your horse in an emergency. let me show you," which he did, also correcting a fault he noticed in the way weston sat on his steed. "humph! i guess i know something about horses," complained porter, when the instructors had passed on. "i straddled one before i came here. i had a german riding master, and what he didn't know about horses wasn't worth putting on ice. i'll ride as i please." as he spoke, he put spurs to his horse, digging them in viciously, and as the startled animal leaped forward, the cruel lad wrenched the poor brute's mouth open with the strong curb bit. there was a momentary confusion among the horses immediately surrounding porter, and several of the older cadets called sharply to him to "stop his funny work." "oh, you fellows make me tired!" porter grumbled. "why don't you do some fast riding." "you'll get all the fast riding you want if you stay long enough," spoke paul sharply. a little later the order was given to ride at will, and major webster, galloping back to dick, said: "captain hamilton, you and lieutenant drew take several of the new cadets and ride around by the long lake road. give them some points. take about ten--mr. porter and mr. weston, fall in with captain hamilton's squad." "hum! i guess captain hamilton thinks he knows it all," sneered weston. "not a bit of it," answered dick good naturedly. "but orders are orders you'll find. come ahead, and i'll show you a fine bit of road, some magnificent scenery, and we'll have a good gallop. look out there, paul, i don't like the way spitfire is acting!" the young millionaire called this suddenly as he saw his chum's steed waltzing up to another animal, with ears laid back as though to bite, and so cause trouble. "i can manage him," answered paul confidently, as he put the restless steed about in a rapid circle. dick's little squad, himself and paul the only really military experienced riders in it, set off along a cross road that would bring them to the shore path of lake wagatook. there, as the young captain had said, was a fine road with scenery that one would have to travel many miles to equal. "now for some fast riding!" called dick, when they came to a long open stretch. "you can go as far as you like, porter." "good! then here i go!" viciously he again spurred his horse, and his example was followed by his crony. the two animals sprang away together, but porter's stepped on a round stone, stumbled, and almost fell. the boastful lad proved that he did know something about animals, for he pulled up the beast's head sharply, and got him in hand again. not before, however, the frightened steed had collided with some force into spitfire. paul's horse lashed out instantly with its hind hoofs, and then, with a shake of the head bolted. the cadet attempted to pull him in, but, a moment later, uttered a startled cry. "my curb rein is broken!" it flashed through dick's head in an instant what that meant. naturally ugly, spitfire, now unusually frightened, was practically beyond control. paul was doing his best but was rapidly being carried down the broad highway, with porter and weston galloping after him, their own steeds none too well in hand. "i've got to stop him!" exclaimed dick. "i've got to catch spitfire and stop him, or paul may be hurt! that brute isn't fit to ride. come, rex!" rex needed no spur. off he started like a racer, and dick, looking back, flung over his shoulder at the other cadets: "come on, fellows, keep up as well as you can!" rex soon fell into his stride, and fairly skimmed along the smooth road. but paul was quite a distance ahead, and spitfire was running hard. dick could see his chum sitting easily in the saddle, now and then leaning forward trying to grasp the broken and flapping end of the curb rein. "don't do it! wait! i'll catch you!" shouted dick, but it is doubtful if paul heard him. "come on, rex old man, we must do better than this. we can beat spitfire," spoke dick gently, patting his horse on the neck. rex understood and let out a few more "kinks" of his speed. the young millionaire soon reached and passed porter and weston, whose steeds had soon tired of the speedy spurt. but not so with spitfire. dick knew he would have a race. on galloped rex, and before him sped spitfire. "a little better, boy, a little better," urged dick. and a little better rex went. dick could now see that he was overhauling the uncontrolled steed, and he was glad of it, for he feared paul might be flung off, in spite of the lad's skill in horsemanship. "i'll have him in another minute," reflected dick, when there suddenly loomed in sight a big touring car, and right at a point where the road narrowed. spitfire was viciously shaking his head, now and then holding it low. "jove, he'll crash into that car!" cried dick aloud. "why don't they keep that infernal horn still? it's making him wilder," for the autoists were frantically tooting away. "i've got to get in ahead of him, and ride him off to one side," thought our hero. "rex, old boy, i hate to do it, but--just a touch." gently dick pricked his pet animal with the spurs--just a touch, for voice was not quite incentive enough. like a shot rex sprang forward, and covered the ground so rapidly that in another brief instant the young millionaire was ahead of his friend, and between spitfire and the now stationary auto. then, with the skill of long practice, dick urged rex up to spitfire, who was losing speed, and a moment later the frightened steed had been forced off the road, into the grassy side path, and headed toward a fence, which effectually stopped farther progress. "well ridden! excellently well ridden!" cried the man at the wheel of the auto. dick saluted, for there were several ladies in the car, and then turned to paul. "all right, old man," he asked anxiously. "yes, but i might not have been a little later. i should have looked to my reins. thanks--for coming as you did," and paul warmly grasped dick's hand. "you knew i'd come. now let's see if we can mend that leather and ride back. are you game?" "oh, sure. i fancy spitfire has had all he wanted for to-day." in fact the animal was much subdued after his run. the auto passed on, not even the tooting of the horn causing paul's steed to prance. then he and dick managed to patch up the curb leather, and rode back to meet the other cadets. "don't spur up so suddenly when other horses are too near you," advised the young captain to porter, who seemed a bit ashamed of the trouble he had caused. "i beg your pardon, old man--and yours, captain," spoke the lad, who though impulsive, was not a bad fellow at heart. "all right," answered dick easily. "we'll take it a little more slowly now." they finished the ride in about two hours, reaching the academy as the last of the other riding squads came in. dick made no report of the little incident which, but for his promptness, might have had a fatal, or at least a serious, ending. rifle practice, and field telegraph work occupied the rest of the day, and there was a final drill and inspection in the late afternoon. "a pretty strenuous day," remarked paul to dick, as they went to their room that evening. "yes, and there'll be another to-morrow." "how so?" "we must get in some good football practice, for i expect the two coaches soon, perhaps to-day." "then martin and spencer are both coming?" "yes, the good salary and the influence of the old grads, including dad, brought them around." "i'm glad of it. now kentfield will do something." out on the gridiron were a score or more of the mole-skin clad warriors, doing all sorts of things to a harmless pigskin spheroid. it was booted and passed about. "line up! line up!" called teddy naylor. "get together fellows! where are you scrubs? we're going to send all of you to the hospital. come on, dick, run through some signals." eleven panting youths faced eleven others, and the ball went sailing into the midst of the varsity. george hall caught it, and ran back with it, well protected by interference. but some of the scrub managed to get through, and downed him before he had gone far. "down!" panted george, as he tried to rise from underneath a mound of human forms. "down indeed, but too soon," remarked a strange voice, to one side of the scrimmaging lads. they all looked up. two young men stood looking at the heap of humanity. they were strangers to all the cadets. "may i ask--perhaps you don't know it, but only members of the academy are allowed out here," spoke teddy naylor a bit stiffly. "oh, but we were sent for," remarked one of the strangers. "we just came, and we were interested in seeing you play." "you were sent for?" repeated the captain. "yes, that is----" "oh, isn't this mr. martin?" asked dick, striding forward and holding out his hand. "yes," was the answer from the man with a small black moustache. "i'm mr. martin and this is mr. spencer," and he indicated his companion. "fellows, the coaches have come!" cried dick. "now to learn how to play football!" chapter viii the try-out scores of expectant lads sat in the meeting room of the kentfield academy gymnasium. they faced two quiet gentlemen, who, from time to time, whispered to each other. beside the two gentlemen were teddy naylor and innis beeby, who also, as the minutes passed, conferred in low voices. "hadn't we better start?" asked innis, of the football captain. "no, we'll wait a few minutes longer. porter and weston aren't here, and i want them to come." "those fellows will never train for the eleven." "yes they will. there is good material in both of them. here they are now. i guess we've got enough. will you start her off, or shall i?" "oh, you'd better, teddy. i'll say something later if it's necessary. better introduce 'em formally first, and let 'em do most of the talking," and the stout cadet looked at the two coaches. "fellows," began teddy, arising and moving forward a bit nervously, "you all know why we are here--that is i suppose--we are here--we came----" "good, teddy!" called someone encouragingly. "say it over, we missed part of it." "we are here----" "because we're here!" interpolated another tormentor. "oh, hang it all! we've met to discuss football!" cried the captain in desperation. "the athletic committee feels that something should be done--you all know how blue hill turned us down--we've got to play better. we now have two of the best coaches in the country, and they're going to have charge. i take pleasure in introducing to you mr. burke martin of yale, and mr. wilson spencer of princeton." "three cheers for both of 'em!" cried someone, and the big gymnasium reverberated with the shouts. mr. martin nodded to his colleague to speak first, and the princeton coach arose. "i am glad to see you all so enthusiastic," he began. "you know why the services of mr. martin and myself were secured, and i assure you that we will do our best to get your team into shape. to do this we may have to tell you some unpleasant truths, and some of you who imagine yourself good players may find that you cannot make the team--at least not at once. but i hope there will be no hard feelings. now to begin with, i want to say something about training, as that is my specialty, and afterward mr. martin will give you a little talk about playing the game to win." thereupon the princeton coach touched briefly on the more important points of the training system. it was soon evident to the kentfield lads that they had not done enough of this in times past, and perhaps this was the cause of some of their defeats--at least they ascribed it to that. "football men, among other things, need quickness," said mr. spencer, "and beyond all else, according to michael murphy of pennsylvania, than whom there is no better trainer, the players on the gridiron need to have plenty of superfluous energy to draw on. that is you need a sort of reserve stock to use at the time of a big match. your mental condition is no less important than your physical. you must _want_ to win, and you must feel that you are _going_ to win. "the care a player takes of himself in the summer determines in a great measure how soon he can get into condition in the fall." "we had pretty good training on dick's yacht," whispered innis to teddy. "now, i propose that we start at the beginning," went on the coach. "we'll have some setting-up exercises, some track work, and general gymnastics, and then we'll get in a position to pick the men for the varsity by a series of try-outs." he made some special references to the details of training, and then yielded to mr. martin. the latter went into the fine points of the game, emphasizing the needs of the individual players, laying stress on what the backs, tackles, ends and guards should do, and urging on the lads the necessity for fast, snappy playing. "demoralize your opponents by the quickness with which you jump into formations," said the yale man. "as soon as one play is finished be ready for the next. in defense, never give up, no matter how the game seems to be going against you. hold hard, tire out the other side, and then you may have a chance to get the ball and--win!" he spoke at some length, and his remarks were eagerly listened to. then innis got up, and, after a trifling show of nervousness, and two or three false starts, which gave the cadets a chance to "rig" him, he said: "i want to say that i'm sure none of us will feel any resentment if, after a fair trial, it is decided by the two new coaches that he isn't fit for the team," went on the stout lad. "i know my own failings and i'll be trying to get my weight down----" "don't eat so much," urged jim watkins, and there was a laugh, whereat innis blushed. "and i'm going to train hard," he concluded. "i guess that will be all this evening." the meeting broke up, but the boys lingered to talk with each other, many surrounding the coaches, and asking all sorts of questions. it had been arranged with colonel masterly that mr. martin and mr. spencer could occupy rooms in the senior dormitory, and dick, through the athletic committee, had provided for paying the bills. preliminary work of training started the next day, and though some of the boys thought it useless, they went through the exercises. but the two coaches were too wise to keep the cadets at mere gymnasium work too long, and so some field work with the ball, and some running exercises, were arranged. several candidates could not stand the pace and the grind and dropped out, but their places were eagerly taken by others. the scrub members were enthusiastic, and each one hoped to make the varsity. "now we'll try a little practice game, between the first and second teams," proposed mr. martin, about a week after the arrival of himself and his colleague. "it will be in the nature of a try-out, for probably those who do the best work will be put in the first squad, and from that the men for the varsity will be picked. that does not mean, however, that those who fail to make good this time will be barred. we will keep on the lookout for good material all the while." "and i want you boys to feel that you are always being watched," added mr. spencer. "we'll have our eyes on you when you least expect it." "that's what we want," declared dick with a laugh. "we want the best team possible." "yes--hamilton's team," sneered porter to weston. "he'll be sure to make it, anyhow," added the latter. "if he does, and i don't, i'll kick up a row," threatened the rich lad. "so will i. come on let's go to town and have a pool game. i'm pretty dry, too. "better not get caught with any of that bottled stuff," cautioned porter. "don't worry. they will have to be pretty foxy to spot me, but i'm not going to be a temperance crank just because those coaches say so. come ahead and we'll have some fun. it will be stiff enough work to-morrow." the practice game was a hard one. each player did his best, and on several occasions, after a hard scrimmage, time had to be taken out while some cadet had the wind pumped back into him, or a twisted ankle vigorously rubbed. slowly but surely the varsity pushed back the luckless scrub. slowly but surely a touchdown seemed about to be made. dick gave a signal for a fake kick. john stiver, the left half-back was to take the ball, run wide toward his own right end, pass the pigskin to teddy naylor, at full-back and the latter was to try and advance it for a touchdown. all went well until teddy got the ball. then, as he was charging around the end, with dick and stiver forming interference for him, he dropped the ball. something like a groan came from the young millionaire, for he saw their chance to score lost. tom coleton, of the scrub, came charging through, but the next instant dick had made a grab for the pigskin, picked it up, and, dodging coleton, made a dash toward the goal line. the day was saved, for our hero, making a splendid run, planted the ball squarely between the posts, and behind the final chalk mark. "touchdown! touchdown!" came the triumphant cry. "varsity touchdown!" "but it wouldn't have been one except for hamilton," remarked mr. martin grimly. "naylor, how did it happen that you couldn't hold the ball?" "i don't know," answered the luckless captain. "we can't have that," remarked mr. spencer with a dubious shake of his head. "well, try for goal." it was an easy shot, and innis made it quickly. then the game went on, but the varsity could not score again, and the scrub was equally unable to advance the ball when they had it. "that will be enough for to-day," announced the coaches. "we are going to make some changes to-morrow. the list of the first squad will be posted in the gym." there were anxious looks among the players. who would be on the preliminary varsity team. it was a question every cadet asked himself. "well, if i don't make it," reflected dick, "i will have so much more time to try and get on the trail of mr. duncaster. but--i want to play football." chapter ix the accusation "come on, dick!" cried paul excitedly, as he burst into the room where his chum was industriously boning away over the pages of his trigonometry. "hurry up!" "what's the rush, son?" calmly asked the young millionaire. "haven't you heard? the list of the varsity players has just been posted in the gym." "who told you?" "toots. he was whistling 'just before the battle, mother,' when i spotted him, and he sung out that the list was up. i want to see if my name is there." "it sure is--you played your head off yesterday," declared dick. "that's no sure sign. i wish i had your chances." "nonsense!" exclaimed dick. yet, deep down in his heart he could not help feeling that perhaps, after all, he might be put on the scrub. he had played his best, but he had made some errors, and one fumble. yet it would seem that his run and touchdown would count for much. "aren't you ever coming?" asked paul. "jove! i can't wait." "sure i'm coming," answered his roommate, as he tossed the book upon a heap of others. "no use getting excited though." it was the day after the try-out game, and the coaches after a long and none too easy process of elimination had arrived at some definite results. they had made up a tentative varsity team. as dick and paul hurried across the campus toward the gymnasium, they saw many other students bent on the same errand as themselves, for the news had quickly spread, and each cadet who had football aspirations was anxious to see if he was one of the lucky eleven. there was such a crowd about the bulletin board that for a time dick and his chum could not get near it. they heard many names called out though, for the second team was posted as well as the first. "there's beeby--lucky dog--he's made it!" exclaimed someone. "i thought he was too fat," came in disappointed tones from roy haskell, who coveted the centre rush's place. "and hall--he's on." "yes, and there's dutton and stiver, both on the first team." "say--look--teddy hasn't made it!" "get out!" "sure not! look, he's on the scrub." "poor teddy. that's because of that fumble yesterday. who's got his place?" "i can't see. oh, yes, it's coleton!" "say, did you hear that?" asked paul in a low voice of his chum. "yes, it's bad news. but teddy will be on before we get through the season. he's a better all around player than coleton. can you get up there now?" "i guess so. come on. say, let a fellow up, will you?" begged paul of those about him. as they were worming their way up they heard another piece of news. "porter is off," remarked one lad. "i thought he'd be," came from jim watkins. "he made two bad fumbles yesterday, and he isn't quick enough for an end." "can you see, dick?" asked paul, as he clung to the side of his companion. "is your name there." "i don't know yet--hey, frank, get your head out of my way for a second; will you?" "sure thing, dick. tough about teddy; isn't it?" "yes, but don't worry. we'll have him back." "i hope so." "now can you see?" implored paul. "yes, your name----" dick paused a moment. "well!" panted his roommate. "is there all right. you're on the varsity." "what position?" "left guard--where you wanted to play." "but what about you, dick?" "oh, i'm down at quarter all right," and from the calm way in which he said it those who heard him would never have imagined that dick's heart had almost stopped beating when, for a brief moment, he thought he had caught sight of his name on the second list. "good, old man!" cried paul fervently as he clasped his chum's hand. "i knew you'd make it. now we'll see what sort of a team we'll have with the two changes. are those the only ones made?" "yes, porter and naylor are off." "who's got porter's place?" "hal foster--a good fellow, too." the throng surged about the bulletin board, newcomers arriving every minute, and all the cadets making various observations as they were pleased or disappointed. teddy naylor was not in sight. he had heard the news, and in the bitterness of his heart he kept to himself for a while. yet he did not complain. teddy played the game fairly, and he was a loyal son of kentfield. he was willing to defer to the judgment of the coaches--yet no one but himself knew how he longed to be among the first squad, and with a grim setting of his lips he resolved to make it before the big games were played. "well, come on," invited paul to dick. "i'll treat you to a soda on the strength of this." "don't you think it will put us out of training?" "one can't. we've got to celebrate in some way." the two chums strolled across the campus arm in arm, toward a spot where an enterprising dealer, well aware of the desire for sweets on the part of the students, had set up a little confectionery shop. as paul and his chum neared it they saw, walking toward them, porter and weston. the cronies were talking earnestly together. "i wonder if porter's heard?" ventured paul. "if he hasn't he soon will. i'm sorry for him. he's a brilliant player, but careless. he may come back before the season is over." "he isn't much of an addition to the team--too snobby for me," spoke paul in a low voice. porter suddenly seemed to become aware of dick's presence, for weston called his attention to it. glancing up quickly, a black look passed over the features of the rich youth. then striding ahead of his companion, he confronted our hero. "well, you've heard the news i suppose?" he snarled. "about the announcements being made?" inquired dick gently. "no--about me being off the team." "yes, i'm sorry, but perhaps----" "oh, yes; you're sorry!" snapped porter. "but i notice that _your_ name is down all right." "yes," and dick controlled himself by an effort, for the tone was insulting. "we all know why you're on the varsity. it isn't because of your star playing." "i never claimed to be a star," was the calm answer, "but i probably played well enough to be picked." "no, you didn't!" fairly shouted porter. "you were picked because it is your money that's paying the salaries of the coaches and they were afraid if they didn't pick you that they'd lose their jobs. that's why you're on the varsity, dick hamilton, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it!" porter, with a sneer on his puffed and red face, swung around angrily, and started off. "wait one minute, mr. porter," called dick in a strangely quiet voice. "i want to say something to you." "no, let me say it," begged paul quickly, as porter turned and faced them. chapter x dick is rebuffed for a moment the four cadets--two on one side and two on the other--stared at each other. the face of dick hamilton was rather pale, but he held himself well in control. as for paul, he had one hand on the shoulder of his chum, and had taken an eager step forward to confront porter. that bully regarded the two friends with a sneer on his face, and the countenance of weston wore an amused smile. "well, i thought you were going to say something," half-snarled porter. "if you are, put some steam on. we're in a hurry." "you made an accusation just now," went on paul, making a motion to dick to keep silent. "i did, and i think i can back it up. why it's plain to everybody how the thing is worked. it's even known as hamilton's football team, and no wonder he is picked to play on it." "it isn't my team at all!" burst out the young millionaire. "well, you're paying for the coaches," put in weston. "that's why they----" "they don't know a thing about it!" cried paul drew. "that's what i want to say. from the beginning it was feared that something like this might crop up, and so dick arranged to hand the money to the athletic committee, of which i happen to be a member. our committee pays the salaries of the coaches, and also for their board, and the coaches themselves only know that much. they have no more idea that dick is footing the bills than that an inhabitant of mars is doing it, and if any one makes a statement to the contrary--well, we have a way of dealing with such persons at kentfield," and paul looked significantly at porter and weston. "does that satisfy you?" asked dick quietly, as paul paused. "i would have told you the same thing, but perhaps it is just as well to come from a member of the committee. i am only too glad to help out the team by hiring the coaches, but they don't know me from any other player, and i took my chances with all of you. if i had been turned down, as i half expected to be, it would have made no difference." "wait until you get turned down, and then you'll sing a different tune," remarked porter bitterly, and dick realized how he must feel. "i'm sorry," said the young millionaire gently, "and if i had any influence at all you should be on the varsity, for i think you are a good player." "the coaches don't," and porter laughed sarcastically. "there's plenty of chance yet," went on dick. "we are to have another practice game this week, and there may be a turn about in some players." "i have a large sized gold framed picture of 'em naming me," exclaimed porter with sarcasm. "but i take back what i said about your money getting you on. it did seem so, at first." "perhaps naturally," agreed dick. "but your apology is accepted," and he held out his hand. "i hope we can be friends," he concluded. "i guess so," mumbled porter, with rather a shamed air. "i presume mr. weston seconds what his friend says," spoke paul significantly. "oh, yes," and it was with rather an obvious effort that the crony made reply. "come on, porter, or the best billiard tables will all be occupied." "well, i'm glad that's over," remarked dick to paul, as they turned away. "i was afraid this would crop up, and it's just as well to settle it. i only hope it does settle it, and that no other fellows will think as porter and weston did." "oh, some of them are bound to think it anyhow," said paul easily. "don't mind it, for it will wear away sooner or later. i'm afraid, though, that the team will be known as yours." "i don't want that, paul." "can't be helped, old man. after all it's a high honor. i wish i could afford a football team, and a steam yacht." "maybe you will some day. and, come to think of it i may not have a steam yacht much longer." "why, are you going to sell it?" "no, but dad's finances are in a bad way, and may become worse." "you don't mean to say he's lost all his money?" and paul gave dick a startled glance. "oh, we have enough to keep the wolf from howling under the parlor windows, and i don't expect to have to go to work in uncle ezra's woolen mill right away, but dad is involved in some trolley deal, and it's 'crimping' him, as he says. he's got most of his money tied up in it now, and some men, of whom porter's father is one are trying to get the road away from dad." "does porter know this?" "he doesn't know it's my father whom his father is fighting, and i'd just as soon he wouldn't. but i've got to do something to help out, and one thing is to locate a mr. duncaster," and dick told of his encounters with the eccentric man, and how he held a large block of stock in the trolley line. "i'll help if i can," agreed paul. then they got their ice cream sodas, and strolled back to the academy. that night dick wrote his father a long letter, explaining about the football team, and also detailing his meetings with mr. duncaster. * * * * * "he lives in a place called hardvale," wrote dick, "and he seems to be as hard as the place is named. however, i'll try to see him, and get him to sell you the stock. you had better write me some specific instructions, and say how high i can go in bidding for it. if mr. porter, whose son is here at kentfield, learns that duncaster has the stock, he may have a try for it, so i'll have to go at it quietly. but i'll do my best." * * * * * then, having done as much as he could in his father's business matters, our hero resumed his interrupted studies. there was more football practice the next day, and the coaches now put the varsity team through some rigorous work. the cadets were a little inclined to find fault at the strenuous tasks assigned to them, but the experts were exacting, and said that if kentfield expected to be in the championship class she must work for it. meanwhile the scrub was being moulded into shape, for a good opponent is a necessary element in practice, and unless there is something to fight against practice goes for little. and how eager that same scrub was to make touchdowns against the varsity! how they did work, taking desperate chances all the while, and the individual players making names for themselves by brilliant dashes. for they all wanted to get on the first team, and they bore in mind what the coaches had said about giving them a chance if they did well. "we certainly have our work cut out for us," remarked dick, after a particularly gruelling day. "i'm as lame as a fellow who's tumbled downstairs." "same here," agreed paul. "some one walked all over me in that last scrimmage." but the effect of the hard work was fast becoming noticeable, for the team was getting to be like "nails" as mr. martin said, and the players were working more in unison. there was a practice game between the varsity and scrub on saturday, and it was the best one yet, from a critical football viewpoint. the coaches nodded their heads in approval when the first team made six touchdowns. and, though the scrub did manage to get a field goal, it was not to the discredit of the varsity. "we're picking up," declared dick, as he ducked under a shower bath in the gymnasium. "we'll be able to challenge blue hill again, and they won't dare turn us down." "i think we're going to try on some other team first," said paul. "i heard the coaches talking about it. but say, who's going to be our captain--have you heard?" "not a word about it. maybe it will fall on you, since teddy is out." "jove! it would be an honor, but i don't hope for it. i'd like to see you fill that berth," went on paul unselfishly. "nonsense!" exclaimed dick. "i guess--blub--glub--ugh!" for he turned his head up and the shower from the spray filled his mouth and nose unexpectedly. "wow! that was a wet one!" he cried when he had caught his breath. "dutton would like to be captain, i hear," put in george hall, who was in the next shower to paul. "he says he's going to try for it." "and he'd be a good one," declared dick heartily, for he and his former enemy were now firm friends, though not exactly chums. there were many speculations as to who would head the eleven, but the coaches had advised the cadets to wait until the varsity team was definitely selected before holding an election, and this had been agreed to. there came a long telegram for dick late that saturday night. it was from his father, and showed more plainly than anything else how anxious the financier was. for he did not wait to write a reply to dick's letter, preferring the speed of the wire. * * * * * "see duncaster by all means," read part of the message, "and offer him ten points above par for the stock--all he has. it's a big price, but it will soon be worth more. see him soon." "i'll make a trip out there monday," decided dick. "whew! things are beginning to happen evidently." with paul for a companion our hero hired an auto and made the journey to hardvale. grit sat on the floor of the tonneau, with a contented look on his ugly but honest countenance. "grit may come in handy if duncaster sets his dogs on us," remarked dick with a grim smile, as they bowled along at good speed. "why, do you expect trouble?" asked paul. "not exactly, but i imagine he hasn't much use for me. he didn't act very friendly the last time we met, and then the sight of the auto may make him angry, remembering how we ran him down. but it's too slow to take a horse. i hope we find him at home." it was rather a lonesome part of the country through which they were traveling--a sparsely settled district that, somehow, reminded the young millionaire of the gloomy landscape at dankville where his uncle ezra lived. mr. duncaster was at home, a fact which a crabbed old housekeeper conveyed to the boys in no very cheerful voice. "but i don't believe he'll see you," she added. "he's just woke up from his afternoon nap, and he's always a little riled then." "hum," mused our hero, "rather an unfavorable time to call, but it can't be helped. will you tell him dick hamilton wants to see him?" he requested of the housekeeper. "oh, i s'pose so," and the woman went off grumbling, leaving the two lads standing on the doorstep. "polite," commented paul with a short laugh. the woman came back presently. "he wants to know what you want," she said. "i'd like to see him, and explain in person," said the young millionaire, "but will you tell him it is about the stock of the midvale electric road he holds. i wish to purchase it for my father." "oh, you do; eh?" snarled a voice behind the housekeeper, and the wizzened and rather scowling face of mr. duncaster was thrust out. "so that's why you called on me, dick hamilton? i haven't forgotten you, as you'll note. ha! there's another of the tin soldiers," he sneered as he caught sight of paul. "if i had my way you'd all be breaking stone on the road, and you wouldn't have those soldier suits on, either," and he chuckled hoarsely. clearly he was none the better for his nap. "i called in reference to the midvale stock," explained dick, trying hard to keep down his anger and speak politely. "my father told me to offer you ten above par for it." "ten; eh?" and mr. duncaster chuckled. "did he say you were to go higher in case i refused that offer?" "no, he did not." "well then you can go back where you came from and tell your father that i won't sell." "do you mean for that price? do you want more money? i can wire my father, and say----" "you needn't say anything for me!" snapped the crabbed man. "i won't sell at that price, nor any other he can offer me. i've had a better offer than his, you can tell him, but i won't do business with him. now get away from here! this isn't war time and i don't want a couple of tin soldiers on my front steps," and once more the old man chuckled at his insulting words. dick and paul flushed, but made no retort. "won't you consider any offer at all from my father?" asked the young millionaire, wondering if the other bid for the stock had come from mr. porter. "i will send him a message, telling him you----" "i told you that you needn't tell him anything from me!" snapped mr. duncaster. "i won't sell, and that's all there is to it! now get out!" and he slammed shut the door. for a moment dick paused irresolutely on the steps. then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he said: "turned down! well i'll have to try some other way. it will be a disappointment for dad though." as the two chums walked out of the yard the chauffeur came toward them with a small pail. "what are you going to do?" asked dick. "get some water for the radiator. it's almost out. i see a well over here." he approached it to draw up the bucket, when a window was raised, and the head of mr. duncaster was thrust out. "here! keep away from that well!" he cried. "you shan't have any of my water for your old rip-snorting contraption. i believe you are the fellow who ran into me the other night. get away from there and water your machine somewhere else." "hum! you're a cheerful companion for yourself in your old age," remarked the chauffeur, as he turned back. chapter xi a rivalry "what are you going to do?" asked dick of the auto driver, as the three walked out of the yard of the mean man, watched all the way by the squinting eyes of mr. duncaster. "oh, i'll go to some place down the road where they're not so careful of their water," was the answer. "have you enough to run on?" asked paul, and the chauffeur assured them that he had. the next resident was a cheerful farmer, who not only gave permission for them to take all the water they needed, but even drew it from the well for them. "and if your machine needs a drink, perhaps you will too," said the farmer's wife. "i've just made some hot coffee, and i'd like you all to come in and have some." "we will!" assented dick, and most grateful was the beverage, for riding in the open car was chilly. "what a difference in people," commented paul, as they started off again. the young millionaire felt almost as badly at sending the discouraging news to his father as mr. hamilton must have felt on receiving it. but he immediately wired back a cheerful telegram to his son. * * * * * "don't worry," he advised, "we'll try some other way, and perhaps you may be able to get around duncaster later. i'd come on and tackle him myself, but i can't spare the time." * * * * * thereupon dick began to devise ways and means of inducing the miserly and crabbed financier to part with the stock. he even thought of taking part of the money that was in his own right, and making an offer higher than the one authorized by his father, but he reflected since mr. hamilton had not told him to go more than ten points above par value, perhaps there might be a special reason for this. "i might take a crowd of the fellows out to his house some night and haze him," ventured our hero. "let me go along if you do," begged paul eagerly. "i'd like to get even with him for calling us tin soldiers." "i'm afraid it can't be done," and dick sighed. "i'll have to think of something else." football practice now occupied all the spare time the cadets had. early and late they were on the gridiron, playing under the watchful eyes of the two coaches, who still found many faults to correct. "no team is perfect," declared mr. spencer, "but we want kentfield to be as nearly so as possible. you boys must do better on kicking though, for you may meet some team where you'll have to depend on your leg-and-foot-work to pull you out of a hole." "and they're not quite as fast as i'd like to see them," added mr. martin. "they don't snap back into place quickly enough after each play. now try it again. get in the habit of running back into place instead of walking. be lively!" they lined up again, to run through some new plays and formations, and then were ready for the scrub, against whom they made such a good showing that both coaches warmly congratulated their charges. "i wish poor teddy was back on the varsity," confided dick to paul, as they finished the day's practice. "he's feeling it very much, and he's falling off in form." "yes, i was afraid of that. i wonder if we couldn't do something?" "i'm afraid not. porter is playing well on the scrub though. he's much faster than he was in getting down on kicks, and he tackles fiercely. did you ever have him come at you?" "indeed i have," answered paul ruefully. "i've got a lump on my head yet where he threw me down last week. but that's the way to play the game." "sure. say, don't you think it's rather queer not to have a captain?" "yes, and it's evident that teddy isn't going to stand any show for it now. it will be some one of the present team, i fancy." "probably. have you heard any rumors?" "well, george hall would like it--in fact every fellow would, but dutton is the hottest after it. he's pulling wires all he can--in a legitimate way, of course, and lots of the fellows like him." "i don't blame him. well, i'll vote for him, when the election is held." "i won't!" declared paul stoutly. "why not?" "because i'm going to vote for you, old man." "nonsense! i don't know as i want it." "you deserve it, which is more. no one has done as much for the kentfield eleven since the academy was started as you have this one season, and you ought to be captain. then you couldn't kick when they called it dick hamilton's football team." "oh, get out!" cried the young millionaire, yet he was not displeased at his chum's sincere words. and what normal healthy lad would not want to be captain of an eleven? there was much buzzing talk the next few days concerning the captaincy, and when the coaches announced that the present varsity eleven would stand, at least for the present, and that in order to play match games a captain would be needed, the excitement grew apace. "nominations to-morrow night!" cried paul one afternoon as he burst into the room he and dick shared. "dutton's name is sure to go up. i'm going to nominate you and i've got the promise of nearly enough votes to put you through." "look here!" began dick, "i don't want----" "it doesn't matter what you want!" cried paul, clapping his chum on the back, and doing a sort of war dance around him, "you haven't anything to say in this matter. you just come to the meeting and see what happens." it was a lively session, for several matters cropped up that needed to be settled. there was also a manager to be chosen, and, as beeby did not want the place, preferring to spend more time in practice and training, it was practically decided to have some one not on the team to look after business ends. dan hatfield was talked of for manager, and his name met with such instant favor that none other was considered. but when it came to the captaincy that was a different matter. the little boom that started in favor of george hall was so feeble that he himself saw that he had no chance, and nipped it. there was much talking and putting together of heads when mr. martin arose to announce that nominations for captain were in order, and that the names would be posted three days, and then voted on. "i nominate ray dutton!" sung out john stiver, who was the particular chum of the former. it was quickly seconded, and then up jumped paul drew. "i nominate dick hamilton!" he sung out. "second it!" came promptly from dutton himself, a courtesy that dick acknowledged with a bow. the former rivals--now rivals again--faced each other with smiles, but there were anxious feelings in the hearts of both. "three cheers for the candidates!" cried jim watkins, and they were given heartily, with a tiger added. "any more nominations?" asked mr. martin. "well there's luck in odd numbers, i nominate frank rutley!" called out porter with a laugh. "we might as well have a good choice while we're at it." weston seconded this name, and there were no comments. thereupon the three names were posted on the bulletin board, and the meeting adjourned. "well, what do you think of it, dick?" asked paul, as they strolled back to their room. "i'm glad i'm nominated, of course, but----" "well, but me no buts, what is it?" "dutton is very popular, and i can't help remembering how he was against me when i first came here. but i'll take my chance with him!" chapter xii the midnight alarm wire-pulling extraordinary went on at kentfield for the next two days. each candidate had his particular friends, who worked hard to gain votes for him. it was soon seen that rutley had no chance, and though he would poll several votes, the main contest was between dutton and dick hamilton. "and you're going to win!" declared paul with enthusiasm, as he clapped his chum on the back. "i've got nearly enough votes promised right now, and i know i can gain over more of the fellows." "but say, old man, don't make such a fuss. you make me feel----" "no matter how you feel, you're going to be captain! i'm sure of it!" "well, there's no use saying i don't care how the election goes, for i do," declared dick honestly. "i'd rather it was some one else than dutton though, who was against me." "why, you're not afraid of him; are you?" "no, but you remember the old rivalry. i'm afraid it will make talk, but i want to say right here and now that if he is elected he won't have any better friend than i, and i'll play my head off to help his team win!" "we all know that!" cried paul, looking at his chum admiringly. "it goes without saying. now i'm off to see some more of the first year fellows." "don't make too much of a fuss about it," begged dick. "don't make it look as though i'd give my head to be elected. i want it, of course, but----" "i understand!" cried paul lightly as he hurried off. as the time for election drew nearer the excitement increased and there were all sorts of rumors floating around. votes were openly bought and sold, but in a friendly, boyish fashion, the inducements being nothing more important than "treats" or some special favors. some even traded the horses assigned to them in the cavalry drills, one cadet getting a handsome black he coveted in exchange for a rather poor roan, but dick gained a vote thereby. paul drew was a faithful lieutenant in his chum's cause, and he did valiant work. as for the young millionaire and dutton, they kept discreetly out of it. they met several times during the course of the first day's electioneering, and gaily chaffed each other on the chances they stood. "i hear you won't have one vote, 'ham,'" laughingly declared dick's former enemy. "that's right," half-seriously assented our hero. "i told all my friends to vote for you." "so i heard. kind of you. come on over and i'll buy you a soda." "no. they're on the forbidden training menu now." "that's so, i nearly forgot. well, come on up to the sacred pig, and we'll have some toast and tea," for there was a lunch room in the society house. the two rivals went off arm in arm, watched by an admiring throng of cadets, for they were both great favorites with their schoolmates. at the close of the first day it was generally admitted by the workers on both sides that the two candidates for captain had about the same number of votes. rutley was "not in it," as paul said, and the lad himself laughingly admitted this. still porter and his particular set were working in his interests, not so much because they really wanted him, as that they did not want dick to win, and they took this means of deflecting votes from him. at the last minute, it was rumored, the rutley votes would be swung to dutton. "but you've got heaps of chances yet, dick," declared paul, "and there's lots more time to canvass." but not much electioneering could be done on the next day, for a competitive drill was ordered and after that was to come artillery practice. there was barely a chance for some football work, and it had to be cut short. what little was done, however, demonstrated that the team was shaping up well, and the coaches were more than pleased. "we'll have them play the dunkirk military academy next saturday," announced mr. spencer, "and we'll see what they can do in a real contest." "i have great hopes of them," declared mr. martin. "of course they ought to beat dunkirk, for it's a smaller academy than this, but if they roll up a big score, bigger than blue hill did against the same team last year, blue hill can hardly refuse to play our boys, and i understand that their refusal to meet kentfield is a sore point." "it certainly is. oh, we'll whip our lads into shape yet, and then blue hill can look to her laurels." the two coaches walked over to the gymnasium, for they kept themselves in condition by hard physical work on the apparatus, as well as by out-door practice. all through the academy that night went the buzz and hum of talk about the election. several votes changed hands, so to speak, though it could not be said that dick's chances were increased thereby. in fact paul was a little downcast as he reckoned up the number he was sure of for his chum, and thought of the number needed. "but i'll get them!" he told himself fiercely as he looked at the list in his hand. "there are some new fellows i haven't seen yet." "oh, go to bed," advised dick, who was tired with the day's duties, but paul would not. the young millionaire was sleeping soundly when paul came in a little later. "well?" asked dick, half awake. "not very well," answered paul dubiously, "but it may be in the morning. dutton certainly has lots of friends." "all right," announced dick as cheerfully as he could. it was after midnight when the two chums, as well as several other cadets, were awakened by an alarm wildly shouted. "fire! fire! fire!" came in startled tones from a voice they recognized as that of toots. "fire in the ammunition house!" paul and dick were out of bed in the same instant, and rushed to the window. they saw a red glare, and the cry of toots was echoed by other janitors. "by jove! the ammunition house is blazing!" cried paul aghast. "if that goes up----" "it's far enough removed from the main buildings," cried dick, as he began hurriedly to dress, "but it may damage the sacred pig. besides, there are some valuable guns in there--and paul--i forgot--grit is in there! come on!" and dick raced from the room, half attired as he was. chapter xiii the rescue of dutton "what do you mean? grit in there--in the ammunition house?" cried paul, hurrying after his chum. he wondered whether he had understood dick rightly. "yes, he's there," came the reply, and the young millionaire never turned around as he sped down the corridor that was rapidly filling with half-dressed cadets who had been aroused by the cries of the janitors. "they're repairing the stable where i keep him nights, and as it was unlocked i put grit in the powder house so no one would steal him. now it's on fire!" "we'll get him!" cried paul. "come on, fellows, dick's dog is in there!" the flames were now more plainly visible, and they were gaining rapidly. two of the janitors, one of whom was toots, had pails of water and were dashing the fluid on the fire, while others were unreeling a hose. the ammunition house was a large one, made in the main of concrete, but there was built on it a small, wooden shed under which some empty packing boxes and cases were stored, and where some garden tools were kept. it was this shed which had caught fire, and unless it was quickly put out the flames might communicate to the wooden door of the powder house proper. there could be but one result then--an explosion. everyone realized this as he rushed on to fight the fire. some of the professors were now up and were issuing orders, but there was so much excitement that no one paid much attention to them. "is there a good water pressure?" panted paul. "i don't know," answered dick, as he ran on. "there was the other day when we had fire drill, but maybe just when we want it there won't be any." "hurry! hurry!" shouted toots, as he and the others dashed pail after pail of water on the fire. "use the hose! turn on the water!" cried ray dutton, who was just ahead of dick. "why don't you turn on the pressure?" "guess they don't know how to do it," answered the young millionaire. "one of those men is a new hand. come on, boys, i can't see grit burned to death!" "he's howling now," cried paul. indeed the frightened yelping of the imprisoned animal could be heard above the roar and crackle of the flames, and dick increased his speed. "i'm coming, grit! i'm coming!" he shouted, but it is doubtful if the dog heard him. the burning shed was in front of the only door to the ammunition house, and the fire must first be extinguished before the portal could be reached. to go through the flames now was out of the question. "keep back, boys! keep back!" cried major webster. "there may be an explosion any moment. keep back!" "but my dog is in there!" shouted dick. "i must get grit out!" "you can't. it's madness to go too close!" "i'm going to!" replied dick grimly. "we'll put out the fire." "then use the hose--don't go too close with the buckets. that wooden shed should never have been built where it is." "come on! get the hose into action!" yelled dutton, and taking the nozzle from the hands of puzzled and inexperienced men, the cadet directed it at the fire, while dick and paul, aided by some of their companions, turned on the water, the supply coming from a big storage tank, raised high on metal supports to give the necessary force. a moment later the water spurted from the nozzle and sprayed on the fire with a hiss of steam. "that's the stuff!" shouted dick. "we'll soon have you out of there, grit! wait a minute, old boy!" this time the dog heard his master's voice, and a joyful bark replaced his howls of fear. it was high time that there be used some more effective means of putting out the fire than buckets of water, for the flames were burning fiercely. "it's lucky that the door of the powder house is thick," murmured major webster. "it will take some time to burn through. but if it does----" he did not finish his half-spoken thought, but shuddered as he looked at the cadets grouped around the burning structure. he wanted to order them away, but he knew the only safety lay in putting out the flames to prevent the explosion. and the cadets seemed to be the only ones capable of handling the situation, for the janitors had completely lost their heads and were so confused that they could not obey the simplest order. "get the other hose into action!" cried the major, for there were two small lines available for use at the powder house. "you'll never get it out with one." "i'll attend to it!" answered dick, and, leaving dutton and paul to manage the one line, he and john stiver ran to the other and began unreeling that. the flames were now at their height, and were blazing high, the loose and light wood of the packing boxes making excellent fuel. "hurry! hurry!" nervously ordered the major, doing all he could. colonel masterly and some of the other instructors now arrived, but there was little they could do. "if we can only keep the fire away from the door a little longer," murmured the colonel. "they are subduing it, don't you think, major?" "they are doing good work--plucky lads. it takes an emergency like this to show their mettle." "do you think the door will catch?" "i hope not, but----" it was a vain hope, as they could see a moment later. a puff of wind blew the smoke and flames aside for a second, and the two men could look plainly at the thick door of the ammunition building. what they saw caused them to start back, for a tiny whisp of fire was eating away at the edge of the portal. "too late!" groaned the colonel. "we must get the boys back! we shall have to let it burn. get back, boys! get back!" "we'll have it out in another minute!" yelled dick, as he turned on the water from his line. "i'm going to save grit!" the fire died down for a few seconds, owing to the increased amount of water poured on it, but it was only for a moment, and then it flared up again. but the cadets fought on grimly. some were even using pails, dipping water from a nearby cistern, and they would not obey the orders of the teachers to keep back. they did little good, however, as they could not get near enough to make much of the fluid effective. the door of the powder house was now burning in a larger area, and it seemed that the explosion might come at any moment. all saw it, and while they knew that they themselves could get a safe distance away, and while they realized that even if the powder did blow up, none of the college buildings would be damaged, it was different in the case of their favorite club house--the sacred pig--for it was close to the blazing structure. "it will be 'roast pig' in a few minutes," murmured paul drew ruefully. "i should say yes," agreed dutton. "but we won't let it happen. if only the water holds out!" once more came a howl from the imprisoned grit. "poor dog!" cried dick, stooping down to see if there was a chance to get in and save his pet. but there seemed to be none. almost at that instant the roof of the burning shed fell in, carrying with it part of the half consumed structure. this gave a better view of the powder house door, which was seen to be on fire in several places. grit's howls of anguish became louder. "i can't stand that--i'm going to save him!" cried dutton to george hall. "but how can you? you can't get near the place." "yes, i can--there's a side window. i wonder some of us didn't think of it before. i can reach it by a short ladder, and break open the window with an axe. here goes. you handle the hose in my place." before george could make any objection, dutton had thrust the nozzle into his friend's hand and was running toward the powder house. on his way he caught up a light ladder and a fire axe that was on one of the hose reel carts. "where are you going, dutton?" called major webster. "to get dick's dog--out through the window. i can do it all right." "come back!" cried the major, but the cadet did not heed. dick was having his hands full with the hose and for a moment he did not see what his former enemy had done. the fire was a little less fierce now, as the material on which it fed had been nearly all consumed, but the door was blazing in spots. they played water on it, but as fast as one area of fire was extinguished it would break out in another. there came a crash of glass and a cry from dutton. "i'm in! look out for grit. here he comes--through the window!" "grit! through the window!" cried dick in amazement. "why--how----?" "ray went in after him!" called george hall. "there's the dog." at that instant the cadet inside the powder house thrust grit out of the window. the brute fell harmlessly in a heap on the grass, but sprang up a moment later and rushed toward the fire-fighting cadets. "here, old man!" cried dick, and the dog went into a demonstration of joy, fawning all over his master, while the youth hugged the ugly but loving animal close in his arms, the hose being grasped by ready hands as he let go of it. "come out, dutton, come out!" cried major webster. "come out at once." hardly had he spoken than there sounded from within the powder house a dull explosion. it was not a hard one, and no evidences of it could be observed outside the structure. but the cadets and professors looked at each other in alarm, their faces lighted up by the dancing flames. they all knew what it meant. "the beginning of the end!" remarked the colonel gravely. "get back, everyone! i order it!" "but ray dutton is in there!" cried dick. "he may be injured and can't get out. i'm going to save him!" the young millionaire sprang away. grit started to follow. "come back at once!" ordered the colonel. "not until i save him!" answered dick. "he risked his life to save my dog, and now i'll rescue him! go back, grit. wait for me." the dog whined but obeyed, and dick ran on. as he passed by the second hose reel he grasped from it an axe. straight for the door of the powder house he ran, the water from the two lines of hose falling in a spray around him. the fire was now sufficiently out to permit of reaching the portal over the wet embers which still glowed faintly. the shed had fallen apart and what was left of it was burning on one side. little tongues of flame spurted here and there on the main door. dick rushed up and with the axe began raining blows on the portal. his fellow cadets cheered lustily, and then devoted all their energies to keeping the water playing about their brave comrade. he was soaked through but in this lay his only safety, for the flames still were dangerously close. there came another slight explosion inside the powder house. evidently small cases of the gun cartridges were going off, but as they were all blanks there was no danger from bullets. "ray--are you alive--are you all right?" cried dick, as he paused for a moment. there was no answer, and he rained the blows from the axe more madly than before. with a crash the door gave way. flinging his implement aside, dick sprang into the powder house. there was an anxious moment, and the cadets and instructors waited in fear and trembling. "he may be overcome by the powder fumes," said the colonel. "poor lads--they may both be killed." an instant after the colonel had spoken a form appeared in the blackened doorway. one form? no, two, for in his arms dick hamilton bore the limp body of dutton. "he's got him! he's got him!" yelled paul drew, and a great shout followed his words. on staggered dick with his burden. grit saw his master in the now dimming light from the fire, and barked joyfully. "back! get back everybody!" panted the young millionaire. "she's going up! there's a fire inside! get back--quick!" chapter xiv the election dick was seen to stagger, and it was no wonder, for ray dutton was no light weight. "let me help you!" shouted paul, as he ran toward his chum. he grasped the limp legs of the unconscious cadet, while dick carried the shoulders, and together they hastened on. "back! get back!" cried dick again, as his schoolmates crowded up around him and paul. "the explosion will come any minute! there's fire in there!" "back this instant, every one of you! you can't do anything more!" cried colonel masterly sternly, and the boys knew it was now time to obey. those holding the hose lines dropped them, and the crowd of fire-fighters surged back. "is dutton dead?" gasped paul. "not dead--and not hurt much, i hope," answered dick. "he was overcome by the powder fumes--there was a little explosion almost as soon as he got inside--some sparks must have blown in the window. but he saved grit." "and you saved him." "come on, we'd better get farther back!" cried the young millionaire as paul hesitated, and was about to lay dutton down. "the force of it will----" his voice was drowned in a detonating report, and the darkness of the night was lighted by an intense glare. the powder house had blown up, and the wind of the concussion knocked down paul and dick in a heap with the unconscious dutton. other cadets who had not run far enough back were also bowled over. then came intense blackness, following the bright flash and this was succeeded by the patter of small missiles tossed into the air by the force of the powder. "jove, i hope none of the chunks of concrete come this way!" cried paul as he got up. "are you hurt, dick?" "not a bit of it. look at dutton though." "he doesn't seem to be," answered paul, as he looked at the unconscious cadet as well as he could in the dim light that came from a few scattered and burning embers blown here and there by the explosion. "oh--i'm--i'm all right," gasped dutton, as he slowly sat up. "what happened?" "my it sounds good to hear you speak again!" cried dick, as he put his arms around his friend and assisted him to arise. "you were overcome in there when you went in to get grit, and i took you out. now the whole thing has gone up, but it doesn't seem to have done much damage." scores of cadets now crowded around the three lads. the rain of missiles had ceased, and quick inquiries showed that beyond a few scratches or bruises no one was seriously hurt. the heavy concrete side of the walls of the powder house had merely toppled outward, almost in four solid pieces, and it was only the light wooden roof, purposely made so, that had been much shattered. it was the fragments of this that had rained down. the fire was effectually scattered by the explosion and what little remained was quickly extinguished by the janitors with pails of water, and one hose line. the other had been blown apart and was useless. colonel masterly and the other instructors went about among the lads, making sure that none needed hospital treatment. they came to where dick, paul and ray stood. "hamilton, let me congratulate you on your pluck and daring in saving your comrade's life," said the colonel gravely, as he shook hands with dick in the light of several lanterns that had been brought up. "it was a brave act." "well, he saved grit, and it was the only way i could pay him back," replied our hero simply, as he fondled the dog that leaped up on him with demonstrative affection. "i couldn't bear to hear grit howl," explained ray, who had now recovered from the powder fumes. "let's go see if the sacred pig is much damaged," he added quickly, for neither he nor dick liked to pose as heroes. "i fancy the building is not much harmed," spoke the colonel. "most of the force of the explosion was upward. you young gentlemen deserve a vote of thanks from the faculty for the manner in which you acquitted yourselves to-night, and i will see that you get it. now we had better go back to the dormitories. the night is rather chilly." indeed it was, lightly clad as everyone was. beyond a few shattered windows, and some broken glassware in the pantry, the society house of the sacred pig was not damaged, at which the cadets were very glad. the excitement quieted down, and after the doctor had looked over dutton, and pronounced him safe and sound, the students went back to their beds, but hardly to sleep much. an investigation was made the next day, to discover if possible the cause of the fire, but beyond the fact that it had started in some refuse of the shed nothing could be learned. "it was careless on my part to allow the shed to be there," said the colonel. "when we rebuild the ammunition house i will have it placed farther off, and there will be no wooden structures attached to it. we must not risk another accident like this." in view of the fire, lessons were suspended that day, and only a short drill ordered. when this was over the electioneering began again, for in the afternoon the selection of the football captain was to be made. there was quite a change of sentiment, and paul drew found that he had to do very little pleading now to get the promise of votes for dick. "it was the pluckiest and nerviest thing i ever saw done," declared harvey nolan, one of the new cadets, who had hitherto resisted paul's pleadings, being firm for dutton. "i like ray immensely, but i think i'll vote for hamilton." "if this keeps on it will be unanimous for him," said paul in delight. he was hardly prepared for what followed. the cadets were assembled in the gymnasium, and mr. martin, by request, was presiding over the important session. "i understand you are now ready to proceed with the election for a captain and a manager," began the yale coach. "sure," came the inelegant but hearty reply from several. "there are three candidates," went on the coach. "mr. hamilton, mr. dutton and mr. rutley. how will you vote, by ballot or acclimation?" "ballot--ballot!" came the cry. "very well, then i will appoint the tellers, and you----" "one moment, if you please," interrupted dutton, as he arose. "there has been a slight mistake made. there are only two candidates in the field--mr. hamilton and mr. rutley. i wish to withdraw in favor of mr. hamilton. you--you all know what he did last night--for me," faltered ray, and his voice was a trifle husky. "after that i could not stand against him in the election." "yes, you will--i insist!" cried dick, jumping up. "i don't want you to withdraw." "you can't help yourself, old man!" cried ray heartily, playfully shaking his fist at dick. "i want all you fellows who were going to vote for me to vote for dick hamilton--that is unless you are committed to frank rutley," and he bowed in the direction of that cadet. "no one can vote for me--i'm out of it!" called out frank. "i'm for hamilton." "hurray!" cried paul drew. "three cheers for dick hamilton!" sung out someone, and how those cheers were given! "do i understand that both you young gentlemen withdraw?" asked mr. martin. "i do," answered ray. "same here!" called frank. "then, as there is but one candidate in the field, perhaps it is unnecessary----" "i move that dick hamilton be unanimously elected captain of the kentfield football eleven, by acclimation, and long may he wave o'er the team of the strong and the team of the brave!" cried dutton. "second it!" cried frank. "all those in favor of this motion will signify it by saying 'yes,'" called the coach. "yes!" was the reverbrating shout that fairly made the walls ring. "then dick hamilton is the football captain, and i beg to extend him my congratulations," said mr. martin. "and i, also," added his colleague, and the two coaches stepped from the platform, and advanced toward the blushing young millionaire, while his friends crowded around him to do him honor. chapter xv the game with dunkirk there was little else to do at the meeting in the way of business. dan hatfield was unanimously named for manager, and then the coaches announced that after a few more days of practice the team would be ready for the first game of the season, to be played on the grounds of the dunkirk military academy, a school similar to that of kentfield, and situated about twenty miles away. "it is rather a disadvantage not to open on your own grounds," said mr. spencer, "but it cannot be helped. i hope you will play all the better for the slight handicap, and i am sure you can win if you try." "yes, dunkirk is hardly in your class," put in mr. martin, "but it was the best arrangement we could make under the circumstances. you really need practice against other opponents than your own scrub eleven, and this will give it to you. if you roll up a good big score, then it will be time to talk of taking on blue hill, and some of the larger teams." "blue hill beat dunkirk twenty-six to nothing last year," remarked dick. "then you want to take their measure about forty-six to nothing," remarked mr. martin, "and i trust you do it." there was some hard practice in the next few days, harder practice than any the cadets had yet experienced, but the effects of it were noticeable. they had more confidence in themselves, they were better kickers, quicker in getting down the field, and in offensive work they played together like clockwork. on the defense there was still something to be desired, but that would come with practice the coaches knew. "well i guess i'd better go to the railroad station and arrange about getting the tickets for the team to go to dunkirk to-morrow," remarked manager hatfield, the day before the game. "you needn't get any tickets for the team and substitutes," spoke dick. "why not?" "because i've hired some touring automobiles that will take us over and bring us back." "you have! say, hamilton, there's class to you all right! you're a brick! this will be great, and we'll save the money in the treasury. we need it, too. i hope we get a good crowd to swell the gate receipts." the team that was to open the season was the same that had been practicing against the scrub lately. teddy naylor could not make good, and so was not to play, but he was promised by the coaches that he would be the first substitute called on, and this was some consolation. porter was warned that unless he trained and practiced better he would be dropped altogether, and his sullen answer was that he "didn't much care." as many of the kentfield cadets as could manage it went on the train to see the game. four big cars, which dick generously hired, transported the team and substitutes, and they started off amid cheers and songs, with the auto gaily decorated with flags. "it's a good start all right," remarked paul to dick, as they flew down the road. "yes, and i hope the coming back will be even better." "why, you're not afraid of not beating them; are you?" "not exactly afraid, but i never was captain of a big football eleven before, and i guess i'm a bit nervous. of course we'll beat dunkirk, but i want it to be by a big score." "oh, don't worry. we'll make out all right." there was a big crowd in the grandstands when the team and substitutes drove up, and they were received with cheers as they alighted from the autos. the dunkirk team had not yet appeared, but their manager met hatfield, was introduced to dick, and then the lads were escorted to their dressing rooms. "there come our fellows," remarked dutton a little later when, as he was slipping into his jersey, a great cheer was heard, followed by the kentfield cry. "yes, and they've got their voices with them," said dick. "they're great shouters." when the kentfield team trotted out they were met with a rousing welcome of vocal sounds, not only from their own cohorts, but from the dunkirk sympathizers. "they're friendly all right," remarked dick. "come on, fellows, we'll line up and run through some signals." he and his men were soon in practice, and the young captain was glad to note that no one had gone stale. everyone seemed on the alert. a little later the dunkirk team trotted out, to be met with a salvo of cheers, and then they, too, lined up and began to work with the ball. "they are a fast, snappy, little lot, but i think we have them for weight," remarked paul, looking critically at their opponents. dunkirk won the toss, and elected to defend the north goal. kentfield was to kick off, and on the whole dick was rather glad, as he could thus early get the measure of the offensive tactics of their enemies. beeby sent the ball spinning well down the field as the echoes of the whistle died away. the pigskin was neatly caught, and one of the dunkirk players began running back with it. "nail him, fellows," cried dick. "don't let him gain much!" george hall broke through the interference and had the man down before he had covered ten yards. then came the line up. "watch out now, boys," warned the captain, as the dunkirk quarter-back began giving the signal. at the line of kentfield came a man, hurling himself toward a hole that had been partly opened between paul drew and george hall. into the opening the man went, but no further, for he was neatly stopped. only a yard was gained. "that's the way to do it!" cried dick in delight. "hold 'em, boys! hold 'em!" once more dunkirk made a gallant try, this time around left end, but again the man with the ball was nailed, and thrown for a loss. "they'll have to kick," cried dick. "watch out!" the backs retreated, and it was well they did for dunkirk had a powerful ball-booster in the shape of their full-back, and the leather went well into the territory of our friends. hal foster caught it, and protected by excellent interference he rushed it well back before he was downed. "now to see what we can do!" exclaimed dick, as he knelt down back of jim watkins, to pass the ball. he signalled for frank rutley to take the ball through right tackle, and it was executed to perfection. in vain did the dunkirk captain beg and plead with his men to hold. dick's players pushed and shoved frank through for a ten yard gain. "that's going some!" panted the left tackle as he took his place again. dunkirk was saddened by the advance, thus easily made, though she was not discouraged. but when ray dutton went through the line for another substantial gain, and when, without the necessity for kicking in the next scrimmage, john stiver got through between tackle and guard for eight yards, then there were anxious hearts. "walk up for a touchdown!" called several in the crowd of kentfield supporters in the grand stand. "we'll do it!" cried dick. the coveted touchdown came a few minutes later, the ball having been carried down the field in a series of whirlwind rushes. paul drew was shoved over the line, and then jim watkins kicked goal. "our first points!" cried dick in delight. "now the team is beginning to play." and play they did. it was a foregone conclusion after that, and dunkirk had no chance. they realized it, and when, after the first half, there were thirty points in favor of kentfield, and none for their opponents, the captain of dunkirk said to dick: "our only hope now is to hold you down. you're better off now than blue hill was against us." "that's what we're after," declared the young millionaire. "we're going to wallop blue hill when we get the chance, too." the second half was a repetition of the first. once on a fumble dunkirk got the ball, and another time as a penalty for holding on the part of too eager george hall. the home team tried desperately hard to score, and several of their men were knocked out, but it was not to be. once, when because of a miscalculation, the man with the ball got through dick's line, the young captain had a momentary fear lest his team be scored against. but hal foster was on the alert and nailed the panting man with the ball. there came some fierce scrimmages for dunkirk was desperate, and hal was knocked out. this gave teddy naylor a chance to get in the game, and he rushed in with eager impetuosity. "i'm going to make a touchdown!" he declared. "let me try, dick." he was given a chance, and made good, bursting through the line of dunkirk players, shaking off a fierce tackle by the full-back, and making a score after a forty yard run amid frantic cheers. after that the kentfield lads took it a little easier, for which their opponents were duly grateful. teddy naylor kicked a beautiful field goal, and then time was called, with the score fifty to nothing in favor of "dick hamilton's team," as his chums insisted on calling it. "oh, but i feel good!" cried our hero as he ran to the dressing rooms. "you look like a peach," said paul. "one eye is half closed and your nose looks as if some one had hammered brass work on it." "they did, i guess. but you're no picture either. look at your left ear." "wish i could. but never mind. we beat 'em!" chapter xvi a daring plan "well, what do you boys think of yourselves?" asked coach martin the day after the game with dunkirk, when the football eleven and its supporters had gathered in the gymnasium preparatory to going out to practice. "why, did we do so rotten?" asked innis. "had we ought to have piled up a bigger score?" inquired george hall. "we did make a few fumbles--at least i did, and once i didn't take care of my man," admitted jim watkins. "but----" "no, i haven't a bit of fault to find," went on mr. martin. "i was just wondering whether you felt more confident of your playing ability than you did before we came. i want to get a sort of line on my ability." "yes," put in mr. spencer, "we are far from finding fault with you, for, on the contrary i think you did exceptionally well. we couldn't ask for any better results, but what mr. martin means is whether or not you yourselves feel satisfied." there was a moment's hesitation. the boys did not know exactly how to take the questions. "i wish we could beat blue hill to a standstill," murmured captain dick. "and then wallop mooretown," added ray dutton. "say, can't we challenge blue hill now?" asked john stiver eagerly. "yes, let's do it!" came a chorus of voices. "better wait," advised mr. martin with a laugh and a quick look at his colleague. "if you sent blue hill another challenge so soon, they'd only laugh at you, and very likely they would say you arranged the whole coaching plan merely to beat them. if you will permit us to suggest something, we have another scheme." "what is it?" sung out innis with engaging frankness. "we will play some other strong team before we again ask blue hill to let us have a chance at them," suggested mr. martin. "then, if we win, as i hope we shall, we will be more in their class. beating dunkirk hardly put us there, even though we made a bigger score against them than blue hill did. and then, after you get your second wind, so to speak, we will consider getting into the military league. do you agree to that plan?" "sure!" came instantly from all present. the boys would have agreed to anything that would have paved the way to tackling blue hill. "then we'll go ahead on that understanding," proceeded the coach. "and now for the second part of the plan. you know it is of little benefit to play some team weaker than you are. what you want to do is to take on some eleven that you know is going to be hard to beat. that will bring out whatever good points we have not yet discovered. is that clear?" once more the boys looked at each other in some astonishment. what was the coach leading to? "am i making myself clear?" he asked again. "yes. sure. go ahead," were some of the answers. "then the plan of mr. spencer and myself is this," went on mr. martin. "we will put you through some hard practice in the next week, and then we will challenge haskell university." for a moment there was a period of intense silence in the room. then several half-astonished gasps could be heard. once more the boys looked at one another, but this time, instead of with puzzled glances, it was more with looks of fear, or at least uncertainty. "haskell university," murmured dick hamilton. "champions of the military league year before last," added innis. "and likely to be again this year," put in george hall. "and he wants us to tackle them--us the tail-enders," muttered jim watkins. "it can't be did! we'd all be in the hospital, fellows, and our team would be crippled." talk was flying thick and fast now, and almost every remark seemed to be against the daring plan of the coaches. then dick realized that he, as captain, ought to say something. it would not do to knuckle under in this craven fashion. a team to do anything must do or dare. "if haskell will take us on, we'll play them," he said simply, as he arose in his seat. "but will they, after blue hill turned us down?" "i'm glad that at least your captain isn't afraid," spoke mr. spencer, for he and his colleague had heard the half-suppressed whispers of objection. "i know it sounds like a big thing to you, for i know what a strong team haskell has. but i believe it will do you good to play that eleven. of course if you don't feel that you could stand the pace, or----" "go on! challenge 'em! we'll play 'em." "of course we will." "and beat 'em, too!" these expressions took the place of those heard a few minutes before. it argued a good change of heart. "i'm glad to hear that," commented mr. martin. "then if manager hatfield will confer with us after the meeting and practice, we will arrange to get a date with them." "but will they play us?" asked dick. "you know they always like to arrange big games, and they may not want to take us on." "oh, i fancy that can be arranged," spoke mr. martin easily. "mr. spencer and i know the coach there and he is a good friend of ours. i am acquainted with the captain, too, and i am almost sure they will give us a game. now let me congratulate you once more on the showing you made yesterday, and suggest that we get out to practice. we can't get any too much if we are to play haskell--and beat them." he concluded his remarks with a grim smile. "beat 'em! we'll be lucky if we hold 'em down to as much as the score by which we beat dunkirk," remarked george hall, as he stepped out beside captain dick. "here! none of that!" cried the young millionaire, half seriously. "none of what?" asked george. "that treason talk," replied dick. "i want you all to feel that we're going to win, or there isn't much use playing." "oh, well, just as you say," agreed george with a laugh. "do you think we'll win, paul drew?" "of course," was the answer, for paul was always loyal to his chum. as several of the cadets were lame and stiff from the unusual exertion in the dunkirk game, only light practice was indulged in. several minor faults were corrected, and then the coaches put their charges through some wing-shift plays, and gave them a chance to improve their work in the on-side kick and the forward pass, in both of which the kentfield lads were a trifle uncertain. "oh, we'll have you in shape to tackle haskell before you know it," said mr. martin encouragingly. if any of the players were doubtful about this they did not say so, and they took heart from the confident air dick hamilton assumed. in the days that followed the practice gradually became more and more rigorous, and, as a result, fast, snappy playing became the order of the day. "have you heard whether or not haskell will play us?" asked paul of dick one night, as they sat in their room studying and waiting for "taps" to sound. "no, i haven't. i meant to ask hatfield to-day whether he had heard from their manager, but i was so busy drilling a squad of raw recruits that i didn't get a chance. guess i'll go to his room now and ask him. i'll have time i think." as dick arose there sounded the mournful yet sweet notes of the bugle that was a signal for "lights" out. "too late!" exclaimed paul. "i'll chance it," ventured dick. "i can cross to his dormitory by the rear path, and the sentries are hardly posted yet. besides, i guess they won't report me when they know it's football matters. i'm anxious to know." "better stay here--morning will do," counseled paul. "no, i'm going, i'll be right back," replied his roommate, and off dick started before the last notes of the bugle had died away. rules regarding being out of the academy after taps were very strict, except at certain times when more liberty was allowed. but this was not one of those occasions, and dick knew he would have to be careful. he did not mind indulging in a few pranks occasionally, but now, as he was on the eleven, and captain as well, it behooved him to be careful, so that he would not be barred from athletics. he swung quietly along the tree-shaded path leading to the dormitory where hatfield had his rooms. the path was not so well shaded now as in summer, for the trees were almost leafless save for certain oaks, the brown foliage of which rustled in the night wind. "sounds like a storm," mused the young millionaire. "i hope it keeps clear long enough for the haskell game--that is if they'll play us." as he strolled along he kept a lookout for any sentries, for sometimes new cadets were picked for this duty, and they took delight in reporting their older comrades. but the coast seemed to be clear. "guess i'll go see how grit is, before i go to hatfield's room," said dick half aloud, for his pet was now kept in one of the stable barracks. "poor old fellow, i wish they'd let me keep him with me nights; but they won't." he swung off in the direction of the building where the cavalry horses were kept, and, as he neared the one where his dog slept he saw a dark figure step out from behind a tree. the figure was that of a cadet with a rifle. "hope that's a friend of mine," mused dick grimly. a moment later came the command: "halt!" dick obeyed. "who goes there?" was the inquiry as the rifle was swung around. "friend." "advance friend, and give the countersign." dick was startled. though this was strictly in accordance with the rules, it was something that was seldom enforced. and, to tell the truth, dick did not have the countersign. "well?" came the impatient query. dick wondered who his challenger could be, for the face was in the shadow. "i--i'm afraid i haven't the countersign," faltered dick, who was somewhat annoyed. "is it actually necessary?" "of course it is," was the snapping answer. "otherwise i shouldn't have asked for it. if you haven't it, you're under arrest." "i'm dick hamilton," said our hero, "and i was on my way to see hatfield about some football matters. besides taps have only just sounded." "some time ago," was the curt reply. "besides hatfield's rooms aren't in the stable." "i know, but i wanted to see if my dog grit was safely fastened." "oh. well, i'm sorry," but there was no contrition expressed in the voice, "but i'll have to place you under arrest for trying to run guard, captain hamilton," and with that the sentry stepped out from under a tree, revealing himself as sam porter. chapter xvii uncle ezra arrives for a moment dick half thought it was a joke, and he was about to laugh it off. the idea of a member of the football squad--even though temporarily deposed from the team, stopping another team member when on athletic business, even though against the rules, was almost unheard of. "i guess it's all right--you might remember the countersign for me," said dick lightly. "not much!" snapped porter. "why not?" "because i don't choose to. you're under arrest and you will so report to major webster. "do you mean it?" "i certainly do." "but it's--it's so unusual." "that's just the reason i'm doing it. they make a fellow do guard duty on a frosty night, to catch guard-runners, and then some one kicks when he does it. no, i'm in earnest, and if some of the other fellows who do sentry-go would be the same, they'd stop this. i don't care enough about war tactics to be a sentry, but as long as i am here no one can run the guard on me." "i wasn't running the guard. i told you where i was going. i want to see if hatfield had heard from the haskell team yet." "and i find you headed toward the stable where your dog is kept, so i can believe you or not as i choose." dick started. it was, in a measure telling him that he had not spoken the truth and for a brief moment he felt the hot blood mount to his head. then he calmed down as he remembered that he was captain of the eleven, and, in a measure responsible to his men for his conduct. besides, he reflected quickly, porter might be trying to force him into a quarrel, and that would never do. "very well," answered dick, as quietly as he could, "i'll report to the major. good night!" he swung on his heel and turned aside. "um!" was the only reply that porter grunted out, as he resumed the patrolling of his post. "well?" asked paul, as his chum entered. "not well--bad. i was caught." "by whom?" "porter." "porter. hum! was he in earnest about it?" "he seemed so," and dick recounted the conversation. "well, there's something in what he says," agreed paul. "sentry-go is no fun, but as long as we're at a military school we have to do it once in a while. still if enough of us enforced the rules, as i suppose we ought to do, there'd be one of two things happen. they'd either abolish it, or running the guard would stop, and there wouldn't be anything for the sentries to do." "that's so. well, i'm the goat to-night. might as well have a bad job over with. i'm going to report." "then you didn't see hatfield?" "no, we'll have to wait until morning to hear." dick went off in no very happy frame of mind, and he was a little uneasy as to what form of punishment the major would mete out. but he was fortunate in finding that old soldier entertaining a war comrade in his room, and swapping campaign stories. the major was, therefore, in a very amiable mood, and after listening to dick's frank report said: "hum! well, don't do it again. you may write me out a page of field tactics and consider yourself relieved of arrest. don't do it again. good night, captain hamilton." dick saluted and swung away, highly pleased at the lightness of his task. he heard the major and his comrade-in-arms laughing as he strode away, and the instructor in tactics exclaimed: "that's not a circumstance to what we used to do, eh, ned, when we were camped near some city and wanted to go in and have a good time?" "that's right," agreed his friend. dick's little escapade was known all over the academy next morning, and there was almost universal condemnation of porter's act. but dick, to the no small astonishment of his chums, declared that the deposed left-end had done just right. "what are you sticking up for him for?" asked paul in some indignation. "it'll get so all the other sentries will do the same thing." "well, that might not be so bad. besides, i do think he did right--even though class custom is against it. then, too, i don't want to get on unfriendly terms with him. i hope to keep in touch with that old miser duncaster through porter." "oh, yes, about your father's business. how is it coming on?" "not very well. i hear that the other side has made a very good offer to mr. duncaster, but he has turned them down the same as he did me. there are other matters cropping up, however, that make things complicated in the electric road business, and poor dad is worried to death. i don't know what his next move will be." "did you hear whether or not we'll have a game with haskell?" "no, but here comes hatfield now. we'll ask him. he has some mail, perhaps he just heard." "it's all right!" joyfully called the manager, waving a letter at dick. "they'll play us next saturday. those coaches must have quite a pull." "will they put in their first team?" asked dick anxiously, for there would be little glory in beating the haskell scrub. "they'll do that, and also come here to give us a game." "on our own grounds? good!" cried paul. "we'll play our heads off!" "it's great!" declared dick. "i only hope we--but there of course we're going to win!" and he changed his sentence with an assumed confidence he hardly felt. "will we work any of the new plays on 'em?" asked paul. "i like the wing shifts and the sequence plays." "we'll work 'em if we get a chance," said dick. "it will all depend on what sort of a game they put up. we may have to kick a lot." "well, we're up to snuff on that line," declared the manager. "now i must arrange the details. i hope we get out a big crowd and make some money." "and i hope the fellows come out to practice this afternoon," spoke dick. "come on paul, we've got the science lecture on now." the scrub, against whom the varsity matched forces that afternoon, had been having some secret practice of their own, and they worked a couple of tricks on the rather surprised first team that netted a good gain, and eventually a touchdown. "that's something you must be on the lookout for," said mr. martin, who was a bit chagrined over what had happened. "it isn't enough to play well on your own team, you must watch what the other fellow is doing. now try again, and put some ginger into your work." "yes, you're getting a bit stale i'm afraid," declared mr. spencer, and he added some rather sharp words of correction. the varsity members were somewhat hurt. they did not know that the words were spoken intentionally, and to force them to do a little better. the rebuke had the desired effect, and thereafter the unfortunate scrub team was shoved all over the gridiron, not only not getting within striking distance of their opponents' goal line, but having three touchdowns rolled up against them in short order. "that's something like!" cried mr. martin in approval. "now, hamilton, try that wing shift," he whispered to dick. "i think we can fool them." it was a well executed play, and when the man with the ball got safely away, and through the scrub line dick slipped and fell, for the ground was soft from a recent rain. down he went at full length into a puddle, with another player on top of him, and when he arose he was rather a sorry-looking sight, but not injured. time was called directly after that, and as the players filed off the field, passing through a little knot of spectators, dick heard his name called. "well, of all the disgraceful sights, you certainly present one!" exclaimed a rasping voice. there was a menancing growl from grit, whom one of dick's friends held in leash. our hero looked toward where the voice had sounded. "uncle ezra!" he faltered, as he saw his grim-visaged relative. "yes, i'm here, and i must say of all the brutal exhibitions i ever saw, this is the worst. i never saw a bull fight, but it can't be much worse!" there was some laughter at this, and dick looked at his crabbed uncle in some alarm. "have you come to see me?" he asked. "not exactly. i came because your father is in trouble, and i want to help him." "trouble? what kind--the--" began our hero. "if you'll go somewhere and get washed up, and put some clean clothes on, so you won't look so much like a tramp, i'll talk to you," said mr. larabee stiffly. "i've come to take you back home, nephew richard." chapter xviii another fruitless attempt for a moment the young millionaire did not know what to say or think. his father in trouble! uncle ezra had come to take him away from kentfield! and in the height of the football season just before the first big game! "is my father ill?" asked dick. "no, not ill, only worrying over business. i always said he had too many irons in the fire, and now some have burned him," declared the old man as he walked along beside his nephew out of ear-shot of the crowd. "i've come on to try my hand at helping him." "but what can you do here?" asked dick. "and why must i leave kentfield?" "to help your father. i should think you'd be glad to. he needs money. it costs money to stay here and play those silly, dangerous games." "not very much money, uncle ezra." "don't tell me! you ought to be in my woolen mill earning four dollars and a quarter a week, instead of wasting cash here. now i want to have a serious talk with you, nephew richard. your father is in trouble, and it's your duty to leave here and help him." "i think i can help him by staying here just as well. but did he tell you to take me away from kentfield--just when i have the football team in good shape? did he say i was to leave?" "no, he didn't exactly say so, but i know it would help. besides, you might get injured playing this game, and then you'd be a cripple for life. you ought to be at work. now i can make a place for you in the mill. in time you could work up to twelve or fifteen dollars a week, and of course, being my nephew, and the son of my only sister, i'd give you a chance. better come, dick. you might be hurt here." "and i might be hurt in the mill, uncle ezra. i have heard of people being caught in the machinery." "well, of course it's possible," admitted the crabbed man. "but you must be careful. besides if you got hurt in the mill it would be in a good cause. though i warn you i carry accident insurance for all my employees and you can't collect any damages from me." "then i think i'll stay and play football, uncle ezra." "oh, the perversity and foolishness of the rising generation!" groaned mr. larabee. "but hurry on and get cleaned up. it is a disgrace for me to be seen walking with you, and i have on my best black suit that i don't want to get spoiled. besides i must hurry back. i have a lazy hired man that loafs when i'm away." dick thought that any hired man who would not take a little chance of resting when his taskmaster was away from home would not show much spirit. but there was mrs. larabee to reckon with, and she was almost as much of a "driver" as her husband. "there, now i am ready to hear all about it," said dick, when he had led his uncle to one of the reception rooms of the academy, and had removed most of the traces of the recent football conflict. "are father's affairs in much worse shape?" "i should say they were!" exclaimed uncle ezra. "this man porter--why nephew richard--what is that on your nose?" and the horrified old man sprang from his chair and approached our hero. "nose? what's the matter with it?" asked dick in some alarm. "there's a great big cut on it! how did it happen?" "oh, that's where i tried to stop hal foster's shoe with my nose, i expect. that's nothing. it's only a little cut. you should have seen the one i had last year. and when teddy naylor broke his collar bone----" "that's enough! not another word about the brutalities of football! i've heard enough! it's disgraceful. let us talk about something else." "i'm anxious to hear about father's affairs," said dick. "i don't know very much," replied his uncle, "but i know that his enemies are pressing him hard to get the control of the trolley line away from him, and it is paying well, too. i never thought it would, but your father insisted that he was right. but he has too many irons in the fire, i'm sure. this time this mr. porter is fighting him, and when i saw your father yesterday he said he did not know what to do, because a mr. duncaster would not sell his stock." "yes, i know that mr. duncaster," said dick, with a grim smile at the recollection of the interview with the man. "i came here to argue with him," said mr. larabee. "you did?" cried dick. "yes, your father consented. he said you had been unable to do anything with him, and it would do no harm if i tried. i'm a fighter, i am!" and uncle ezra squared his jaw aggressively. "i'll make him do as we want him to." dick had his doubts about this, but said nothing. he had, moreover, a little feeling against his uncle. "i want to help dad myself," reflected the young millionaire, "and i believe i can do more with this mr. duncaster than uncle ezra can. i don't like him 'butting in,' but if dad told him to it must be all right. but i don't believe he'll have much success." "now i thought if you could take me to see this person who has the stock," went on mr. larabee, "i can induce him to sell it. once your father has possession of it matters will be all right. could we go out to his place this afternoon?" "oh, yes," agreed dick. "it is not much of a run to hardvale." "i'm glad of it, for then i can start back home to-night. if i take along some sandwiches, which perhaps you can get from the kitchen here for me, i can ride all night in a day coach, and so save a hotel bill. we'll start for hardvale at once. it is within walking distance, i presume." "no," answered dick, and he felt a secret delight in his answer, "the only way to get out there and back in time for you to make an early start for home is to take an auto." "an auto!" cried uncle ezra in horror. "never! i'll never waste money on one of those affairs, and when i undertook to come here on your father's business i stipulated that i would pay all expenses. he is to give me a commission for doing the work, provided i get the trolley stock, and the less expenses i have the more money i can make." "but if you don't hire an auto you'll be here so long that you'll have to stay over and pay a hotel bill," said dick, trying not to smile. "couldn't we hire a horse and carriage, or go in a trolley car--trolleys are cheap." mr. larabee looked hopeful. "there is no trolley line to hardvale," said dick, "and a horse and carriage would be too slow. it's an auto or a hotel bill, uncle ezra." "oh dear! what a hard world this is! well, let us go and get a cheap auto. i'll bargain with the driver." the chauffeur wanted six dollars to go out to hardvale and back with his taxicab. at the first mention of the price dick thought his uncle would have a fit. then, with a grim tightening of his lips, the old man began to bargain. "i'll give you two dollars," he said. "it wouldn't pay for my time, oil and gasolene," declared the man. "i'll make it three, and not a cent more!" exclaimed uncle ezra firmly, with his hand on his pocketbook as if afraid it would be taken away from him. "you'd better walk!" said the chauffeur. "i haven't any more time to bother with you." uncle ezra begged and pleaded, but the driver was firm. "well, i'll tell you what i'll do," said the crabbed old man finally. "i'll pay your price, though i want you to understand that i think it's robbery, but will you throw in some sandwiches for my supper. i'm going to travel all night." "oh, yes, i suppose so," finally agreed the chauffeur. "though it's the first time i've ever given a tip in my own cab. hop in." they arrived at mr. duncaster's house a little before dusk, and uncle ezra rapped on the door. there was a long silence and he knocked again. "nobody home i guess," ventured the chauffeur, who was lighting his lamps, preparatory for the trip back. "let me try," suggested dick, and he gave several vigorous blows on the door. uncle ezra had rapped lightly, probably so as not to unduly wear out the pair of ancient gloves he was wearing. this time a window over the front door was opened, and the head of mr. duncaster, graced with a nightcap and a tassle, was thrust out. "what do you want? go away from here! i've gone to bed!" he shouted. "i'll have you arrested for disturbing the peace! get away!" he started to close the window. "here! wait!" cried mr. larabee. "i want to talk to you about your trolley stock." at the mention of stock the window was opened again, and once more the head came out. "stock is it? trolley stock? i suspected it was something like that when i smelled your gasolene wagon coming to my door. well, that stock isn't for sale, and don't you bother me any more about it. i won't sell to either side. now you get away. i always go to bed early and it's past my sleeping time now. get away!" "but you don't understand!" cried mr. larabee in desperation. "we want your stock, and i am authorized to offer you----" "i won't listen to you! get away, i'm going to sleep!" the head was drawn in and the window came down with a bang. "wait! hold on! i'll increase the price! i must talk to you!" cried uncle ezra, but mr. duncaster was firm, and there was no reply to repeated knockings. "i guess we'd better go," said dick gently. he had surmised how it would be. "i'm going to try the back door," said uncle ezra craftily. "maybe i can surprise him." but he had his knocking for his pains, and came back crestfallen. "come on," suggested the chauffeur. "i want to get back and do some business where i can make something." "humph! you made enough out of us," declared mr. larabee as the man cranked up. "now don't you forget my sandwiches." they were bowling along through the outskirts of the town when suddenly, around the corner swung another auto. the driver of the one containing dick and his uncle tried to get out of the way, but it was impossible. the next instant there was a crash of glass, and dick found himself sitting on the curbstone, while his uncle with a slight cut over his eye from which the blood was coming, was holding to a street lamppost. both autos were slightly damaged, but the drivers were not hurt and they proceeded to lay the blame one on the other. "i'll sue you for this! i'll have damages! i'm an injured man!" cried uncle ezra, as he put his handkerchief to his cut eye, while dick tried to get up, but found that he could not. "by jove! i hope my leg isn't broken!" he thought in dismay. "and the haskell game saturday! whew, this is tough luck!" once more he made an effort to get up, but fell back in a faint as a sharp pain shot through his ankle. he was conscious of a horrible fear of being disabled, as he felt some one lift his head while a girl's voice exclaimed: "why, it's dick hamilton! call a doctor, mildred." then dick lost consciousness. chapter xix a great struggle "don't worry, he'll be all right presently. no, his leg isn't broken--only a slightly sprained ankle. he lost his senses because of the collision shock, as much as from the pain. he's coming around all right." dick heard these words as if in a dream. he felt a soft hand on his head--he knew it was that of some girl, but for the life of him he could not tell who it was. he was aware of the smell of pungent drugs, and then he felt some one take hold of his ankle. he uttered a little moan of pain. then he heard another voice saying, as he opened his eyes: "oh, mildred, he's conscious now." "yes, mabel," answered another girl, and then dick knew who she was without looking up into the face of the young lady who hastily withdrew her hand from his head. "miss hanford," murmured the young millionaire, as he recognized the girl over whom he and dutton had so nearly fought a duel in our hero's early cadet days. "oh, i'm so glad you know me!" she exclaimed. "mildred adams and i were passing along the street just when that dreadful automobile crash came. it's a mercy you weren't all killed." "indeed it is!" chimed in miss adams. "but mabel kept her nerves splendidly. she lifted your head, and then she sent me for a doctor." dick looked around to observe that he was in the rear room of a drug store, and that a man, evidently a physician, was standing by, regarding him with a professional air. "well, young man, how do you find yourself?" asked the doctor. "pretty well, as long as nothing is broken." "no, you're all right that way. you had a lucky escape." "how is my uncle?" asked the lad anxiously. "only a slight cut. the drug clerk is putting some plaster on it. shall i call him in?" "will i be able to play football saturday?" there was a querulous note in dick's voice. "humph! that's all you lads care about. as soon as you crawl through a knot hole without getting killed you want to rush off to battle. play saturday? well----" the doctor paused. "i've just _got_ to!" cried dick. "we meet haskell--it means a lot to my team. i've got to play!" "well, i guess we can fix you up if you wear a leather bandage on that ankle. it might be a good deal worse. i'll take another look at it." "we'll tell that elderly gentleman--your uncle--that you are all right, and ask him to come in here," said miss hanford. "come, mildred." they withdrew, and as the physician was tightening the bandages on dick's ankle mr. larabee entered. his appearance was not improved by a large piece of sticking plaster over his right eye, and he looked more aggressive than ever. "i told you how it would be if we rode in one of them automobiles!" he exclaimed. "it's all your fault, nephew richard, and you'll have to pay the doctor bills. i shan't, and what's more i shan't pay that driver either. he ought to be more careful." "please don't get excited," begged the doctor, with a regard for dick's nerves. "i'm not excited!" cried uncle ezra, "but i know my rights and i want 'em, too! i'm not excited, but i'll have the law on that murdering villain of an automobile man! i'll sue 'em both. i'll collect damages. we'll see if there's any justice in this land!" and he smote his clenched right fist into the open palm of his left hand. "i'll have my rights. i'm not excited, but i'll have justice." "all right, uncle ezra," spoke dick calmly. "is the chauffeur hurt?" "i don't care whether he is or not. i'll have the law----" "i'm all right--only some bruises. it was that other fellow's fault, he was on the wrong side of the street. are you all right, mr. hamilton?" asked the chauffeur, at that moment entering the room. he knew dick, having driven him about many times. "glad you're not injured," spoke the lad. "is your machine in shape to run? i want to get back to the academy. the fellows may hear about this and think i'm worse hurt than i am. can you take me back?" "sure. only my front lights, and some of the glass windows were smashed. i'll run you back." "nephew richard, do you mean to say you're going to ride back in that miserable man's machine?" demanded mr. larabee. "why certainly," replied the young millionaire calmly, as he arose from the couch on which he had been lying. the doctor assisted him. "why shouldn't i go back that way. i don't want to use my ankle more than i have to before the game." "well, all i've got to say is that you're more foolhardy than i thought you were, and i wash my hands of the whole affair," said uncle ezra bitterly. "i'm going back home and report to your father. i'm sorry i couldn't do anything with mr. duncaster, but he is an obstinate man. and what's more, i won't pay hire for that automobile, either." "yes, you will!" cried the driver. "that will be all right," spoke dick quickly, making the driver a concealed motion, which the man understood. "i'm going back to dankville," went on the crabbed old man, "and i hope i never have to leave it again. my nerves are all shattered by what i've gone through, and if i'm a physical wreck as i expect to be after this accident i'll sue you for heavy damages," he threatened, to the auto driver. "go ahead," was the calm reply. then, after he had bidden dick a rather cool good-bye, uncle ezra departed. he did not ask for the sandwiches for his lunch, and dick wondered at it. "a strange character--rather strong-willed i should say," observed the physician, when uncle ezra had gone. "yes," agreed dick simply. he rather thought his uncle might have remained to see that he got to his room safely. but since the attempted kidnapping affair there had been more coldness than ever between dick and his aged relative. "are you feeling strong enough to be moved?" asked the doctor. "oh, yes, and i'm much obliged to you." "you also have the young ladies to thank," spoke the medical man with a smile. "oh, of course," assented our hero. he managed by the help of the chauffeur to limp out to the waiting taxicab. miss hanford and miss adams were in the drug store. "i can't thank you enough for your first-aid-to-the-injured services," said dick with a smile, as he shook hands with the young ladies. "it was very good of you." "oh, you're not done with us yet," said miss hanford gaily. "i've telephoned for my cousin harold, and he's going to go to the academy with you. he'll be here in a few minutes. here he is now," she added, as a tall, good-looking lad entered the store. mabel introduced him to dick, and though our hero insisted that he could get along well enough with the help of the chauffeur, harold johnson insisted on accompanying him in the cab. "let us know how you are?" called mabel after them, as they started off, the crowd that had gathered dispersing, now that the excitement was over. "well old man, you certainly had a time of it!" exclaimed paul drew, when young johnson had safely delivered his charge and departed. "what are you trying to do, anyhow?" "i don't know. it all came so suddenly there was no time to do anything. i'm sorry about mr. duncaster though. i wish uncle ezra had not butted in, for now it will make it all the harder for me when i try again to get that stock." "are you going to try again?" "surely. dad needs it. but i'm not going to worry about that now. we've got to devote all our attention to the haskell game." "do you think you can play?" "i'm going to!" declared dick fiercely. he received visits from every member of the eleven and most of the substitutes before taps that night, and they were all relieved when they found that the young captain's injuries were not as severe as had at first been reported. dick was not able to practice the next day, but the following one he was on the gridiron, and he was delighted to find that, aside from a little stiffness, his ankle did not trouble him. "fellows, this is your last chance," declared coach martin, the day previous to the great haskell game. "make good now and----" "to-morrow," put in mr. spencer with a smile. "and don't forget that you're going to win!" in spite of a slight pain in his ankle, dick never ran the team to better advantage than he did in practice that day. "oh, for to-morrow!" he exclaimed to paul in their room that night. what crowds there were! they overflowed the grandstands and surged upon the space around the kentfield gridiron. they stood several deep along the ropes stretched to keep them back, and still they poured through the entrance gates to the delight of the cadets. "we'll make some money all right off this game!" exulted manager hatfield. "and we need it, even if we have a millionaire on the team." "no, we can't expect dick to do it all," said paul. "he's mighty good to hire the coaches," commented george hall. "oh, say, if we can only win! has the haskell bunch arrived yet?" "no, but they'll soon be here. come on, our fellows are going to get in practice." out on the field trotted the kentfield eleven, with the score of substitutes, wrapped, indian-like in blankets, squatting on the side lines, until such time as they would be needed to form some opposition for the varsity. this soon came, for the coaches, after putting the boys through some recently evolved formations, called on the scrub. then the practice was harder. a roar burst from a thousand throats as the haskell team trotted out, for they had brought many supporters with them. then came cheer after cheer--cheers for kentfield and for their opponents. "they're a husky lot all right," observed dutton grimly, as the kentfield cadets ceased their practice to "size-up" their foes. "and beefy," added john stiver. "oh, say, don't get heart-disease so soon," advised dick with a laugh. "wait until you see us walk through 'em." the preliminaries were soon arranged, and luck was with dick for he won the toss and selected the east goal, with what wind there was in his favor. this gave the ball to haskell to be kicked off, and a few minutes later, the twenty-two sturdy youths took the field. dick placed his men with care, and gave an anxious look all about him, as the haskell centre "teed" the new yellow ball on a little mound of earth on the middle line. shrilly blew the whistle, and a moment later there was a dull "thump!" as the toe of the big centre rush found the pigskin, and sent it well into kentfield's territory. ray dutton caught it, and, tucking the spheroid under his arm he sprinted down over the chalkmarks, gathering speed at every stride. "cover him, fellows! cover him!" yelled dick, and the right half-back's supporters gathered in front of him as well as they could. but the opposition streamed through. dutton ran on until in front of him loomed peters, the gigantic right guard of haskell, and then the plucky cadet ran no more, for he was heavily thrown. but the ball had been carried back to kentfield's forty-yard mark. "line up, boys!" yelled dick. "go through 'em now." he stooped down behind jim watkins, and began calling the signal for stiver to circle haskell's right wing. back came the ball, and stiver got it on the jump, but so fast did the opponents of kentfield stream around to meet him that he did not gain more than three yards. "they're strong!" murmured dick with a bit of despondency in his voice, for he had seen how in vain his men hurled themselves against the stone-wall-like line of haskell. "so much the more credit if we beat them!" whispered paul. the captain was half decided on a try around the other end, but a movement in the line told him this was almost suspected so he called for a fake kick with dutton to take the ball. the spheroid came back true, and john tucked it against his chest as, with head well down, he hurled himself forward. but the hole was not there, and once more the enemies of kentfield got through so that only two yards were made. "we've got to punt," thought dick, as he gave the signal. straight and true the ball sailed from the toe of hal foster's shoe--far into the territory of haskell, so far indeed that their full-back had to retreat to gather it in. back he sprinted, protected by his eager mates. "get to him, boys! get to him!" pleaded dick, and into the knot of players rushed beeby, drew and hall. hall was shoved aside and paul drew was put out of business, but beeby dodged through, and, a moment later, his powerful arms circled his man--the man with the ball. down they went in a heap. a few seconds later the offensive tactics of haskell were in operation, and powerful they were. first came a smashing attack between left guard and centre that netted five yards. once more the line was bucked, and through left guard and tackle came hurtling the man with the ball. another gain was netted around right end, and then came a line play on the other side. kentfield was being pushed back, and thus far her opponents had found no necessity for kicking. "hold 'em! hold 'em!" pleaded dick. "brace!" his men tried, and with such power on the next play that only one yard was made. "that's it!" cried the captain gleefully. on the side lines the coaches watched the struggle. "i'm afraid they're too much for 'em," murmured mr. martin regretfully. "yes, perhaps, but the game is young yet, and it's full of chances. besides, did you note the brace they took?" "yes--it's great--we'll have a fine team before the season is over." smash and bang went the attack on dick's line. he did all that mortal captain could do to infuse some of his own strength and courage into his men, but it seemed that it was not to be. down the field the ball was rushed until it was within thirty yards of the kentfield goal. "touchdown! touchdown!" demanded the crowd in sympathy with haskell. "hold boys, hold!" yelled the kentfield adherents and they sang cheering songs and gave their school war-cries. "don't let 'em through!" almost tearfully pleaded dick, though it seemed that a score was inevitable. "brace! brace!" once more a hammer-like attack, and the ball was on kentfield's twenty-two yard line. then it looked as if at the next play either a try for goal would be made, or that some lucky player on haskell would smash through and dodge his way to a touchdown. but something happened. through some miscalculation when haskell's quarter got ready to pass the ball on the next play he found his man missing, through inattention to the signal. thereupon the quarter ran with it himself, without having covered the necessary five yards to one side. this carried with it a penalty which sent the ball back to kentfield's thirty-seven yard line, and dick breathed easier. the almost inevitable was postponed for a little while. a forward pass was next attempted by haskell, but the memory of the recent fizzle must have been on the minds of her players, for the ball was juggled. perkins, the left guard fell on it, and then, after a hurried line-up, matthews, the full-back, tried for a goal from the thirty-five yard line. the ball rose well, for he was amply protected, and a yell of delight came from a thousand throats as haskell's supporters thought they saw their side scoring. but matthews did not have good aim, and the ball struck the posts and bounded back where dick got it. "our ball!" cried dick in delight, as the pigskin was brought out to the kentfield twenty-five yard line. "are you going to kick?" whispered paul. "no, we'll buck the line again. i think they're tired." the captain's judgment was vindicated, for on a wing shift ray dutton went through for ten yards, and at this unexpected breaking up of the powerful line of haskell there were roars of delight from the home crowd. again dick sent a man smashing through with the ball, and the opponents were tumbled to one side, for the kentfield guards and tackle were fierce now with the desire for revenge, and they tore great gaps in the ranks of the men before them. a fake kick gained another substantial distance, and then misfortune came, for there was holding by some of dick's men, and they lost the ball on a penalty. but so far had they advanced it into the territory of their enemies that the haskell captain ordered a kick. dick saw their game now. "they think to tire us, for, they think i'll begin smashing their line again. then, at the close of the half they'll knock us all apart," he reasoned as he helped form interference for foster, who had caught the ball. "instead of that we'll kick!" instantly decided dick. "that will keep the ball in their territory, but if they send it back i'll chance some more smashes." he called to the full-back to boot the leather forward, and back it came with unerring aim. it was somewhat of a surprise to haskell, and they were a bit demoralized, for they had not expected such fierce playing, nor such good generalship. then followed another punt from the haskell full-back, and stiver caught the ball. "rush it back!" ordered dick, his voice scarcely heard above the tumult. stiver was shortly downed, but kentfield had the ball, and once more began to smash at the line with all the fierceness of which she was capable. haskell was plainly taken by surprise, but they held their opponents to advantage and in two downs only ten yards were gained. a kick was inevitable, and it came. this time, after rushing the ball back until downed haskell tried some new tactics. they worked a neat forward pass, and an adaptation of the wing shift so that in a few minutes kentfield's goal was again menaced. "now's the time to hold again!" cried dick, and hold they did, until stiver was injured and had to leave the game. ford endton was called in, and then the smashing went on once more. slowly kentfield was being pushed back, and about all dick could hope for was the whistle that would announce the end of the half, for that would save being scored on. once more fate came to his aid. there was off-side play on the part of haskell, and one of her men was detected "slugging". as a result kentfield got the ball, and her opponent was penalized ten yards. dick promptly ordered a kick, and the pigskin was sent whizzing down the field into haskell territory. haskell at once kicked back, but gained little, and then dick called for some more line plays. it was a bad move, as the ball could not be advanced and dick had to kick again. then back at the wearied kentfield players came burrowing and boring their enemies, until our friends were shoved back up the field. nearer and nearer to their own goal they were pushed, until the ball was within five yards of it. dick begged and pleaded, but it is likely that not all the urging in the world could have prevented a touchdown, only that the whistle blew, ending the half, and the tired players rushed from the field. "well, we didn't score," remarked dick somewhat gloomily to the coaches who hurried out to him. "score? nobody expected you would against that team!" cried mr. martin. "but look what you did. you equaled them all around, and they couldn't score on you." "they feel worse than you do!" exclaimed mr. spencer. "you boys did nobly. i fancy blue hill is trembling at this moment." "i hope so," said dick. "but i want to score next half." the rest, and the words of praise showered on them from all sides at the plucky game they had put up, did much to put heart into our heroes. they went back into the contest with an eagerness that was a delight to the coaches and their captain. an exchange of kicks followed the second half initial send-off, and when dick's team got the ball they once more tried their bucking. the first try, however showed that haskell's line had been much strengthened, and this was because several new players had gone in, whereas, with the exception of two, the kentfield team was the same. "they're afraid of us!" dick whispered in delight to paul. "they held out some of their best players--now they have them in. we're up against the strongest team they have," and this was so. wishing to save his men as much as possible, dick called for some wing-shift and fake-kick plays that proved to be good ground-gainers. but there was a fumble in one, and haskell got the ball. her smashing attack proved the virtue of the new players, and in less than ten minutes of play in the second half the ball had been shoved over for a touchdown, and the goal was kicked. "oh, but that's tough!" sighed innis. "it might be worse!" said dick, as cheerfully as he could. "we're holding them well, considering the new men they have, but we're going to score now." he and his men made a good try for it. they got the ball on a fumble after some play following the touchdown, and began to rush it back. for a moment their attack was so irresistible that haskell crumpled to pieces. then, maddened and ashamed at having a smaller-sized team treat them thus, they braced, and the advance of kentfield was stopped. again haskell came smashing at dick's line. he knew what it meant. they were determined to have another touchdown and the plucky captain was just as determined not to let them get it. but it seemed as if it must come. smash, bang! smash, bang! came the heart-breaking attack. haskell was so sure of herself now that she did not kick. but she was a little too sure, for she held in the line again, and the ball came to our friends. it was promptly punted out of danger, but instead of returning the punt haskell once more came back to the banging tactics. "another touchdown!" was the demand. "never! never!" thought dick in desperation. the ball was within ten yards of his line. he knew there could be but a few minutes more of play. "hold 'em fellows, hold!" he implored. "if we can keep 'em down to one touchdown it's as good as a victory for us!" hold the kentfield cadets did, though slowly but surely they were being shoved back. they even dug their hands into the dirt until their nails bled, but it seemed useless. "now boys for a touchdown!" called the haskell captain with a laugh. "we're going to get it, too!" he added, looking dick straight in the face. the signal came. into the line came smashing the man with the ball--straight through a hole that had been torn with savage energy between drew and watkins. straight at dick the man came, haskell's big guard. dick tackled him like a tiger, and felt himself being bowled over. a sharp pain shot through his injured ankle, and he knew the bandage had slipped. but he also knew something else, for the ball had bounced from the grasp of the guard and lay within reach of our hero. he pulled himself from underneath the husky guard, though the pain in his foot was excruciating, and like a flash was up. then, before any one knew what he was doing, he had booted the ball well down the field, though the kick cost him unbearable pain. but he had saved another touchdown against his team, for at that moment the final whistle blew, and the great game was over. chapter xx joining the league they had to carry dick off the field, but there was a happy smile on his face in spite of the terrible pain of his injured ankle. "only one touchdown and a goal against us, and the best team haskell could put in the field, fellows!" exulted the plucky captain. "it's almost as good as a victory." "there could be no more honorable defeat," murmured coach martin. "i should say not!" exclaimed his colleague. "our work hasn't gone for nothing." "let me congratulate you, captain hamilton!" cried the captain of haskell, as he strode up to shake dick's hand. "we sure thought we would wipe up the earth with you, but--well, we were astonished, to put it mildly." "we'll beat you next time," said dick simply. "i shouldn't be surprised but what you did," he agreed. "you certainly have improved wonderfully. where'd you get those coaches?" for the two had walked on in advance. "oh, they were a sort of an experiment," answered the young millionaire, "but it worked out all right. kentfield needed some improvement and----" "she's more than got it!" cried the other captain. "boys, three cheers for the pluckiest team we ever went up against!" he called, and how the cries rang out; bringing joy and a mist of tears to the eyes of our injured hero. "three cheers for haskell!" called dick in return, and the compliment was given. "we'd have scored again but for that plucky tackle of yours, and your kick," said the guard whom dick had thrown in the nick of time. "hurt yourself much?" "no, it's only where i twisted my ankle before. i'll be all right in a few days, and ready for more games." the crowd was thronging from the field, as dick was carried into the dressing room. there some hot applications, and skillful bandaging, put his ankle in such shape that he could manage to get around on a cane that some one provided. "it was great! great, old man!" cried paul, circling in delight about his chum. "i never thought we could do it. did you really think we would win? i hope you're not disappointed." "only a little," admitted dick. "i hoped we might win up to the time i saw their team come out on the field. then i knew they were too much for us. but we held them down!" "indeed we did." "and the next thing to do is to get into the military league, and wipe out the unnecessary insult that blue hill handed to us, by giving them the worst drubbing they ever had." "sure," assented paul. there was quite a crowd of hero-worshippers outside the dressing rooms, waiting to get a sight of dick and his men, and cheer them. among the throng our hero espied a pretty face he knew, and straightway he made for it as well as he was able. "congratulations!" called miss hanford. "oh, it was a glorious game! but i'm so sorry you were hurt." "it's nothing," murmured dick gamely, though as he spoke a spasm of pain shot through him. there were not a few on the hospital list as a result of the haskell-kentfield game and in view of that, and the great work that had been done, practice was omitted for a few days. when it was resumed it was light, for there were several of the best players, besides the captain, to be considered, and good men were scarce. on all sides among the various groups of cadets there was heard nothing but praise for dick's team. only one little crowd had anything unpleasant to say, and this was the faction headed by porter. "if porter had played there wouldn't have been so many gains around left end," said one of the rich lad's cronies. "that's right," added weston. "porter was our mainstay before he got put off by hamilton's influence." "who says by dick's influence?" demanded paul drew hotly. "i do!" "then you don't know what you're talking about, and i advise you not to repeat it," spoke dick's chum grimly, and weston slunk away. but what little feeling there was died away in the memory of the glorious game that had been played, and even some of the instructors were enough interested in athletics to congratulate dick and his chums. "what's the next move?" asked paul of his roommate, as they sat in the precincts of the sacred pig one night, talking over matters of the gridiron. "well, we ought to join the military league, i think. we are practically out of it through the refusal of blue hill to accept our challenge, and i presume we'll have to join over again," was the opinion of dutton. "that's right!" cried dick. "will they let us in?" asked george hall. "they'll have to," was what manager hatfield said. "i am going to have a consultation with the coaches to-morrow, and we'll decide on what to do. if we are admitted, as i have no doubt we will be, we'll challenge blue hill academy again." a correspondence was at once begun with the necessary officers of the league, and it was carried on to such advantage that inside of a week kentfield was formally notified of her election to the organization. this was composed of several military academies, as i have said, and the winning of the football championship carried with it the possession of a gold loving cup. hard practice was the rule for the next few days, and then came a game with mooretown which kentfield won. the next week she played a small team, not in the league, and the week following came a contest with richmore, one of the tail-enders of the league. this resulted in a big victory for kentfield, and further advanced her prestige. "have you challenged blue hill yet?" asked dick of the manager one day. "i'm going to this week. i think we've won our spurs now. how is your ankle, if we do play?" "fine as a fiddle. i've taken the bandage off. oh, we'll play for our lives when we meet those fellows!" blue hill could now have no reason for refusing to meet kentfield, and though they offered no apology for their former sarcastic letter, they accepted the challenge. dick was with manager hatfield when the answering missive was received. "that's the stuff!" cried the young millionaire. "now we'll practice harder than ever." toots, the janitor, approached our hero, whistling "in the prison cell i sit." he saluted and seemed to want to say something. "what is it?" asked dick. "i've just got word, mr. hamilton, that your dog grit has been arrested--or, that is, taken to the pound for going about without his license tag on, which is against the law," said the janitor. "grit taken to the pound! who did it?" cried dick. "some fellow by the name of duncaster," was the unexpected reply. "he had a policeman take the dog in, and you have to pay ten dollars to get him out. half of it goes to that duncaster man for causing the dog to be taken in." "duncaster!" murmured dick. "he's fighting us all along the line! i'm going to town!" he called to a group of his chums who had gathered about him. "i'll go with you," and paul hastened after his friend. chapter xxi ready for blue hill dick was half wrathful over the action of mr. duncaster, and half because of the action of some cadet who must have enticed grit to town, for a few students, admiring the bulldog had, in times past, often led him off with them. nor was grit unwilling to go, for he loved action, and by reason of his lessons and his football practice his master had little time to take him out. "what are you going to do?" asked paul, as his chum swung around toward the stable. "i'm going to find out who took my dog to town, and then i'm going after him," was the answer. "he had nerve, who ever he was." "do you think duncaster did it? because he knew it was your animal?" "he may have done so, but i doubt it. he's just naturally mean and cranky, and when he found grit wandering about the street he probably notified a dog-catcher. i didn't think they were so strict when cool weather set in. poor grit! in a pound with a lot of curs! his feelings will be hurt." in answer to dick's inquiries one of the stable men stated that cadet porter had come and gotten grit, leading him off by a leash attached to his collar. "did he say i said for him to take grit?" asked the young millionaire. "no, sir, i can't say as how he did. but he's been real friendly with the dog, mr. porter has, and grit knows him. mr. porter and mr. weston went off together with him. i hope you don't blame me, mr. hamilton," and the man seemed a bit alarmed. "no, it wasn't your fault. but, after this, please don't let any one take grit without my permission. first thing i know he'll be stolen, and then uncle ezra will be as happy as a lark." on the way to town dick and paul met porter and weston returning. the faces of both were flushed, and they were smoking cigarettes. porter seemed ill at ease as he encountered dick, and the latter resolving to settle the matter once and for all said: "what right had you to take my dog, porter?" "i'm mighty sorry, ham," was the contrite answer, and for a change porter was not blustering and overbearing as he usually was. "you see i took him in, as i've done once before, and you didn't mind, but----" "yes, but this time i _do_ mind!" exclaimed dick sharply. "he got away from you, didn't he?" "yes, i tied him to the leg of the billiard table, while i shot a match with weston. beat him, too, and i must have felt so jolly over it that i forgot about grit. when i went to look for him he was gone--he'd slipped out of his collar. i guess he was lonesome for you. he got home all right, i hope." "no, he didn't!" replied dick in no gracious tones. "he didn't?" porter was manifestly surprised. "he's in the pound, and i have to pay ten dollars to get him out." "whew! that's tough luck! i'm mighty sorry about it. if i wasn't so counfoundedly short of funds now i'd give you the money for the fine right away. as it is i'll owe it to you." "no, you won't!" cried our hero sharply. "i'll pay it myself, but don't take grit away again--please." he added the last as he happened to remember that he was captain of the football team, and that weston, porter's crony, was a member of the eleven, and that porter might also play later. it would not do to be on bad terms with them, for the sake of the team. "oh, well, you needn't be stiff about it," murmured porter. "i didn't mean any harm. how did i know the dog would get away." "you didn't, i presume," agreed dick, a little mollified. "but don't do it again. come on, paul." "you cad!" muttered porter, as dick swung around. "i'm beginning to hate you! i'll get even, some day too. you put me off the team!" "oh, i wouldn't feel that way," suggested weston, who was not a half-bad chap. "you may get a chance yet." "not after this blamed dog incident. why didn't you have an eye on the brute?" "why should i? it was your affair." "oh, well, if that's the way you feel about it, don't come with me again!" snapped porter, who was in ill humor. the pound of the town was in a stable back of one of the police stations, and there dick found grit chained up with several other dogs of much lower degree. "hello, old boy!" greeted the lad, and grit nearly broke the chain to leap upon his master. "be careful," warned the poundkeeper. "he's got an ugly temper." "not when he's treated right," was the answer. "i'll take him along. here's his collar," for porter had handed it over before parting from dick. "i'll take him home. to whom do i pay the ten dollars?" "to me. half goes to the town and the other half to the man who caused the dog to be taken in. rumcaster is his name, or something like that. he's been here several times since the dog was brought in, asking if the fine was paid. he wants his share, mr. rumcaster does." "duncaster is my name! duncaster!" exclaimed a rasping voice, and the man who had been so unpleasant to dick made his appearance. "and so the dog's owner is here, is he? i guess this will be a lesson to him. where's my five dollars?" "here!" exclaimed dick suddenly stepping forward. "ah, ha! so it's that hamilton soldier fellow!" exploded enos duncaster, as he saw our hero. "it was your dog; eh? you should know better than to let unmuzzled and unlicensed dogs run loose in the streets. but it's what might be expected of a young man who goes to school to learn a murdering trade. bah! i'm glad it _was_ your dog!" "the dog is licensed, and was running loose because the cadet who took him without my permission did not take care of him," answered dick quietly. "hum! i can't help that young man! the law is the law and i'm entitled to my five dollars. it will keep me in groceries for a week. i don't eat much!" and the old man chuckled grimly as he pocketed the bill, and tottered off on his cane. "come on grit, old boy!" called dick, as he paid over the other five dollars, and led the now rejoicing animal away. the young millionaire tried not to feel any resentment against porter, but it was hard work. not so much on account of the ten dollars, as because of what might have happened to grit. on his part porter was cooler than ever toward dick, but it did not so much matter as our hero had learned all he could about the financial operations of the rich lad's father,--and since he knew who held the large number of shares of electric stock. "not that it's doing dad much good to know," mused the young millionaire, "for duncaster will be more against me than ever now, i'm afraid. he won't even listen to me." fortunately the necessity for hard work on the gridiron gave dick so much to think about that he did not have much time to worry over this matter, though he made up his mind to aid his father whenever opportunity presented. hard practice was called for, in preparation for the blue hill game, and the young captain and the coaches were glad to see the snappy playing, and the aggressive spirit manifested. "i think we can defeat them, after what we did to haskell," said dick. "i do also," agreed mr. martin, and mr. spencer was no less positive. it was three days before the game, and the boys were "on edge" and fit to make the battle of their lives. that night dick was paying a visit in the rooms of innis beeby, when george hall came in. "what's the matter up in your bungalow?" asked jim watkins, coming in during a deep discussion of a new wing shift play. "nothing--why?" asked dick quickly. "i thought you might be sick. i just saw dr. fenwick going in there," was the answer. "but you seem healthy enough." "dr. fenwick--going to our room!" cried dick, starting up. "it must be paul. he wasn't feeling well this evening, and wouldn't come out with me. i'll go see!" and he hastened away. chapter xxii the blue hill game the thoughts of the young captain were rather alarming as he made his way to the apartment he shared with his chum. he had paid little attention to the complaint paul made of not feeling well, thinking it was only a temporary indisposition. that had been several hours before, for time had passed quickly in the room of innis, with the spirited talk of football. "and he had to send for a doctor when i wasn't there with him!" exclaimed dick to himself regretfully. "that was tough. but i kept thinking he'd join us every minute or i'd gone back. i hope it isn't anything serious." then he recalled several stories he had read of football players being secretly "doped" before big games in order that they would go "stale" and not be in form. "that may have happened to paul!" half-gasped the young captain. "some of those blue hill fellows, fearing we will beat them, may have sent him some dope. if they have----" then dick laughed at his preposterous fears, and by this time he was at his room. behind the closed door he heard the murmur of voices. one he recognized as that of his chum, and the other was dr. fenwick's. "well, he's alive at any rate," thought the young millionaire. "he can't be so bad." nevertheless it was rather an alarmed countenance of dick hamilton that gazed in on his chum a moment later. paul was in bed, and in the room was one of the academy orderlies, while the physician was bending over a table, mixing some medicine in a glass. "paul!" cried dick impulsively. "what's the matter? jim watkins just told me dr. fenwick was here. how did it happen? what is the matter? i'm so sorry i left you alone, but i thought every minute that you'd be over. i'm all cut up about it." "it's all right, dick, old man," replied paul, but in fainter tones than he was in the habit of using. "i'm just a little under the weather i guess. i'll be on the active list again soon." "i hope so," murmured the captain, with the memory of the impending blue hill game. paul was one of his best players--one who could always be depended on in an emergency--one who always had some "go" left in him, when it seemed that mortal flesh and bone could do no more. he could tear through the line, and break up interference better than any guard dick had ever seen, and for nailing the man with the ball paul was a star. no wonder the young captain did not want to lose him. "is it anything serious, doctor?" asked dick. "i hope not," replied dr. fenwick. "i don't like some of his symptoms, but they may pass away." "how did it happen--how did it come on?" inquired the young millionaire. "oh, i hadn't felt well all day," replied the plucky left guard, "but i didn't think anything of it. then a little while ago i suddenly felt dizzy, and before i knew what was happening i keeled over--fell on the floor. brooks, in the next room, heard me, and came rushing in. he got the doctor--that's all i know." "and i wasn't here?" exclaimed dick reproachfully. "i fancy it is only due to an upset condition of the stomach," put in the physician. "he has an attack of vertigo, which is not uncommon. there, mr. drew, i'll leave this medicine, and look in on you in the morning. if you need me in the night don't hesitate to send for me." "i'll look after him," promised dick. the physician and orderly were about to leave when several of the cadets who had been in beeby's room, and who wondered at dick's sudden desertion, came trooping in, to ask all sorts of questions concerning paul. "now, young gentlemen, this won't do!" insisted the doctor cheerfully but firmly. "mr. drew must be kept quiet. he is in no danger, and you'll have to leave." they did, after nodding pleasantly to the sick lad, and then dick began a vigil of the night. "jove! i hope drew doesn't go back on us in the blue hill game," remarked dutton. "it would sort of break us up, even though berkfeld fills in pretty well at guard," spoke george hall. as for the worriment of the young captain, only he himself realized the depth of it. paul was restless all night, and had a slight fever. dick was a faithful nurse, administering the medicine regularly. once his patient was delirious, and murmured something about matters at home. again he fancied himself on the gridiron, and called out: "touchdown! touchdown! we've got to make a touchdown! that's it. go through the line now!" "poor paul," murmured dick. "i'm afraid it will be quite a while before you play again." twice, when the lad's condition seemed worse, dick was on the point of sending for dr. fenwick, but he refrained and the spell passed over. morning came, pale and wan, shining in the room where the electric lights burned with a sickly glow. dick turned them out and softly laid his hands on paul's cheek. "he seems cooler," he whispered. "i believe the fever has gone down. i hope it has. he's sleeping soundly. i--i believe i'll lie down for a moment." dick himself felt weak, for he had been up nearly all night, and the day before he had practiced strenuously. he stretched out on the lounge, and before he knew it he was sleeping soundly. he awakened as a voice called faintly: "is there any water handy, dick?" "paul! how are you?" he cried, springing up. "oh, i must have dozed off! that was careless of me. are you all right? i'm a swell nurse, i am." "oh, don't worry. i'm much better, and i'm hungry and thirsty." "that's a good sign. i'll get some fresh water." paul drank eagerly, and dick, taking his temperature with the thermometer the physician had left, was glad to note that the little silver column was at ninety-eight and three-fifths, or normal. "your fever's gone!" he announced, with a thrill in his tired voice. dr. fenwick came in a little later, and seconded the opinion dick had formed. paul was weak, but the danger had passed, he announced. "it must have been something he ate," was what the doctor said, and dick thought no more about "dope." "will i be able to play saturday?" asked paul eagerly. "humph! yes, i think so, if you get back your strength. you lost considerable in a short time. but take it easy at first." they missed paul at practice that day, and as dick was somewhat worn with his sleepless night, the coaches did not insist on very strenuous work. what was done, however, showed that the kentfield eleven was holding its own. paul was out the next day, and did light work. he was a bit "off his feed" as he expressed it, but he was sure he would be all right when it came to the big game. little was talked of in the academy but the coming contest, which was to take place on the kentfield gridiron. some of the sporting crowd had what they called "big money" up on the game, but few of the football contingent indulged in this practice. "i got odds of two to one from some of the blue hill crowd," boasted porter, who had a liking for betting. "i could have gotten bigger odds before the haskell fight, but the blue hill fellows are a bit shy now. i should think you'd back your own team, hamilton," he said, with a half sneer at dick. "it isn't in my line," was the answer, "though i've no objections to you fellows backing us for all you're worth. we'll come in winners, i'm sure." "i wish i could play," spoke porter more earnestly than he was in the habit of doing. "is there any chance for me, hamilton?" he had effectually put his pride in his pocket to thus appeal to the lad who for no cause he disliked. "i wish there was," answered the captain. "of course you will have the same chance as the other subs, and if the fight is as rough as i expect it will be, we may be playing all of you before it's over." "then i can't go in at the opening?" "i don't see how you can very well. of course i haven't it all to say. why don't you go see the coaches?" "what good would that do. they're in your pay, and----" "that will do!" cried dick sharply, and porter knew enough to stop that sort of talk. he turned away, a bitter look on his face and a bitter feeling in his heart. "i'll get even with you yet," he muttered. "i'll fix you and your football team, dick hamilton!" dick was like some anxious mother the night before the game. he went to the rooms of each of his players and saw that they were in. inquiries as to how they felt met with the reply that they were all "fit." paul drew seemed himself again, and assured dick that he was ready to do battle with their common foe. "wouldn't it be great if we could shut them out altogether?" he asked exultingly. "after the fuss they made about not wanting to play us, and the record they've made, if we could bar them from crossing our line--wouldn't it be immense?" "'dreams--idle dreams,'" quoted dick with a smile. "i shouldn't ask anything better, but i'm afraid they're too strong for us. why they came within an ace of beating haskell the other day." "that was on a fumble." "i know, but fumbles count in football. no, if we beat them by a good score i'll be satisfied, even if they cross our line." it was the day of the great game, a great game in the sense that kentfield had made a record for herself in a remarkably short time under the skillful coaching of mr. martin and mr. spencer, and because she was to meet a foe who had despised her--meet a team that, hitherto had not considered our cadet heroes worthy of their steel. in a sense it was a triumph for kentfield even before the game was started. as for dick he was modestly proud. there was a record-breaking crowd in attendance, for the word had gone around among lovers of football that kentfield was putting up a great game, and the grandstands that in years past had held only a scattering throng, now overflowed. "we'll be able to pay all our debts and close the season with a balance," exulted the manager and treasurer together. "i'd rather win this game and lose every dollar!" cried dick, as he ran to join his comrades on the gridiron. blue hill was to kick off, and after the preliminary arrangements the pigskin was "teed" in midfield and there came a hush while each captain looked to see if his men were all placed. "are you ready?" came the call. "ready," answered dick. "ready," answered ford haskell, the blue hill captain. the whistle blew, and hardly had the echoes died away than there sounded the soul-stirring "ping" and the toe of tod kester's shoe dented the leather as the big centre sent the ball well into the territory of our friends. "now boys, back with it!" cried dick. "shove for all you are worth when it comes to a line up!" jake weston caught the ball, and the speedy right end was down the field with it like a shot. he dodged several of the blue hill men, but at last ned buchanan, the husky right guard, got his arms around him, and weston went down hard. "ready boys--come on," cried dick, and this was the signal for a fake kick without any other word being given. they lined up and before the surprised blue hill team was aware of what was happening, and when their startled full-back had begun a retreat ready to catch the ball john stiver had the pigskin, had passed it to hal foster and the latter smashed through the line for a ten yard gain. "that's going some!" cried innis beeby when the scrimmage was over. indeed it was a good gain for that play, and dick and his men rejoiced. quickly they lined up again, and this time dutton was sent smashing through between left guard and tackle. but this was not so successful, for the blue hill lads massed at that point, and blocked the advance after four yards had been covered. but the ball had been advanced enough so that dick felt he need not call for a punt, and this time he gave the signal for a play around right end. john stiver got the ball and got into the play on the jump but to his own surprise and that of his comrades, he was almost nailed in his tracks by lem gordon, the husky left guard who broke through innis beeby. instead of a gain there was a loss of a few feet, and, seeing it, dick felt his heart sink. blue hill had developed unexpected strength. a kick was now necessary, and the ball was sent spinning into the enemy's territory. they ran it back a short distance, and then came their line up. "now, boys, see how we can hold 'em!" cried dick cheerfully. "we'll have the pigskin in a couple of downs." "not much!" cried captain haskell, of the blues. against the kentfield line came smashing rud newton, the left half. he tried for a hole between frank rutley and paul drew at left tackle and guard respectively. rutley held like a stone fence, but paul, after a moment of opposition, gave way and newton came smashing through. dick and hal foster managed to nail him, however, but not before five yards were gained. "you've got to hold better than that, boys!" called dick, but they all knew it was paul who had given way, and there was not one of them but what feared he would not hold out through the game. his recent illness was doubtless responsible. again blue hill tried a smashing play in the same place, hoping they had found a weak spot, but dick and his men were ready, and paul was supported to such advantage that not a foot was made. there came a try for around the left end, but tom coleton and his colleagues were there ready to nab the man, and he actually ran back and was downed for a loss. then came the inevitable kick, and dick's side had the ball, practically where it had been in the first scrimmage. "do or die!" murmured our hero, and he called for some line-smashing plays. they were given with a will, but there was a defense that was well-nigh impregnable, and murmurs of astonishment began to go around among the spectators. "they're as evenly matched teams as have ever played!" declared coach martin. "there may be no score." "oh, our boys have _got_ to score!" cried mr. spencer. back and forth the game see-sawed, the ball most of the time, save when there was an exchange of kicks, being in the centre of the field. it was a kicking game, and dick rejoiced that he had men who could be depended on to punt. again and again did the opposite sides hurl themselves against each other in the line, neither team being able to gain. then a kick would be called for. this made it interesting for the spectators, but it was wearing on the players. at last dick, in desperation, decided on some sequence plays. these were three maneuvers to come one after the other at a certain signal, there being no word given for each individual play. usually this was not done until the ball was within about twenty-five yards of the goal, when desperate work, to disconcert the opponents was necessary, but our hero thought he might now gain some ground in this way. "we've got to do it! pull together now!" called dick. this meant that three plays, previously decided on were to come without further word from the quarter-back. the plays were right half-back through right tackle, left tackle through right tackle and left half-back through right tackle, thus directing three smashing attacks in quick succession against the same place in the blue hill line. the first attempt did not gain much, but when frank rutley came at the unfortunate jean trainor, who had just sustained one tremendous smash, there was a clean ten yards reeled off. then, without a word being uttered, john stiver jumped for the same breach on the next line up, and fifteen yards were gained. kentfield's supporters nearly went wild, for her boys were now within striking distance of the enemy's goal. but there was an enraged crowd of opponents to be reckoned with, for the blue hill cadets were half frenzied with the trick that had been played on them, and dick knew he could not hope to work it again. he called for an end run, and it seemed as if it would result in a good gain, but george hall was downed before he had gone far. then came a smash at the blue hill centre, and to the dismay of dick, paul drew fumbled the ball. in an instant one of the blue hill players fell on it, and quickly booted it out of danger. there was a groan, and dick felt his heart sink. all their brilliant work in the sequence had gone for naught. the blue hill crowd went wild with delight. "line up!" called dick grimly, and once more he began his line-smashing tactics. but there was no gain, and a kick was called for. similarly the opponents of kentfield could not advance the ball, and they punted. then after some see-sawing work, time was called for the ending of the first half, with the ball on blue hill's forty-yard line. neither side had scored. "well, what do you think of 'em?" asked mr. martin of dick. "hard as nails," was the reply. "i fancy they have the same opinion of you," said mr. spencer. "but i think you can get one touchdown the next half. they are tiring. do you think you can risk another sequence play?" "i believe so. i'll try it on the other side next time." "i would, but wait until you're nearer their goal." the rest period seemed all too short for the tired players, but they came out on the gridiron again leaping, laughing and shouting, though some showed the marks of the conflict. there were shrill cries from many girls and women in the grandstands and dick, giving a quick glance up saw nellie fordice, mabel hanford and some of their friends. the second half began with a rush that meant business. each side tried the line-smashing, but found it as before, and there was much kicking. blue hill finally had the ball, and there was a moment's consultation before the signal was given. then came a terrific smashing play at paul drew. dick saw one of the blue hill players deliberately strike paul in the stomach with his elbow. poor drew went down in a heap, and over him climbed the man with the ball, making a six yard gain before he could be stopped. "a foul!" cried dick, and reported to the umpire what he had witnessed. but that official had seen nothing, or at least said he had not. "watch 'em!" warned dick to his players, while paul had some wind pumped back into him. "can you play?" asked mr. martin. "yes--of course!" was the half-fierce reply. once more came a smashing attack at the unfortunate left guard. his opponents had discovered his weakness. though he was not struck, the attack was so merciless that he could do nothing, and he had to be carried off the field, his weak condition being partly responsible, for his stomach still troubled him. "get in the game, natron," called dick, to the substitute guard, and then the blue hill attack was directed on the other side of the kentfield line. but there innis beeby was ready for them, and he tackled his man with such fierceness that time had to be taken out to restore his half-scattered senses. "they won't try any more slugging here," said the right guard grimly. but blue hill was evidently "out for blood," and the slugging went on. the umpire saw it once, and ordered the offender out of the game. all this while, however, the ball had been steadily advanced toward the kentfield goal, and after tom coleton had been knocked out, giving porter a chance to get back on his old position of left end, the advance was even faster. then, in one black and disheartening moment, came the fatal play. it was around porter's end, in spite of the desperate effort hal foster made to tackle the man, the ball was touched down, and the goal kicked. there were tears in the eyes of more than one kentfield player, and dick felt his heart sinking. but he grimly called on his men to respond, and for a time they had the ball in their enemy's territory. another of dick's men was knocked out, and two of the blue hill players had to retire. the time was getting short, and dick once more decided to use the sequence work, for with so many new cadets on the other side, he figured that they would not be prepared for them. the plays were rattled through, and this time with such relentlessness that in a short time the ball was within ten yards of the blue hill goal. "touchdown! touchdown!" came the imploring call from the kentfield grandstands. "touchdown it shall be!" thought dick fiercely. he sent innis beeby smashing through centre for three yards, and then, hoping dutton could make the remaining distance, passed the ball to him. right into the line smashed the big right half-back, but someone tackled him with a fierceness that sent him unconscious to the ground, the ball rolled from his arms, and a moment later a blue hill man had it, and was racing down the field with all the speed left in him. there was not a player to stop him, for all of dick's team had been drawn close in, hoping for the touchdown, and before they were aware of what was happening the man with the ball was on the forty-yard line. "catch him! we've got to catch him!" yelled dick. "it's another touchdown if we don't!" after him sprinted every man on the kentfield team, save dutton who was still stretched on the ground, and then, straggling after their opponents, came the blue hills in scattered formation. it was a foregone conclusion, for the kentfield players were so wearied with their recent line-smashing attack that they could hardly run, and with tears in their eyes they saw the ball again touched down back of their goal posts. they had been so near to scoring, only to see their hopes dashed from them, and on what was nearly a fumble. the goal was kicked and the score stood twelve to nothing against our friends. dutton was revived, but was unable to resume play, and a substitute went in. there were only a few moments of the game left. desperately dick called on his men for those last few minutes, and they did play to fierce advantage. there was some kicking, and when the kentfields had the ball they rushed it down the field so fast that they were soon within striking distance of their opponents' goal. then fate, in the shape of the time whistle blew, and the contest was ended. blue hill had won. chapter xxiii sore hearts "dick, i'm so sorry." it was paul drew who spoke, and he limped around the room where his chum sat staring gloomily out of the window into a mist of rain. the weather was in keeping with the hearts of the cadets of kentfield academy. "it was tough, wasn't it, dick?" "it was--very. i suppose i counted too much on winning that game. others didn't seem so much to matter. but blue hill----" "i know, dick," and paul spoke softly. "but they didn't play fair." "that's what lots of the fellows say, and i saw you hit once. i've no doubt but what there was more slugging--but that doesn't excuse us for not winning." "no, of course not, but----" paul was interrupted by a knock on the door. "come in," called dick, but there was no welcome in his tones. "say, old man, you act as though your best girl had sent back your letters unopened!" exclaimed ray dutton as he came in, wearing a bandage on his head, where he had been kicked in that last heart-breaking attack on the blue hill goal line. "don't be so down and out about it. kentfield has lost before, and lived through it." "yes, i suppose so," and dick turned aside from the contemplation of the gloomy weather outside. "but it--hurts." "of course it does, but all is not lost yet. we have a chance for the championship." "a mighty poor one." "well, it's a chance, isn't it? if we hadn't had so many men knocked out we could have won, even at that. blue hill made one touchdown against us by straight playing. we were about to do the same to her. then they got one on a fumble. it was my fault for being so silly as to be knocked out, but----" "it wasn't your fault at all!" cried dick. "no one could have played better than you did. that whack on the head was enough to bowl anyone over." "yes, i guess it was," admitted ray, as he gently felt of a lump the bandage covered. "and the way they handled paul was rotten," went on the captain. "oh, i'm not kicking," declared the plucky guard. "i'll be ready for 'em next time." "i'm glad there is a next time," spoke dick. "how do we stand, anyhow?" "there are several games yet," said dutton, "and we can win most of them easily. the only hard ones are with mooretown and the next one with blue hill. that's the last, and we need to win that and the mooretown contest to get the championship." "it's a big contract," said the young millionaire with a sigh. "oh, brace up!" cried dutton as cheerfully as he could. "here come some of the fellows. don't let 'em see you in the dumps, dick." our hero tried to look cheerful, but it was hard work. several of his players filed in. it was the day after the defeat by blue hill and there were sore bodies as well as sore hearts, for there had been more men knocked out in that desperate conflict than in any previous one. and, so said the senior cadets, there was no game ever played by kentfield in all the years of her history that was more fiercely fought. "blue hill has the best team in years," said innis beeby. "so have we!" cried jim watkins. "granted, and we're going to be the champions," went on the big guard. "but it sure does make me sore to be licked after we practically made all our preparations to do blue hill." dick brightened up when he saw that he was not the only one who took the defeat to heart, and the talk drifted to the various incidents of the game. it was agreed that blue hill had not played exactly fair in a number of instances, but it was decided to keep quiet about this. "they'll say we're soreheads if we kick," said paul. "i know one 'sorehead,'" remarked ray with a grimace as he felt of his wound. "but wait until next time!" the two coaches were disappointed but not discouraged. they had hoped, not only for their own prestige, but for the sake of the team, that blue hill would be defeated. "but i'm glad there's another chance at them," remarked mr. martin grimly to his colleague. "yes, i fancy blue hill will have to bring along plenty of substitutes when we meet them again," and mr. spencer smiled. "oh, the next game is at their grounds, you know." "well, that isn't so good for our chances, but even at that i have no fear of the result. if we can get our boys into shape, and their injuries heal, i would be willing to stake a good sum on our side, if i were a betting man." porter was one of the disappointed ones, because he had lost a large sum of money on the result. he talked much about it, and even seemed inclined to blame dick for the defeat. "if he had let me go in earlier they wouldn't have gained so much on us," he said boastfully. "oh, get out!" cried dutton in disgust. "why, one of the biggest gains they made was around your end, and it resulted in a touchdown. "well, my foot slipped." "and i guess the fellow's did who kicked me," said ray grimly. "but don't make any cracks like that porter. you're no better than the rest of us." "i'm not saying i am, but i want to play from the start of the game next time." he importuned dick to this end, as soon as active practice was resumed, but tom coleton was again available and the captain did not feel like displacing him. "he'd better look out, or i'll fix him!" threatened porter to his crony weston. "what do you mean?" "dick hamilton. he ought to let me play. i'll get square somehow." "oh, i wouldn't talk that way," said weston weakly. he wanted to be loyal to his team, yet he was under obligations to porter for he owed him a large sum of money. "you wouldn't do anything mean, would you?" he asked. "why doesn't hamilton let me play then?" inquired porter, not answering the question. "i don't know. you may have a chance for one half of the mooretown game." "i want to play the whole game--not half, and if i get knocked out it's my fault. but i'd like to see the fellow try to do any funny business with me," and porter shot out his jaw aggressively. he was quite a boxer in an amateur way. "well, don't do anything rash," cautioned his crony, but porter walked off, muttering to himself. gradually the soreness and stiffness of the players wore off toward the end of the week and they were practicing with their usual vim. though many had been on the hospital list, almost the entire varsity was available for a game the next saturday, when one of the league contests was played with ralston academy. kentfield won easily, and further clinched her chances for being the champion. but the hardest games--those of blue hill and mooretown were yet to come. of mooretown, dick had no fear as to the result, but blue hill was another matter. still he strengthened his heart when he saw his men in vigorous practice. "they certainly are a great team!" he exulted, "and they are as hard as nails." even in the gloom of defeat and in the preparation for gridiron battles yet to come, dick had not forgotten his father's troubles. he kept in communication with mr. hamilton, and learned that matters were temporarily at a standstill. "they can't get the controlling lot of stock from mr. duncaster, and neither can i," wrote dick's father. "so matters stand. but i have a new plan. i am coming to kentfield soon, and i'll see that obstinate gentleman myself." "dad coming here!" cried dick in delight as he read the letter to paul. "i hope he's in time for the mooretown game." chapter xxiv treachery mr. hamilton arrived at kentfield the day before the game with mooretown. dick welcomed his parent enthusiastically, and introduced him to all his chums, with whom the millionaire was soon on friendly terms. "you'll have a chance to see us play, dad!" cried the captain. "you'll go mooretown with us; won't you?" "to see you beaten?" asked mr. hamilton quizzically. "not much! we'll wipe up the gridiron with them!" cried ray dutton. "we've got to, if we want that loving cup," he added with a laugh, "and blue hill, too." "well, i guess i'll come," assented dick's father. "but i have some business to transact first." "i'm afraid you won't transact much of it," spoke dick in a low voice. "mr. duncaster is very obstinate." "how are you going to mooretown?" inquired mr. hamilton. "by special train. our manager has arranged for one. i did think of autos, but the roads are pretty poor and then we want to take a big crowd with us to 'root' for a win. so we'll go by train." "then i'll come along. now tell me about this mr. duncaster," and dick proceeded to do so, detailing his own visit, and that of mr. larabee. "hum! a hard man to do business with. still i've got to try, for it means a lot to me," and mr. hamilton sighed. dick noticed with regret that his father's face was much more wrinkled than it had been, and the gray hairs were more numerous. "the strain is telling on him," mused the lad. "i wonder what would happen if he lost all his money--and if i lost mine," for of late dick had transferred most of his funds to his father, to use in the electric road deal. in fact most of the hamilton fortune was now tied up in that line. "but i guess dad will make out," concluded our hero. "he has been in tight places before, and has always pulled through." mr. hamilton set off to see enos duncaster, and dick made his father promise to take dinner with him that night at the sacred pig where an impromptu spread had been arranged in honor of the visit of the millionaire. major webster colonel masterly, and several of the academy faculty had promised to attend. "it won't be much on the 'eat' line for you fellows and me," dick had warned them, "we can't break training until after we have wiped out the disgrace of the blue hill defeat, and that won't be for two weeks. then we'll have a feast that is a feast." "good!" cried innis beeby for he was fond of feasts, and suffered under the rigorous football regime. dick was waiting for his father's return from mr. duncaster's house that evening, sitting in his room trying to study. he was not making much headway for he was thinking of many things--of the game on the morrow--of the one with blue hill, and of what success his father would meet with. paul drew was out at a society meeting. there came a knock on the door, a timid hesitating sort of a knock, and dick, wondering who it could be, called out: "come in!" sam porter entered, first looking around the apartment to see that dick's roommate was not present. "are you busy, hamilton?" he asked, and there was that in his voice that caused dick to wonder at him. there was a thickness and a sort of leering familiarity that was unusual. "no, i'm not busy. come in and make yourself comfortable. there's an easy chair," and dick knocked a pile of books from one to make room for his visitor. "i want to ask a favor of you, hamilton, and i want you to grant it--understand?" and porter looked sharply at the captain. "i want you to promise." "i can't promise, until i hear what it is," said the young millionaire good-naturedly. "yes you can--if you want to--un'stand?" sam porter leaned forward. "you want to grant me this favor--un'stand," went on porter, "or you'll be sorry. sorry, see?" "what is it?" asked dick, trying not to show the disgust he felt. "i want to play in that mooretown game to-morrow--play full game--un'stand? i don't want to sit on side lines like some poor indian wrapped up in a blanket--i want to go in from start an' wallop them fellers. un'stand? i want to play. you can put me in as well as not. will you? it's favor, ham, an' if you don't do it, you'll be sorry!" "why?" asked dick, for there was a vague threat in the tones of his caller. "well, nev' min'. will you let me play?" porter was not himself. dick had never seen him thus, and he feared lest some of the teachers discover his condition. he thought it best to temporize with him. "i'll see what i can do," he promised good-naturedly. "come and see me in the morning. you'd better go to bed now." "go to bed?" and porter's voice rose. "why, wha's matter me? ain't i a'right?" "yes, but if you are to play to-morrow you'll need a rest. see me in the morning." "all right. i'll go. but if i can't play whole game you be sorry, ham. you're good feller--you let me play--be sorry if you don't--tha's all," and porter lurched from the room, while dick shook his head sorrowfully. mr. hamilton came up to dick's room about an hour later. it needed but a look at his face to see that his errand had proven a failure. "well?" asked dick, but he knew what the answer would be. "mr. duncaster wouldn't even talk to me when he learned what my object was," said the millionaire wearily. "i guess we can't do anything with him, dick. but never mind," he added more brightly, "i can try another scheme. they haven't got us beaten yet, dick, my boy!" dick put his father up in an apartment in the sacred pig after the little banquet. it was a gay affair in spite of the millionaire's disappointment, and the boys voted him a brick. porter approached the captain the next morning. he did not seem at all ashamed of his condition of yesterday. "well, hamilton, am i to play?" was the somewhat sharp question. "you'll have to take your chances with the other subs," was the young captain's answer. "i can't make any changes in the varsity now. i may after the first half, if we find mooretown easy enough." "yes, that's it!" sneered porter. "you'll only put me in on the easy games. i won't stand for it. either i play the full game, or off comes my suit for the season." "you can please yourself about that," and dick turned aside. "you'll be sorry for this!" muttered porter, as he walked away. the last arrangements had been made, the team and substitutes surrounded by the crowd of students who could not go to mooretown, had been cheered again and again, and grit had been decorated as a mascot. the crowd which was to accompany the players on the special train had all gathered, and the march to the depot was begun. mr. hamilton was with dick. "humph! our special hasn't pulled in yet," observed manager hatfield when the station was reached, and there were no cars in waiting "that's funny. the agent said it would be surely here ready for us. i'll ask him about it." dick was standing near the manager when he questioned the station master. that official seemed greatly surprised at the crowd of players and spectators. "your special train?" he exclaimed. "why you countermanded the order for it. the game was off, i understood, so i sent the engine and cars back." "sent them back!" cried dick. "how was that?' "why, i had them all here, and the engineer had steam up, waiting for you. about an hour ago one of your students came down here and said mooretown had cancelled the game, and that you weren't going to play. so, as i didn't want the special standing here in the way of the regular trains, i sent it back to the yard." "can we get it again?" asked hatfield, wondering what had happened. "not inside of several hours." "what sort of a student told you we didn't want it?" asked dick, excitedly. "a tall lad, rather stout, and with quite a good color--you know--sort of beefy." "porter!" whispered dick, involuntarily, and several heard him. "the special has been sent back, we can't get a train in several hours, and we're due at mooretown at two o'clock," spoke the manager. "they'll claim the game by forfeit if we don't show up, and then----" "good-bye to our chances for the championship," put in beeby gloomily. "there's been treachery here," murmured dick, as he gazed at the blank faces of his companions. "treachery! this is what sam porter meant when he said i'd be sorry." chapter xxv a desperate race for a few moments the surprise of the cadets was such that they could think of nothing to do. it seemed almost impossible that their plans should be defeated by such a simple means, yet such was the case. a look down the empty tracks showed not a sign of their special train, and further appeals to the agent only confirmed what he had first said. "it's no use, boys," he declared. "that special has been sent back and it will take a long time to get it again, even if i could. the train dispatcher made a certain schedule for it, and once that is busted it's hard to get it in shape again." "isn't there a regular train they can take?" asked mr. hamilton. "not for three hours." "and that will be too late," said paul dismally. "whew!" whistled george hall. "this is tough! let's wire mooretown and tell them what happened. they'll call the game off i'm sure, and not make it a forfeit for us." "what good would it do if they did?" asked jim watkins. "there are only two more games for us to play in the championship series. this one with mooretown and the one next saturday with blue hill. this is our only chance, and if we can't take it we won't get another one at mooretown, as they break training to-day, after this contest. no boys, it's all up with kentfield's chance at the trophy, i reckon." there was silence for a moment, but the cadets were doing some hard thinking. "that cad porter!" exclaimed innis beeby. "what could have induced him to play such a contemptible trick?" "i suppose because i wouldn't promise to let him go in for the full game to-day," replied dick reluctantly. "are you sure it was porter?" inquired paul. "he's about the only one who is capable of such a thing as this," said innis, looking at weston. "i'm going to make sure," spoke dick, and he inquired particularly of the agent as to the appearance of the cadet who had given the false information about there being no need of the special train. the detailed description left no room for doubt. it was porter. "and, now i come to think of it, the young man laughed as he was going away, after he heard me give the engineer of the special the orders that he wouldn't be needed," said the station agent. "he laughed; eh?" repeated dick. "yes, and i think he said something about a joke, but i can't be sure. anyhow i thought it was sort of funny to hear him chuckle when he was walking away, for i know how set you boys are on football, and i reckoned you'd be sorry if a game was cancelled. but i had other things to think of, getting the trains on their regular schedule after the special was out of the way, so i didn't pay much attention." "well, porter has put us in bad," declared ray dutton. "the sneak! i wish i had him here now." several glances were turned in the direction of the crony of porter, as if he might know something of him. weston flushed uneasily, but he rose to the situation. "fellows," he said earnestly, "i hope you don't think that i had any hand in this. porter and i have been thick, i know, but of late he hasn't had so much to do with me. but, on my honor, i never knew a thing about this. he never hinted it to me, or if he had i hope you will believe me when i say that i wouldn't have stood for it, and that i'd have told hamilton right away, so his mean plan could have been stopped. i hope you believe me." "of course we do, weston," said dick. "i'm afraid porter hasn't been himself lately. but let's forget about that now. the thing to do is to consider how we are going to get to mooretown." "how can we, without a train available?" asked beeby. "i don't know--i'm going to think," declared the captain with a brave effort to keep cheerful against heavy odds. "suppose you let me try," suggested mr. hamilton. "i know some of the higher railroad officials, and if i telegraph them they may be able to get a special back here in time for you to play." the boys brightened up at this, and the millionaire wrote several messages which the agent clicked off to headquarters. there was barely time, if a special arrived inside of half an hour, for the cadets to get to mooretown in season to play the game, but it was a small margin. "if we had carriages enough we could drive," said hal foster. "the wagon road to mooretown is shorter than the railroad line." "we never could do it in time," objected frank rutley. at this moment the agent came out from the office with several telegrams in his hand. "i'm sorry," he announced, "but they say at headquarters, mr. hamilton, that they'd like to oblige you and the boys, but two hours is the shortest time in which they can get the special in shape again. no engineer is available." once more dull hopelessness fell upon the boys. dick was almost in despair. he saw all his plans of being captain of a championship football team being dashed to the ground. it was a bitter blow. the two coaches, likewise, were much disappointed, for it would be not a little to their credit to have whipped into first class shape a team that, the season before, was the tail-ender of the military colleges. the young captain was pacing up and down the depot platform. his companions left him alone for a space for they knew how he felt. "well," began dick after a pause, "i guess----" he did not finish the sentence, but stood in a listening attitude. from down the road there came a steady hum and roar that told of some approaching vehicles. "automobiles," remarked paul drew. "if we had enough of them----" an instant later there swung into view around the bend in the road four big auto trucks, new ones, each in charge of a man. the trucks were powerful ones, designed to carry heavy loads a long distance and they glistened with new paint, while in gold letters on their sides was the name of a business firm in a large city just beyond mooretown. at the sight of these--of their ample capacity--large enough to take the team and the crowd with them, dick's heart gave a bound. he made up his mind instantly. "fellows!" he cried, "if those men will hire me those trucks we'll play mooretown yet. i'm going to see!" "hurray!" cried george hall, and mr. hamilton smiled in a gratified way at the quick wit of his son. "i say!" cried the young millionaire, stepping out in front of the first truck and holding up his hand, "will you do us a favor?" "what's this--a--hold up?" asked the man good-naturedly, as he jammed on the brakes. "yes, we're held up--our special has gone--we've got to get to mooretown soon or we forfeit the championship game. will you take us in those trucks? i'll pay you well, and stand for all damage. will you?" his voice was eager, and the man, who had been a boy himself once, and fond of sport, was visibly impressed. "i'd like to oblige you," he said slowly, "but i don't know as i can. you see i'm in charge of these four trucks. i work for the auto firm that built them, and the flour company in denville that purchased them made an agreement that before they would accept them, the machines must be run from the factory to their place. that's what i and my men are doing now. the flour concern wanted to test the running gear, and it will be a good test all right." "it will be a better test with a load of us fellows in," said dick with ready wit. "i suppose so," admitted the man, scratching his head, "but i don't know as the flour firm would like it. there might be some damage, and----" "i'll stand for it!" put in mr. hamilton quickly. "i'm mortimer hamilton, of hamilton corners." though he spoke quietly his words had an instant effect for the man had evidently heard of the millionaire. "is that so?" asked the chief auto driver quickly. "i know you. i own two shares of stock in your electric road. simpson is my name--ruddy simpson. i hope the rumors that the road is going to fail aren't true, mr. hamilton." "the road will never fail, if i have to sink in it every dollar i own!" cried mr. hamilton. "but we've got other business in hand now. can you take these boys to the game?" "i'll do it!" suddenly cried mr. simpson. "i'll take a chance. hop in boys, and i'll get you there on time if the gasolene holds out. we've got to pass through mooretown to denville. hop in!" "hurrah!" cried the now hopeful cadets, and they piled into the four big trucks. they had to stand up, and there was considerable crowding, but they did not mind this, and there was room for all. "now for the game!" cried dick as the ponderous machines started off, the station agent waving a farewell. "i guess this will put a spoke in porter's wheel," murmured beeby. "he'll feel sick to think that we got to the game after his mean trick." "we're not there yet," remarked dick a bit dubiously, for he knew the eccentricities of autos. "we've got to make pretty good time, and there are several hills to climb." "don't let them hills worry you," said mr. simpson. "i helped build these trucks, and i know what they can do. we'll take any hill you can give us, with a heavier load than this on. only, of course, we haven't an awful lot of speed. but i'll push them to the limit. turn on all you can!" he called back to the three men. "sure!" they shouted in reply, and the motors hummed and throbbed under the strain. for the first few miles the roads were good, and speedy time was made, so that dick ceased some of his worry lest they arrive too late. then a sandy stretch was encountered, and the motors whined out a protest, but they kept on. "think you can do it?" asked the captain of the man in charge. dick and the team and substitutes, together with his father, were in the first machine. "oh, we'll do it," was the reply, and mr. simpson's voice had a confidence he did not altogether feel. it was no small responsibility, for it was a desperate race against the fleeting minutes and hours. after the sand, came a good piece of highway, and then a stiff hill, but the trucks made it safely and at fair speed. "we'll do it!" announced mr. simpson after about two hours. "there's one long hill now after this one we're climbing and then we can coast down into mooretown." "good!" cried dick, and he felt some of the strain of anxiety leaving him. a few minutes later, when the foremost auto had reached the crest of the rise, the driver of the truck containing dick and the team remarked, as he pointed ahead: "there's mooretown, but you can't see the cadet football field yet." "oh, i guess they'll be there expecting us," replied the young captain. down the other side of the long slope started the first truck, the others following in procession. "well, we did better than i expected we would," remarked mr. simpson. "these trucks----" he stopped suddenly, as a sharp jar and crash came from somewhere in the mechanism of the machinery. the brakes had been set as the descent was begun, and the car had been traveling slowly, but now a sudden increase in speed was noticed. "what's the matter?" asked mr. hamilton quickly. "aren't we going a bit too fast down hill?" inquired mr. martin. the driver shut his lips with a grim tightening. he yanked back on the brake handle with all his force. then a startled look came over his face. "the brake rod is broken!" he cried. gathering speed the ponderous truck, with its load of humanity--the cadet football team shot down hill, bumping over stones and hollows, swerving from side to side, the steering wheel making the firm hands of the driver tremble. "haven't you got two brakes?" gasped dick. "yes--got the foot on one--she won't hold her with this load," was the panting answer. "can't we jump out before it goes any faster?" asked hal foster. "stay where you are!" fairly shouted the man. "maybe i can guide her down." he was tooting the horn frantically to warn possible approaching vehicles that his was out of control. fortunately the hill was straight, and a level stretch at the bottom gave promise of a long coast that might check the awful speed the car would have when it reached the foot of the declivity. faster and faster went the runaway truck, and now from behind came the frantic calls of the other cadets who realized the danger to their football team. and there was grave danger--danger that could not be avoided, for simpson, yanking again and again on the brake lever, only made more certain that it would not work, and the foot brake was pitifully inadequate to check the now rushing vehicle. chapter xxvi another game there was silence for a time among the cadets of the football team--silence broken only by the whirr and hum of the machinery as it ran free, for the gasolene had been shut off. under the big tires crunched the small stones and gravel of the road. "can't you start the motor and hold her back on the reverse?" shouted dick above the noise. simpson shook his head. "i'd rip her all to pieces if i did," he answered. "queer about that brake rod snapping. that's not in my department, but i'd like to get hold of the man that inspected and tested it," he added grimly. "i'd break him!" dick looked into the faces of his chums. there was a quiet, strained look in all of them, but none of them showed craven fear. he glanced at his father, and mr. hamilton smiled at his son. "i guess we won't be behind hand now," he said. "no," and dick shook his head. then he glanced over the side of the truck and noted how the trees were slipping by. they were going at ever-increasing speed. luckily they met no other vehicles on the hill, or there might have been trouble. the auto drivers in the rear, finding they could do nothing were keeping up as close as they could, to render any assistance if possible. it was well that the speeding truck was strongly and ponderously made, and that it was hung low, otherwise it would have toppled over. as it was they all swayed from side to side dangerously, tossing the occupants against one another. "good practice for the coming game," remarked dutton. "i hope it doesn't take their nerve," said mr. martin in a low voice to his colleague. "this may have a fearful effect." "their nerves are good," declared the princeton coach, "but i wish this was over. there's a good bit yet to go, and we'll travel faster at the end, for the hill is steeper there." mr. martin silently nodded, and then looked ahead. as he did so he could not refrain from a startled cry, for the hill took a sudden, steep dip, and it seemed impossible for any auto not under control to make it successfully. before any one could do anything, had it been possible, the car was at the dangerous descent. simpson drew in his breath sharply and grasped the steering wheel with firmer grip. "whew!" whistled paul drew. "this is awful!" dick said nothing, but he moved up closer to his father. fear was clutching his heart, for he dreaded lest that all be killed. "this is about the end!" gasped the driver, as the steeper part of the hill came to an end. "the worst is over." the cadets could now look ahead, and see a level stretch. they were beginning to breathe easier. "once i'm on that i'll be all right," went on the driver. he reached it a moment later, but the speed of the ponderous car was not checked much. it had too great momentum. suddenly dick gave a cry of fear, and pointed forward. they all saw it at the same time. three hundred feet away was a narrow bridge and at that moment there appeared on it, turning in from a side road, a man driving a team of horses attached to a light carriage. and, as the cadets looked, the horses seemed possessed with sudden fright at the view of the oncoming auto. they reared, and the driver had all he could do to hold them in. then one animal, worse than its mate, kicked over the traces and, coming down, got tangled in the harness. it fell heavily, right in the centre of the bridge, dragging down its mate. the man leaped out to go to the heads of the horses, and, as he saw the approaching auto he held up his hand and shouted a warning. "stop! stop!" he cried. "i can't!" yelled back simpson. "cut the harness! push the horses off the bridge!" the man was working frantically. simpson gave a last desperate yank on the brake lever. it was still out of commission, as he knew it would be. there seemed to be no escape from the impending crash which might mean death for a number of them. "i'm going to jump!" cried george hall, worming his way to the rear of the truck, which was going almost as fast as when on the hill. "don't you do it!" cried dick, with all the energy he possessed. "here, simpson, turn into that hayfield! make for the stack! run the auto into it! that will stop us without damage!" "by gasolene! i believe you're right!" yelled the driver. "i'll do it. it's our only hope." "but the fence! the fence!" shouted paul. "we'll smash into it!" for a rail fence shut off from the road the field at which dick had pointed. "that fence!" yelled simpson in supreme contempt. "i'll smash it into kindling wood! hold fast everybody! here we go!" a moment later he had swung the car toward the hayfield. fortunately it was on a level with the road, or the front part of the auto would never have sustained the shock. through the fence the ponderous machine crashed as if it were paper. the next instant the big car plowed straight into a big stack of hay. like so many rubber balls, the football players were thrown forward against one another, and dick and the two coaches were tossed out into the fragrant timothy. then a cheer burst from the other cadets in the three following trucks which had come to a stop. for they saw that their comrades were safe. the man on the bridge had succeeded in disentangling his horses and they were now quiet. simpson leaped from his seat, which he had managed to maintain, and looked under the truck. "i knew it!" he cried. "brake rod busted. oh, if i had the man who made that!" "can we go on?" asked dick anxiously as he picked himself up from the hay. "wouldn't dare to without this brake rod being fixed" replied the driver. "there are more hills." "here, you football fellows get in one of these other trucks. we'll pile out and walk to the grounds--it's not far," called percy haddon. "that's the stuff!" shouted manager hatfield. "we haven't any too much time. are you boys all right?" "sure," answered paul with a laugh. "we're ready to play the game of our lives." "that's right!" came in a chorus from the others. now that the strain was over there was a bit of hysterical feeling, but it soon passed away. little time was lost in making the transfer. the football team and the substitutes got in one of the other trucks and were soon being whizzed off to the grounds. the other two trucks, containing as many of the remaining cadets as could squeeze into them, pressed on, and only a few had to walk the remaining distance. simpson backed his truck out of the hayfield which had practically saved a number of lives that day. then the driver began work at repairing the brake rod, his companions promising to return for him when they had taken the cadets to the grounds. nor would simpson accept any pay for the services he had rendered that day. "i've got stock in your road, mr. hamilton," he said, "though it is only two shares. this was a good test of the trucks, and i'm glad only a brake rod busted. it was better to happen now than after i had delivered 'em. i'm satisfied." the mooretown cadets were becoming anxious about the non-appearance of their opponents, for the hour for the game was fast approaching, when dick and his players came running out on the gridiron. they were greeted with a rousing cheer, for, though the rules called for the forfeiting of a contest to the non-appearing team, the mooretown cadets were true sportsmen and hated to take this advantage. "jove! but i'm glad you fellows came!" cried the mooretown captain as he wrung dick's hand. "we were horribly afraid you wouldn't show up. what was the matter? i thought you were coming by special train." "we were, but there was a mix-up and we had to charter these autos. but we're here and we're going to beat you!" "yes, you are!" and the home captain laughed. "well, i'll show you the dressing rooms. we've got a smashing big crowd here to-day and the weather is just right. it would have been a shame to disappoint 'em." "well, it's too bad to have 'em see you defeated, but it can't be helped," said dick with mocking seriousness and they both laughed. the fright of the dangerous ride was fast passing away from all of the kentfield team. they were soon in their suits and out on the gridiron practicing. meanwhile the mooretown lads were at work with the ball, and the kentfield coaches were critically sizing them up. "not nearly as fast as our lads," declared mr. martin. "that's right. i don't expect a walkover, but there ought to be no question as to who is going to win--unless this auto affair has got on the nerves of our lads." the crowd continued to arrive. the grandstands were like some gorgeous sunset in appearance, with the hats of the pretty girls, and the waving of flags and banners. cheers and songs, made music in keeping with the day. "line-up!" came the cry, and when the whistle blew, and the ball was kicked off, twenty-two figures clad in earth-stained suits made a mad dash for each other. the game was on. from the time of the first scrimmage dick knew that his team had the contest safe, for one smashing through the line of mooretown told the story. the men had over-trained and had gone "stale." on the other hand the kentfield lads were as fresh as the proverbial daisies. "take her along for a touchdown, boys!" ordered the captain, and down the field the ball was worked in a steady succession of rushes. in vain did mooretown try to stem the tide against them. once, when their goal line was almost reached, they did brace, and dick began to plan a trick play. but it was not needed, for the next moment dutton was shoved over for the touchdown, and the crowd of kentfield students went wild with delight. the goal was kicked easily, and then began the hammer and tongs work again. once again that half kentfield made a touchdown, not as easily as at first, for mooretown had waxed desperate, but it was made. not that it was all "pie" to quote dick, but they had the "measure" of their opponents, and they began to see the championship looming clearly before them. twelve to nothing was the score in favor of kentfield at the end of the first half, which came to a close with the ball once more almost over the mooretown line. there were sore hearts among the players on the home team, and dick and his lads knew just how their opponents felt, but it was a fair game, with no quarter and it was the fortunes of war. "i'm afraid you're going to make good," said the mooretown captain to the young millionaire, as the second half started. "we've just _got_ to," answered dick. "we want that gold cup." hammering away again, the kentfield lads advanced the ball. mooretown got it on a fumble once, and did some pretty work in punting, but it was of no avail. again they had the pigskin because of the penalty inflicted on a too eager kentfield player, and they made a desperate try for a field goal, but it fell short. after that there was no more danger to our friends, and they kept the ball advancing by steady rushes, or, to rest his men, dick would call for a forward pass. again and yet again was the mooretown goal line crossed, amid the frantic cheers of the kentfield contingent, and when the final whistle blew the score was twenty-nine to nothing. "victory!" cried dick in exultation, as he hugged as many of his players as he could. "now for blue hill next saturday and we'll have such a feast as never was at kentfield before!" chapter xxvii dick is summoned the kentfield cadets accepted the invitation of their late opponents, to stay and see them break training. "as long as we didn't have a chance at the championship i'm glad you fellows have," confided captain russell of mooretown to dick. "of course we'd have liked to have beaten you chaps, but i guess we over-trained. we haven't any regular coaches, and we did the best we could." "you sure did," assented dick heartily. "it's too bad you went back. you were fine early in the season." "i know it, and that shows that it pays to have regular coaches who know their business. how in the world did you fellows manage to get martin and spencer?" "oh, we worked it by a forward pass," replied the young millionaire with a laugh. there was jolly fun at mooretown that night, in spite of the defeat. the team burned their suits at a big bonfire, and danced around the blaze like indians, singing college songs and cheering their opponents who, in turn shouted for their plucky but unfortunate enemies. then came a long and rather dreary ride back to kentfield in a way-train that stopped at every station. but the boys enlivened the trip by songs and cheers so that they were not very lonesome. "well dick, i must get back in the morning," said mr. hamilton to his son when they said good-night in dick's room. "you won't try to see duncaster again?" "no, it would be of little use. he is evidently set in his ways. my only hope is that he doesn't turn over to the other side. if he does----" the millionaire paused. "well?" asked dick suggestively. "the hamilton fortune will be a thing of the past, son." "as bad as that?" mr. hamilton nodded. "but i'm not going to give up," he declared. "i have some other irons in the fire, and i may be able to forge them to the shape i want. it's going to be hard work, though, and it would be much easier if i had the duncaster stock. by the way, you say that porter chap, whose father is working against us, attends here?" "yes, but i fancy he won't after to-morrow," said dick significantly. he was right. sam porter's room was vacant the next day, and he left no word of where he had gone. he knew his trick had been discovered, and that it had gone for naught. several days later he sent a note to his former crony weston, asking to see him, but weston refused. "i was his friend once," he said to dick, "but i'm done with him now. i'm for the football team first, last and forever!" "and you're one of our best players!" exclaimed the young captain heartily, for he appreciated what it meant to break with porter. football matters at kentfield were now drawing to a close. there was but one more game to play--that of blue hill, but in the eyes of the cadets it was the most important of the season because of what the outcome carried with it. there was a tie for the championship between our hero's football eleven and that of the academy which had sent the insulting letter that resulted in such a change of policy. "get ready for the last week of practice," ordered coach martin, on the monday following the mooretown game. "it's going to be hard, too, but i don't want any one to over-train. take it a bit easy when you find yourself tiring." "yes, we want you in the pink of perfection saturday," added mr. spencer. there followed days of the most careful preparation. it was like getting ready for the final great battle between two rival armies. football suits were looked to, for a rip in a jacket or a sweater might spoil a play at a critical point. the lads replaced the worn cleats on their shoes, that they might brace themselves when the blue hill players hurled themselves at the kentfield line. as for their physical condition, the cadets were looked over by the trainers and coaches as if they were race horses. tender ankles were carefully treated and bandaged. sprains were rubbed in the most scientific manner, and did any one complain of a little indisposition the coaches were up in alarm. and the boys were in the "pink of condition." never had they felt finer nor more able to do battle for the championship. never were they more confident, for, somehow, dick had talked them into the firm belief that they were going to win. as for our hero, he had a worry that he kept to himself, and, now that his father had returned to hamilton corners, the lad let it prey on his mind even more than he had when the millionaire was at the academy. "our fortune in danger," mused dick. "that sure is tough luck. not that money is everything, or really much in this world. but, after you've gotten used to having it, i guess it's hard to spin along without it. but perhaps it won't be so bad as dad fears. i would certainly hate to give up my steam yacht, and i may have to leave kentfield. whew! that would pull a lot!" and he sat staring in moody silence at the walls of his tastefully decorated room. there was a movement at dick's feet and grit half arose to poke his cold nose into his master's listless hand. the lad started. "grit, old boy!" he murmured and the animal whined in delight. "whatever happens they can't take you from me," went on the young millionaire. "but there's rex. maybe i can't afford to keep a horse. oh, but i'd hate to part with him!" he could not keep back just a suspicion of tears from his eyes, as he stroked the short ears of the bulldog, who seemed to know that something was amiss. "oh, well, what's the use of crying over spilled milk before you come to the bridge!" dick exclaimed at length. "i'm not going to worry until it's time; and that isn't yet. guess i'll go for a canter on rex. that will clear the cobwebs away." he was soon galloping over the country, glad to be alone for a little while to think over the problems that were bothering him. as the noble animal galloped along around the lake path, and dick felt the cool november wind on his cheeks, somehow there came to him a feeling of peace. "after all, it may come out right," he whispered as he patted the neck of the horse. "and i'm going to have one more try at duncaster. i won't undertake to see him. i'll write him a letter and explain some things he doesn't understand. maybe it will just pull him the right way." the thought was an inspiration to him, and he turned rex about and galloped to the stables. "well, what's all the correspondence about dick?" asked paul that evening, as his chum was busily scratching away in their room. "i thought you answered miss hanford's last letter yesterday." "humph! seems to me you've been doing something in the way of writing letters yourself. but this is business. i'm making a last appeal to duncaster." dick was not very hopeful as he mailed the epistle to hardvale. it was the day of the blue hill game, and final practice, save for a little "warm-up" on the gridiron, just before time should be called, had been held. the coaches had issued their last instructions, dick had given his men a little talk, and all that could be done had been done. "it's do or die now," grimly remarked the young captain. "we're fit to the minute." "have you heard from duncaster?" asked paul. "no, and i don't expect to. he'll keep the stock i expect, or trade it to the porter crowd. it was a slim chance, but it didn't make good." "well," remarked paul, a little later, when dick had been nervously pacing about the room. "i suppose we might as well go out on the gridiron." "it's a bit early," objected dick. "the blue hill crowd won't be here for an hour yet." there came a knock on the door, and toots stood there saluting between the strains of "marching through georgia." "telegram for you, mr. hamilton--it came collect," announced the janitor. "humph. can't be from dad, he always pays his messages," remarked dick, as he handed over the money, and tore open the envelope. when he had read the few words he gave a gasp of astonishment. "what's the matter?" asked paul quickly. "bad news." "no. good!" cried dick. "listen. this is from mr. duncaster--no wonder he sent it collect. he says: 'have your letter. i will grant your request and sell you the stock. come and see me at once, as i am leaving for europe for my health. i go to-night.'" "then you'd better hustle out to hardvale!" cried paul. "hurray! that's great." slowly dick crushed the telegram in his hand. "i can't go," he said slowly. "why not?" "i haven't time to go out there and get back to play the game--and--i'm going to play the game!" chapter xxviii "line up!" paul, looked at dick hamilton with something a little short of open-mouthed wonder. he could not understand him. he realized the vital necessity of the hamilton forces getting control of the trolley stock that mr. duncaster held. now, when the opportunity offered, dick calmly turned it down. "do you know what you're saying, dick?" asked his roommate. "this is the only chance you'll have--perhaps to save your father's fortune." "i know it." "and you're not going?" "what? and desert the team in the face of the biggest game of the year? i guess not. dad wouldn't want me to." "some one can play in your place--perhaps for half the game. you could go out in an auto and back in a short time." "of course i might, but i'm not going to," and the young millionaire, who might not be a lad of wealth much longer, calmly looked to see if his canvas jacket needed any last attention. "if i went out there it would take some time to arrange about the transfer of the stock, and i never could get back in season to play the game. besides i want to start off with the boys from the first kick against blue hill." "i don't blame you--but--it's a big price to pay." "i know it, but it's worth all it will cost. why i couldn't leave now, practically in the face of the enemy. i may not be a whole lot to the team, and probably there are fellows on the scrub who can play quarter-back as well, if not better, than i can. but i've trained with the boys all season. i'm their captain, however unworthy, and i've got to stick by 'em. it would be treason to go now. i've got to stick." "but can't you do something? can't you send duncaster some word? he says he leaves to-night. telegraph him that you'll see him directly after the game. explain how things stand, and maybe he'll make allowances." "i will," decided dick, "but i haven't much hope. he is very much set against football, and he has no especial love for me. i can't understand why he should give in about the stock. perhaps he feels that he must close up some of his business matters if he is going away. then, too, dad's offer may be better than the one porter made him. i can't understand it, but i'll take a chance and send him a wire, asking him to meet me after the game." "have you got the cash to pay for the stock?" asked paul. "oh, i can give him a check to bind the bargain, and dad can settle with him later. i haven't as much in the bank as i had, for i let dad invest it in the electric line." "then you stand to lose too, if you don't get duncaster's stock." "yes, but what of it? if we win this game, and kentfield is the champion of the league, i'd be willing to lose almost all i had. i fancy dad left an offer with mr. duncaster, better than his first one, of an advance of ten per cent., and instructed the crabbed old chap to let him know when he was ready to accept it. instead, he sends me word, and i--well, i'm not going--that's all. that is not until after the game. it's what dad would want me to do--he'll understand," said dick softly. "well, you've got nerve--that's all i've got to say," complimented paul admiringly. dick wrote his telegram, and he took the precaution to give toots the money to prepay it. "duncaster might refuse it, if it went collect," he remarked with a grim smile. "i can't take any chances. then, toots, arrange to have a speedy taxicab waiting for me at the end of the game. i'll make a bee-line for hardvale as soon as the last whistle blows," he explained to paul. "want to come along?" "sure." it was almost time to go out on the gridiron now. dick gave one brief and half-regretful thought to the opportunity he might be missing. then he murmured: "well, the game--from now on!" he had no idea of wiring his father the news, but he felt that after all it would be better to explain it personally. "if dad was only where he could make a jump to hardvale he could clinch the deal," he mused, "but it's impossible." "hark! what's that?" cried paul as they were about to leave their room. it was the sound of a swelling, boisterous cry--a joyful shout--a challenge. "the blue team has arrived!" exclaimed dick. "come on! now for the battle!" already there was quite a crowd in the grandstands, and more people were arriving every minute. the ticket takers had their hands full, and the ushers were as busy as bees. for rumors of the fierce game that was likely to be played had prevailed for the last two weeks, and there was every indication of a record-breaking crowd. "our treasury will be filled!" cried the manager of kentfield with exultation. "this is a great day for us--even if we don't win." "we're going to!" declared dick with conviction. as dick turned around he saw a tall, well-formed young man approaching him. something about the face seemed familiar, and, as the newcomer smiled, dick remembered. "hello, larry dexter!" he exclaimed. "where in the world did you blow from? sent to report the game?" "no, but i wish i was. i'm up here on a mystery case and, as i had a little time to spare i thought i'd see you fellows win. i heard about the game. go in and beat!" "thanks! we're going to try. say, but i am glad to see you, larry. come on over here and i'll see that you get a good seat. or would you rather be on the side lines?" "on the side lines i think." and dick soon arranged so that his reporter friend would have a good place. "see you later," he called as he went back on the field. "i'm afraid not," answered larry. "i'll have to get away in a hurry. i've got an appointment, but i'll stay long enough to see you pile up a good score," and though dick looked for his friend after the game, he did not see him. "who is that?" asked paul, as dick joined him. "that's larry dexter. one of the best reporters in new york. i met him when i was there, right after i got my fortune. he's a fine chap. but it's about time for the blue hill crowd to arrive." those of you who have read my larry dexter series need no introduction to the hero of those books. larry was a farm boy, who had an ambition to become a reporter on a big new york paper. in the book "from office boy to reporter," i told how he did this, and in the other books of the series i related some of his strange adventures. the blue hill cadets had come on a special train, and the team drove up from the station in a large carry-all that had been provided for them by dick and his chums. a few days before the game the plans had been changed so as to bring the contest to kentfield instead of having it on the blue hill gridiron. "well, you're on time, i see," said our hero, as he shook hands with captain haskell of blue hill. haskell had been newly elected, to take the place of a friend who had unexpectedly been called away. "yes, and we're got our winning suits on." "well, we'll see about that," responded dick with a quiet smile. "now if you'll step over here we can arrange the details, and then both sides can have some practice." "sure," and a little later with the two coaches representing kentfield, and two from blue hill, the captains conferred. "i presume blake will be all right for umpire," said mr. norton one of the visiting coaches. "you mean george blake--who umpired in our last game?" asked mr. spencer quickly. "that's the one." "we'd prefer some one else," said mr. spencer quietly, before dick could interpose the objection that was on his lips. "you don't like him? why?" asked captain haskell quickly, with some wrath. "because he doesn't see all that goes on in the line," was the calm answer of the princeton coach. "i don't believe it is necessary to say more." "well, if i----" "it's all right," broke in coach norton for blue hill. "if you object to him, we'll take some one else. how will jacob small do?" "of lehigh?" "yes." "we'll accept him gladly," assented mr. spencer. "now as to the other officials," and they were quickly settled upon. "heads or tails?" asked dick, as he prepared to spin the coin for choice of goals. "um--heads," spoke captain haskell quickly, as the quarter went spinning into the air. "heads it is," announced dick without a tremor in his voice. the first little indication of fate had gone against him, but it could not be helped. he hoped to get the choice, as there was no wind blowing, and naturally no advantage in goals, so that the winner of the toss could elect to have the other side kick off if he liked. dick had planned to let blue hill kick if he had won the say of the spinning coin, but it was not to be. which would haskell select? there was a moment's hesitation as the rival captain tested the wind with a moistened, up-lifted finger. then he announced his choice. "we'll take the north goal. you fellows can kick off!" "all right," spoke dick and he tried not to show the little disappointment in his voice. "then as it's all settled we can get to practice." dick had hoped to get possession of the ball immediately after the kick off and by a series of whirlwind rushes demoralize his opponents. now he would have to change his plans. "well, we'll see how we can hold them," he said to paul, as they went over to their side of the field to run through some plays. there was fast, snappy, preliminary work. dick paused once or twice to observe his opponents. "no sign of them going stale," he reflected. the hour for play had come. the officials had settled all the details. the new ball had been blown up, and the cover laced tightly. carrying it in his hand the referee advanced to the centre of the field and handed it to dick. "are you ready?" the official asked. the young millionaire nodded. "line up!" called the referee as dick handed the ball to innis beeby to kick off. chapter xxix hammer and smash with a graceful curve the pigskin sailed down the field, high over the heads of the eager, waiting blue hill lads, beyond even their full-back who had not stationed himself far enough in the rear. he had to do a nimble sprinting act before he was ready to receive the spheroid on his ten yard line. then, tucking the leather close to his chest, and with head well down he ran low back toward the kentfield goal. "get to him, boy, get to him!" cried dick. "we mustn't let 'em gain an inch if we can help it." like hounds from the leash, the young millionaire and his companions raced toward their quarry, and an instant later the two eager advancing lines met, eleven straining lads trying to bore in through ten others and get at the man with the ball. frank rutley got him--it was tod kester, the big centre and tod went down, a young mountain of flesh piling on top of him and the plucky left tackle. now the real battle was about to begin, and the engagement was not long in opening. "all ready. kansas city--four hundred--six--eleven--twenty-six!" thus the sharp tones of joe bell the blue hill quarter, as he signalled his men. then came a rush and there was a terrific impact on that part of the kentfield line guarded by paul drew and frank rutley. it was a strain, but they stood it, and the wave of struggling humanity, in the centre of which was the blue hill left-half with the ball, was dashed back. "no gain! that's good!" muttered dick. "we're holding 'em!" again came the signal, and once more that terrific impact, but this time on the other side tackle and guard. evidently blue hill was trying to find the weak spots. still again did kentfield withstand it, and tossed back into their own territory their aggressive enemies. "watch out for a fake kick," dick warned his chums, and they closed in--all but hal foster the full-back, who would not be drawn in to his disadvantage. there was a quick signal, and a forward pass was tried. it came at a time when dick and his chums were expecting either a kick or a fake kick, and showed what chances blue hill was willing to take. but they made good, for they gained several yards, and had the ball this much nearer kentfield's goal. dick felt a little sinking feeling at his heart, but he smiled bravely. "we'll stop 'em next time," he said grimly. hammering and smashing again became the order of play, and at kentfield's line came the blue hill lads with bulldog tenacity. but they had no weaklings to meet, and after a try through drew and rutley again, they endeavored to circle weston's end. but the former crony of porter was on the alert and like a snake he wiggled through the protecting interference and got his man when only one yard had been gained. then to give his men a breathing spell captain haskell called for a kick, the ball being punted to kentfield's fifteen yard line. tom coleton ran it back five yards before he was downed by a fierce tackle from ned buchanan, and then dick and his mates had a chance to show what they could do. "smash 'em! smash 'em!" murmured paul in memory of his former game. "everybody keep cool," counseled dick. "we don't want any penalties. play a clean game. get ready now." in snapping tones he called the signal. it indicated that some sequence plays were to be tried--plays for which no further intimation would be given. between left tackle and guard plunged ray dutton, and before he could be stopped he had planted the ball five yards in advance toward blue hill's goal. another line up, and hal foster came plunging through a big hole that had been torn for him between centre and right guard. on and on he came, wiggling and squirming to gain every inch. in vain did captain haskell call on his men to stop the play. kentfield seemed irresistible, and eight yards were reeled off, the grandstand contingent of our friends going wild with delight. but dick and his mates paid little attention to this. they had other matters to occupy them. there was another play to be made. in silence, broken only by their panting breaths, the cadets again lined up, and as jim watkins passed the ball back to dick, the latter shoved it into the waiting arms of john stiver. john was on the run and with the aid of rutley he sprang eagerly into the hole between the opposing left tackle and end, being preceded by dutton who saw that the way was clear. it was a smashing attack, delivered at the right moment, tom coleton following in to see that no fumble was made. but none was, and ten clean yards were ripped off, a bigger gain than blue hill had yet made. "now, again, boys!" yelled dick in delight, and now he gave the signal for an end run, that his panting lads might have some relief. it was dutton's cue to take the ball around to the blue hill right end. but this was not so successful, as several of the opposing players were on the alert and were ready to nail him. he ran to one side and was actually forced back a yard before he went down. "it might be worse," said dick cheerfully. "we'll try it differently this time." an on-side kick netted a good gain, and then came a forward pass, which was not so successful. there was a fumble--just whose fault it was could not be said--and one of the blue hill players fell on the ball while wild yells from their supporters told of the joy in their camp. "watch out now!" warned dick again. but there was no kicking or trick play. blue hill was evidently going to depend on her slightly superior weight, and retain her line-smashing tactics. at kentfield she came with a rush that carried her opponents off their feet for the time. "hold! hold!" yelled dick desperately, and his men tried to do so. "go on! go on!" screamed haskell. "smash 'em to bits, but get through!" dick was watching for any slugging, but his opponents seemed to be playing a clean game. on came the man with the ball, and twelve yards had been ripped out through the very centre of the line of our heroes before they managed to nail tom hughes, who was worming his way forward with the pigskin. so terrific was the next impact that paul drew went down and out and a pail of water was hastily called for. he was well soaked and massaged, until his breath came back with a gasp. "can you stay in?" asked dick anxiously. "sure!" panted paul, but his voice was not as strong as his captain would liked to have heard it. "stand by him," whispered the young millionaire to frank rutley. "they may try to put him out again." full two minutes were taken out to enable paul to feel more like himself, and dick was not mistaken when the next play was made. it was a terrific attack at paul's place in the line. but sturdy frank rutley was ready for them, and john stiver was also on the alert, so that when the blue hill's right half came plunging forward this time, he was met with such opposition that he reeled back gasping. "don't try here again!" called frank to him significantly, and paul breathed a bit easier. he was rapidly regaining his strength. but though the attack had thus been hurled back once, the next time was not so successful and through a wide gap came the man with the ball with such fierceness and speed, that he reeled off fourteen yards, and now the pigskin was on kentfield's thirty yard line. "look out for a try for goal," warned the captain, for he heard reports that blue hill had been practicing that for the past week, putting in a new man who had great abilities in the kicking line. but the kick did not come, though the visitors made a fake attempt. it was only partially successful, however, and there was a fumble which enabled dick to slip in and get the ball on a bounce. he was in two minds about what to do, but having sized up the mode of his opponents' playing, and reckoning the time left in the half, he decided to punt the ball back instead of keeping it and trying to advance it by rushing tactics. "that will tire them if they want to begin smashing at our line again," he reasoned, "and will let paul have a little more time. we're holding them all right, and maybe we can tire them more than they will us." thus in a flash he outlined his policy and sent the leather hurling back over the heads of the half-maddened blue hill lads who were chagrined at their fumbling. "come on!" cried the captain of the kentfield lads. "we want to down their man in his tracks if we can." it was almost done, and in fact the runner only managed to gain a few yards before he was fiercely thrown by innis beeby. again came that seemingly wearying, and never-ceasing attack on the line. but dick's men were on the alert, and though another attempt was made through paul he held firmly. the pace was beginning to tell though, and panting breaths and palpitating hearts murmured their story. dick resolved on more kicking if he got a chance at the ball. but it seemed that he was not to get it--at least right away. once more up the field it was being advanced by short sharp rushes. blue hill seemed content to keep on with her bulldog playing, perhaps trusting that her men would last longer than would dick's. there was no denying the strength of the opponents of kentfield. they were trained to the second, and the two coaches whom dick's money had secured began to be a little direful of the result. "can they stand it?" asked mr. spencer of his colleague. "well, if they don't they're not what i think them to be," was the convincing answer. the cheers and songs of the blue hill contingent seemed to give them added strength. they still had the ball, in spite of all the efforts of dick and his men to hold them, to force a kick, or to get through and block the plays. steadily and surely the leather was nearing the fatal line. "look out boys! look out!" warned dick. "play hard." he himself was working like a trojan, getting into every opening, taking all kinds of hard knocks, really doing more than his share. nor were there any shirkers in all the eleven. hal foster, at full, instead of staying back to be on the watch for kicks, or to block men who got through his mates, played well in. there was need of it, for kentfield was being shoved back, and every ounce of weight to back her up told. "hold boys, hold!" begged and pleaded dick desperately. he saw his goal line being menaced and it seemed as if blue hill, as she came nearer striking distance, grew wild with desire to cross it. the fatal play came with such suddenness that it almost took the heart from dick's cadets. after a smash at centre, which was hurled back, and a try between left tackle and guard, which netted only a yard, there was a quick shift to one side on the part of the blue hill players. an instant later dick saw rud newton, the stocky left half-back burst through with the ball under his arm. like a flash the young millionaire sprang to tackle him, but he was not quite heavy enough, and rud broke away. full-back foster was now dick's only hope, but to his dismay he saw that hal had been drawn in, and was now hopelessly entangled in the mass of his own and the opposing players. there was not a soul between newton and the kentfield goal, and toward it the left half was now sprinting with all his speed. dick gave a gasp, sprang to his feet and was off after him like a flash. but newton had too much of a start, and the best the captain could do was to vainly touch him with outstretched hand a yard from the goal line. in another second newton was over and had touched down the ball. the first score had been made against kentfield and the heart of dick was sore as he slackened his pace and watched his own men and those of blue hill running up to witness the first act of the drama that meant so much to all of them. chapter xxx the winning touchdown wild cries of delight, victorious shouts, the shrill voices of the girls, mingling with the hoarser tones of the men and youths, the waving of flags and banners, the shaking of canes adorned with the blue hill colors, showed the appreciation of the first gain in the battle. "yah! i thought your team was such a much!" yelled an ardent blue hill supporter to some kentfield cadets in the stand next to him. "so it is," was the cool answer, though there was a sore heart back of it. "we never play our best until the other team gets a touchdown. that's the only look-in your fellows will have." "oh, it is; eh?" demanded the other with a hoarse laugh. "well, just watch our boys rip you all to pieces from now on." the goal was kicked, making the score six to nothing against our friends, and dick saw dubious looks on the faces of his chums. "this is nothing!" he cried gaily. "it's the only taste of the honey-pot that we'll let them have. come on now, we've got time to make a touchdown this half." play was resumed after the kick-off, and an exchange of punts followed, both sides seeming willing to take this method of regaining their strength, which had been almost played out. when blue hill got the ball after a series of brilliant kicks that had delighted the spectators, she once more began her rushing tactics. but either some of her men were careless, or they were too eager, for they got off side, and there was some slugging which the alert umpire saw, and as a penalty the ball went to dick's side. "now rush it up," he called eagerly, and then began such a whirlwind attack that blue hill was fairly carried off her feet. right up the field from her own thirty-five yard line did dick's men carry the pigskin, until on blue hill's twenty yard mark the young millionaire decided for a try for a field goal. it was a magnificent attempt but failed, and before any more playing could be started the whistle blew, ending the half. rather dejectedly dick and his team filed to the dressing rooms. the two coaches met them. "it's all right! it's all right!" cried mr. spencer. "you boys couldn't do better. you haven't made any mistakes. keep on the same way next half and you'll have them." "i hope so," murmured dick. "i know it!" declared mr. martin with conviction. "they can't keep up their pace, and they haven't any good subs to put in." "that's right," agreed his colleague. "the way you carried the ball up the field after their touchdown showed what you could do. if there had been time you'd have scored. they can't stand that smashing attacking business, but you can hold them if you try. then, at the right time, get the ball and take it up. one touchdown and goal will tie the score, and another touchdown will win the championship for you." "boys, will we do it?" cried dick, turning to his cadets as they surrounded him in the dressing rooms under the grandstand. "will we?" cried innis beeby. "will a duck eat corn meal, boys?" "sure!" came the enthusiastic answer. back again on the gridiron trotted the twenty-two sturdy lads to indulge in a little limbering-up practice before the second half should start. then came the warning whistle. "they'll kick off this time," said dick to his men, "and that will give us the ball. we want to rush it right up the field without giving 'em time to catch their breaths. try the sequence plays again, they worked well." with a resounding "pung" the leather sailed into kentfield territory. beeby caught it and began a rush back that was not destined to last long, for with great fierceness he was tackled by lem gordon, and heavily thrown. but beeby was as hard as nails, and arose smiling, keeping his foot on the ball. "now boys, play like mustard," called dick, as a signal for the sequence plays, none other being given. the successive rushes that followed fairly carried the blue hill players off their feet, and so impetuously did dick and his men smash into the line, going through centre, between guards and tackles, and around the ends that, inside of five minutes of play, the ball was on blue hill's ten yard line. "wow! wow! wow!" yelled enthusiastic kentfield "rooters," and from being glum they were now wild with delight and eagerness. "touchdown! touchdown!" came the imperative demand. "hold! hold 'em!" pleaded the blue hill throng. "they ought to make it now or never," said a gray-haired man as he half rose to watch the next play. "they must shove it over if they work as they have all the way up the field." dick paused for a moment. he was deciding on the next play. blue hill was frantic and might take any unfair advantage. the kentfield men were like hounds after a stag--it seemed that nothing could keep them back. dick sent ray dutton through centre for five yards. he came back into the line gasping, for he had been tackled hard. "only a little more now, fellows!" yelled the captain. "nothing can stop us now." "yes, we can!" cried haskell in desperation. "don't let 'em through, boys!" his half-wild players managed to stop stiver with the ball after a three yard gain. but two more yards were needed--six feet. dick gave the signal for big beeby to take the ball, and the next instant the sturdy guard had hurled himself into the gap made for him. for a second or two it seemed that he could not make it, so fiercely did blue hill brace. then, slowly but surely they began giving way under the terrific pressure of the eager kentfield cadets, and then came a wild yell from beeby, who was half smothered under a mass of players. "down!" he gasped, and with his last strength cried "touchdown!" the heap of players slowly dissolved. for a moment the spectators were in doubt, and then, as the meaning of the joyous dancing about of kentfield, and the glum appearance of her opponents was borne to them, the sympathizers of dick's team burst into a frenzy of shouts and cheers while the flags and banners were riotously waved in the maze of color. the score was tied a moment later as the goal was kicked. who would make the next points? quickly the ball was put into play again, and there followed an exchange of punts--a grateful relief from the line-smashing tactics that had carried the pigskin over the goal mark. it was a rest for both sides for blue hill had been played almost to a standstill and dick's men were panting and gasping from their terrific efforts. but it seemed worth all it cost. seldom had there been such a situation in the annals of the military league. two of the best teams that had ever been represented playing such fast football, and the score tied at such a critical moment meant something. add to it that the elevens were not on the most friendly feeling, because of what had taken place early in the season, and there was a situation that would make even a blasã© football enthusiast "sit up and take notice," as innis beeby said. the slightest turn of events might send the scale up or down now, bringing victory or defeat. for a time both sides played warily, taking no chances for the championship hung on the next few minutes. then, as dick's side got the spheroid, he called for some more of the terrific playing. nobly his men responded and eagerly. almost too eagerly it seemed for there was a fumble at a critical point and one of the blue hill men seized the ball. back toward the kentfield goal he sprinted with it, and for a moment dick nearly had "heart disease" as he said afterward. but this time teddy naylor, who had gone in to replace hal foster at full, because hal's weak ankle went back on him, tackled the man, and the danger was over. but blue hill had the ball, and took advantage of it by kicking it far enough away so that kentfield would have to work hard to regain the lost ground. "smash 'em! smash 'em!" ordered dick, as his men lined up. so fierce was the attack and the offense that paul drew was knocked out, and could not come back in time to play. ford baker went in. this was rather a blow to dick, and when john stiver keeled over a little later, from a blow on the head, the chances of kentfield were not improved. sam wilson went in at left half, and his playing was a distinct revelation, for he jumped into the line with such energy that he tore off ten yards on his first play. "good!" cried dick. "a few more like that and we'll have the game." the half was nearing a close. there had been more kicking, and several scrimmages. then blue hill had the ball, and haskell called on his cadets for a last desperate effort. they responded nobly, and dick's team, weakened as they were by the extraordinary hard pace, began to give way. up the field they were shoved until they made a stand on their twenty yard line. "we've got to hold if we want the championship," said dick simply, but his words meant much. and then came one of the surprises of football. the people on the stands were holding their breaths in anxiety, each individual almost praying for his particular team. it looked bad for kentfield, as she was being steadily shoved back, and the time was fast passing. it seemed that she would either be beaten, or that a tie game would result, necessitating another conflict. haskell gave orders for a fake kick, and so often had he worked that play during the game that dick's men at once were aware of what was going to happen. around the end of the line came smashing the blue hill full-back who had taken the ball from his left half-back. right around he came, but dick was there to tackle him. with all the fierceness and energy of which he was capable the young millionaire sprang at his man. they came down together. the ball rolled from the full-back's arms at his impact with the earth, and like a flash dick saw his chance. he was up in an instant, had grabbed the leather, tucked it under his arm and was racing down the field toward the goal of his enemies. he had a ninety yard run ahead of him, and the blue hill full back was waiting for him with open arms. how he got past dick never knew, but those watching saw him fiercely bowl over his opponent like a tenpin. then on and on he sprinted, while a wild riot of yells from the grandstands urged him forward. on and on he ran--on and on. his breath was rasping through his clenched teeth--his legs seemed like sticks of wood, that were somehow actuated by springs which were fast losing their power. "can i do it?" he gasped. then he answered himself. "i'm _going to do it_!" he heard the pounding of feet behind him, but he dared not look back. on he kept. chalk mark after chalk mark passed beneath his vision. at last he ceased to see them. he looked for the goal posts. they seemed miles away, but were gradually coming nearer through a mist. he felt someone touch him from behind. he heard the panting breath of a runner--he felt his jacket scraped by eager fingers, but he kept on. then, when he had no more breath left; when it was all black before his eyes, he crossed the last line--fairly staggered over it and fell with the ball in the final touchdown--the score that won the game--for the whistle blew as his men and their enemies were running up. dick had won the championship. chapter xxxi the trolley stock--conclusion the grandstands were trembling and swaying under the foot-stamping, yelling crowd that enthusiastically cheered the victorious kentfield cadets. dick felt as if it was all a dream until he found himself half lifted to his feet and felt his comrades clapping him on the back, yelling congratulations in his ears, while a dozen or more were trying to shake his hand at once, for the gridiron had been overwhelmed by a riotous throng of substitutes and spectators as soon as the final whistle blew. "oh, dick! dick!" cried paul, limping up to his chum. "we--we did 'em!" gasped the captain. "_we_ did 'em?" questioned dutton, also among the cripples. "_you_ did 'em you mean, dick hamilton. it's your team from start to finish!" "oh, bosh!" cried our hero. there was a lull in the cheering on the stands, and suddenly, in the silence, there broke out the shrill voice of an old man--evidently one unused to football games. "by heck!" he cried, "that was a great run! i never see a better one! golly, but he scooted. this is the first time i ever see one of these games, but it won't be the last! who was it made that home run." so still was it that dick could hear the question and answer for he was not far from the stand. "it wasn't a home run," some one informed the old man, "it was a run for a touchdown, and dick hamilton, the kentfield captain, made it." "dick hamilton? where is he now? i want to see him. i've got something to say to him." as in a dream dick wondered where he had heard that voice before. then like a flash it came to him--enos duncaster! but mr. duncaster at a football game--one between teams of the "tin soldiers" whom he affected to despise. it seemed impossible. dick looked to where the old man was now vigorously applauding though every one else was quiet. there could be no mistake. it _was_ mr. duncaster--the holder of the trolley stock. yet how came he at the game? "i want to see him. i want to see that dick hamilton!" mr. duncaster was saying. "i came to see him--i've got important news for him, and i'm in a hurry." "you'd better go to him, dick," advised paul. "maybe it isn't too late about that stock." dick felt a thrill of hope. at intervals of the game he had half regretted his decision to play instead of going to keep the appointment with the eccentric rich man. he had feared it would be too late, and that his message to mr. duncaster would set that peculiar individual against him. dick turned his steps toward where mr. duncaster stood in the grandstand. as the youth passed along he was congratulated on all sides. "great run, hamilton! great!" was called again and again. "i want to shake hands with you, dick hamilton!" exclaimed mr. duncaster heartily. "and i want to say i've got a different opinion of you boys than i had. i guess i was mistaken. "just after i sent you that message, saying your father could have the stock, i picked up a magazine and read an account of a football game. it was the first i'd ever read, and thinks i to myself i'd like to see it. then, when i got your message saying you were going to play, and couldn't come to see me i made up my mind to come to see you. i did, and by heck! it was great--great! but your run was the best of all. "first i was a little put out because you didn't come to see me, and i half made up my mind to give the stock to mr. porter. but i see now why you wanted to stay and play the game. you couldn't desert, and by heck! i'm glad you won! shake hands again!" dick did so, in a mist of tears that would not be kept back. the reaction was almost too much for him. to win the championship, and in the next breath to be told that his father's plans need not fail, was almost too much. he managed to stammer out his thanks to enos duncaster, whom many spectators were regarding curiously. "you cadets are all right!" the old man was saying. "it takes more spunk than i imagined to smash into each other that way. i'm coming to all the football games after this--that is as soon as i get my health back. i'm off for europe now. i've just about got time to catch my train. "here's the stock your father wants, dick hamilton. i've got it all ready for you in a bundle, and inside is the address of my lawyers. you can----" "but the pay----" stammered dick. "that's all right--you can send it to my lawyers. i'm in a hurry. now good-bye--i'm off to the hot springs!" and once more he wrung dick's hand. "that was a great run--great!" cried mr. duncaster, as he made his way off the stand. "three cheers for dick hamilton!" called ray dutton. and how the people did cheer! "and three for mr. duncaster--a convert to football!" shouted paul drew, and if they were not as loud as the first cheers they must have warmed the old man's heart. dick sent a telegram to his father conveying double good news--about the football victory and about the possession of the stock. "i guess your troubles will be over now dad," wired dick. they were seemingly for a time, but later other financial matters involved dick and his father, and how they turned out, and how dick met them will be told in the next volume of this series, to be called "dick hamilton's touring car; or, a young millionaire's race for a fortune." in it we shall meet dick and his friends and some of his enemies, and learn how he triumphed over the latter. * * * * * there was great rejoicing in kentfield that night when the team broke training and the suits were burned. true to his word, dick provided the finest banquet the cadets had ever had spread in their honor. there were speeches innumerable, and the coaches were given their full share of praise. but it was toward dick that most eyes were turned and he was called on again and again to respond to a toast. "well, which do you feel better over, dick?" asked paul that night, as they went to their room, "winning the championship or getting the stock from mr. duncaster?" "both," replied the young millionaire with a smile. "but it certainly was great to convert mr. duncaster into a gridiron rooter; eh, grit?" and grit whined in delight, jumping up on dick, while the two chums sat down in the little room and played the great game all over again. the end. * * * * * the dick hamilton series by howard r. garis a new line of clever tales for boys dick hamilton's fortune or the stirring doings of a millionaire's son dick, the son of a millionaire, has a fortune left to him by his mother. but before he can touch the bulk of this money it is stipulated in his mother's will that he must do certain things, in order to prove that he is worthy of possessing such a fortune. the doings of dick and his chums make the liveliest kind of reading. dick hamilton's cadet days or the handicap of a millionaire's son the hero, a very rich young man, is sent to a military academy to make his way without the use of money. a fine picture of life at an up-to-date military academy is given, with target shooting, broad-sword exercise, trick riding, sham battles, and all. dick proves himself a hero in the best sense of the word. dick hamilton's steam yacht or a young millionaire and the kidnappers a series of adventures while yachting in which our hero's wealth plays a part. dick is marooned on an island, recovers his yacht and foils the kidnappers. the wrong young man is spirited away, dick gives chase and there is a surprising rescue at sea. dick hamilton's airship or a young millionaire in the clouds this new book is just brimming over with hair-raising adventures of dick hamilton in his new airship. dick hamilton's touring car or a young millionaire's race for fortune a series of thrilling adventures. dick and his friends see the country in a huge touring car. their exciting trip across the country, how they saved a young man's fortune and other exciting incidents are very cleverly told. * * * * * the boy-scouts banner-series by george a. warren author of the "revolutionary series" the boy scouts movement has swept over our country like wildfire, and is endorsed by our greatest men and leading educators. no author is better qualified to write such a series as this than professor warren, who has watched the movement closely since its inception in england some years ago. the banner boy scouts _or the struggle for leadership_ this initial volume tells how the news of the scout movement reached the boys and how they determined to act on it. they organized the fox patrol, and some rivals organized another patrol. more patrols were formed in neighboring towns and a prize was put up for the patrol scoring the most points in a many-sided contest. the banner boy scouts on a tour _or the mystery of rattlesnake mountain_ this story begins with a mystery that is most unusual. there is a good deal of fun and adventure, camping, fishing, and swimming, and the young heroes more than once prove their worth. the banner boy scouts afloat _or the secret of cedar island_ here is another tale of life in the open, of jolly times on river and lake and around the camp fire, told by one who has camped out for many years. the banner boy scouts snowbound or a tour on skates and iceboats the boys take a trip into the mountains, where they are caught in a big snowstorm and are snowbound. a series of stirring adventures which will hold the interest of every reader. * * * * * the nan sherwood series by annie roe carr in annie roe carr we have found a young woman of wide experience among girls--in schoolroom, in camp and while traveling. she knows girls of to-day thoroughly--their likes and dislikes--and knows that they demand almost as much action as do the boys. and she knows humor--good, clean fun and plenty of it. nan sherwood at pine camp or the old lumberman's secret nan sherwood at lakeview hall or the mystery of the haunted boathouse nan sherwood's winter holidays or rescuing the runaways nan sherwood at rose ranch or the old mexican's treasure nan sherwood at palm beach or strange adventures among the orange groves * * * * * the janice day series by helen beecher long a series of books for girls which have been uniformly successful. janice day is a character that will live long in juvenile fiction. every volume is full of inspiration. there is an abundance of humor, quaint situations, and worth-while effort, and likewise plenty of plot and mystery. an ideal series for girls from nine to sixteen. janice day, the young homemaker janice day at poketown the testing of janice day how janice day won the mission of janice day note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 13556-h.htm or 13556-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/5/5/13556/13556-h/13556-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/3/5/5/13556/13556-h.zip) behind the line a story of college life and football by ralph henry barbour author of _the half-back_, _captain of the crew_, and _for the honor of the school_ illustrated by c.m. relyea 1902 [illustration: a critical moment] [illustration] to my mother prefatory note the author takes pleasure in acknowledging his indebtedness to mr. lorin f. deland, of boston, for the football play described in chapter xv. contents chapter i.--heroes in moleskin ii.--paul changes his mind iii.--in new quarters iv.--neil makes acquaintances v.--and shows his mettle vi.--mills, head coach vii.--the gentle art of handling punts viii.--the kidnaping ix.--the broken tricycle x.--neil makes the varsity xi.--the result of a fumble xii.--on the hospital list xiii.--sydney studies strategy xiv.--makes a call xv.--and tells of a dream xvi.--robinson sends a protest xvii.--a plan and a confession xviii.--neil is taken out xix.--on the eve of battle xx.--cowan becomes indignant xxi.--the "antidote" is administered xxii.--between the halves xxiii.--neil goes in xxiv.--after the battle list of illustkations a critical moment (frontispiece) getting settled the vine swayed at every strain hiding his face, he cried for help "i guess you've broken down," said neil mills studied the diagram in silence chapter i heroes in moleskin "third down, four yards to gain!" the referee trotted out of the scrimmage line and blew his whistle; the hillton quarter-back crouched again behind the big center; the other backs scurried to their places as though for a kick. "_9--6--12!_" called quarter huskily. "get through!" shrieked the st. eustace captain. "block this kick!" "_4--8!_" the ball swept back to the full, the halves formed their interference, and the trio sped toward the right end of the line. for an instant the opposing ranks heaved and struggled; for an instant hillton repelled the attack; then, like a shot, the st. eustace left tackle hurtled through and, avoiding the interference, nailed the hillton runner six yards back of the line. a square of the grand stand blossomed suddenly with blue, and st. eustace's supporters, already hoarse with cheering and singing, once more broke into triumphant applause. the score-board announced fifteen minutes to play, and the ball went to the blue-clad warriors on hillton's forty-yard line. hillton and st. eustace were once more battling for supremacy on the gridiron in their annual thanksgiving day contest. and, in spite of the fact that hillton was on her own grounds, st. eustace's star was in the ascendant, and defeat hovered dark and ominous over the crimson. with the score 5 to in favor of the visitors, with her players battered and wearied, with the second half of the game already half over, hillton, outweighted and outplayed, fought on with the doggedness born of despair in an almost hopeless struggle to avert impending defeat. in the first few minutes of the first half st. eustace had battered her way down the field, throwing her heavy backs through the crimson line again and again, until she had placed the pigskin on hillton's three-yard line. there the hillton players had held stubbornly against two attempts to advance, but on the third down had fallen victims to a delayed pass, and st. eustace had scored her only touch-down. the punt-out had failed, however, and the cheering flaunters of blue banners had perforce to be content with five points. then it was that hillton had surprised her opponents, for when the blue's warriors had again sought to hammer and beat their way through the opposing line they found that hillton had awakened from her daze, and their gains were small and infrequent. four times ere the half was at an end st. eustace was forced to kick, and thrice, having by the hardest work and almost inch by inch fought her way to within scoring distance of her opponent's goal, she met a defense that was impregnable to her most desperate assaults. then it was that the crimson had waved madly over the heads of hillton's shrieking supporters and hope had again returned to their hearts. in the second half hillton had secured the ball on the kick-off, and, never losing possession of it, had struggled foot by foot to within fifteen yards of the blue's goal. from there a kick from placement had been tried, but gale, hillton's captain and right half-back, had been thrown before his foot had touched the leather, and the st. eustace right-guard had fallen on the ball. a few minutes later a fumble returned the pigskin to hillton on the blue's thirty-three yards, and once more the advance was taken up. thrice the distance had been gained by plunges into the line and short runs about the ends, and once fletcher, hillton's left half, had got away safely for twenty yards. but on her eight-yard line, under the shadow of her goal, st. eustace had held bravely, and, securing the ball on downs, punted it far down the field into her opponent's territory. fletcher had run it back ten yards ere he was downed, and from there it had gone six yards further by one superb hurdle by the full-back. but st. eustace had then held finely, and on the third down, as has been told, hillton's fake-kick play had been demolished by the blue's tackle, and the ball was once more in the hands of st. eustace's big center rush. on the side-line, his hands in his pockets and his short brier pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, gardiner, hillton's head coach, watched grimly the tide of battle. things had gone worse than he had anticipated. he had not hoped for too much--a tie would have satisfied him; a victory for hillton had been beyond his expectations. st. eustace far outweighed his team; her center was almost invulnerable and her back field was fast and heavy. but, despite the modesty of his expectations, gardiner was disappointed. the plays that he had believed would prove to be ground-gainers had failed almost invariably. neil fletcher, the left half, on whom the head coach had placed the greatest reliance, had, with a single exception, failed to circle the ends for any distance. to be sure, the st. eustace end rushes had proved more knowing than he had given them credit for being, and so the fault was, after all, not with fletcher; but it was disappointing nevertheless. and, as is invariably the case, he saw where he had made mistakes in the handling of his team; realized, now that it was too late, that he had given too much attention to that thing, too little to this; that, as things had turned out, certain plays discarded a week before would have proved of more value than those substituted. he sighed, and moved down the line to keep abreast of the teams, now five yards nearer the hillton goal. "crozier must come out in a moment," said a voice beside him. he turned to find professor beck, the trainer and physical director. "what a game he has put up, eh?" gardiner nodded. "best quarter in years," he answered. "it'll weaken us considerably, but i suppose it's necessary." there was a note of interrogation in the last, and the professor heard it. "yes, yes, quite," he replied. "the boy's on his last legs." gardiner turned to the line of substitutes behind them. "decker!" the call was taken up by those nearest at hand, and the next instant a short, stockily-built youth was peeling off his crimson sweater. the referee's whistle blew, and while the mound of squirming players found their feet again, gardiner walked toward them, his hand on decker's shoulder. "play slow and steady your team, decker," he counseled. "use young and fletcher for runs; try them outside of tackle, especially on the right. give gale a chance to hit the line now and then and diversify your plays well. and, my boy, if you get that ball again, and of course you will, _don't let it go_! give up your twenty yards if necessary, only hang on to the leather!" then he thumped him encouragingly on the back and sped him forward. crozier, the deposed quarter-back, was being led off by professor beck. the boy was pale of face and trembling with weariness, and one foot dragged itself after the other limply. but he was protesting with tears in his eyes against being laid off, and even the hearty cheers for him that thundered from the stand did not comfort him. then the game went on, the tide of battle flowing slowly, steadily, toward the crimson's goal. "if only they don't score again!" said gardiner. "that's the best we can hope for," said professor beck. "yes; it's turned out worse than i expected." "well, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that they've played as plucky a game against odds as i ever expect to see," answered the other. "and we won't say die yet; there's still"--he looked at his watch--there's still eight minutes." "that's good; i hope decker will remember what i told him about runs outside right tackle," muttered gardiner anxiously. then he relighted his pipe and, with stolid face, watched events. st. eustace was still hammering hillton's line at the wings. time and again the blue's big full-back plunged through between guard and tackle, now on this side, now on that, and hillton's line ever gave back and back, slowly, stubbornly, but surely. "first down," cried the referee. "five yards to gain." the pigskin now lay just midway between hillton's ten-and fifteen-yard lines. decker, the substitute quarter-back, danced about under the goal-posts. "now get through and break it up, fellows!" he shouted. "get through! get through!" but the crimson-clad line men were powerless to withstand the terrific plunges of the foe, and back once more they went, and yet again, and the ball was on the six-yard line, placed there by two plunges at right tackle. "first down!" cried the referee again. then hillton's cup of sorrow seemed overflowing. for on the next play the umpire's whistle shrilled, and half the distance to the goal-line was paced off. hillton was penalized for holding, and the ball was on her three yards! from the section of the grand stand where the crimson flags waved came steady, entreating, the wailing slogan: "_hold, hillton! hold, hillton! hold, hillton!_" near at hand, on the side-line, gardiner ground his teeth on the stem of his pipe and watched with expressionless face. professor beck, at his side, frowned anxiously. "put it over, now!" cried the st. eustace captain. "tear them up, fellows!" the quarter gave the signal, the two lines smashed together, and the whistle sounded. the ball had advanced less than a yard. the hillton stand cheered hoarsely, madly. "line up! line up!" cried the blue's quarter. "signal!" then it was that st. eustace made her fatal mistake. with the memory of the delayed pass which had won st. eustace her previous touch-down in mind, the hillton quarter-back was on the watch. the ball went back, was lost to view, the lines heaved and strained. decker shot to the left, and as he reached the end of the line the st. eustace left half-back came plunging out of the throng, the ball snuggled against his stomach. decker, just how he never knew, squirmed past the single interferer, and tackled the runner firmly about the hips. the two went down together on the seven yards, the blue-stockinged youth vainly striving to squirm nearer to the line, decker holding for all he was worth. then the hillton left end sat down suddenly on the runner's head and the whistle blew. the grand stand was in an uproar, and cheers for hillton filled the air. gardiner turned away calmly and knocked the ashes from his pipe. professor beck beamed through his gold-rimmed glasses. decker picked himself up and sped back to his position. "_signal_!" he cried. but a st. eustace player called for time and the whistle piped again. "if decker tries a kick from there it'll be blocked, and they'll score again," said gardiner. "our line can't hold. there's just one thing to do, but i fear decker won't think of it." he caught gale's eye and signaled the captain to the side-line. "what is it?" panted that youth, taking the nose-guard from his mouth and tenderly nursing a swollen lip. gardiner hesitated. then-"nothing. only fight it out, gale. you've got your chance now!" gale nodded and trotted back. gardiner smiled ruefully. "the rule against coaching from the side-lines may be a good one," he muttered, "but i guess it's lost this game for us." the whistle sounded and the lines formed again. "first down," cried the referee, jumping nimbly out of the way. decker had been in conference with the full-back, and now he sprang back to his place. "signal!" he cried. "_14--7--31_!" the hillton full stood just inside the goal-line and stretched his hands out. "_16--8_!" the center passed the pigskin straight and true to the full-back, but the latter, instead of kicking it, stood as though bewildered while the st. eustace forwards plunged through the hillton line as though it had been of paper. the next moment he was thrown behind his goal-line with the ball safe in his arms, and gardiner, on the side-line, was smiling contentedly. "touch-back," cried decker. "line up on the twenty yards, fellows!" hillton's ruse had won her a free kick, and in another moment the ball was arching toward the st. eustace goal. the blue's left half secured it, but was downed on his forty yards. the first attack netted four yards through hillton's left-guard, and the crimson flags drooped on their staffs. on the next play st. eustace's full-back hurdled the line for two yards, but lost the pigskin, and amid frantic cries of "ball! ball!" fletcher, hillton's left half, dropped upon it. the crimson banners waved again, and hillton voices once more took up the refrain of hilltonians, while hope surged back into loyal hearts. "five minutes to play," said professor beck. gardiner nodded. "time enough to win in," he answered. decker crouched again, chanted his signal, and the hillton full plunged at the blue-clad line. but only a yard resulted. "_signal_!" cried the quarter. "_8--51--16--5_!" the ball came back into his waiting hands, was thrown at a short pass to the left half, and, with right half showing the way and full-back charging along beside, fletcher cleared the line through a wide gap outside of st. eustace's right tackle and sped down the field while the hillton supporters leaped to their feet and shrieked wildly. the full-back met the st. eustace right half, and the two were left behind on the turf. beside fletcher, a little in advance, ran the hillton captain and right half-back, paul gale. between them and the goal, now forty yards away, only the st. eustace quarter remained, but behind them came pounding footsteps that sounded dangerous. gardiner, followed by the professor and a little army of privileged spectators, raced along the line. "he'll make it," muttered the head coach. "they can't stop him!" one line after another went under the feet of the two players. the pursuit was falling behind. twenty yards remained to be covered. then the waiting quarter-back, white-faced and desperate, was upon them. but gale was equal to the emergency. "to the left!" he panted. fletcher obeyed with weary limbs and leaden feet, and without looking knew that he was safe. gale and the st. eustace player went down together, and in another moment fletcher was lying, faint but happy, over the line and back of the goal! the stands emptied themselves on the instant of their triumphant burden of shouting, cheering, singing hilltonians, and the crimson banners waved and fluttered on to the field. hillton had escaped defeat! but fortune, now that she had turned her face toward the wearers of the crimson, had further gifts to bestow. and presently, when the wearied and crestfallen opponents had lined themselves along the goal-line, decker held the ball amid a breathless silence, and hillton's right end sent it fair and true between the uprights: hillton, 6; opponents, 5. the game, so far as scoring went, ended there. four minutes later the whistle shrilled for the last time, and the horde of frantic hilltonians flooded the field and, led by the band, bore their heroes in triumph back to the school. and, side by side, at the head of the procession, perched on the shoulders of cheering friends, swayed the two half-backs, neil fletcher and paul gale. chapter ii paul changes his mind two boys were sitting in the first-floor corner study in haewood's. those who know the town of hillton, new york, will remember haewood's as the large residence at the corner of center and village streets, from the big bow-window of which the occupant of the cushioned seat may look to the four points of the compass or watch for occasional signs of life about the court-house diagonally across. to-night--the bell in the tower of the town hall had just struck half after seven--the occupants of the corner study were interested in things other than the view. i have said that they were sitting. lounging would be nearer the truth; for one, a boy of eighteen years, with merry blue eyes and cheeks flushed ruddily with health and the afterglow of the day's excitement, with hair just the color of raw silk that took on a glint of gold where the light fell upon it, was perched cross-legged amid the cushions at one end of the big couch, two strong, tanned, and much-scarred hands clasping his knees. his companion and his junior by but two months, a dark-complexioned youth with black hair and eyes and a careless, good-natured, but rather wilful face, on which at the present moment the most noticeable feature was a badly cut and much swollen lower lip, lay sprawled at the other end of the couch, his chin buried in one palm. both lads were well built, broad of chest, and long of limb, with bright, clear eyes, and a warmth of color that betokened the best of physical condition. they had been friends and room-mates for two years. this was their last year at hillton, and next fall they were to begin their college life together. the dark-complexioned youth rolled lazily on to his back and stared at the ceiling. then-"i suppose crozier will get the captaincy, neil." the boy with light hair nodded without removing his gaze from the little flames that danced in the fireplace. they had discussed the day's happenings thoroughly, had relived the game with st. eustace from start to finish, and now the big thanksgiving dinner which they had eaten was beginning to work upon them a spell of dormancy. it was awfully jolly, thought neil fletcher, to just lie there and watch the flames and--and--he sighed comfortably and closed his eyes. at eight o'clock he, with the rest of the victorious team, was to be drawn about the town in a barge and cheered at, but meanwhile there was time to just close his eyes--and forget--everything-there was a knock at the study door. "go 'way!" grunted neil. "oh, come in," called paul gale, without, however, removing his drowsy gaze from the ceiling or changing his position. "i beg your pardon. i am looking for mr. gale, and--" paul dropped his legs over the side of the couch and sat up, blinking at the visitor. neil followed his example. the caller was a carefully dressed man of about thirty-five, scarcely taller than neil, but broader of shoulder. paul recognized him, and, rising, shook hands. "how do you do, mr. brill? glad to see you. sit down, won't you? i guess we were both pretty nigh asleep when you knocked." "small wonder," responded the visitor affably. "after the work you did this afternoon you deserve sleep, and anything else you want." he laid aside his coat and hat and sank into the chair which paul proffered. "by the way," continued the latter, "i don't think you've met my friend, neil fletcher. neil, this is mr. brill, of robinson; one of their coaches." the two shook hands. "i'm delighted to meet the hero--i should say one of the heroes--of the day," said mr. brill. "that run was splendid; the way in which you two fellows got your speed up before you reached the line was worth coming over here to see, really it was." "yes, paul set a pretty good pace," answered neil. the visitor discussed the day's contest for a few minutes, during which neil glanced uneasily from time to time at the clock, wondered what the visitor wanted there, and heartily wished he'd take himself off. but presently mr. brill got down to business. "you know we've had a little victory in football ourselves this fall," he was saying. "we won from erskine by 17 to 6 last week, and we're feeling rather stuck up over it." "wait till next year," said neil to himself, "and you'll get over it." "and that," continued the coach, "brings me to the object of my call tonight. frankly, we want you two fellows at robinson college, and i'm here to see if we can't have you." he paused and smiled engagingly at the boys. neil glanced surprisedly at paul, who was thoughtfully examining the scars on his knuckles. "don't decide until i've explained matters more clearly," went on the visitor. "perhaps neither of you have been to collegetown, but at least you know about where robinson stands in the athletic world, and you know that as an institution of learning it is in the front rank of the smaller colleges; in fact, in certain lines it might dispute the place of honor with some of the big ones. "to the fellow who wants a college where he can learn and where, at the same time, he can give some attention to athletics, robinson's bound to recommend itself. i mention this because you know as well as i do that there are colleges--i mention no names--where a born football player, such as either of you, would simply be lost; where he would be tied down by such stringent rules that he could never amount to anything on the gridiron. i don't mean to say that at robinson the faculty is lax regarding standing or attendance at lectures, but i do say that it holds common-sense views on the subject of college athletics, and does not hound a man to death simply because he happens to belong to the football eleven or the crew. "robinson is always on the lookout for first-class football, baseball, or rowing material, and she believes in offering encouragement to such material. she doesn't favor underhand methods, you understand; no hiring of players, no free scholarships--though there are plenty of them for those who will work for them--none of that sort of thing. but she is willing to meet you half-way. the proposition which i am authorized to make is briefly this"--the speaker leaned forward, smiling frankly, and tapped a forefinger on the palm of his other hand--"if you, mr. gale, and you, mr. fletcher, will enter robinson next september, the--ah--the athletic authorities will guarantee you positions on the varsity eleven. besides this, you will be given free tutoring for the entrance exams, and afterward, so long as you remain on the team, in any studies with which you may have difficulty. now, there is a fair, honest proposition, and one which i sincerely trust you will accept. we want you both, and we're willing to do all that we can--in honesty, that is--to get you. now, what do you say?" during this recital neil's dislike of the speaker had steadily increased, and now, under the other's smiling regard, he had difficulty in keeping from his face some show of his emotions. paul looked up from his scarred knuckles and eyed neil furtively before he turned to the coach. "of course," he said, "this is rather unexpected." the coach's eyes flickered for an instant with amusement. "for my part," neil broke in almost angrily, "i'm due in september at erskine, and unless paul's changed his mind since yesterday so's he." the robinson coach raised his eyebrows in simulated surprise. "ah," he said slowly, "erskine?" "yes, erskine," answered neil rather discourteously. a faint flush of displeasure crept into mr. brill's cheeks, but he smiled as pleasantly as ever. "and your friend has contemplated ruining his football career in the same manner, has he?" he asked politely, turning his gaze as he spoke on paul. the latter fidgeted in his chair and looked over a trifle defiantly at his room-mate. "i had thought of going to erskine," he answered. "in fact"--observing neil's wide-eyed surprise at his choice of words--"in fact, i had arranged to do so. but--but, of course, nothing has been settled definitely." "but, paul--" exclaimed neil. "well, i'm glad to hear that," interrupted mr. brill. "for in my opinion it would simply be a waste of your opportunities and--ah--abilities, mr. gale." "well, of course, if a fellow doesn't have to bother too much about studies," said paul haltingly, "he can do better work on the team; there can't be any question about that, i guess." "none at all," responded the coach. neil stared at his chum indignantly. "you're talking rot," he growled. paul flushed and returned his look angrily. "i suppose i have the right to manage my own affairs?" he demanded. neil realized his mistake and, with an effort, held his peace. mr. brill turned to him. "i fear there's no use in attempting to persuade you to come to us also?" he said. neil shook his head silently. then, realizing that paul was quite capable, in his present fit of stubbornness, of promising to enter robinson if only to spite his room-mate, neil used guile. "anyhow, september's a long way off," he said, "and i don't see that it's necessary to decide to-night. perhaps we had both better take a day or two to think it over. i guess mr. brill won't insist on a final answer to-night." the robinson coach hesitated, but then answered readily enough: "certainly not. think it over; only, if possible, let me hear your decision to-morrow, as i am leaving town then." "well, as far as i'm concerned," said paul, "i don't see any use in putting it off. i'm willing--" neil jumped to his feet. a burst of martial music swept up to them as the school band, followed by a host of their fellows, turned the corner of the building. "come on, paul," he cried; "get your coat on. mr. brill will excuse us if we leave him; we mustn't keep the fellows waiting. and we can think the matter over, eh, paul? and we'll let him know in the morning. here's your coat. good-night, sir, good-night." he was holding the door open and smiling politely. paul, scowling, arose and shook hands with the robinson emissary. neil kept up a steady stream of talk, and his chum could only mutter vague words about his pleasure at mr. brill's call and about seeing him to-morrow. when the door had closed behind him the coach stood a moment in the hall and thoughtfully buttoned his coat. "i think i've got gale all right," he said to himself, "but"--with a slight smile--"the other chap was too smart for me. and, confound him, he's just the sort we need!" when he reached the entrance he was obliged to elbow his way through a solid throng of shouting youths who with excited faces and waving caps and flags informed the starlight winter sky over and over that they wanted gale and fletcher, to which demand the band lent hearty if rather discordant emphasis. * * * * * a good deal happened in the next two hours, but nothing that is pertinent to this narrative. victorious hillton elevens have been hauled through the village and out to the field many times in past years, and bonfires have flared and speeches have been made by players and faculty, and all very much as happened on this occasion. neil and paul returned to their room at ten o'clock, tired, happy, with the cheers and the songs still echoing in their ears. paul had apparently forgotten his resentment toward neil and the whole matter of brill's proposition. but neil hadn't, and presently, when they were preparing for bed, he returned doggedly to the charge. "when did you meet that fellow brill?" he asked. "in gardiner's room this morning; he introduced us." paul began to look sulky again. "seems a decent sort, i think," he added defiantly. neil accepted the challenge. "i dare say," he answered carelessly. "there's only one thing i've got against him." "what's that?" questioned paul suspiciously. "his errand." "what's wrong with his errand?" "everything, paul. you know as well as i that his offer is--well, it's shady, to say the least. who ever heard of a decent college offering free tutoring in order to get fellows for its football team?" "lots of them do," growled paul. "no, they don't; not decent ones. some do, i know; but they're not colleges a fellow cares to go to. every one knows what rotten shape robinson athletics are in; the papers have been full of it for two years. their center rush this fall, harden, just went there to play on the team, and everybody says that he got his tuition free. you don't want to play on a team like that and have people say things like that about you. i'm sure i don't." "oh, you!" sneered paul. "you're getting crankier and crankier every day. i'll bet you're just huffy because brill didn't ask you first." neil flushed, but kept his temper. "you don't think anything of the sort, paul. besides--" "it looks that way," muttered paul. "besides," continued neil calmly, "what's the advantage in going to robinson? we've arranged everything; we've got our rooms picked out at erskine; there are lots of fellows there we know; the college is the best of its class and its athletics are honest. if you play on the erskine team you'll be somebody, and folks won't hint that you're receiving money or free scholarships or something for doing it. and as for brill's guarantee of a place on the team, why, there's only one decent way to get on a football team, and that's by good, hard work; and there's no reason for doubting that you'll make the erskine varsity eleven." "yes, there is, too," answered paul angrily. "they've got lots of good players at erskine, and you and i won't stand any better show than a dozen others." "i don't want to." "huh! well, i do; that is, i want to make the team. besides, as brill said, if a fellow has the faculty after him all the time about studies he can't do decent work on the team. i don't see anything wrong in it, and--and i'm going. i'll tell brill so to-morrow!" neil drew his bath-robe about him, and looked thoughtfully into the flames. so far he had lost, but he had one more card to play. he turned and faced paul's angry countenance. "well, if i should go to robinson and play on her team under the conditions offered by that--by brill i'd feel disgraced." "you'd better stay away, then," answered paul hotly. "i wouldn't want to show my face around hillton afterward, and if i met gardiner or 'wheels' i'd take the other side of the street." "oh, you would?" cried his room-mate. "you're trying to make yourself out a little fluffy angel, aren't you? and i suppose i'm not good enough to associate with you, am i? well, if that's it, all i've got to say--" "but," continued neil equably, "if you accept brill's offer, so will i." paul paused open-mouthed and stared at his chum. then his eyes dropped and he busied himself with a stubborn stocking. finally, with a muttered "humph!" he gathered up his clothing and disappeared into the bedroom. neil turned and smiled at the flames and, finding his own apparel, followed. nothing more was said. paul splashed the water about even more than usual and tumbled silently into bed. neil put out the study light and followed suit. "good-night," he said. "good-night," growled paul. it had been a hard day and an exciting one, and neil went to sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. it seemed hours later, though in reality but some twenty minutes, that he was awakened by hearing his name called. he sat up quickly. "hello! what?" he shouted. "shut up," answered paul from across in the darkness. "i didn't know you were asleep. i only wanted to say--to tell you--that--that i've decided not to go to robinson!" chapter iii in new quarters almost every one has heard of erskine college. for the benefit of the few who have not, and lest they confound it with williams or dartmouth or bowdoin or some other of its new england neighbors, it may be well to tell something about it. erskine college is still in its infancy, as new england universities go, with its centennial yet eight years distant. but it has its own share of historic associations, and although the big elm in the center of the campus was not planted until 1812 it has shaded many youths who in later years have by good deeds and great accomplishments endeared themselves to country and alma mater. in the middle of the last century, when erskine was little more than an academy, it was often called "the little green school at centerport." it is not so little now, but it's greener than ever. wide-spreading elms grow everywhere; in serried ranks within the college grounds, in smaller detachments throughout the village, in picket lines along the river and out into the country. the grass grows lush wherever it can gain hold, and, not content with having its own way on green and campus, is forever attempting the conquest of path and road. the warm red bricks of the college buildings are well-nigh hidden by ivy, which, too, is an ardent expansionist. and where neither grass nor ivy can subjugate, soft, velvety moss reigns humbly. in the year 1901, which is the period of this story, the enrolment in all departments at erskine was close to six hundred students. the freshman class, as had been the case for many years past, was the largest in the history of the college. it numbered 180; but of this number we are at present chiefly interested in only two; and these two, at the moment when this chapter begins--which, to be exact, is eight o'clock of the evening of the twenty-fourth day of september in the year above mentioned--were busily at work in a first-floor study in the boarding-house of mrs. curtis on elm street. it were perhaps more truthful to say that one was busily at work and the other was busily advising and directing. neil fletcher stood on a small table, which swayed perilously from side to side at his every movement, and drove nails into an already much mutilated wall. paul gale sat in a hospitable armchair upholstered in a good imitation of green leather and nodded approval. "that'll do for 'old abe'; now hang the first snow a bit to the left and underneath." "the first snow hasn't any wire on it," complained neil. "see if you can't find some." "wire's all gone," answered paul. "we'll have to get some more. where's that list? oh, here it is. 'item, picture wire.' i say, what in thunder's this you've got down--'ring for waistband'?" "rug for wash-stand, you idiot! i guess we'll have to quit until we get some more wire, eh? or we might hang a few of them with boot-laces and neckties?" "oh, let's call it off. i'm tired," answered paul with a grin. "the room begins to look rather decent, doesn't it? we must change that couch, though; put it the other way so the ravelings won't show. and that picture of--" but just here neil attempted to step from the table and landed in a heap on the floor, and paul forgot criticism in joyful applause. "oh, noble work! do it again, old man; i didn't see the take-off!" but neil refused, and plumping himself into a wicker rocking-chair that creaked complainingly, rubbed the dust from his hands to his trousers and looked about the study approvingly. "we're going to be jolly comfy here, paul," he said. "mrs. curtis is going to get a new globe for that fixture over there." [illustration] "then we will be," said paul. "and if she would only find us a towel-rack that didn't fall into twelve separate pieces like a chinese puzzle every time a chap put a towel on it we'd be simply reveling in luxury." "i think i can fix that thing with string," answered neil. "or we might buy one of those nickel-plated affairs that you screw into the wall." "the sort that always dump the towels on to the floor, you mean? yes, we might. of course, they're of no practical value judged as towel-racks, but they're terribly ornamental. you know we had one in the bath-room at the beach. remember? when you got through your bath and groped round for the towel it was always lying on the floor just out of reach." "yes, i remember," answered neil, smiling. "we had rather a good time, didn't we, at seabright? it was awfully nice of you to ask me down there, paul; and your folks were mighty good to me. next summer i want you to come up to new hampshire and see us for a while. of course, we can't give you sea bathing, and you won't look like a red indian when you go home, but we could have a good time just the same." "red indian yourself!" cried paul. "you're nearly twice as tanned as i am. i don't see how you did it. i was there pretty near all summer and you stayed just three weeks; and look at us! i'm as white as a sheet of paper--" "yes, brown paper," interpolated neil. "and you have a complexion like a--a football after a hard game." neil grinned, then-"by the way," he said, "did i tell you i'd heard from crozier?" "about billy and the ducks? and gordon's not going back to hillton? yes, you got that at the beach; remember?" "so i did. 'old cro' will be up to his ears in trouble pretty soon, won't he? i'm glad they made him captain, awfully glad. i think he can turn out a team that'll rub it into st. eustace again just as you did last year." "yes; and gardiner's going to coach again." paul smiled reminiscently. then, "by jove, it does seem funny not to be going back to old hillton, doesn't it? i suppose after a while a fellow'll get to feeling at home here, but just at present--" he sighed and shook his head. "wait until college opens to-morrow and we get to work; we won't have much time to feel much of anything, i guess. practise is called for four o'clock. i wonder--i wonder if we'll make the team?" "why not?" objected paul. "if i thought i wouldn't i think i'd pitch it all up and--and go to robinson!" he grinned across at his chum. "you stay here and you'll get a chance to go _at_ robinson; that's a heap more satisfactory." "well, i'm going to make the varsity, neil. i've set my heart on that, and what i make up my mind to do i sometimes most always generally do. i'm not troubling, my boy; i'll show them a few tricks about playing half-back that'll open their eyes. you wait and see!" neil looked as though he was not quite certain as to that, but said nothing, and paul went on: "i wonder what sort of a fellow this devoe is?" "well, i've never seen him, but we know that he's about as good an end as there is in college to-day; and i guess he's bound to be the right sort or they wouldn't have made him captain." "he's a senior, isn't he?" "yes; he's played only two years, and they say he's going into the yale law school next year. if he does, of course he'll get on the team there. well, i hope he'll take pity on two ambitious but unprotected freshmen and--" there was a knock at the study door and paul jumped forward and threw it open. a tall youth of twenty-one or twenty-two years of age stood in the doorway. "i'm looking for mr. gale and mr. fletcher. have i hit it right?" "i'm gale," answered paul, "and that's fletcher. won't you come in?" the visitor entered. "my name's devoe," he explained smilingly. "i'm captain of the football team this year, and as you two fellows are, of course, going to try for the team, i thought we'd better get acquainted." he accepted the squeaky rocking-chair and allowed paul to take his straw hat. neil thought he'd ought to shake hands, but as devoe made no move in that direction he retired to another seat and grinned hospitably instead. "i've heard of the good work you chaps did for hillton last year, and i was mighty glad when i learned from gardiner that you were coming up here." "you know gardiner?" asked neil. "no, i've never met him, but of course every football man knows who he is. he wrote to me in the spring that you were coming, and rather intimated that if i knew my business i'd keep an eye on you and see that you didn't get lost in the shuffle. so here i am." "he didn't say anything about having written," pondered neil. "oh, he wouldn't," answered devoe. "well, how do you like us as far as you've seen us?" "we only got here yesterday," replied paul. "i think it looks like rather a jolly sort of place; awfully pretty, you know, and--er--historic." "yes, it is pretty; historic too; and it's the finest young college in the country, bar none," answered devoe. "you'll like it when you get used to it. i like it so well i wish i wasn't going to leave it in the spring. very cozy quarters you have here." he looked about the study. "they'll do," answered neil modestly. "of course we couldn't get rooms in the yard, and we liked this as well as anything we saw outside. the view's rather good from the windows." "yes, i know; you have the common and pretty much the whole college in sight; it is good." devoe brought his gaze back and fixed it on neil. "you played left half, didn't you?" "yes." "what's your weight?" "i haven't weighed this summer," answered neil. "in the spring i was a hundred and sixty-two." "good. we need some heavy backs. how about you, gale?" "about a hundred and sixty." "of course i haven't seen the new material yet," continued devoe, "but the last year's men we have are a bit light, take them all around. that's what beat us, you see; robinson had an unusually heavy line and rather heavy backs. they plowed through us without trouble." neil studied the football captain with some interest. he saw a tall and fairly heavy youth, with well-set head and broad shoulders. he looked quite as fast on his feet as rumor credited him with being, and his dark eyes, sharp and steady in their regard, suggested both courage and ability to lead. his other features were strong, the nose a trifle heavy, the mouth usually unsmiling, the chin determined, and the forehead, set off by carefully brushed dark-brown hair, high and broad. after the first few moments of conversation devoe devoted his attention principally to neil, questioning him regarding gardiner's coaching methods, about neil's experience on the gridiron, as to what studies he was taking up. occasionally he included paul in the conversation, but that youth discovered, with surprise and chagrin, that he was apparently of much less interest to devoe than was neil. after a while he dropped out of the talk altogether, save when directly appealed to, and sat silent with an expression of elaborate unconcern. at the end of half an hour devoe arose. "i must be getting on," he announced. "i'm glad we've had this talk, and i hope you'll both come over some evening and call on me; i'm in morris, no. 8. we've got our work cut out this fall, and i hope we'll all pull together." he smiled across at paul, evidently unaware of having neglected that young gentleman in his conversation. "good-night. four o'clock to-morrow is the hour." "i never met any one that could ask more questions than he can," exclaimed neil when devoe was safely out of hearing. "but i suppose that's the way to learn, eh?" paul yawned loudly and shrugged his shoulders. "funny he should have come just when we were talking about him, wasn't it?" neil pursued. "what do you think of him?" "well, if you ask me," paul answered, "i think he's a conceited, stuck-up prig!" chapter iv neil makes acquaintances neil's and paul's college life began early the next morning when, sitting side by side in the dim, hushed chapel, they heard white-haired dr. garrison ask for them divine aid and guidance. splashes and flecks of purple and rose and golden light rested here and there on bowed head and shoulders or lay in shafts across the aisles. from where he sat neil could look through an open window out into the morning world of greenery and sunlight. on the swaying branch of an elm that almost brushed the casement a thrush sang sweet and clear a matin of his own. neil made several good resolutions that morning there in the chapel, some of which he profited by, all of which he sincerely meant. and even paul, far less impressionable than his friend, looked uncommonly thoughtful all the way back to their room, a way that led through the elm-arched nave of college place and across the common with its broad expanses of sun-flecked sward and its simple granite shaft commemorating the heroes of the civil war. at nine o'clock, with the sound of the pealing bell again in their ears, with their books under their arms and their hearts beating a little faster than usual with pleasurable excitement, they retraced their path and mounted the well-worn granite steps of college hall for their first recitation. what with the novelty of it all the day passed quickly enough, and four o'clock found the two lads dressed in football togs and awaiting the beginning of practise. there were some sixty candidates in sight, boys--some of them men as far as years go--of all sizes and ages, several at the first glance revealing the hopelessness of their ambitions. the names were taken and fall practise at erskine began. the candidates were placed on opposite sides of the gridiron, and half a dozen footballs were produced. punting and catching punts was the order of the day, and neil was soon busily at work. the afternoon was warm, but not uncomfortably so, the turf was springy underfoot, the sky was blue from edge to edge, the new men supplied plenty of amusement in their efforts, the pigskins bumped into his arms in the manner of old friends, and neil was happy as a lark. after one catch for which he had to run back several yards, he let himself out and booted the leather with every ounce of strength. the ball sailed high in a long arching flight, and sent several men across the field scampering back into the grand stand for it. "i guess you've done that before," said a voice beside him. a short, stockily-built youth with a round, smiling face and blue eyes that twinkled with fun and good spirits was observing him shrewdly. "yes," answered neil, "i have." "i thought so," was the reply. "but you're a freshman, aren't you?" "yes," answered neil, turning to let a low drive from across the gridiron settle into his arms. "and i guess you're not." "no, this is my third year. i've been on the team two." he paused to send a ball back, and then wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "i was quarter last year." "oh," said neil, observing his neighbor with interest, "then you're foster?" "that's me. what are you trying for?" "half-back. i played three years at hillton." "of course; you're the fellow bob devoe was talking about--or one of them; i think he said there were two of you. which one are you?" "i'm the other one," laughed neil. "i'm fletcher. that's gale over there, the fellow in the old red shirt; he was our captain at hillton last year." foster looked across at paul and then back at neil. he was evidently comparing them. he shook his head. "it's a good thing he's got dark hair and you've got light," he said. "otherwise you wouldn't know yourselves apart; you're just of a height and build, and weight, too, i guess. are you related?" "no. but we are pretty much the same height and weight. he's half an inch taller, and i think i weigh two pounds more." in the intervals of catching and returning punts the acquaintance ripened. when, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, devoe gave the order to quit and the trainer sent them twice about the gridiron on a trot, neil found foster ambling along beside him. "phew!" exclaimed the latter. "i guess i lived too high last summer and put on weight. this is taking it out of me finely; i can feel whole pounds melting off. it doesn't seem to bother you any," he added. "no, i haven't much flesh about me," panted neil; "but i'm glad this is the last time around, just the same!" after their baths in the little green-roofed locker-house the two walked back to the yard together, paul, as neil saw, being in close companionship with a big youth whose name, according to foster, was tom cowan. "he played right-guard last year," said foster. "he's a soph; this is his third year." "third year!" exclaimed neil. "but how--" "oh, cowan was too busy to pass his exams last year," said foster with a grin. "so they let him stay a soph. he doesn't care; a little thing like that never bothers cowan." his tone was rather contemptuous. "is he liked?" neil asked. "oh, yes; he's very popular among a small and select circle of friends--a very small circle." then he dismissed cowan with an airy wave of one hand. "by the way," he continued, "have you any candidate for the presidency of your class?" "no," neil replied. "i haven't heard anything about it yet." "good; then you can vote for 'fan' livingston. he's a _protã©gã©_ of mine, you see; used to know him at st. mathias; you'll like him. he's an awfully good, manly, straightforward chap, just the fellow for the place. the election comes off next thursday evening. how about your friend?" "gale? i don't think he has any one in view. i guess you can count on his vote, too." "thanks; just mention it to him, will you? i'm booming livingston, and i want to see him win. can't you come round some evening the first of the week? i'd like you to meet him. and meanwhile just talk him up a bit, will you?" neil promised and made an appointment to meet the candidate the following saturday night at foster's room in mclean hall. the two parted at the gate, foster going up to his room and neil traversing the campus and the common to his own quarters. as he opened the study door he was surprised to hear voices within. paul and his new acquaintance, tom cowan, were sitting side by side on the window-seat. "hello," greeted the former. "how'd it go? like old times, wasn't it? neil, i want you to meet mr. cowan. cowan has quarters up-stairs here. he's an old player, and we've been telling each other how good we are." cowan looked for an instant as though he didn't quite appreciate the latter remark, but summoned a smile as he shook hands with neil and complimented him on his playing in hillton's last game with st. eustace. neil replied with extraordinary politeness. he was always extraordinarily polite to persons he didn't fancy, and his dislike of cowan was instant and hearty. cowan looked to be fully twenty-three years old, and owned to being twenty-one. he was fully six feet two, and apparently weighed about two hundred pounds. his face was rather handsome in a coarse, heavy-featured style, and his hands, as neil observed, were not quite clean. later, neil discovered that they never were. after listening politely for some moments to cowan's tales of former football triumphs and defeats, in all of which the narrator played, according to his words, a prominent part, neil broke into the stream of his eloquence and told paul of his meeting with foster, and of their talk regarding the freshman presidency. "well," answered paul, smiling at cowan, "you'll have to get out of that promise to foster or whatever his name is, because we've got a plan better than that. the fact is, neil, i'm going to try for the presidency myself!" "i suppose you're fooling?" gasped neil. "not a bit! why shouldn't i have a fling at it? cowan here has promised to help; in fact, it was he that suggested it. with his help and yours, and with the kind assistance of one or two fellows i know here, i dare say i can pull out on top. anyhow, there's no harm in trying." "i think you'll win," said cowan. "this chump livingston that foster is booming is a regular milksop; does nothing but grind, so they say; came out of st. mathias with all kinds of silly prizes and such. what the fellows always want is a good, popular chap that goes in for athletics and that will make a name for himself." "foster said livingston was something of a dab at baseball," said neil. "baseball!" cried cowan. "what's baseball? why not puss-in-the-corner? a chap with a football reputation like gale here can walk all round your baseball man. we'll carry it with a rush! you'll see! freshmen are like a lot of sheep--show 'em the way and they'll fall over themselves to get there." "well, we're freshmen ourselves, you know," said neil sweetly. cowan looked nonplussed for a moment. then-"oh, but you fellows are different; you've got sense. i was speaking of the general run of freshmen," he explained. "thanks," murmured neil. paul scented danger. "i'll put the campaign in your hands and cowan's, neil," he said. "you know several fellows here--there's wallace and knowles and jones. they're not freshmen, but they can give you introductions. knowles is a st. agnes man and there are lots of st. agnes fellows in our class." "i think you're making a mistake," answered neil soberly, "and i wish you'd give it up. livingston's got lots of supporters, and he's had his campaign under way for a week. if you're defeated i think it'll hurt you; fellows don't like defeated candidates when--when they're self-appointed candidates." "oh, of course, if you don't want to help," cried paul, with a trace of anger in his voice, "i guess we can get on without you." "i'm sure you won't desert your chum, fletcher," said cowan. "and i think you're all wrong about defeated candidates. if a fellow makes a good fight and is worsted no fellow that isn't a cad does other than honor him." "well, if you've made up your mind, paul," answered neil reluctantly, "of course i'll do all i can if foster will let me out of my promise to him." "oh, hang foster!" cried cowan. "he's a little fool!" "is he?" asked neil innocently. "i hadn't noticed it. well, as i say, i'll do all i can. and i'll begin now by going over to see him." "that's the boy," said paul. "tell foster there's a dark horse in the field." "and tell him i say the dark horse will win," added cowan. neil smiled back politely from the doorway. "i don't think i'd better mention your name, mr. cowan." he closed the door behind him, leaving cowan much puzzled as to the meaning of the last remark, and sought no. 12 mclean. he found the varsity quarter-back writing a letter by means of a small typewriter, his brow heavily creased with scowls and his feet kicking exasperatedly at the legs of his chair. "hello," was foster's greeting. "come in. and, i say, just look around on the floor there, will you, and see if you can find an l." "find what?" asked neil, searching the carpet with his gaze. "an l. there was one on this pesky machine a while ago, but i--can't--find--ah, here it is! 'l-o-v-i-n-g-l-y, t-e-d'! there, that's done. i bought this idiotic thing because some one said you could write letters on it in half the time it takes with a pen. well, i began this letter last night, and i guess i've spent fully two hours on it altogether. for two cents i'd pitch it out the window!" he pushed back his chair and glared vindictively at the typewriter. "and look at the result!" he held up a sheet of paper half covered with strange characters and erasures. "look how i've spelled 'allowance'--alliwzee! do you think dad will know what i mean?" neil shook his head dubiously. "not unless he's looking for the word," he answered. "well, he will be," grinned foster. "don't suppose you want to buy a fine typewriter at half price, do you?" neil was sure he didn't and broached the subject of his call. foster showed some amazement when he learned of gale's candidacy, but at once absolved neil from his promise. "frankly, fletcher, i don't think your friend has the ghost of a show, you know, but, of course, if he wants to try it it's all right. and i'm just as much obliged to you." during the next week neil worked early and late for paul's success. he made some converts, but not enough to give him much hope. livingston was easily the popular candidate for the presidency, and neil failed to understand where cowan found ground for the encouraging reports that he made to paul. paul himself was hopeful all the way through, and lent ill attention to neil's predictions of failure. "you always were a raven, chum," he would exclaim. "wait until thursday night." and neil, without much hope, waited. chapter v and shows his mettle the freshman election took place in one of the lecture rooms of grace hall. there was a full attendance of the entering class, while the absence of sophomores was considered by those who had heard of former freshman elections at erskine as something unnatural and of evil portent. paul, robbed of the support of tom cowan's presence, was noticeably ill at ease, and for the first time appeared to be in doubt as to his election. fanwell livingston was put in nomination by one of his st. mathias friends in a speech that secured wide applause, and the nomination was duly seconded by a red-headed and very eloquent youth who, so neil learned, was king, the captain of the st. mathias baseball team of the preceding spring. "are there any more nominations?" asked the chairman, a member of the junior class. south, a hillton boy, arose and spoke at some length of the courage and ability for leadership of one of whom they had all heard; "of one who on the white-grilled field of battle had successfully led the hosts of hillton academy against the st. eustace hosts." (two st. eustace graduates howled derisively.) south ended in a wild burst of flowery eloquence and placed in nomination "that triumphant football captain, that best of good fellows, paul dunlop gale!" the applause which followed was flattering, though, had paul but known it, it was rather for the speech than the nominee. and the effect was somewhat marred by several inquiries from different parts of the hall as to who in thunder gale was. neil secured recognition ere the applause had subsided, and seconded the nomination. he avoided rhetoric, and told his classmates in few words and simple phrases that paul gale possessed pluck, generalship, and executive ability; that he had proved this at hillton, and, given the chance, would prove it again at erskine. "gale is a stranger to many of you fellows," he concluded, "but, whether you make him class president or whether you give that honor to another, he won't be a stranger long. a fellow that can pilot a hillton football team to victory against almost overwhelming odds and through the greatest of difficulties as gale did last year is not the sort to sit around in corners and watch the procession go by. no, sir; keep your eye on him. i'll wager that before the year's out you'll be prouder of him than of any man in your class. and, meanwhile, if you're looking for the right man for the presidency, a man that'll lead 1905 to a renown beside which the other classes will look like so many battered golf-balls, why, i've told you where to look." neil sat down amid a veritable roar of applause, and paul, totally unembarrassed by the praise and acclaim, smiled with satisfaction. "that was all right, chum," he whispered. "i guess we've got them on the run, eh?" but neil shook his head doubtfully. cries of "vote! vote!" arose, and in a moment or two the balloting began. while this was proceeding announcement was made that the annual freshman class dinner would be held on the evening of the following monday, october 7th. when the cheers occasioned by this information had subsided the chairman arose. "the result of the balloting, gentlemen," he announced, "is as follows: livingston, 97; gale, 45. mr. livingston is elected by a majority of 52." shouts of "livingston! livingston! speech! speech!" filled the air, and were not stilled until some one arose and announced that the president-elect was not in the hall. paul, after a glance of bewilderment at neil, had sat silent in his chair with something between a sneer and a scowl on his face. now he jumped up. "come on; let's get out of here," he muttered. "they act like a lot of idiots." neil followed, and they found themselves in a pushing throng at the door. the chairman was vainly clamoring for some one to put a motion to adjourn, but none heeded him. the crowd pushed and shoved, but made no progress. "open that door," cried paul. "try it yourself," answered a voice up front. "it's locked!" a murmur arose that quickly gave place to cries of wrath and indignation. "the sophs did it!" "where are they?" "break the door down!" those at the rear heaved and pushed. "stop shoving, back there!" yelled those in front. "you're squashing us flat." "everybody away from the door!" shouted neil. "let's see if we can't get it open." the fellows finally fell back to some extent, and neil, paul, and some of the others examined the lock. the key was still there, but, unfortunately, on the outside. breaking the door down was utterly out of the question, since it was of solid oak and several inches thick. the self-appointed committee shook its several heads. "we'll have to yell for the janitor," said neil. "where does he hang out?" but none knew. neil went to one of the three windows and raised it. instantly a chorus of derision floated up from below. gathered almost under the windows was a throng of sophomores, their upturned faces just visible in the darkness. "o fresh! o fresh!" "want to come down?" "why don't you jump?" these gibes were followed by cheers for "'04" and loud groans. neil turned and faced his angry classmates. "look here, fellows," he said, "we don't want to have to yell for the janitor with those sophs there; that's too babyish. the key's in the outside of the lock. i think i can get down all right by the ivy, and i'll unlock the door if those sophs will let me. if two or three of you will follow i guess we can do it all right." "bully for you!" "plucky boy!" cried the audience. but for a moment none came forward to share the risk. then paul pushed his way to the window. "here, i'll go with you, chum," he said, with a suggestion of swagger. "we can manage those dubs down there alone. the rest of you can sit down and tell stories; we'll let you out in a minute," he added scathingly. "that's gale," whispered some one. "fresh kid!", added another angrily. but the gibe had the desired effect. four other freshmen signified their willingness to die for their class, and neil climbed on to the broad window-sill. his reappearance was the signal for another outburst from the watching sophomores. "don't jump, sonny; you may hurt yourself." "he's going to fly, fellows! good little freshie's got wings!" "say, we'll let you out in the morning! good-night!" but when neil, divesting himself of coat and shoes, swung out and laid hold of the largest of the big ivy branches that clung there to the wall, the jeers died away. the hall where the meeting had been held was on the third floor, and when neil stepped from the window-sill he hung fully twenty-five feet from the ground. the ivy branch, ages old, was almost as large as his wrist, and quite strong enough to bear his weight just as long as it did not tear from its fastenings. whether it would hold in place remained to be seen. neil judged that if he could lower himself fifteen feet by its aid he could easily drop the rest of the distance without injury. the window above was black with watchers as he began his journey, and many voices cheered him on. paul, his feet hanging over the black void, sat on the narrow ledge and waited his turn. "go fast, chum," he counseled, "but don't lose your grip. i'll wait until you're down." "all right," answered neil. then, with a great rustling of the thick-growing leaves, he lowered himself by arm's lengths. the vine swayed and gave at every strain, but held. from below came the sound of clapping. hand under hand he went. the oblong of faint light above receded fast. his stockinged feet gripped the vine tightly. in the group of sophomores the clapping grew into cheers. [illustration] "good work, freshie!" "you're all right!" then, with the ground almost at his feet, neil let go and dropped lightly into a bed of shrubbery. the fellows above applauded wildly. with a glance at the near-by group of sophomores, neil ran. several of the enemy started to intercept him, but were called back. "let him go! he's all right! we've had our fun!" and neil sprang up the steps and into the building without molestation. meanwhile paul was making his descent and receiving his meed of applause from friend and foe. and as he dropped to earth there came a sound of cheering from the building, and the freshmen, released by the unlocking of the door, emerged on to the steps and path. "five this way!" was the cry. "rush the sophs!" but wiser counsels prevailed and, each cheering loudly, the representatives of the rival classes took themselves off. neil and paul were the last to leave the building, since they had been obliged to return to the room for their shoes and coats. paul had forgotten some of his disappointment during the later proceedings, and appeared very well satisfied with himself. "we showed them what hillton chaps can do, chum," he said. "and i'll bet they'll regret electing that fellow livingston before i'm through with them! much i care about their old presidency! they're a pack of silly little kids, any way. let's go to bed." chapter vi mills, head coach "to the in-fants of 1905: "greeting! "the class of 1904, an-i-mat-ed by the kind-li-est of sen-ti-ments, has, at an ex-pen-se of much time and thought, form-u-lat-ed the fol-low-ing rules for the guid-ance of your todd-ling foot-steps at this the out-set of your col-lege car-eers. a strict ad-her-ence to these pre-cepts will in-sure to you the ad-mi-ra-tion of your fond par-ents, the re-spect of your friends, and the love of the soph-o-more class, which, in the ab-sence of rel-at-ives, will, with thought-ful, tender care, stand ever by to guard you from the world's hard knocks. "attend, infants! "1. r-spect for eld-ers and those in auth-or-ity is one of child-hood's most charm-ing traits. there-for take off your hat to all soph-o-mores, and when in their pres-ence al-ways main-tain a def-er-en-tial sil-ence. "2. tall hats and canes as art-i-cles of child-ren's attire are ex-treme-ly un-be-com-ing, and are there-for strict-ly pro-hib-it-ed. "3. smok-ing, either of pipes, cig-ars, or cig-ar-ettes, stunts the growth and re-tards the dev-el-op-ment of in-tel-lect. child-ren, be-ware! "4. a suf-fic-ien-cy of sleep and plain, whole-some fare are strong-ly re-com-mend-ed. "early to bed and early to rise makes little freshie healthy and wise. "avoid late hours and rich food, es-pec-ial-ly fudge. "5. that you may not be tempt-ed to trans-gress the pre-ceed-ing rule, it has been thought best to pro-hib-it the freshman din-ner, which in pre-vi-ous years has ruin-ed so many young lives. the hab-it of hold-ing these din-ners is a per-nic-ious one and must be stamp-ed out. to this end the class of 1904 will ex-ert its strong-est ef-forts, and you are here-by warn-ed that any at-tempt to re-vive this lam-ent-able cust-om will bring down up-on you severe chast-ise-ment. "we must be cruel only to be kind; pause and reflect, who would be dined. "heed and prof-it by these pre-cepts, dear child-ren, that you may grow up to be great and noble men like those who sub-scribe them-selves, "pa-ter-nal-ly yours, "the class of 1904. "you are ad-ver-tis-ed by your lov-ing friends." this startling information, printed in sophomore red on big white placards, flamed from every available space in and about the campus the next morning. the nocturnal bill-posters had shown themselves no respecters of places, for the placards adorned not fences and walls alone, but were pasted on the granite steps of each recitation hall. all the forenoon groups of staid seniors, grinning juniors and sophomores, or vexed freshmen stood in front of the placards and read the inscriptions with varied emotions. but in the afternoon a cheering mob of the "infants" marched through the college and town and tore down or effaced every poster they could find. but they didn't get as far from the campus as the athletic field, and so it was not until neil and paul and one or two other freshmen reported for practise at four o'clock that it was discovered that the high board fence surrounding the field was a mass of the objectionable signs from end to end. "oh, let them stay," said neil. "i think they're rather funny myself. and as for their stopping the freshman dinner, why we'll wait and see. if they try it we'll have our chance to get back at them." "r-r-revenge!" muttered south, who, with a lacrosse stick over his shoulder and an attire consisting wholly of a pair of flapping white trunks, a faded green shirt, and a pair of canvas shoes, had come out to join the lacrosse candidates. "king suggested our getting some small posters printed in blue with just the figures ''05' on them, and pasting one on every soph's window," said paul, "but livingston wouldn't hear of it. i think it would be a good game, eh?" "faculty'd kick up no end of a rumpus," said south. "i haven't heard that they are doing much about these things," answered paul. "if the sophs can stick things around why can't we?" "you'd better ask the dean," suggested neil. "hello, who's that chap?" they had entered the grounds and were standing on the steps of the locker-house. the person to whom neil referred was just coming through the gate. he was a medium-sized man of about thirty years, with a good-looking, albeit very freckled face, and a good deal of sandy hair. the afternoon was quite warm, and he carried his straw hat in one very brown hand, while over his arm lay a sweater of erskine purple, a pair of canvas trousers, and two worn shoes. "blessed if i know who he is!" murmured south. they watched the newcomer as he traversed the path and reached the steps. as he passed them and entered the building he looked them over keenly with a pair of very sharp and very light blue eyes. "wow!" muttered paul. "he looked as though he was trying to decide whether i would taste better fried or baked." "i wonder--" began neil. but at that moment tom cowan came up and paul put the question to him. "the fellow that just came in?" repeated cowan. "that, my boy, is a gentleman who will have you standing on your head in just about twenty minutes. some eight or ten years ago he was popularly known hereabouts as 'whitey' mills. to-day, if you know your business, you'll address him as _mister_ mills." "oh," said neil, "he's the head coach, is he?" "he is, my young friend. and as he used to be one of the finest half-backs in the country, i guess you'll see something of him before you make the team. i dare say he can teach even you something about playing your position." cowan grinned and passed on. "oh, go to thunder!" muttered neil, following him into the building. he found mills being introduced by devoe to such of the new candidates as were on hand. "you remember cowan, i guess," devoe was saying. "he played right-guard last year." mills and cowan shook hands. "and this is fletcher, a new man," continued the captain, "and gale, too; they're both hillton fellows and played at half. it was fletcher that made that fine run in the st. eustace game. gale was the captain last year." mills shook hands with each, but beyond a short nod of his head and a brief "glad to meet you," displayed no knowledge of their fame. "grouchy chap," commented paul when, the coach out of hearing, they were changing their clothes. "well, he doesn't hurt himself talking," answered neil. "but he looks as though he knew his business. his eyes are like little blue-steel gimlets." "doesn't look much for strength, though," said paul. but when, a few minutes later, mills appeared on the gridiron in football togs, paul was forced to alter his opinion. chest, arms, and legs were a mass of muscle, and the head coach looked as though he could render a good account of himself against the stiffest line that could be put together. the practise began with ten minutes of falling on the ball. the candidates were lined out in two strings across the field, the old men in one, the new material in another. neil and paul were among the latter, and mills held their ball. standing at the right end of the line, he rolled the pigskin in front of and slightly away from the line, and one after another the men leaped forward and flung themselves upon it, missing it at first as often as not, and rolling about on the turf as though suddenly seized with fits. neil rather prided himself on his ability to fall on the ball, and went at it like an old stager, or so he thought. but if he expected commendation he found none. when the last man had rolled around after the elusive pigskin, mills went to the other end of the line and did it all over again. when it came neil's turn he plunged out, found the ball nicely, and snuggled it against his breast. to his surprise when he arose mills left his place and walked out to him. "let's try that again," he said. neil tossed him the ball and went back to his place. mills nodded to him and rolled the pigskin toward him. neil dropped on his hip, securing the ball under his right arm. like a flash mills was over him, and with a quick blow of his hand had sent the leather bobbing across the turf yards away. "when you get it, hold on to it," he said dryly. neil arose with reddening cheeks and, amid the smiles of the others, went back to his place trying to decide whether, if he could have his way, the coach should perish by boiling oil or by merely being drawn and quartered. but after that it was a noticeable fact that the men clung to the ball when they got it as though it were a dearly loved friend. later, passing down the line in front from end to end, the head coach threw the ball swiftly at the feet of one after another of the candidates, and each was obliged to drop where he stood and have the ball in his arms when he landed. when mills came to neil the latter was still nursing his resentment, and his cheeks still proclaimed that fact. after the boy had dropped on the ball and had tossed it back to the coach their eyes met. in the coach's was just the merest twinkle, a very ghost of a smile; but neil saw it, and it said to him as plainly as words could have said, "i know just how you feel, my boy, but you'll get over it after a while." the coach passed on and the flush faded from neil's cheeks; he even smiled a little. it was all right; mills understood. it was almost as though they shared a secret between them. alfred mills, head football coach at erskine college, had no more devoted admirer and partizan from that moment than neil fletcher, '05. next the men were spread out until there was a little space between each, and the coach passed behind the line and shot the ball through, and they had an opportunity to see what they could do with a pigskin that sped away ahead of them. by careful management it is possible in falling on a football to bring almost every portion of the anatomy in violent contact with the ground, and this fact was forcibly brought home to neil, paul, and all the others by the time the work was at an end. "i've got bones i never knew the existence of before," mourned neil. "me too," growled paul. "and half a dozen of my front teeth are aching from trying to bite holes in the ground; i think they're all loose. if they come out i'll send the dentist's bill to the management." a few minutes later neil found himself at left half in one of the six squads of eleven men each that practised advancing the ball. they lined up in ordinary formation, and the ball was passed to one back after another for end runs. mills went from squad to squad, criticizing briefly and succinctly. "don't wait for the quarter to pass," he told paul, who was playing beside neil. "on your toes and run hard. have confidence in your quarter. if the ball isn't ready for you it's not your fault. try that again." and when paul and neil and the full-back had plowed round the left end once more-"quarter, don't hold that ball as though your hand was frozen; keep your hand limber and see that you get the belly of the ball in it, not one end; then it won't tilt itself out. when you get the ball from center rise quickly, put your back against guard, and throw your weight there. and it's just as necessary for you to have confidence in the runner as it is for him to have faith in you. don't fear that you'll be too quick for him; don't doubt but that he'll be there at the right instant. keep that in mind and you'll soon have things going like clock-work. now once more; ball to left half for a run around right end." when practise was over that day the new candidates were unanimous in the opinion that they had learned more that afternoon under mills than they had learned during the whole previous week. neil, paul, and cowan walked back to college together. "yes, he's a great little coach," said cowan, "and a nice chap when you get to know him; no frills on him, you know. and he's plumb full of pluck. they say that once when he played here at half-back he got the ball on robinson's forty yards and walked down the field and over the line for a touch-down with half the robinson team hanging on to his legs, and said afterward that he thought he _had_ felt some one tugging at him!" neil laughed. "but he doesn't look so awfully strong," he objected. "well, i guess he was in better trim then," answered cowan. "besides, he's built well, you see--most of his weight below his waist; when a chap's that way it's hard to pull him over. i remember last year in the game with erstham i got through their tackle on a guard-back play, and--" but neil had already heard that story of heroic deeds, and so lent a deaf ear to cowan's boasting. when they reached main street a window full of the first issue of the college weekly, the erskine purple, met their sight, and they went in and bought copies. on the steps of the laboratory building they opened the inky-smelling journals and glanced through them. "here's an account of last night's election," said cowan. "that's quick work, isn't it? and you can read all about livingston's brilliant career, gale. by the way, have you met him yet?" paul shook his head. "no, and i'm bearing up under it as well as can be expected." "you're not missing much," said cowan. "hello, here's the football schedule! want to hear it?" paul said he did, neil muttered something unintelligible, and cowan read as follows: "e.c.f.b.a. "schedule of games "oct. 12. woodby at centerport. " 16. dexter at centerport. " 23. harvard at cambridge. " 26. erstham at centerport. nov. 2. state university at centerport. " 6. arrowden at centerport. " 9. yale at new haven. " 16. artmouth at centerport. " 23. robinson at centerport." "by jove!" said cowan. "we've got seven home games this year! that's fine, isn't it? but i'll bet we'll find woodby a tough proposition on the 12th. last year we played her about the 1st of november, and she didn't do a thing to us. and look at the game they've got scheduled for a week before the robinson game! that'll wear us out; artmouth will put just about half of our men on the sick-list. and--hello!" he said, dropping his voice; "talk of an angel!" a youth of apparently nineteen years was approaching them. he was of moderate height, rather slimly built, with dark eyes and hair, and clean-cut features. he swung a note-book in one hand, and was evidently in deep thought, for he failed to see the group on the steps, and would have passed without speaking had not cowan called to him. housed from his reverie, fanwell livingston glanced up, and, after nodding to cowan and neil, turned in at the gate. "i suppose you want congratulations," said cowan. "well, you can have mine." "and mine," added neil. "and gale here will extend his as soon as he's properly introduced. mr. gale--mr. livingston." "victory--defeat," added cowan with a grin. the two candidates for the freshman presidency shook hands, paul without enthusiasm, livingston heartily. "congratulations, of course," murmured the former. "thank you," answered the president. "you're very generous. after all, i dare say you've got the best of it, for you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that if the fellows had chosen you you would have done much better than i shall. however, i hope we'll be friends, mr. gale." livingston's smile was undeniably winning, and paul was forced to return it. "you're very good," he answered quite affably. "i hope we will." livingston nodded, smiled again, and turned to cowan. "well, they tell me you fellows are in for desperate deeds this year," he said. "how's that?" asked cowan. "aren't you in on the sophomore councils? why, i'm told that if the freshmen don't give up the dinner plan i'm to be kidnaped." "how'd you hear--" began cowan. then he paused with some confusion. "who told you that rot?" he asked with a laugh. "oh, it came in a roundabout way," answered livingston. "i dare say it's just talk." "some freshman nonsense," said cowan. "i guess we'll do our best to keep you fellows from eating too much, but--" he shrugged his big shoulders. livingston, observing him shrewdly, began for the first time since intelligence of the supposed project had reached him to give credence to it. but he laughed carelessly as he turned away. "oh, well, we have to keep you fellows amused, of course, and if you like to try kidnaping you may." "i wish the sophs would try it," said neil warmly. cowan turned to him. "well, if they did--_if_ they did--i guess they'd succeed," he drawled. "well, if they do--_if_ they do," answered neil, "i'll bet they won't succeed." "you'd stop us, perhaps?" sneered cowan. "easily," answered neil, smiling sweetly; "there are only a hundred or so of you." "there's no one like a week-old freshman for self-importance," cowan said, laughing in order to hide his vexation. "unless it's a third-year sophomore," neil retorted. "oh, well," paul interposed, "it's all poppycock, anyhow." "that's all," said livingston. "of course," agreed cowan. neil was silent. chapter vii the gentle art of handling punts life now was filled with hard work for both neil and paul. much of the novelty that had at first invested study with an exhilarating interest had worn off, and they had settled down to the daily routine of lectures and recitations just as though they had been erskine undergrads for years instead of a week. the study and the adjoining bed-room were at last furnished to suit; the first snow was hung, the "rug for the wash-stand" was in place, and the objectionable towel-rack had given way to a smaller but less erratic affair. every afternoon saw the two boys on erskine field. mills was a hard taskmaster, but one that inspired the utmost confidence, and as a result of some ten days' teaching the half hundred candidates who had survived the first weeding-out process were well along in the art of football. the new men were coached daily in the rudiments; were taught to punt and catch, to fall on the ball, to pass without fumbling, to start quickly, and to run hard. exercise in the gymnasium still went on, but the original twenty-minute period had gradually diminished to ten. neil and paul, with certain other candidates for the back-field, were daily instructed in catching punts and forming interference. every afternoon the practise was watched by a throng of students who were quick to applaud good work, and whose presence was a constant incentive to the players. there was a strong sentiment throughout the college in favor of leaving nothing undone that might secure a victory over robinson. the defeat of the previous year rankled, and erskine was grimly determined to square accounts with her lifelong rival. as one important means to this end the college was searched through and through for heavy material, for robinson always turned out teams that, whatever might be their playing power, were beef and brawn from left end to right. and so at erskine men who didn't know a football from a goal-post were hauled from studious retirement simply because they had weight and promised strength, and were duly tried and, usually, found wanting. one lucky find, however, rewarded the search, a two-hundred-pound sophomore named browning, who, handicapped at the start with a colossal ignorance regarding all things pertaining to the gridiron, learned with wonderful rapidity, and gave every promise of turning himself into a phenomenal guard or tackle. on the 5th of october a varsity and a second squad were formed, and neil and paul found themselves at left and right half respectively on the latter. cowan was back at right-guard on the varsity, a position which he had played satisfactorily the year before. neil had already made the discovery that he had, despite his hillton experience, not a little to learn, and he set about learning it eagerly. paul made the same discovery, but, unfortunately for himself, the discovery wounded his pride, and he accepted the criticisms of coach and captain with rather ill grace. "that dub devoe makes me very weary," he confided to neil one afternoon. "he thinks he knows it all and no one else has any sense." "he doesn't strike me that way," answered his chum. "and i think he does know a good deal of football." "you always stick up for him," growled paul. "and for mills, too--white-haired, freckle-faced chump!" "don't be an idiot," said neil. "one's captain and t'other is coach, and they're going to rub it into us whenever they please, and the best thing for us to do is to take it and look cheerful." "that's it; we _have_ to take it," paul objected. "they can put us on the bench if they want to and keep us there all the season; i know that. but, just the same, i don't intend to lick devoe's boots or rub my head in the dirt whenever mills looks at me." "well, it looks to me as though you'd been rubbing your head in the dirt already," laughed neil. "connor stepped on me there," muttered paul, wiping a clump of mud from his forehead. "come on; mills is yelling for us. more catching punts, i suppose." and his supposition was correct. across the width of the sunlit field graham, the two-hundred-and-thirty-pound center rush, stooped over the pigskin. beside him were two pairs of end rushes, and behind him, with outstretched hands, stood ted foster. foster gave a signal, the ball went back to him on a long pass, and he sent it over the gridiron toward where neil, paul, and two other backs were waiting. the ends came down under the kick, the ball thumped into paul's hands, neil and another formed speedy interference, and the three were well off before the ends, like miniature cyclones, were upon them and had dragged paul to earth. the head coach, a short but sturdy figure in worn-out trousers and faded purple shirt, stood on the edge of the cinder track and viewed the work with critical eye. when the ends had trotted back over the field with the ball to repeat the proceeding, he made himself heard: "spread out more, fellows, and don't all stand in a line across the field. you've got to learn now to judge kicks; you can't expect to always find yourself just under them. fletcher, as soon as you've decided who is to take the ball yell out. then play to the runner; every other man form into interference and get him up the field. now then! play quick!" the ball was in flight again, and once more the ends were speeding across under it. "mine!" cried neil. then the leather was against his breast and he was dodging forward, paul ahead of him to bowl over opposing players, and pearse, a full-back candidate, plunging along beside. one--two--three of the ends were passed, and the ball had been run back ten yards. then stone, last year's varsity left end, fooled paul, and getting inside him, nailed neil by the hips. "well tackled, stone," called mills. "gale, you were asleep, man; stone ought never to have got through there. fletcher, you're going to lose the ball some time when you need it badly if you don't catch better than that. never reach up for it; remember that your opponent can't tackle you until you've touched it; wait until it hits against your stomach, and then grip it hard. if you take it in the air it's an easy stunt for an opponent to knock it out of your hands; but if you've got it hugged against your body it won't matter how hard you're thrown, the ball's yours for keeps. bear that in mind." on the next kick neil called to gale to take the pigskin. paul misjudged it, and was forced to turn and run back. he missed the catch, a difficult one under the circumstances, and also missed the rebound. by this time the opposing ends were down on him. the ball trickled across the running track, and paul stooped to pick it up. but stone was ahead of him, and seizing the pigskin, was off for what would have been a touch-down had it been in a game. "what's the matter, gale?" cried mills angrily. "why didn't you fall on that ball?" "it was on the cinders," answered paul, in evident surprise. mills made a motion of disgust, of tragic impatience. "i don't care," he cried, "if it was on broken glass! you've got orders to fall on the ball. now bring it over here, put it down and--_fall_--_on_--_it_!" neil watched his chum apprehensively. knowing well paul's impatience under discipline, he feared that the latter would give way to anger and mutiny on the spot. but paul did as directed, though with bad grace, and contented himself with muttered words as he threw the pigskin to a waiting end and went back to his place. soon afterward they were called away for a ten-minute line-up. paul, still smarting under what in his own mind he termed a cruel indignity, played poorly, and ere the ten minutes was half up was relegated to the benches, his place at right half being taken by kirk. the second managed to hold the varsity down to one score that day, and might have taken the ball over itself had not pearse fumbled on the varsity's three yards. as it was, they were given a hearty cheer by the watchers when time was called, and they trotted to the bucket to be sponged off. then those who had not already been in the line-up were given the gridiron, and the varsity and second were sent for a trot four times around the field, the watchful eye of "baldy" simson, erskine's veteran trainer, keeping them under surveillance until they had completed their task and had trailed out the gate toward the locker-house, baths, and rub-downs. chapter viii the kidnaping fanwell livingston was curled in the window-seat in his front room, his book close to the bleared pane, striving to find light enough by which to study. outside it was raining in a weary, desultory way, and the heavens were leaden-hued. livingston's quarters were on the front of that big lemon-yellow house at the corner of oak and king streets, about equidistant from campus and field. the outlook to-day was far from inspiriting. when he raised his eyes from the pages before him he saw an empty road running with water; beyond that a bare, weed-grown, sodden field that stretched westward to the unattractive backs of the one-and two-storied shops on main street. livingston's room wasn't in any sense central, but he liked it because it was quiet, because aside from the family he had the house to himself, and because mrs. saunders, his landlady, was goodness itself and administered to his comfort almost as his own mother would have done. the freshman president laid aside his book, grimaced at the dreary prospect, and took out his watch. "ten minutes after five," he murmured. "heavens, what a beastly dark day! i'll have to start to get dressed before long. too bad we've got such weather for the affair." he glanced irresolutely toward the gas-fixture, and from thence to where his evening clothes lay spread out on the couch. for it was the evening of the freshman class dinner. while he was striving to find energy wherewith to tear himself from the soft cushions and make a light, footsteps sounded outside his door, and some one demanded admission. "come in!" he called. the door swung open, was closed swiftly and softly again, and neil fletcher crossed the room. he looked rather like a tramp; his hat was a misshapen thing of felt from which the water dripped steadily as he tossed it aside; his sweater--he wore no coat--was soaking wet; and his trousers and much-darned golf stockings were in scarcely better condition. his hair looked as though he had just taken his head from a water-bucket, and his face bespoke excitement. "they're coming after you, livingston," he cried in an intense whisper. "i heard cowan telling carey in the locker-room a minute ago; they didn't know i was there; it was dark as dark. they've got a carriage, and there are going to be nearly a dozen of them. i ran all the way as soon as i got on to oak street. there wasn't time to get any of the fellows together, so i just sneaked right over here. you can get out now and go--somewhere--to our room or the library. they won't look for you there, eh? there's a fellow at the corner watching, but i don't think he saw me, and i can settle with him; or maybe you could get out the back way and double round by the railroad? you can't stay here, because they're coming right away; cowan said--" "for heaven's sake, fletcher, what do you mean?" asked livingston. "you don't want me to believe that they're really going to run off with me?" neil, gasping for breath, subsided on to the window-seat and nodded his head vigorously. "that's just what i do mean. there's no doubt about it, my friend. didn't i tell you i heard cowan--" "oh, cowan!" "i know, but it was all in earnest. carey and he are on their way to pike's stable for the carriage, and the others are to meet there. they've had fellows watching you all day. there's one at the corner now--a tall, long-nosed chap that i've seen in class. so get your things and get out as soon as you can move." livingston, with his hands in his pockets, stared thoughtfully out of the window, neil watching him impatiently and listening apprehensively for the sound of carriage wheels down the street. "it doesn't seem to me that they could be idiots enough to attempt such a silly trick," said livingston at last. "you--you're quite sure you weren't mistaken--that they weren't stringing you?" "they didn't know i was there!" cried neil in exasperation. "i went in late--mills had us blocking kicks--and was changing my things over in a dark corner when they hurried in and went over into the next alley and began to talk. at first they were whispering, but after a bit they talked loud enough for me to hear every word." "well, anyhow--and i'm awfully much obliged, fletcher--i don't intend to run from a few sophs. i'll lock the front door and this one and let them hammer." "but--" "nonsense; when they find they can't get in they'll get tired and go away." "and you'll go out and get nabbed at the corner! that's a clever program, i don't think!" cried neil in intense scorn. "now you listen to me, livingston. what you want to do is to put your glad rags in a bag and--what's that?" he leaped to his feet and peered out of the window. just within his range of vision a carriage, drawn by two dripping, sorry-looking nags, drew up under the slight shelter of an elm-tree about fifty yards away from the house. from it emerged eight fellows in rain-coats, while the tall, long-nosed watcher whom neil had seen at the corner joined them and made his report. the group looked toward livingston's window and neil dodged back. "it's too late now," he whispered. "there they are." "look a bit damp, don't they," laughed livingston softly as he peered out over the other's shoulder. "i'll go down and lock the door." "no, stay here," said neil. "i'll look after that; they might get you. i wish it wasn't so dark! how about the back way? can't you get out there and sneak around by the field?" "i told you i wasn't going to run away from them," replied his host, "and i haven't changed my mind." "you're an obstinate ass!" answered neil. he scowled at the calm and smiling countenance of the freshman president a moment, and then turned quickly and pulled the shades at the windows. "i've got it!" he cried. "look here, will you do as i tell you? if you do i promise you we'll fool them finely." "i'm not going out of this room," objected livingston. "yes, you are--into the next one. and you're going to lock the door behind you; and i'm going to look after our sophomore callers. now go ahead. do as i tell you, or i'll go off and leave you to be eaten alive!" neil, grinning delightedly, thrust the unwilling livingston before him. "now lock the door and keep quiet. no matter what you hear, keep quiet and stay in there." "but--" "you be hanged!" neil pulled to the bed-room door, and listened until he heard the key turn on the other side. then he stole to the window and, lifting a corner of the shade, peeped out. the group of sophomores were no longer in sight, but at that moment he heard the front door close softly. there was no time to lose. he found a match and hurriedly lighted one burner over the study table. then, turning it down to a mere blue point of light, he flung himself back among the cushions on the window-seat, and with a heart that hammered violently at his ribs waited. almost in the next moment there were sounds of shuffling feet outside the study door, a low voice, and then a knock. neil took a long breath. "come in," he called drowsily. the door opened. neil arose and walked to the gas-fixture, knocking over a chair on his way. "come in, whoever you are," he muttered. "guess i was almost asleep." he reached up a hand and turned out the gas. the room, almost dark before, was now blackness from wall to wall. "pshaw," said neil, "i've turned the pesky thing out! just stand still until i find a match or you'll break your shins." he groped his way toward the mantel. now was the sophomores' opportunity, and they seized it. neil had done his best to imitate livingston's careful and rather precise manner of speaking, and the invaders, few of whom even knew the president of the freshman class by sight, never for an instant doubted that they had captured him. [illustration] neil found himself suddenly seized by strong arms. with a cry of simulated surprise, he struggled feebly. "here, what's up, fellows?" he remonstrated. "look out, i tell you! _don't do that_!" then he was borne, protesting and kicking, feet foremost, through the door, out into the hall and down the stairs. when the front door was thrown open neil was alarmed to find that although almost dark it was still light enough for his captors to discover their mistake. hiding his face as best he could, he lifted his voice in loud cries for help. it worked like a charm. instantly a carriage robe was thrown over his head and he was hurried down the steps, across the muddy sidewalk, and into the waiting vehicle which had been driven up before the house. once inside, neil was safe from detection, for the hack, the shades drawn up before the windows, was as dark as egypt. neil sighed his relief, muttered a few perfunctory threats from behind the uncomfortable folds of the ill-smelling robe, and, with one fellow sitting on his chest and three others holding his legs, felt the carriage start. despite the enveloping folds about his head he could hear quite well; hear the horses' feet go _squish-squash_ in the mud; hear the carriage creak on its aged hinges; hear the shriek of a distant locomotive as they approached the railroad. his captors were congratulating themselves on the success of their venture. "easier than i thought it'd be," said one, and at the reply neil figuratively pricked up his ears. "pshaw, i knew we'd have no trouble; livingston was so cock-sure that we wouldn't try it that he'd probably forgotten all about it. i guess that conceited little fool fletcher will talk out of the other side of his mouth for a while now. what do you think? he had the nerve to tell me last week that he guessed _he_ could prevent a kidnaping, as there were only about a hundred of us sophs!" the others laughed. "well, he is a chesty young kid, isn't he?" asked a third speaker. "i guess it's just as well we didn't have to kidnap _him_, eh? by the way, our friend here seems ill at ease. maybe we'd better get off of him now and give him a breath of air. we don't want a corpse on our hands." the sophomores found seats and the robe was unwound from about neil's head, much to that youth's delight. he took a good long breath and, grinning enjoyably in the darkness, settled himself to make the best of his predicament. now that he had discovered tom cowan to be one of his abductors, he was filled with such glee that he found it hard work to keep silent. but he did, and all the gibes of his captors, uttered in quite the most polite language imaginable, failed to elicit a reply. "beautiful evening for a drive, is it not?" asked one. "i trust you had not planned to attend the freshman dinner to-night?" asked another. "for i fear we shall be late in reaching home." "you are quite comfortable? is there any particular road you would like to drive? any part of our lovely suburbs you care to visit?" "surly brute!" growled a fourth, who was cowan. "let's make him speak, eh? let's twist his arm a bit." "you sit still or i'll punch your thick head," said the first speaker coldly. "what i dislike about you, cowan, is that you are never able to forget that you're a mucker. i wish you'd try," he continued wearily, "it's so monotonous." cowan was silent an instant; then laughed uncertainly. "i suppose you fancy you're a wit, baker," he said, "but i think you're mighty tiresome." "don't let it trouble you," was the calm reply. some one laughed drowsily. then there was silence save for the sound of the horses' feet, the complaining of the well-worn hack and the occasional voice of the driver outside on the box. neil began to feel rather drowsy himself; the motion was lulling, and now that they had crossed the railroad-track and reached the turnpike along the river, the carriage traveled smoothly. it was black night outside now, and through the nearest window at which the curtain had been lowered neil could see nothing save an occasional light in some house. he didn't know where he was being taken, and didn't much care. they rolled steadily on for half an hour longer, during which time two at least of his captors proclaimed their contentment by loud snoring. then the carriage slowed down, the sleeping ones were awakened, and a moment later a flood of light entering the window told neil that the journey was at an end. "far as we go," said some one. "all out here and take the car ahead!" a door was opened, two of his captors got out, and neil was politely invited to follow. he did so. before him was the open door of a farm-house from which the light streamed hospitably. it was still drizzling, and neil took shelter on the porch unchallenged; now that the abductors had got him some five miles from centerport, they were not so attentive. the others came up the steps and the carriage was led away toward the barn. "if your excellency will have the kindness to enter the house," said baker, with low obeisance, "he will find accommodations which, while far from befitting your excellency's dignity, are, unfortunately, the best at our command." neil accepted the invitation silently, and entering the doorway, found himself in a well-lighted room wherein a table was set for supper. the others followed, cowan grinning from ear to ear in anticipation of the victim's discomfiture. in his eagerness he was the first to catch sight of neil's face. with a howl of surprise he sprang back, almost upsetting baker. "what's the matter with you?" cried the latter. cowan made no answer, but stared stupidly at neil. "eh? what?" baker sprang forward and wheeled their victim into the light. neil turned and faced them smilingly. the four stared in bewilderment. it was baker who first found words. "_well, i'll--be--hanged_!" he murmured. neil turned placidly to the discomfited cowan. "you see, cowan," he said sweetly, "one against a hundred isn't such big odds, after all, is it?" chapter ix the broken tricycle as soon as livingston heard the kidnapers staggering down-stairs with their burden he unlocked the bed-room door and stole to the window. he saw neil, his head hidden by the carriage robe, thrust into the hack and driven away, and saw the conspirators for whom the vehicle afforded no room separate and disappear in the gathering darkness. livingston's emotions were varied: admiration for neil's harebrained but successful ruse, distaste for the sorry part taken by himself in the affair, and amusement over the coming amazement and discomfiture of the enemy were mingled. in the end delight in the frustration of the sophomores' plan gained the ascendency, and he resolved that although neil would miss the freshman dinner he should have it made up to him. and so in his speech an hour or so later fanwell livingston told the astonished company of the attempted kidnaping and of its failure, and never before had odd fellows' hall rang with such laughter and cheering. and a little knot of sophomores, already bewildered by the appearance of the freshman president on the scene, were more than ever at a loss. they stood under an awning across the street, some twenty or thirty of them, and asked each other what it meant. content with the supposed success of the abduction, they had made no attempt to prevent the dinner. and now livingston, who by every law of nature should be five miles out in the country, was presiding at the feast and moving his audience to the wildest applause. "but i helped put him in the hack!" carey cried over and over. "and i saw it drive off with him!" marveled another. "and if that's livingston, where's baker, and morton, and cowan, and dyer?" asked the rest. and all shook their heads and gazed bewildered through the rain to where a raised window-shade gave them occasional glimpses of "fan" livingston, a fine figure in dinner jacket and white shirt bosom, leading the cheering. "_rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, fletcher_!" the group under the awning turned puzzled looks upon each other. "who's fletcher? what are they cheering fletcher for?" was asked. but none could answer. but over in the hall it was different. not a lad there, perhaps, but would have been glad to have exchanged places with the gallant confounder of sophomore plots, who was pictured in most minds as starving to death somewhere out in the rain, a captive in the ungentle hands of the enemy. however, starving neil certainly was not. for at that very moment, seated at the hospitable board of farmer hutchins, he was helping himself to his fifth hot biscuit, and allowing miss hutchins, a red-cheeked and admiring young lady of fourteen years, to fill his teacup for the second time. from the role of prisoner neil had advanced himself to the position of honored guest. for after the first consternation, bewilderment, and mortification had passed, his captors philosophically accepted the situation, and under the benign influence of cold chicken and hot soda biscuits found themselves not only able to display equanimity, but to join in the laugh against themselves and to admire the cleverness displayed in their out-witting. of the four sophomores cowan's laughter and praise alone rang false. but neil was supremely indifferent to that youth's sentiments. the others he soon discovered to be thoroughly good fellows, and there is no doubt but that he enjoyed the hospitality of farmer hutchins more than he would have enjoyed the freshman class dinner. at nine o'clock the drive back to centerport began, and as the horses soon found that they were headed toward home the journey occupied surprisingly little time, and at ten neil was back in his room awaiting the return of paul. to neil's surprise that gentleman was at first decidedly grumpy. "you might have let me into it," he grumbled. but neil explained and apologized until at length peace was restored. then he had to tell paul all about it from first to last, and paul laughed until he choked; "i--i just wish--wish i had--seen cowan's--face when--he--found it--out!" he shrieked. one result of that night's adventure was that the class of 1905 was never thereafter bothered in the slightest degree by the sophomores; it appeared to be the generally accepted verdict that the freshmen had established their right to immunity from all molestation. another result was that neil became a class hero and a college notable. younger freshmen pointed him out to each other in admiring awe; older and more influential ones went out of their way to claim recognition from him; sophomores viewed him with more than passing interest, and upper-class men predicted for him a brilliant college career. even the dean, when he passed neil the following afternoon and returned his bow, allowing himself something almost approaching a grin. neil, however, bore his honors modestly even while acknowledging to himself the benefit of them. he learned that his chances of making a certain society, membership in which was one of his highest ambitions, had been more than doubled, and was glad accordingly. (he was duly elected and underwent rigorous initiation proudly and joyfully.) the kidnaping affair even affected his football standing, for mills and devoe and simson, the trainer, spoke or looked applause, while the head coach thereafter displayed quite a personal interest in him. several days subsequent to the affair neil was taking dummy practise with the rest of the second eleven. mills had appropriated the invention of a harvard trainer, rigging the dummy with hook and eye-bolt, so that when properly tackled the stuffed canvas effigy of a robinson player became detached from its cable and fell on to the soft loam much after the manner of a human being. but to bring the dummy from the hook necessitated the fiercest of tackling, and many fellows failed at this. to-day neil was one of this number. twice the dummy, bearing upon its breast the brown r of robinson, had sped away on its twenty-foot flight, and twice neil had thrown himself upon it without bringing it down. as he arose after the second attempt and brushed the soil from his trousers mills "went for him." "you're very ladylike, fletcher, but as this isn't crewel-work or crochet you'll oblige me by being so rude as to bring that dummy off. now, once more; put some snap into it! get your hold, find your purchase, and then throw! just imagine it's a sophomore, please." the roar of laughter that followed restored some of neil's confidence, and, whether he deceived himself into momentarily thinking the dummy a sophomore, he tackled finely, brought the canvas figure from the hook, and triumphantly sat on the letter r. signal practise followed work at the dummy that afternoon, and last of all the varsity and second teams had their daily line-up. neil, however, did not get into this. greatly to his surprise and disappointment mccullough took his place at left half, and neil sat on the bench and aggrievedly watched the lucky ones peeling off their sweaters in preparation for the fray. but idleness was not to be his portion, for a moment later mills called to him: "here, take this ball, go down there to the fifteen-yard line, and try drop-kicking. keep a strict count, and let me know how many tries you had and how many times you put it over the goal." neil took the ball and trotted off to the scene of his labors, greatly comforted. kicking goals from the fifteen-yard line didn't sound very difficult, and he set to work resolved to distinguish himself. but drop-kicks were not among neil's accomplishments, and he soon found that the cross-bar had a way of being in the wrong place at the critical moment. at first it was hard to keep from turning his head to watch the progress of the game, but presently he became absorbed in his work. as a punter he had been somewhat of a success at hillton, but drop-kicking had been left to the full-back, and consequently it was unaccustomed work. the first five tries went low, and the next four went high enough but wide of the goal. the next one barely cleared the cross-bar, and neil was hugely tickled. the count was then ten tries and one goal. he got out of the way in order to keep from being ground to pieces by the struggling teams, and while he stood by and watched the varsity make its first touch-down, ruminated sadly upon the report he would have to render to mills. but a long acquaintance with footballs had thoroughly dispelled neil's awe of them, and he returned to his labor determined to better his score. and he did, for when the teams trotted by him on their way off the field and mills came up, he was able to report 38 tries, of which 12 were goals. "not bad," said the coach. "that'll do for to-day. but whenever you find a football, and don't know what to do with it, try drop-kicking. your punting is very good, and there's no reason why you shouldn't learn to kick from drop or placement as well. take my advice and put your heart and brain and muscle into it, for, while we've got backs that can buck and hurdle and run, we haven't many that can be depended on to kick a goal, and we'll need them before long." neil trotted out to the locker-house with throbbing heart. mills had as good as promised him his place. that is, if he could learn to kick goals. the condition didn't trouble neil, however; he _could_ learn to drop-kick and he _would_ learn, he told himself exultantly as he panted under the effects of a cold shower-bath. for a moment the wild idea of rising at unchristian hours and practising before chapel occurred to him, but upon maturer thought was given up. no, the only thing to do was to follow mills's advice: "put your heart and brain and muscle into it," the coach had said. neil nodded vigorously and rubbed himself so hard with the towel as to almost take the skin off. he was late in leaving the house that evening, and as all the fellows he knew personally had already taken their departure, he started back toward the campus alone. near the corner of king street he glanced up and saw something a short distance ahead that puzzled him. it looked at first like a cluster of bicycles with a single rider. but as the rider was motionless neil soon came up to him. on nearer view he saw that the object was in reality a tricycle, and that it held beside the rider a pair of crutches which lay in supports lengthwise along one side. the machine was made to work with the hands instead of the feet, and a bow-shaped piece of steel which fitted around the operator's knee served as steering apparatus. the youth who sat motionless on the seat was a rather pale-faced, frail-looking lad of eighteen years, and it needed no second glance to tell neil that he was crippled from his waist down. as neil approached he was pulling the handles to and fro and looking perplexedly at the gear. the tricycle refused to budge. "i guess you've broken down," said neil, approaching. "stay where you are and i'll have a look." "thanks, but you needn't bother," said the lad. but neil was already on his knees. the trouble was soon found; the chain had broken and for the present was beyond repair. "but the wheels will go round, just the same," said neil cheerfully. "keep your seat and i'll push you back. where do you room?" "walton," was the answer. "but i don't like to bother you, mr. fletcher. you see i have my crutches here, and i can get around very well on them." "nonsense, there's no use in your walking all the way to walton. here, i'll take the chain off and play horse. by the way, how'd you know my name?" "oh, every one knows you since that kidnaping business," laughed the other, beginning to forget some of his shyness. "and besides i've heard the coach speak to you at practise." "oh," said neil, who was now walking behind the tricycle and pushing it before him, "then you've been out to the field, eh?" "yes, i like to watch practise. i go out very nearly every day." [illustration] "come to think of it, i believe i've seen you there," said neil. "it's wonderful how you can get around on this machine as you do. isn't it hard work at times?" "rather, on grades, you know. but on smooth roads it goes very easily; besides, i've worked it every day almost for so long that i've got a pretty good muscle now. my father had this one made for me only two months ago to use here at erskine. the last machine i had was very much heavier and harder to manage." "i guess being so light has made it weak," said neil, "or it wouldn't have broken down like this." "oh, i fancy that was more my fault than the tricycle's," answered the boy. as neil was behind him he did not see the smile that accompanied the words. "well, i'll take you home and then wheel the thing down to the bicycle repair-shop near the depot, eh?" "oh, no, indeed," protested the other. "i'll--i'll have them send up for it. i wouldn't have you go way down there with it for anything." "pshaw! that's no walk; besides, if you have them send, it will be some time to-morrow afternoon before you get it back." "i sha'n't really need it before then," answered the lad earnestly. "you might," said neil. there was such a tone of finality in the reply that the boy on the seat yielded, but for an instant drew his face into a pucker of perplexity. "thank you," he said; "it's awfully nice of you to take so much trouble." "i can't see that," neil replied. "i don't see how i could do any less. by the way, what's your name, if you don't mind?" "sydney burr." "burr? that's why you were stuck there up the road," laughed neil. "we're in the same class, aren't we?" "yes." at the middle entrance of walton hall neil helped burr on to his crutches, and would have assisted him up the steps had he not objected. "please don't," he said, flushing slightly. "i can get up all right; i do it every day. my room's on this floor, too. i'm awfully much obliged to you for what you've done. i wish you'd come and see me some time--no. 3. do you--do you think you could?" "of course," neil answered heartily, "i'll be glad to. three, you said? all right. i'll take this nag down to the blacksmith's now and get him reshod. if they can fix him right off i'll bring him back with me. where do you stable him?" "the janitor takes it down-stairs somewhere. if i'm not here just give it to him, please. i wish, though, you wouldn't bother about bringing it back." "i'll ride him back," laughed neil. "good-night." "good-night. don't forget you're coming to see me." sydney burr smiled and, turning, climbed the steps with astonishing ease, using his crutches with a dexterity born of many years' dependence upon them. his lower limbs, slender and frail, swung from side to side, mere useless appendages. neil sighed as he saw his new acquaintance out of sight, and then started on his errand with the tricycle. "poor duffer!" he muttered. "and yet he seems cheerful enough, and looks happy. but to think of having to creep round on stilts or pull himself about on this contrivance! i mustn't forget to call on him; i dare say he hasn't many friends. he seems a nice chap, too; and he'd be frightfully good-looking if he wasn't so white." it was almost dark when he reached the repair-shop near the railroad, and the proprietor, a wizened little bald-headed man, was preparing to go home. "can't fix anything to-night," he protested shrilly. "it's too late; come in the morning." "well, if you think i'm going to wheel this thing back here to-morrow you've missed your guess," said neil. "all it needs is to have a chain link welded or glued or something; it won't take five minutes. and the fellow that owns it is a cripple and can't go out until this machine's fixed. now go ahead, like a good chap; i'll hold your bonnet." "eh? what bonnet?" the little man stared perplexedly. "i meant i'd help," answered neil unabashed. "help! huh! lot's of help, you'd be to any one! well, let's see it." he knelt and inspected the tricycle, grumbling all the while and shaking his head angrily. "who said it was broke?" he demanded presently. "queer kind of break; looks like you'd pried the link apart with a cold-chisel." "well, i didn't; nor with a hot chisel. besides, i've just told you it didn't belong to me. do i look like a cripple?" "more like a fool," answered the other with a chuckle. "you're a naughty old man," said neil sorrowfully, "and if you were my father i'd spank you." the other was too angry to find words, and contented himself with bending back the damaged link and emitting a series of choking sounds which neil rightly judged to be expressions of displeasure. when the repair was finished he pushed the machine angrily toward the boy. "take it and get out," he said. "thanks. how much?" "fifty cents," was the reply, given with a toothless grin and a chuckle. "twenty-five cents for the job and twenty-five cents for working after hours." "cheap enough," answered neil, laying a quarter on the bench. "that's for the job; i'll owe you the rest." when he reached the first corner the proprietor of the repair-shop was still calling him names and shaking his fist in the air. "looked just like a he-witch or something," chuckled neil, as he propelled his steed toward the campus. "maybe he will put a curse upon me and my right foot will wither up and i won't be able to kick goals!" chapter x neil makes the varsity on the 12th of october, woodby college sent a team of light but very fast football players to erskine with full determination to bring back the pigskin. and it very nearly succeeded. it was the first game of the season for erskine, but woodby had already played two, and was consequently rather more hardened. the first half ended with the score 6 to 6, and the spectators, fully three hundred supporters of the purple, looked glum. neil and paul were given their chance in the second half, taking the places of gillam and smith. many other changes were made, among them one which installed the newly discovered browning at left guard vice carey, removed to the bench. there was no use in attempting to disguise the fact that woodby literally played all around the home team. her backs gained almost at will on end runs, and her punting was immeasurably superior. foster, the erskine quarter-back, sent kick after kick high into the air, and twenty yards was his best performance. on defense woodby was almost equally strong, and had erskine not outweighted her in the line some five pounds per man, would have forced her to kick every time. as it was, the purple-clad backs made but small and infrequent gains through the line, and very shortly found that runs outside of tackle or end were her best cards, even though, as was several times the case, her runners were nailed back of her line for losses. team play was as yet utterly lacking in the erskine eleven, and though the men were as a rule individually brilliant or decidedly promising, woodby had far the best of it there. fumbles were many on both sides, but erskine's were the most costly. stone's fumble of a free kick soon after the second half began gave woodby her second touch-down, from which, luckily, she failed to kick goal. the veterans on the team, tucker at left tackle, graham at center, cowan at right-guard, foster at quarter, and devoe at right end, played well with the glaring exception of cowan, whose work in the second half especially was so slipshod that mills, with wrath in his eye, took him out and put in bell, a second eleven man. with the score 11 to 6 against her, erskine braced up and fought doggedly to score. neil proved the best ground-gainer, and made several five-and ten-yard runs around right end. once, with the ball on woodby's twelve yards and the audience shouting vehemently for a touch-down, foster called on paul for a plunge through right tackle. paul made two yards, but in some manner lost the ball, a fumble that put erskine back on her fifty-yard line and that sent her hopes of tying the score down to zero. the second half was to be but fifteen minutes long, and fully ten of the fifteen had gone by when erskine took up her journey toward woodby's goal again. mason, the full-back, and neil were sent plunging, bucking, hurdling at the enemy's breastworks, and time after time just managed to gain their distance in the three downs. fortune was favoring erskine, and woodby's lighter men were slower and slower in finding their positions after each pile-up. then, with the pigskin on woodby's twenty-eight yards, neil was given the ball for a try outside of right tackle, and by brilliantly leaving his interference, which had become badly tangled up, got safely away and staggered over the line just at the corner. the punt-out was a success and devoe kicked goal, making the score 12 to 11 in erskine's favor. for the rest of the half the home team was satisfied to keep woodby away from its goal, and made no effort to score. woodby left the field after the fashion of victors, which, practically, they were, while the erskine players trotted subduedly back to the locker-house with unpleasant anticipations of what was before them--anticipations fully justified by subsequent events. for mills tore them up very eloquently, and promised them that if they were scored on by the second eleven before the game with harvard he'd send every man of them to the benches and take the second to cambridge. neil walked back to college beside sydney burr, insisting that that youth should take his hands from the levers and be pushed. paul had got into the habit of always accompanying cowan on his return from the field, and as neil liked the big sophomore less and less the more he saw of him, he usually fell back on either ted foster or sydney burr for company. to-day it was sydney. on the way that youth surprised neil by his intelligent discussion and criticism of the game he had just watched. "how on earth did you get to know so much about football?" asked neil. "you talk like a varsity coach." "do i?" said sydney, flushing with pleasure. "i--i always liked the game, and i've studied it quite a bit and watched it all i could. of course, i can never play, but i get a good deal of enjoyment out of it. sometimes"--his shyness returned momentarily and he hesitated--"sometimes i make believe that i'm playing, you know; put myself, in imagination, in the place of one of the team. to-day i--to-day i was you," he added with a deprecatory laugh. "you don't say?" cried neil. then the pathos of it struck him and he was silent a moment. the cripple's love and longing for sport in which he could never hope to join seemed terribly sad and gave him a choking sensation in his throat. "if i had been--like other fellows," continued sydney, quite cheerfully, "i should have played everything--football, baseball, hockey, tennis--everything! i'd give--anything i've got--if i could just run from here to the corner." he was silent a minute, looking before him with eyes from which the usual brightness was gone. then, "my, it must be good to run and walk and jump around just as you want to," he sighed. "yes," muttered neil, "but--but that was a good little run you made to-day." sydney looked puzzled, then laughed. "in the game, you mean? yes, wasn't it? and i made a touch-down and won the game. i was awfully afraid at one time that that woodby quarter-back was going to nab me; that's why i made for the corner of the field like that." "i fancied that was the reason," answered neil gravely. then their eyes met and they laughed together. "your friend gale didn't play so well to-day," said sydney presently. neil shook his head with a troubled air. "no, he played rotten ball, and that's a fact. i don't know what's got into him of late. he doesn't seem to care whether he pleases mills or not. i think it's that chap cowan. he tells paul that mills and devoe are imposing on him and that he isn't getting a fair show and all that sort of stuff. know cowan?" "only by sight. i don't think i'd care to know him; he looks a good deal like--like--" "just so," laughed neil. "that's the way he strikes me." after dinner that evening paul bewailed what he called his ill luck. neil listened patiently for a while; then-"look here, paul," he said, "don't talk such rot. luck had nothing to do with it, and you know it. the trouble was that you weren't in shape; you've been shilly-shallying around of late and just doing good enough work to keep mills from dropping you to the scrub. it's that miserable idiot tom cowan that's to blame; he's been filling your head with nonsense; telling you that you are so good that you don't have to practise, and that mills doesn't dare drop you, and lots of poppycock of that kind. now, i'll tell you, chum, that the best thing to do is to go honestly to work and do your best." paul was deeply insulted by this plain speaking, and very promptly took himself off up-stairs to cowan's room. of late he spent a good deal of his time there and neil was getting worried. for cowan was notably an idler, and the wonder was how he managed to keep himself in college even though he was taking but a partial course. to be sure, cowan's fate didn't bother neil a bit, but he was greatly afraid that his example would be followed by his roommate, who, at the best, was none too fond of study. neil sat long that evening over an unopened book, striving to think of some method of weakening cowan's hold on paul--a hold that was daily growing stronger and which threatened to work ill to the latter. in the end neil sighed, tossed down the volume, and made ready for bed without having found a solution of the problem. the following monday neil was rewarded for his good showing in the woodby game by being taken on to the varsity. paul remained on the second team, and cowan, greatly to that gentleman's bewilderment and wrath, joined him there. the two teams, with their substitutes, went to training-table that day in pearson's boarding-house on elm street, and preparation for the game with harvard, now but nine days distant, began in earnest. chapter xi the result of a fumble sydney burr had trundled himself out to the field and had drawn his tricycle close up to the low wooden fence that divides the gridiron from the grand stand and against which the players on the benches lean their blanketed backs. from there he had an uninterrupted view. it was a perfect afternoon. overhead a few white clouds drifted lazily about against a warm blue sky. the sun shone brightly and mocked at light overcoats. but for all that there was an october sparkle in the air, and once in a while a tiny breeze from the north came across the yellowing field and whispered that winter was not far behind. sydney had a rug thrown over his lower limbs and wore a warm white woolen sweater. there was quite a dash of color in his usually pale cheeks, and his blue eyes flashed with interest as he watched the men at practise. near at hand a panting group of fellows were going through the signals, the quarter crying his numbers with gasps for breath, then passing the ball to half-or full-back and quickly throwing himself into the interference. sydney recognized him as bailey, the varsity substitute. sydney knew almost all the players by sight now and the names of many. near the east goal two lines of heaving, charging men were being coached by mills in breaking through. stowell, the big, good-natured substitute center, was bending over the ball. sydney could hear mills's sharp voice: "now draw back, defense, and lunge into them! get the start on them!" then the ball was snapped and the two ranks heaved and pitched a moment before the offense broke through and scattered the turf with little clumps of writhing players. "that was good, tucker, good!" cried mills. "you did just as i told you. now give the ball to the other side. weight forward, defense, every one of you on his toes. _browning, watch that ball!_ now get into them, every one! block them!" at the other end of the field six fellows were kicking goal and six others, stretched upon the turf, were holding the balls for them. devoe was coaching. sydney could see neil, the farthest away of any, lifting the leather toward the posts from a difficult angle on the twenty-yard line. even as he watched, the ball sailed away from neil's toe and went fair over the cross-bar, and sydney silently applauded. he set himself to recognizing the other kickers. there was gale, the tall and rather heavy fellow in the crimson sleeves; and mason, equally tall but all corners and angles; and smith, and gillam, and foster. devoe seemed to be laying down the law forcibly to gale; he was gesticulating with his hands and nodding his head like a chinese mandarin. sydney could not hear what he was saying, nor could he see gale's face; but in the attitude of the captain there was exasperation, and in that of gale sullen impatience. another group at signal practise drew nigh, and sydney gave his attention to it. reardon, the second eleven quarter, sang his signals in a queer, shrill voice that was irresistibly funny. in front of sydney he raised himself, wiped his palms on his stained trousers, grimaced at one of the halves, and took a deep breath. then-"_signal_!" he cried. "_7--8--4--6!_" eight half bounded by him, full-back fell in behind and took the ball, left half dashed after, and the group trotted away to line up again ten yards down the field. but presently the lines at the east goal broke up and trotted toward the benches, and mills called the players in from all parts of the field. the water-pail was surrounded and the thirsty players rinsed out their mouths, well knowing the reprimand that awaited should they be rash enough to take even one swallow. sweaters were hurriedly donned, simson dealing them out from the pile on the ground, and the fellows sank on to the benches. neil saw sydney, and talked to him over the fence until he heard his name called from the line-up. "i think i shall make a touch-down to-day," said sydney. neil shook his head, smiling: "i don't know about that; you're not feeling so fit to-day, you know." "oh, that doesn't matter," answered the cripple. "you just watch me." neil laughed, and hurrying off, was fitted with his head harness and trotted out to his place. sydney was mistaken, as events proved, for he--in the person of neil fletcher--failed to get over the second's goal-line in either of the short halves; which was also true of all the other varsity players. but if she didn't score, the varsity kept the second at bay, and that was a good deal. the second played desperately, being convinced that mills would keep his promise and, if they succeeded in scoring on their opponents, give them the honor of facing harvard the following wednesday. but the varsity, being equally convinced of the fact, played quite as desperately, and the two teams trotted off with honors even. "sponge off, everybody!" was the stentorian command from the trainer, and one by one the players leaned over while the big, dripping sponge was applied to face and head. then sweaters were again donned and the four laps around the field began, the men trotting by twos and threes, or, in the case of the injured ones, trailing along behind. the next day, wednesday, october 16th, erskine played dexter. dexter is a preparatory school that has a way of turning out strong elevens, many of which in previous years had put up excellent fights against erskine. on the present occasion erskine went into the game with a line largely composed of substitutes and a back-field by no means as strong as possible. during the first half dexter was forced to give all her attention to defending her goal, and had no time for incursions into erskine territory. the home college ran up 17 points, devoe missing one goal. in the second half erskine made further changes in her team. cowan took witter's place at right-guard, reardon went in at quarter in place of bailey, and neil, who had watched the first half greedily from the side-line, went in at left half. it was dexter's kick-off, and she sent the ball fully forty yards. reardon called to neil to take it. that youth got it on his ten yards, and by fine dodging ran it back to the eighteen-yard line. from there it was advanced by straight line-plunging to erskine's forty yards, and it seemed that a procession down the field to another touch-down had begun. but at this point fate and tom cowan took a hand. cowan was taken back of the line for a plunge through tackle. with right half and full lined up in tandem behind him he was given the ball and shot through easily for several yards. then, his support gone, he staggered on for five yards more by sheer force of weight with two dexter backs dragging at him, and there, for no apparent cause, dropped the pigskin. the dexter quarter-back, running in to stop cowan, was on it in a twinkling, had skirted the right end of the _mãªlã©e_ and was racing toward erskine's goal. it had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that the runner was fifteen yards to the good before pursuit began. devoe and neil took up the chase, but it was a hopeless task, and in another minute the little band of crimson-adorned dexter supporters and substitutes on the side-line were yelling like mad. the dexter quarter placed the ball nicely behind the very center of the west goal, and when it was taken out none but a cripple could have failed to kick it over the cross-bar. as dexter's left-end was not a cripple her score changed from a 5 to a 6. but that was the end of her offensive work for that afternoon. erskine promptly took the ball from her after the kick-off, and kept it until neil had punctured dexter's line between left-guard and tackle and waded through a sea of clutching foes twelve yards for a touch-down. devoe once more failed at goal, and five minutes later the game came to an end with the final score 22 to 6. dexter was happy and erskine disgruntled. in the locker-house after the game mills had some sharp things to say, and didn't hesitate to say them in his best manner. there was absolutely no favoritism shown; he began at one end of the line and went to the other, then dropped back to left half, took in quarter on the way, and ended up with full. some got off easy; neil was among them; and so was devoe, for it is not a good policy for a coach to endanger a captain's authority by public criticism; but when it was all over no one felt slighted. and when all were beginning to breathe easier, thinking the storm had passed, it burst forth anew. "cowan, i don't see how you came to drop that ball," said mills, in fresh exasperation. "why, great scott, man, there was no one touching you except a couple of schoolboys tugging at your legs! what was the matter? paralysis? vertigo? or haven't you learned yet, after two years of football playing, to hang on to the ball? there's a cozy nook waiting on the second scrub for fellows like you!" cowan, his pride already sorely wounded, found the last too much for his temper. "no one can help an occasional accident," he blurted. "if i did fumble, there's no reason why you should insult me. lots of fellows have fumbled before and got off without being walked on. i've played my position for two years, and i guess i know how to do it. but when a fellow is singled out as a--a scapegoat--" "that will do, cowan," interrupted mills quietly. "you've lost your temper. we don't want men on this team who can't stand criticism--" "criticism!" sneered cowan, looking very red and ugly. "yes, criticism!" answered mills sharply, "and scolding, too, my friend. i'm here to turn out a team that will win from robinson and not to cater to any one's vanity; when it's necessary, i'm going to scold and say some hard things. but i've never insulted any fellow and i never will. i've had my eye on you ever since practise began, cowan, and let me tell you that you haven't at any time passed muster; your playing's been slovenly, careless, and generally mean. you've soldiered half the time. and i think we can get along without you for the rest of the season." mills, his blue eyes sparkling, turned away, and stowell and white, who for a minute past had been striving to check cowan's utterances, now managed to drag him away. "shut up!" whispered white hoarsely. "don't be a fool! come out of here!" and they hauled him outside, where, on the porch, he gave vent anew to his wrath until they left him finally in disgust. he slouched in to see paul after dinner that evening, much to neil's impatience, and taking up a commanding position on a corner of the study-table, recited his tale of injustice with great eloquence. paul, who had spent the afternoon with other unfortunates on the benches, was full of sympathy. "it's a dirty shame, tom," he said. "and i'm glad you waded into mills the way you did. it was fine!" "little white-haired snake!" exclaimed cowan. "drops me from training just because i make a fumble! why, you've fumbled, paul, and so's fletcher here; lots of times. but he doesn't lay _you_ off! oh, dear, no; you're swells whose names will look well in the line-up for the robinson game! but here i've played on the team for two years, and now off i go just because i dropped a ball. it's rank injustice! "i suppose he thinks i've got to play football here. if he does he's away off, that's all. i could have gone to robinson this fall and had everything i wanted. they guaranteed me a position at guard or tackle, and i wouldn't have needed to bother with studies as i do here, either." the last remark called a smile to neil's face, and cowan unfortunately glanced his way and saw it. "i dare say if i was willing to toady to mills and devoe, and tell everybody they're the finest football leaders that ever came down the pike, it would be different," he sneered angrily. "maybe then mills would give me private instruction in goal-kicking and let me black his boots for him." neil closed his book and leaned back in his chair, a little disk of red in each cheek. "now, look here, tom cowan, let's have this out," he said quietly. "you're hitting at me, of course--" "oh, keep out, chum," protested paul. "cowan hasn't mentioned you once." "he doesn't need to," answered neil. "i understand without it. but let me tell you, cowan, that i do not toady to either mills or devoe. i do treat them, however, as i would any one who was in authority over me. i don't think merely because i've played the game before that i know all the football there is to know." "meaning that i do?" growled cowan. "i mean that you've got a swelled head, cowan, and that when mills said you hadn't been doing your best he only told the truth, and what every fellow knows." "shut up, neil!" cried paul angrily. "it isn't necessary for you to pitch into cowan just because he's down on his luck." "i don't mind him," said cowan, eying neil with hatred. "he's sore about what i said. i dare say i shouldn't have said it. if he's mills's darling--" neil pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet with blazing eyes. "kindly get out of here," he said. "i've had enough of your insults. this is my room; please leave it!" cowan stared a moment in surprise, hesitated, threw a glance of inquiry at paul's troubled and averted face, and slid from the table. "of course you can put me out of your room," he sneered. "for that matter, i'm glad to leave it. i did think, though, that part of the shop was paul's, but i dare say he has to humor you." "the room's as much mine as his," said paul, "and i want you to stay in it." he looked defiantly over at his friend. neil had not bargained for a quarrel with paul, but was too incensed to back down. "and i say you sha'n't stay," he declared. "paul and i will settle the proprietorship of the room after you're out of it. now you get!" "maybe you'll put me out?" asked cowan with a show of bravado. but he glanced toward the door as he spoke. neil nodded. "maybe i will," he answered grimly. "cowan's my guest, neil!" cried paul. "and you've no right to put him out, and i sha'n't let you!" "he'll go out of here, if i have to fight him and you too, paul!" paul stared in wonderment. he was so used to being humored by his roommate that this declaration of war took his breath away. cowan laughed with attempted nonchalance. "your friend's a bit chesty, paul," he said. "perhaps we'd better humor him." "no, stay where you are," said paul. "if he thinks he's boss of me he's mistaken." he glared wrathfully at neil, and yet with a trifle of uneasiness. paul was no coward, but physical conflict with neil was something so contrary to the natural order that it appalled him. neil removed the gorgeous bottle-green velvet jacket that he wore in the evenings, and threw open the study door. then he faced cowan. that gentleman returned his gaze for a moment defiantly. but something in neil's expression caused his eyes to drop and seek the portal. he laughed uneasily, and with simulated indifference laid his hand on paul's shoulder. "come on, old chap," he said, "let's get out before we're torn to bits. there's no pleasure in staying with such a disagreeable fire-eater, anyhow. come up to my room, and let him cool off." paul hesitated, and then turned to follow cowan, who was strolling toward the door. angry as he was, deep in his heart he was glad to avoid conflict with his chum. "all right," he answered in a voice that trembled, "we'll go; but"--turning to neil--"if you think i'm going to put up with this sort of thing, you're mistaken. you can have this room, and i'll get another." "i'd suggest your rooming with cowan," answered neil, "since you're so fond of him." "your friend's jealous," laughed cowan from the hall. paul joined him, slamming the door loudly as he went. neil heard cowan's laughter and the sound of their steps as they climbed the stairs. for several moments he stood motionless, staring at the door. then he shook his head, donned his jacket, and sat down again. now that it was done, he was intensely sorry. as for the quarrel with cowan, that troubled not at all; but an open breach with paul was something new and something which, just at this time especially, might work for ill. paul was already so far under cowan's domination that anything tending to foster their friendship was unfortunate. neil was ashamed, too, of his burst of temper, and the remainder of the evening passed miserably enough. when paul returned he was cold and repellent, and answered neil's attempts at conversation in monosyllables. neil, however, was glad to find that paul said nothing further about a change of quarters, and in that fact found encouragement. after all, paul would soon get over his anger, he told himself; the two had been firm friends for three years, and it would take something more than the present affair to estrange them. but as the days passed and paul showed no disposition to make friends again, neil began to despair. he knew that cowan was doing all in his power to widen the breach and felt certain that left to himself paul would have forgotten his grievance long ago. paul spent most of his time in cowan's room when at home, and neil passed many dull hours. one thing there was, however, which pleased him. cowan's absence from the field worked a difference from the first in paul's playing, and the latter was now evidently putting his heart into his work. he made such a good showing between the day of cowan's dismissal and the following wednesday that he was scheduled to play right half against harvard, and was consequently among the little army of players and supporters that journeyed to cambridge on that day. chapter xii on the hospital list harvard's good showing thus far during the season convinced erskine that could she hold the crimson warriors down to five scores she would be doing remarkably well, and that could she, by any miracle, cross harvard's goal-line she would be practically victorious. the team that journeyed to cambridge on october 23d was made up as follows: stone, l.e.; tucker, l.t.; carey, l.g.; stowell, c.; witter, r.g.; white, r.t.; devoe, r.e.; foster, q.b.; fletcher, l.h.b.; gale, r.h.b.; mason, f.b. besides these, eight substitutes went along and some thirty patriotic students followed. among the latter was sydney burr and "fan" livingston. neil had brought the two together, and livingston had readily taken to the crippled youth. in livingston's care sydney had no difficulty in making the trip to soldiers field and back comfortably and safely. there is no need to tell in detail here of the harvard-erskine contest. those who saw it will give erskine credit for a plucky struggle against a heavier, more advanced, and much superior team. in the first half harvard scored three times, and the figures were 17-0. in the second half both teams put in several substitutes. for erskine, browning went in for carey, graham for stowell, hurst for witter, pearse for mason, and bailey for foster. in this half harvard crossed erskine's goal-line three more times without much difficulty, while erskine made the most of a stroke of rare good luck, and changed her goose-egg for the figure 5. on the purple's forty yards harvard fumbled, not for the first time that day, and neil, more by accident than design, got the pigskin on the bounce, and, skirting the opposing right end, went up the field for a touch down without ever being in danger. the erskine supporters went mad with delight, and the harvard stand was ruefully silent. devoe missed a difficult goal and a few minutes later the game ended with a final score of 34-5. mills, however, would gladly have yielded that five points, if by so doing he could have taken ten from the larger score. he was disappointed in the team's defense, and realized that a wonderful improvement was necessary if robinson was to be defeated. and so the erskine players were plainly given to understand the next day that they had not acquired all the glory they thought they had. the advance guard of the assistant coaches put in an appearance in the shape of jones and preston, both old erskine football men, and took hold with a vim. jones, a former guard, a big man with bristling black hair, took the line men under his wing and made them jump. neil, paul, and several others were taken in hand by preston, and were daily put through a vigorous course of punting and kicking. neil was fast acquiring speed and certainty in the art of kicking goals from drop and placement, while paul promised to turn out a fair second choice. jones, as every one soon learned, was far from satisfied with the line of material at his disposal. he wanted more weight, especially in the center trio, and was soon pleading with mills to have cowan reinstated. the head coach ultimately relented, and devoe was given to understand that if cowan expressed himself decently regretful and determined to do good work he could go back into the second. the big sophomore, who, by his frequent avowals, was in college for no other purpose than to play football, had simply been lost since his dismissal, and, upon hearing devoe's message, eagerly came off his high horse and made a visit to mills. what he said and what mills said is not known; but cowan went back into the second team at right-guard, and on saturday was given a try at that position in the game with erstham. he did so well that jones was highly pleased, and mills found it in his heart to forgive. the results of the erstham game were both unexpected and important. instead of the comparatively easy victory anticipated, erskine barely managed to save herself from being played to a standstill, and the final figures were 6-0 in her favor. the score was made in the last eight minutes of the second half by fierce line-bucking, but not before half of the purple line had given place to substitutes, and one of the back-field had been carried bodily off the gridiron. with the ball on erstham's twenty-six yards, where it had been desperately carried by the relentless plunging and hurdling of neil, smith, and mason, erstham twice successfully repelled the onslaught, and it was erskine's third down with two yards to gain. to lose the ball by kicking was the last thing to be thought of, and so, despite the fact that hitherto well-nigh every attempt at end running had met with failure, foster gave the ball to neil for a try around the erstham left end. it was a forlorn hope, and unfortunately erstham was looking for it. neil found his outlet blocked by his own interference, and was forced to run far out into the field. the play was a failure from the first. erstham's big right half and an equally big line man tackled neil simultaneously for a loss and threw him heavily. when they got off him neil tried to arise, but, with a groan, subsided again on the turf. the whistle blew and simson ran on. neil was evidently suffering a good deal of pain, for his face was ashen and he rolled his head from side to side with eyes half closed. his right arm lay outstretched and without movement, and in an instant the trouble was found. simson examined the injury quickly and called for the doctor, who probed neil's shoulder with knowing fingers, while the latter's white face was being sopped with the dripping sponge. "right shoulder's dislocated, jim," said dr. prentiss quietly to the trainer. "take hold here; put your hands here, and pull toward you steadily. now!" then neil fainted. when he regained consciousness he was being borne from the field between four of his fellows. at the locker-house the injured shoulder was laid bare, and the doctor went to work. the pain had subsided, and only a queer soreness remained. neil watched operations with interest, his face fast regaining its color. "nothing much, is it?" he asked. "not a great deal. you've smashed your shoulder-blade a bit, and maybe torn a ligament. i'll fix you up in a minute." "will it keep me from playing?" "yes, for a while, my boy." bandage after bandage was swathed about the shoulder, and the arm was fixed in what neil conceived to be the most unnatural and awkward position possible. "how long is this going to lay me up?" he asked anxiously. but the doctor shook his head. "can't tell yet. we'll see how you get along." "well, a week?" "maybe." "two?" "possibly." "but--but it can't! it mustn't!" he cried. the door opened and simson entered. "simson," he called, "he says this may keep me laid up for two weeks. it won't, will it?" "i hope not, fletcher. but you must get it well healed, or else it may go back on you again. don't worry about--" "don't worry! but, great scott, the robinson game's only a month off!" the trainer patted his arm soothingly. "i know, but we must make the best of it. it's hard lines, but the only thing to do is to take care of yourself and get well as soon as possible. the doc will get you out again as soon as it can be done, but you'll have to be doing your part, fletcher, and keeping quiet and cheerful--" "cheerful!" groaned neil. "and getting strong. now you're fixed and i'll go over to your room with you. how do you feel?" "all right, i suppose," replied neil hopelessly. simson walked beside him back to college and across the campus and the common to his room, and saw him installed in an easy-chair with a pillow behind the injured shoulder. "there you are," said the trainer. "prentiss will look in this evening and i'll see you in the morning. you'd better keep indoors for a few days, you know. i'll have your meals sent over. don't worry about this, but keep yourself cheerful and--" neil leaned his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. "oh, go 'way," he muttered miserably. when paul came in half an hour later he found neil staring motionless out of the window, settled melancholy on his face. "how bad is it, chum?" asked paul. he hadn't called neil "chum" for over a week--not since their quarrel. "bad enough to spoil my chances for the robinson game," answered neil bitterly. paul gave vent to a low whistle. "by jove! i am sorry, old chap. that's beastly, isn't it? what does prentiss say?" neil told him and gained some degree of animation in fervid protestation against his fate. for want of another, he held the doctor to account for everything, only admitting simson to an occasional share in the blame. paul looked genuinely distressed, joining him in denunciation of prentiss and uttering such bits of consolation as occurred to him. these generally consisted of such original remarks as "perhaps it won't be as bad as they think." "i don't believe doctors know everything, after all." "mills will make them get you around before two weeks, i'll bet." after dinner paul returned to report a state of general gloom at training-table. "every one's awfully sorry and cut up about it, chum. mills says he'll come and look you up in the morning, and told me to tell you to keep your courage up." after his information had given out, paul walked restlessly about the study, taking up book after book only to lay it down again, and behaving generally like a fish out of water. neil, grateful for the other's sympathy, and secretly delighted at the healing of the breach, could afford to be generous. "i say, paul, i'll be all right. just give me the immortal livy, will you? thanks. and you might put that tray out of the way somewhere and shove the drop-light a bit nearer. that's better. i'll be all right now; you run along." "run along where?" asked paul. "well, i thought maybe you were going out or--somewhere." paul's face expressed astonishment. he took up a book and settled himself firmly in the wicker rocking-chair. "no," he said, "i'm not going anywhere." neil studied in silence a while, and paul turned several pages of his book. then footsteps sounded on the stairs and cowan's voice hailed paul from beyond the closed door. "o paul, are you coming along?" paul glanced irresolutely from the door to neil's face, which was bent calmly over his book. then--"no," he called gruffly, "not to-night!" chapter xiii sydney studies strategy neil was holding a levee. livingston shared the couch with him. foster reclined in paul's armchair. sydney burr sat in the protesting wicker rocker, his crutches beside him, and south, his countenance much disfigured by strips of surgeon's plaster, grinned steadily from the table, where he sat and swung his feet. paul was up-stairs in cowan's room, for while he and neil had quite made up their difference, and while paul spent much of his leisure time with his chum, yet he still cultivated the society of the big sophomore at intervals. neil, however, believed he could discern a gradual lessening of paul's regard for cowan, and was encouraged. he had grown to look upon his injury and the idleness it enforced with some degree of cheerfulness since it had brought about reconciliation between him and his roommate, and, as he believed, rescued the latter to some extent from the influence of cowan. "doc says the shoulder is 'doing nicely,' whatever that may mean," neil was saying, "and that i will likely be able to get back to light work next week." the announcement didn't sound very joyful, for it was now only the evening of the fourth day since the accident, and "next week" seemed a long way off to him. "it was hard luck, old man," said south. "your sympathy's very dear to me," answered neil, "but it would seem more genuine if you'd stop grinning from ear to ear." "can't," replied south. "it's the plaster." "he's been looking like the cheshire cat for two days," said livingston. "you see, when they patched him up they asked if he was suffering much agony, and he grinned that way just to show that he was a hero, and before he could get his face straight they had the plaster on. he gets credit for being much better natured than he really is." "credit!" said south. "i get worse than that. 'sandy' saw me grinning at him in class yesterday and got as mad as a march hare; said i was 'deesrespectful.'" "but how did it happen?" asked neil, struggling with his laughter. "lacrosse," replied south. "murdoch was tending goal and i was trying to get the ball by him. i tripped over his stick and banged my face against a goal-iron. that's all." "seems to me it's enough," said foster. "what did you do to murdoch?" south opened his eyes in innocent surprise. "nothing." "nothing be blowed, my boy. murdoch's limping to beat the band." "oh!" grinned south. "that was afterward; he got mixed up with my stick, and, i fear, hurt his shins." "well," said neil, when the laughter was over, "football seems deadly enough, but i begin to think it's a parlor game for rainy evenings alongside of lacrosse." "there won't be many fellows left for the robinson game," said sydney, "if they keep on getting hurt." "that's so," livingston concurred. "fletcher, white, jewell, brown, stowell--who else?" "well, i'm not feeling well myself," said foster. "we were referring to _players_, teddy, my love," replied south sweetly. "insulted!" cried foster, leaping wildly to his feet. "it serves me right for associating with a lot of freshmen. good-night, fletcher, my wounded gladiator. get well and come back to us; all will be forgiven." "i'd like the chance of forgiving the fellow that jumped on my shoulder," said neil. "i'd send him to join murdoch." "that's not nice," answered foster gravely. "forgive your enemies. good-night, you cubs." "hold on," said livingston, "i'm going your way. good-night, fletcher. cheer up and get well. we need you and so does the team. remember the class is looking forward to seeing you win a few touch-downs in the robinson game." "oh, i'll be all right," answered neil, "and if they'll let me into the game i'll do my best. only--i'm afraid i'll be a bit stale when i get out again." "not you," declared livingston heartily. "'age can not wither nor custom stale your infinite variety.'" "that's a quotation from--somebody," said south accusingly. "'fan' wants us to think he made it up. besides, i don't think it's correct; it should be, 'custom can not age nor wither stale your various interests.' hold on, i'm not particular; i'll walk along with you two. but fortune send we don't meet the dean," he continued, as he slid to the floor. "i called on him monday; a little affair of too many cuts; 'mr. south,' said he sorrowfully, 'avoid two things while in college--idleness and evil associations.' i promised, fellows, and here i am breaking that promise. farewell, fletcher; bear up under your great load of affliction. good-night, burr. kindly see that he gets his medicine regularly every seven minutes, and don't let him sleep in a draft; pajamas are much warmer." "come on, you grinning idiot," said foster. when the door had closed upon the three, sydney placed his crutches under his arms and moved over to the chair beside the couch. "look here, neil, you don't really think, do you, that you'll have any trouble getting back into your place?" "i hardly know. of course two weeks of idleness makes a big difference. and besides, i'm losing a lot of practise. this new close-formation that mills is teaching will be greek to me." "it's simple enough," said sydney. "the backs are bunched right up to the line, the halfs on each side of quarter, and the full just behind him." "well, but i don't see--" "wait," interrupted sydney, "i'll show you." he drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and passed it to the other. neil scowled over it a moment, and then looked up helplessly. [illustration] "what is it?" he asked. "something weird in geometry?" "no," laughed sydney, "it's a play from close-formation. i drew it this morning." "oh," said neil. "let's see; what--here, explain it; where do i come in?" "why, your position is at the left of quarter, behind the center-guard, and a little farther back. full stands directly behind quarter. see?" "pshaw! if we get into a crowd like that," said neil, "we'll get all tied up." "no you won't; not the way mills and devoe are teaching it. you see, the idea is to knife the backs through; there isn't any plunging to speak of and not much hurdling. the forwards open up a hole, and almost before the ball's well in play one of the backs is squirming through. quarter gives you the ball at a hand-pass, always; there's no long passing done; except, of course, for a kick. being right up to the line when play begins it only takes you a fraction of a second to hit it; and then, if the hole's there you're through before the other side has opened their eyes. of course, it all depends on speed and the ability of the line-men to make holes. you've got to be on your toes, and you've got to get off them like a streak of lightning." "well, maybe it's all right," said neil doubtfully, "but it looks like a mix-up. who gets the ball in this play here?" "right half. left half plunges through between left-guard and center to make a diversion. full-back goes through between left tackle and end ahead of right half, who carries the ball. quarter follows. of course the play can be made around end instead. what do you think of it?" "all right; but--i think i'd ought to have the ball." "you would when the play went to the right," laughed sydney. "the fact is, i--this particular play hasn't been used. i sort of got it up myself. i don't know whether it would be any good. i sometimes try my hand at inventing plays, just for fun, you know." "really?" exclaimed neil. "well, you are smart. i could no more draw all those nice little cakes and pies and things than i could fly. and it--it looks plausible, i think. but i'm no authority on this sort of thing. are you going to show it to devoe?" "oh, no; i dare say it's no use. it may be as old as the hills; i suppose it is. it's hard to find anything new nowadays in football plays." "but you don't know," said neil. "maybe it's a good thing. i'll tell you, syd, you let me have this, and i'll show it to mills." "oh, i'd rather not," protested sydney, reddening. "of course it doesn't amount to anything; i dare say he's thought of it long ago." "but maybe he hasn't," neil persuaded. "come, let me show it to him, like a good chap." "well--but couldn't you let him think you did it?" "no; i'd be up a tree if he asked me to explain it. but don't you be afraid of mills; he's a fine chap. come and see me to-morrow night, will you?" sydney agreed, and, arising, swung himself across the study to where his coat and cap lay. "by the way," he asked, "where's paul to-night?" "he's calling on cowan," answered neil. sydney looked as though he wanted to say something and didn't dare. finally he found courage. "i should think he'd stay in his room now that you're laid up," he said. "oh, he does," answered neil. "paul's all right, only he's a bit--careless. i guess i've humored him too much. good-night. don't forget to-morrow night." mills called the following forenoon. ever since neil's accident he had made it his duty to inquire daily after him, and the two were getting very well acquainted. neil likened mills to a crab--rather crusty on the outside, he told himself, but all right when you got under the shell. neil was getting under the shell. to-day, after neil had reported on his state of health and spirits, he brought out sydney's diagram. mills examined it carefully, silently, for some time. then he nodded his head. "not bad; rather clever. who did it; you?" "no, i couldn't if i was to be killed. sydney burr did it. maybe you've seen him. a cripple; goes around on a tricycle." "yes, i've seen the boy. but does he--has he played?" "never; he's been a crip all his life." mills opened his eyes in astonishment. "well, if that's so this is rather wonderful. it's a good play, fletcher, but it's not original; that is, not altogether. but as far as burr's concerned it is, of course. look here, the fellow ought to be encouraged. i'll see him and tell him to try his hand again." "he's coming here this evening," said neil. "perhaps you could look in for a moment?" "i will. let me take this; i want jones to see it. he thinks he's a wonder at diagrams," laughed mills, "and i want to tell him this was got up by a crippled freshman who has never kicked a ball!" and so that evening mills and neil and sydney gathered about the big study-table and talked long about gridiron tactics and strategy and the art of inventing plays. mills praised sydney's production and encouraged him to try again. "but let me tell you first how we're situated," said the head coach, "so that you will see just what we're after. our material is good but light. robinson will come into the field on the twenty-third weighing about eight pounds more to a man in the line and ten pounds more behind it. that's bad enough, but she's going to play tackle-back about the way we've taught the second eleven to play it. her tackles will weigh about one hundred and eighty-five pounds each. she will take one of those men, range him up in front of our center-guard hole, and put two backs with him, tandem fashion. when that trio, joined by the other half and the quarter, hits our line it's going right through it--that is, unless we can find some means of stopping it. so far we haven't found that means. we've tried several things; we're still trying; but we haven't found the play we want. "if we're to win that game we've got to play on the defensive; we've got to stop tackle-back and rely on an end run now and then and lots of punting to get us within goal distance. then our play is to score by a quick run or a field-goal. the offense we're working up--we'll call it close-formation for want of a better name--is, we think, the best we can find. the idea is to open holes quickly and jab a runner through before our heavier and necessarily slower opponents can concentrate their weight at the point of attack. for the close-formation we have, i think, plays covering every phase. and so, while a good offensive strategy will be welcome, yet what we stand in greatest need of is a play to stop robinson's tackle-tandem. now you apparently have ability in this line, mr. burr; and, what's more, you have the time to study the thing up. supposing you try your hand and see what you can do. if you can find what we want--something that the rest of us can't find, by the way--you'll be doing as much, if not more, than any of us toward securing a victory over robinson. and don't hesitate to come and see me if you find yourself in a quandary or whenever you've got anything to show." and sydney trundled himself back to his room and sat up until after midnight puzzling his brains over the tackle-tandem play, finally deciding that a better understanding of the play was necessary before he could hope to discover its remedy. when he crawled into bed and closed his tired eyes it was to see a confused jumble of orange-hued lines and circles running riot in the darkness. chapter xiv makes a call despite neil's absence from erskine field, preparation for the crowning conflict of the year went on with vigor and enthusiasm. the ranks of the coaches were swelled from day to day by patriotic alumni, some of whom were of real help, others of whom merely stood around in what devoe called their "store clothes" and looked wonderfully wise. some came to stay and took up quarters in the village, but the most merely tarried overnight, and, having unburdened themselves to mills and devoe of much advice, went away again, well pleased with their devotion to alma mater. the signals in use during the preliminary season had now been discarded in favor of the more complicated system prepared for the "big game." each day there was half an hour of secret practise behind closed gates, after which the assistant coaches emerged looking very wise and very solemn. the make-up of the varsity eleven had changed not a little since the game with woodby, and was still being changed. some positions were, however, permanently filled. for instance, browning had firmly established his right to play left-guard, while the deposed carey found a rã´le eminently suited to him at right tackle. stowell became first choice for center, and the veteran graham went over to the second team. stone at left end, tucker at left tackle, devoe at right end, and foster at quarter, were fixtures. the problem of finding a man for the position of left half in place of neil had finally been solved by moving paul over there from the other side and giving his place to gillam, a last year substitute. paul's style of play was very similar to neil's. he was sure on his feet, a hard, fast runner, and his line-plunging was often brilliant and effective. the chief fault with him was that he was erratic. one day he played finely, the next so listlessly as to cause the coaches to shake their heads. his goal-kicking left something to be desired, but as yet he was as good in that line as any save neil. gillam, although light, was a hard line-bucker and a hurdler that was afraid of nothing. in fact he gave every indication of excelling paul by the time the robinson game arrived. one cause of paul's uneven playing was the fact that he was worried about his studies. he was taking only the required courses, seven in all, making necessary an attendance of sixteen hours each week; but greek and mathematics were stumbling-blocks, and he was in daily fear lest he find himself forbidden to play football. he knew well enough where the trouble lay; he simply didn't give enough time to study. but, somehow, what with the all-absorbing subject of making the varsity and the hundred and one things that took up his time, the hours remaining for "grinding" were all too few. he wondered how neil, who seemed quite as busy as himself, managed to give so much time to books. in one of his weekly evening talks to the football men mills had strongly counseled attention to study. there was no excuse, he had asserted, for any of the candidates shirking lessons. "on the contrary, the fact that you are in training, that you are living with proper regard for sleep, good food, fresh air, and plenty of hard physical work, should and does make you able to study better. in my experience, i am glad to say, i have known not one football captain who did not stand among the first few in his class; and that same experience has proved to me that, almost without exception, students who go in for athletics are the best scholars. healthful exercise and sensible living go hand in hand with scholarly attainment. i don't mean to say that every successful student has been an athlete, but i do say that almost every athlete has been a successful student. and now that we understand each other in this matter, none of you need feel any surprise if, should you get into difficulties with the faculty over your studies, i refuse, as i shall, to intercede in your behalf. i want men to deal with who are honest, hard-working athletes, and honest, hard-working students. my own experience and that of other coachers with whom i have talked, proves that the brilliant football player or crew man who sacrifices class standing for his athletic work may do for a while, but in the end is a losing investment." and on top of that warning paul had received one afternoon a printed postal card, filled in here and there with the pen, which was as follows: "erskine college, _november 4, 1901_. "mr. paul gale. "dear sir: you are requested to call on the dean, tuesday, november 5th, during the regular office hours. "yours respectfully, "ephraim levett, _dean_." paul obeyed the mandate with sinking heart. when he left the office it was with a sensation of intense relief and with a resolve to apply himself so well to his studies as to keep himself and the dean thereafter on the merest bowing acquaintance. and he was, thus far, living up to his resolution; but as less than a week had gone by, perhaps his self-gratulation was a trifle early. it may be that cowan also was forced to confer with the dean at about that time, for he too showed an unusual application to text-books, and as a result he and paul saw each other less frequently. on november 6th, one week after neil's accident and just two weeks prior to the robinson game, erskine played arrowden, and defeated her 11-0. neil, however, did not witness that contest, for, at the invitation of and in company with devoe, he journeyed to collegetown and watched robinson play artmouth. devoe had rather a bad knee, and was nursing it against the game with yale at new haven the following saturday. two of the coaches were also of the party, and all were eager to get an inkling of the plays that robinson was going to spring on erskine. but robinson was reticent. perhaps her coaches discovered the presence of the erskine emissaries. however that may have been, her team used ordinary formations instead of tackle-back, and displayed none of the tricks which rumor credited her with having up her sleeve. but the erskine party saw enough, nevertheless, to persuade them one and all that the purple need only expect defeat, unless some way of breaking up the tackle-back play was speedily discovered. robinson's line was heavy, and composed almost altogether of last year material. artmouth found it well-nigh impregnable, and artmouth's backs were reckoned good men. "if we had three more men in our line as heavy and steady as browning, cowan, and carey," said devoe, "we might hope to get our backs through; but, as it is, they'll get the jump on us, i fear, and tear up our offense before it gets agoing." "the only course," answered one of the coaches, "is to get to work and put starch into the line as well as we can, and to perfect the backs at kicking and running. luckily that close-formation has the merit of concealing the point of attack until it's under way, and it's just possible that we'll manage to fool them." and so jones and mills went to work with renewed vigor the next day. but the second team, playing tackle-back after the style of robinson's warriors, was too much for any defense that the varsity could put up, and got its distance time after time. the coaches evolved and tried several plays designed to stop it, but none proved really successful. neil returned to practise that afternoon, his right shoulder protected by a wonderful leather contrivance which was the cause of much good-natured fun. he didn't get near the line-up, however, but was allowed to take part in signal practise, and was then set to kicking goals from placement. if the reader will button his right arm inside his coat and try to kick a ball with accuracy he will gain some slight idea of the difficulty which embarrassed neil. when work was over he felt as though he had been trying, he declared, to kick left-handed. but he met with enough success to demonstrate that, given opportunity for practise, one may eventually learn to kick goals minus anything except feet. that happened to be one of paul's "off days," and the way he played exasperated the coaches and alarmed him. he could not hide from himself the evident fact that gillam was outplaying him five days a week. with the return of neil, paul expected to be ousted from the position of left half, and the question that worried him was whether he would in turn displace gillam or be sent back to the second eleven. he was safe, however, for several days more, for simson still laughed at neil's demand to be put into the line-up, and he was determined that before the yale game he would prove himself superior to gillam. the following morning, friday, mills was seated at the desk in his room making out a list of players who were to participate in the robinson game. according to the agreement between the rival colleges such lists were required to be exchanged not later than two weeks prior to the contest. the players had been decided upon the evening before by all the coaches in assembly, and his task this morning was merely to recopy the list before him. he had almost completed the work when he heard strange sounds outside his door. then followed a knock, and, in obedience to his request, sydney burr pushed open the door and swung himself in on his crutches. the boy's face was alight with eagerness, and his eyes sparkled with excitement; there was even a dash of color in his usually pale cheeks. mills jumped up and wheeled forward an easy-chair. but sydney paid no heed to it. "mr. mills," he cried exultantly, "i think i've got it!" "got what?" asked the coach. "the play we want," answered sydney, "the play that'll stop robinson!" chapter xv and tells of a dream mills's face lighted up, and he stretched forth an eager hand. "good for you, burr! let's see it. hold on, though; sit down here first and give me those sticks. there we are. now fire ahead." "if you don't mind, i'd like to tell you all about it first, before i show you the diagram," said sydney, his eyes dancing. "all right; let's hear it," replied the head coach smiling. "well," began sydney, "it's been a puzzler. after i'd seen the second playing tackle-back i about gave up hopes of ever finding a--an antidote." "'antidote's' good," commented mills laughingly. "i tried all sorts of notions," continued sydney, "and spoiled whole reams of paper drawing diagrams. but it was all nonsense. i had the right idea, though, all the time; i realized that if that tandem was going to be stopped it would have to be stopped before it hit our line." mills nodded. "i had the idea, as i say, but i couldn't apply it. and that's the way things stood last night when i went to bed. i had sat up until after eleven and had used up all the paper i had, and so when i got into bed i saw diagrams all over the place and had an awful time to get to sleep. but at last i did. and then i dreamed. "and in the dream i was playing football. that's the first time i ever played it, and i guess it'll be the last. i was all done up in sweaters and things until i couldn't do much more than move my arms and head. it seemed that we were in 9 grace hall, only there was grass instead of floor, and it was all marked out like a gridiron. and everybody was there, i guess; the president and the dean, and you and mr. jones, and mr. preston and--and my mother. it was awfully funny about my mother. she kept sewing more sweaters on to me all the time, because, as she said, the more i had on the less likely i was to get hurt. and devoe was there, and he was saying that it wasn't fair; that the football rules distinctly said that players should wear only one sweater. but nobody paid any attention to him. and after a bit, when i was so covered with sweaters that i was round, like a big ball, the dean whistled and we got into line--that is," said sydney doubtfully, "it was sort of like a line. there was the president and neil fletcher and i on one side, and all the others, at least thirty of them, on the other. it didn't seem quite fair, but i didn't like to object for fear they'd say i was afraid." "well, you _did_ have the nightmare," said mills. "then what?" "the other side got into a bunch, and i knew they were playing tackle-back, although of course they weren't really; they just all stood together. and i didn't see any ball, either. then some one yelled 'smash 'em up!' and they started for us. at that neil--at least i think it was neil--and prexy--i mean the president--took hold of me, lifted me up like a bag of potatoes, and hurled me right at the other crowd. i went flying through the air, turning round and round and round, till i thought i'd never stop. then there was an awful bump, i yelled 'down!' at the top of my lungs--and woke up. i was on the floor." mills laughed, and sydney took breath. "at first i didn't know what had happened. then i remembered the dream, and all on a sudden, like a flash of lightning, it occurred to me that _that_ was the way to stop tackle-back!" "that? what?" asked mills, looking puzzled. "why, the bag of potatoes act," laughed sydney. "i jumped up, lighted the gas, got pencil and paper and went back to bed and worked it out. and here it is." he drew a carefully folded slip of paper from his pocket and handed it across to mills. the diagram, just as the head coach received it, is reproduced here. [illustration] mills studied it for a minute in silence; once he grunted; once he looked wonderingly up at sydney. in the end he laid it beside him on the desk. "i think you've got it, burr," he said quietly, "i think you've got it, my boy. if this works out the way it should, your nightmare will be the luckiest thing that's happened at erskine for several years. draw your chair up here--i beg your pardon; i forgot. i'll do the moving myself." he placed his own chair beside sydney's and handed the diagram to him. "now just go over this, will you; tell me just what your idea is." [illustration] sydney, still excited over the night's happenings, drew a ready pencil from his pocket, and began rather breathlessly: "i've placed the robinson players in the positions that our second team occupies for the tackle-tandem. full-back, left tackle, and right half, one behind the other, back of their guard-tackle hole. now, as the ball goes into play their tandem starts. quarter passes the ball to tackle, or maybe right half, and they plunge through our line. that's what they would do if we couldn't stop them, isn't it?" "they would, indeed," answered mills grimly. "about ten yards through our line!" "well, now we place our left half in our line between our guard and tackle, and put our full-back behind him, making a tandem of our own. quarter stands almost back of guard, and the other half over here. when the ball is put in play our tandem starts at a jump and hits the opposing tandem just at the moment their quarter passes the ball to their runner. in other words, we get through on to them before they can get under way. our quarter and right half follow up, and, unless i'm away off on my calculations, that tackle-tandem is going to stop on its own side of the line." sydney paused and awaited mills's opinion. the latter was silent a moment. then-"of course," he said, "you've thought of what's going to happen to that left half?" "yes," answered sydney, "i have. he's going to get most horribly banged up. but he's going to stop the play." "yes, i think he is--if he lives," said mills with a grim smile. "the only objection that occurs to me this moment is this: have we the right to place any player in a position like this where the punishment is certain to be terrific, if not absolutely dangerous?" "i've thought of that, too," answered sydney readily. "and i don't believe we--er--you have." "well, then i think our play's dished at the start." "why, not a bit, sir. call the players up, explain the thing to them, and tell them you want a man for that position." "ah, ask for volunteers, eh?" "yes, sir. and you'll have just as many, i'll bet, as there are men!" mills smiled. "well, it's a desperate remedy, but i believe it's the only one, and we'll see what can be done. by the way, i observe that you've taken left half for the victim?" "yes, sir; that's neil fletcher. he's the fellow for it, i think." "but i thought he was a friend of yours," laughed mills. "so he is; that's why i want him to get it; he won't ask anything better. and he's got the weight and the speed. the fellow that undertakes it has got to be mighty quick, and he's got to have weight and plenty of grit. and that's neil." "yes, i think so too. but i don't want him to get used up and not be able to kick, for we'll need a field-goal before the game is over, if i'm not greatly mistaken. however, we can find a man for that place, i've no doubt. for that matter, we must find two at least, for one will never last the game through." "i suppose not. i--i wish i had a chance at it," said sydney longingly. "i wish you had," said mills. "i think you'd stand all the punishment robinson would give you. but don't feel badly that you can't play; as long as you can teach the rest of us the game you've got honor enough." sydney flushed with pleasure, and mills took up the diagram again. "guard and tackle will have their work cut out for them," he said. "and i'm not sure that left end can't be brought into it, too. there's one good feature about robinson's formation, and that is we can imagine where it's coming as long as it's a tandem. if we stop them they'll have to try the ends, and i don't think they'll make much there. well, we'll give this a try to-morrow, and see how it works. by the way, burr," he went on, "you can get about pretty well on your crutches, can't you?" "yes," sydney answered. "good. then what's to prevent you from coming out to the field in the afternoons and giving us a hand with this? do you think you could afford the time?" sydney's eyes dropped; he didn't want mills to see how near the tears were to his eyes. "i can afford the time all right," he answered in a voice that, despite his efforts, was not quite steady, "if you really think i can be of any use." perhaps mills guessed the other's pleasure, for he smiled gently as he answered: "i don't think; i'm certain. you know this play better than i do; it's yours; you know how you want it to go. you come out and look after the play; we'll attend to the players. and then, if we find a weak place in it, we can all get together and remedy it. but you oughtn't to try and wheel yourself out there and back every day. you tell me what time you can be ready each afternoon and i'll see that there's a buggy waiting for you." "oh, no, really!" sydney protested. "i'd rather not! i can get to the field and back easily, without getting at all tired; in fact, i need the exercise." "well, if you're certain of that," answered the coach. "but any time you change your mind, or the weather's bad, let me know. if you can, i'd like you to come around here again this evening. i'll have devoe and the coaches here, and we'll talk this--this 'antidote' over again. well, good-by." sydney swung himself to the door, followed by mills, and got into his tricycle. "about eight this evening, if you can make it, burr," said mills. "good-by." he stood at the door and watched the other as he trundled slowly down the street. "poor chap!" he muttered. and then: "still, i'm not so sure that he's an object of pity. if he hasn't any legs worth mentioning, the almighty made it up to him by giving him a whole lot of brains. if he can't get about like the rest of us he's a great deal more contented, i believe, and if he can't play football he can show others how to. and," he added, as he returned to his desk, "unless i'm mistaken, he's done it to-day. now to mail this list and then for the 'antidote'!" that night in mills's room the assembled coaches and captain talked over sydney's play, discussed it from start to finish, objected, explained, argued, tore it to pieces and put it together again, and in the end indorsed it. and sydney, silent save when called on for an explanation of some feature of his discovery, sat with his crutches beside his chair and listened to many complimentary remarks; and at ten o'clock went back to walton and bed, only to lie awake until long after the town-clock had struck midnight, excited and happy. had you been at erskine at any time during the following two weeks and had managed to get behind the fence, you would have witnessed a very busy scene. day after day the varsity and the second fought like the bitterest enemies; day after day the little army of coaches shouted and fumed, pleaded and scolded; and day after day a youth on crutches followed the struggling, panting lines, instructing and criticizing, and happier than he had been at any time in his memory. for the "antidote," as they had come to call it, had been tried and had vindicated its inventor's faith in it. every afternoon the second team hammered the varsity line with the tackle-tandem, and almost every time the varsity stopped it and piled it up in confusion. the call for volunteers for the thankless position at the front of the little tandem of two had resulted just as sydney had predicted. every candidate for varsity honors had begged for it, and some half dozen or more had been tried. but in the end the choice had narrowed down to neil, paul, gillam, and mason, and these it was that day after day bore the brunt of the attack, emerging from each pile-up beaten, breathless, scarred, but happy and triumphant. two weeks is short time in which to teach a new play, but mills and the others went bravely and confidently to work, and it seemed that success was to justify the attempt; for three days before the robinson game the varsity had at last attained perfection in the new play, and the coaches dared at last to hope for victory. but meanwhile other things, pleasant and unpleasant, had happened, and we must return to the day which had witnessed the inception of sydney burr's "antidote." chapter xvi robinson sends a protest when sydney left mills that morning he trundled himself along elm street to neil's lodgings in the hope of finding that youth and telling him of his good fortune. but the windows of the first floor front study were wide open, the curtains were hanging out over the sills, and from within came the sound of the broom and clouds of dust. sydney turned his tricycle about in disappointment and retraced his path, through elm lane, by the court-house with its tall white pillars and green shutters, across washington street, the wheels of his vehicle rustling through the drifts of dead leaves that lined the sidewalks, and so back to walton. he had a recitation at half-past ten, but there was still twenty minutes of leisure according to the dingy-faced clock on the tower of college hall. so he left the tricycle by the steps, and putting his crutches under his arms, swung himself into the building and down the corridor to his study. the door was ajar and he thrust it open with his foot. "please be careful of the paint," expostulated a voice, and sydney paused in surprise. "well," he said; "i've just been over to your room looking for you." "have you? sorry i wasn't--say, syd, listen to this." neil dragged a pillow into a more comfortable place and sat up. he had been stretched at full length on the big window-seat. "here it is in a nutshell," he continued, waving the paper he was reading. "'first a signal, then a thud, and your face is in the mud. some one jumps upon your back, and your ribs begin to crack. hear a whistle. "down!" that's all. 'tis the way to play football.'" "pretty good, eh? hello, what's up? your face looks as bright as though you'd polished it. how dare you allow your countenance to express joy when in another quarter of an hour i shall be struggling over my head in the history of rome during the second punic war? but there, go ahead; unbosom yourself. i can see you're bubbling over with delightful news. have they decided to abolish the latin language? or has the faculty been kidnaped? have they changed their minds and decided to take me with 'em to new haven to-morrow? come, little bright eyes, out with it!" sydney told his good news, not without numerous eager interruptions from neil, and when he had ended the latter executed what he called a "punic war-dance." it was rather a striking performance, quite stately and impressive, for when one's left shoulder is made immovable by much bandaging it is difficult, as neil breathlessly explained, to display _abandon_--the latter spoken through the nose to give it the correct french pronunciation. "and, if you're not good to me," laughed sydney, "i'll get back at you in practise. and i'm to be treated with respect, also, neil; in fact, i believe you had better remove your cap when you see me." "all right, old man; cap--sweater--anything! you shall be treated with the utmost deference. but seriously, syd, i'm awfully glad. glad all around; glad you've made a hit with the play, and glad you've found something to beat robinson with. now tell me again about it; where do i come in on it?" and so sydney drew a chair up to the table and drew more diagrams of the new play, and neil looked on with great interest until the bell struck the half-hour, and they hurried away to recitations. the next day the varsity and substitutes went to new haven. neil wasn't taken along, and so when the result of the game reached the college--yale 40, erskine 0--he was enabled to tell sydney that it was insanity for mills and devoe to expect to do anything without his (neil's) services. "if they will leave me behind, syd, what can they hope for save rout and disaster? of course, i realize that i could not have played, but my presence on the side-line would have inspired them and have been very, very helpful. i'm sure the score would have been quite different, syd." "yes," laughed the other; "say fifty to nothing." "your levity and disrespect pains me," mourned neil. but despite the overwhelming nature of the defeat, mills and devoe and the associate coaches found much to encourage them. no attempt had been made to try the new defensive play, but erskine had managed to make her distance several times. the line had proved steady and had borne the severe battering of the yale backs without serious injury. the purple's back-field had played well; paul had been in his best form, gillam had gained ground quite often through yale's wings, and mason, at full-back, had fought nobly. the ends had proved themselves quick and speedy in getting down under punts, and several of the blue's tries around end had been nipped ingloriously in the bud. but, when all was said, the principal honors of the contest had fallen to ted foster, erskine's plucky quarter, whose handling of the team had been wonderful, and whose catching and running back of punts had more than once turned the tide of battle. on the whole, erskine had put up a good, fast, well-balanced game; had displayed plenty of grit, had shown herself well advanced in team-play, and had emerged practically unscathed from a hard-fought contest. on monday neil went into the line-up for a few minutes, displacing paul at left-half, but did not form one of the heroic tandem. his shoulder bothered him a good deal for the first minute or two, but after he had warmed up to the work he forgot about it and banged it around so that simson was obliged to remonstrate and threaten to take him out. on the second's twenty yards neil was given a chance at a goal from placement, and, in spite of his right shoulder, and to the delight of the coaches, sent the leather over the bar. when he turned and trotted back up the field he almost ran over sydney, who was hobbling blithely about the gridiron on his crutches. "whoa!" cried neil. "back up! hello, board of strategy; how do you find yourself?" "that was fine, neil," said sydney. "what?" "that goal." "glad you liked it. i was beastly nervous," he laughed. "had no idea i could do it. it's so different trying goals in a game; when you're just off practising it doesn't seem to bother you." "oh, you'll do. gale is growling like a bear because they took him out." "is he?" asked neil. "i'm sorry. do you know whether he stands a good show for the game? have you heard mills or devoe say anything about it?" sydney shook his head. "i'm afraid gillam's got us both boxed," continued neil. "as for me, i suppose they'll let me in because i can sometimes kick a goal, but i'm worried about paul. if he'd only--farewell, they are lining up again." "i don't believe gale will get into the robinson game," thought sydney as he took himself toward the side-line. "he seems a good player, but--but you never can tell what he's going to do; half the time he just sort of slops around and looks as though he was doing a favor by playing. i can't see why neil likes him so well; i suppose it's because he's so different. maybe he's a better sort when you know him real well." after practise was ended and the riotous half-hour in the locker-house was over, neil found himself walking back to the campus with sydney and paul. paul entertained a half-contemptuous liking for sydney. to neil he called him "the crip," but when in sydney's presence was careful never to say anything to wound the boy's feelings--an act of consideration rather remarkable for paul, who, while really kind at heart, was oftentimes careless about the sensibilities of others. this afternoon paul was evidently downcast, too downcast to be even cross. "well, i guess it's all up with me," he said as they passed through the gate and started down williams street toward college. "i'm glad you're back, chum, but i can see my finish." "nonsense," said neil, "you'll be back to-morrow. gillam is putting up a star game, and that's a fact; but your weight will help you, and if you buckle down for the next few days you'll make it all right." but paul refused to be comforted and remained silent and gloomy all the way home. knowing how paul had set his heart upon making the varsity for the robinson game, neil began to be rather worried himself. he felt, unnecessarily of course, in a measure responsible for the crowning of his friend's ambition. when he had prevailed on paul to relinquish the idea of going to robinson, he had derided the possibility of paul failing to make the erskine team; and now that possibility was rapidly assuming the appearance of a probability. certainly the fault was paul's, and not his; but the thought contained small comfort. next day's practise, in preparation for erskine's last game before the robinson contest, proved paul's fears far from groundless. gillam, neil, and mason started work when the line-up was formed, and paul looked on heart-brokenly from the bench. it was not until neil had failed twice and succeeded once at field-goals, and gillam had been well hammered by the second's tandem plays, that paul secured a chance. then neil was taken out and his friend put in. neil wrapped a frayed gray blanket about his shoulders and reflected ruefully upon events. he knew that he had played poorly; that he had twice tied up the play by allowing his thoughts to wander; that his end-running had been slow, almost listless, and that his performance at goal-kicking had been miserable. he had missed two tries from placement, one on the twenty yards and another on the twenty-seven, and had only succeeded at a drop-kick by the barest of margins. he couldn't even lay the blame on his injured shoulder, for that was no longer a factor in his playing; the bandages were off and only a leather pad remained to remind him of the incident. no, he had simply worried his stupid head over paul's troubles, he told himself, and had thereby disappointed the coaches, the captain, and himself. simson found him presently and sent him trotting about the field, an exercise that worked some of his gloom off and left him in a fairly cheerful frame of mind when he ran up the locker-house steps. but at dinner he found that his appetite had almost deserted him. simson observed him gravely, and after the meal was over questioned closely. neil answered rather irritably, and the trainer's uneasiness increased; but he only said: "go to bed early to-night and lay off to-morrow. you'll be better by monday. and you might take a walk to-morrow afternoon; go off into the country somewhere; see if you can't find some one to go with you. how's the shoulder? no trouble there, is there?" "no, there's no trouble anywhere; i just wasn't hungry." "well, you do what i've told you and you'll get your appetite back, my boy." neil turned away frowning and took himself to his lodging, feeling angry with simson because he was going to keep him off the field, and angry with himself because--oh, just because he was. but neil was not the only person concerned with erskine athletics who was out of sorts that night. a general air of gloom had pervaded the dinner-table. mills had been even silenter than usual; the three other coaches present had been plainly worried, and simson, in spite of his attempts to keep the conversation cheerful, had showed that he too was bothered about something. a bomb-shell had landed in the erskine camp and had exploded in mills's quarters. on the front steps neil met cowan. the two always nodded to each other, but to-night neil's curt salutation went unheeded. cowan, with troubled face, hurried by him and went up the street toward mills's rooms. "every one's grouchy to-night," muttered neil. "even cowan looks as though he was going to be shot." meanwhile the athletic authorities of erskine and the coaches were met in extraordinary session. they were considering a letter which had arrived that afternoon from collegetown. in the letter robinson announced her protest of thomas l. cowan, right-guard on the erskine football team, on the score of professionalism. "it just means," wailed foster, who had brought the tidings to neil and paul, "that it's all over with us. i don't know what cowan has to say, but i'll bet a--i'll bet my new typewriter!--that robinson's right. and with cowan gone from right-guard, where are we? we haven't the ghost of a show. the only fellow they can play in his place is witter, and he's a pygmy. not that witter doesn't know the position, for he does; but he's too light. was there ever such luck? what good is burr's patent, double-action, self-inking, cylindrical, switch-back defense if we haven't got a line that will hold together long enough for us to get off our toes? it--it's rotten luck, that's what it is." and the varsity quarter-back groaned dolorously. "but what does cowan say?" asked neil. "don't ask me," said foster. "i don't know what he says, and i don't believe it will matter. he's got professional written all over his face." "but he played last year," said paul. "why didn't they protest him then?" "i'll pass again," answered foster. "maybe they hadn't discovered it--whatever it is--then; maybe--" "listen!" said neil. some one stamped up the steps and entered the front door. foster looked questioningly at neil. "cowan?" he whispered. neil nodded. foster sprang to the study door and threw it open. the light from the room fell on the white and angry countenance of the right-guard. "cowan," said foster, "for heaven's sake, man, tell us about it! is it all right?" but tom cowan only glared as he passed on up the stairs. chapter xvii a plan and a confession robinson's protest set forth succinctly that cowan had, three years previous, played left tackle on the football team of a certain academy--whose right to the title of academy was often questioned--and had received money for his services. dates and other particulars were liberally supplied, and the name and address of the captain of the team were given. altogether, the letter was discouragingly convincing, and neither the coaches, the captain, nor the athletic officers really doubted the truth of the charge. professor nast, the chairman of the athletic committee, blinked gravely through his glasses and looked about the room. "you've sent for mr. cowan?" he asked. "yes," mills answered; "he ought to be here in a minute. how in the world was he allowed to get on to the team?" "well, his record was gone over, as we believed, very thoroughly year before last," said professor nast; "and we found nothing against him. i think--ah--it seems probable that he unintentionally misled us. perhaps he can--ah--explain." when, however, cowan faced the group of grave-faced men it was soon evident that explanations were far from his thoughts. he had heard enough before the summons reached him to enable him to surmise what awaited him, and when professor nast explained their purpose in calling him before them, cowan only displayed what purported to be honest indignation. he stormed violently against the robinson authorities and defied them to prove their charge. mills listened a while impatiently and then interrupted him abruptly. "do you deny the charge, cowan, or don't you?" he asked. "i refuse to reply to it," answered cowan angrily. "let them think what they want to; i'm not responsible to them. it's all revenge, nothing else. they tried to get me to go to them last september; offered me free coaching, and guaranteed me a position on the team. i refused. and here's the result." professor nast brightened and a few of those present looked relieved. but mills refused to be touched by cowan's righteousness, and asked brusquely: "never mind what their motive is, cowan. what we want to know is this: did you or did you not accept money for playing left tackle on that team? let us have an answer to that, please." "it's absurd," said cowan hotly. "why, i only played three games--" "yes or no, please," said mills. for an instant cowan's gaze faltered. he glanced swiftly about the room and read only doubt or antagonism in the faces there. he shrugged his broad shoulders and replied sneeringly: "what's the good? you're all down on me now; you wouldn't believe me if i told you." "we're not all down on you," answered mills. professor nast interrupted. "one moment, mr. mills. i don't think mr. cowan understands the--ah--the position we are in. unless you can show to our satisfaction that the charge is untrue, mr. cowan, we shall be obliged, under the terms of our agreement with robinson, to consider you ineligible. in that case, you could not, of course, play against robinson; in fact, you would not be admitted to any branch of university athletics. now, don't you think that the best course for you to follow is to make a straightforward explanation of your connection with the academy in question? we are not here to judge the--ah--ethics of your course; only to decide as to whether or no you are eligible to represent the college in athletics." cowan arose from his seat and with trembling fingers buttoned his overcoat. his brow was black, but when he spoke, facing the head coach and heedless of the rest, he appeared quite cool. "ever since practise began," he said, "you have been down on me and have done everything you could to get rid of me. no matter what i did, it wasn't right. whether i'm eligible or ineligible, i'm done with you now. you may fill my place--if you can; i'm out of it. you'll probably be beaten; but that's your affair. if you are, i sha'n't weep over it." he walked to the door and opened it. "it's understood, i guess, that i've resigned from the team?" he asked, facing mills once more. "quite," said the latter dryly. "all right. and now i don't mind telling you that i did get paid for playing with that team. i played three games and took money every time. it isn't a crime and i'm not ashamed of it, although to hear you talk you'd think i'd committed murder. good-night, gentlemen." he passed out. professor nast blinked nervously. "dear me," he murmured, "dear me, how unpleasant!" mills smiled grimly, and, rising, stretched his limbs. "i think what we have left to do won't take very long. i hardly think that it is necessary for me to reply to the accusations brought by the gentleman who has just left us." "no, let's hear no more of it," said preston. "i propose that we reply to robinson to-night and have an end of the business. to-morrow we'll have plenty to think of without this," he added grimly. the reply was written and forwarded the next day to robinson, and the following announcement was given out at erskine: the athletic committee has decided that cowan is not eligible to represent the college in the football game with robinson, and he has been withdrawn. a protest was received from the robinson athletic authorities yesterday afternoon, and an investigation was at once made with the result stated. the loss of cowan will greatly weaken the team, it is feared, but that fact has not been allowed to influence the committee. the decision is heartily concurred in by the coaches, the captain, and all officials, and, being in line with erskine's policy of purity in athletics, should have the instant indorsement of the student body. h.w. nast, _chairman_. the announcement, as was natural, brought consternation, and for several days the football situation was steeped in gloom. witter and hurst were seized upon by the coaches and drilled in the tactics of right-guard. as foster had said, witter, while he was a good player, was light for the position. hurst, against whom no objection could be brought on the ground of weight, lacked experience. in the end witter proved first choice, and hurst was comforted with the knowledge that he was practically certain to get into the game before the whistle sounded for the last time. meanwhile artmouth came and saw and conquered to the tune of 6-0, profiting by the news of cowan's withdrawal and piling their backs through witter, hurst, and brown, all of whom took turns at right-guard. the game was not encouraging from the erskine point of view, and the gloom deepened. foster declared that it was so thick during the last half of the contest that he couldn't see the backs. neil saw the game from the bench, and paul, once more at left-half, played an excellent game; but, try as he might, could not outdo gillam. when it was over neil declared the honors even, but paul took a less optimistic view and would not be comforted. all the evening, save for a short period when he went upstairs to sympathize with cowan, he bewailed his fate into neil's ears. the latter tried his best to comfort him, and predicted that on monday paul would find himself in gillam's place. but he scarcely believed it himself, and so his prophecies were not convincing. "what's the good of being decent?" asked paul dolefully. "i wish i'd gone to robinson." "no, you don't," said neil. "you'd rather sit on the side-line at erskine than play with a lot of hired sluggers." "much you know about it," paul growled. "if i don't get into the robinson game i'll--i'll leave college." "but what good would that do?" asked neil. "i'd go somewhere where i'd stand a show. i'd go to robinson or one of the smaller places." "i don't think you'd do anything as idiotic as that," answered neil. "it'll be hard luck if you miss the big game, but you've got three more years yet. what's one? you're certain to stand the best kind of a show next year." "i don't see how. gillam doesn't graduate until 1903." "but you can beat him out for the place next year. all you need is more experience. gillam's been at it two years here. besides, it would be silly to leave a good college just because you couldn't play on the football team. don't be like cowan and think football's the only thing a chap comes here for." "they've used him pretty shabbily," said paul. "that's what cowan thinks. i don't see how they could do anything else." "he's awfully cut up. i'm downright sorry for him. he says he's going to pack up and leave." "and he's been trying to make you do the same, eh?" asked neil. "well, you tell him i'm very well satisfied with erskine and haven't the least desire to change." "you?" asked paul. "certainly. we hang together, don't we?" paul grinned. "you're a good chap, chum," he said gratefully. "but--" relapsing again into gloom--"you're not losing your place on the team, and you don't know how it feels. when a fellow's set his heart on it--" "i think i do know," answered neil. "i know how i felt when my shoulder went wrong and i thought i was off for good and all. i didn't like it. but cheer up, paul, and give 'em fits monday. slam 'round, let yourself loose; show 'em what you can do. down with gillam!" "oh, i dare say," muttered paul dejectedly. neil laid awake a long time that night; he was full of sympathy for his room-mate. with him friendship meant more than it does to the average boy of nineteen, and he was ready and eager to do anything in his power that would insure paul's getting into the robinson game. the trouble was that he could think of nothing, although he lay staring into the darkness, thinking and thinking, until paul had been snoring comfortably across the room for more than an hour. the next afternoon, sunday, neil, obeying the trainer's instructions, went for a walk. paul begged off from accompanying him, and neil sought sydney. that youth was delighted to go, and so, neil alternately pushing the tricycle and walking beside it while sydney propelled it himself, the two followed the river for several miles into the country. the afternoon was cold but bright, and being outdoors was a pleasure to any healthy person. neil forgot some of his worries and remembered that, after all, he was still a boy; that football is not the chief thing in college life, and that ten years hence it would matter little to him whether he played for his university against her rival or looked on from the bench. and it was that thought that suggested to him a means of sparing paul the bitter disappointment that he dreaded. the plan seemed both simple and feasible, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. to be sure, it involved the sacrificing of an ambition of his own; but to-day, out here among the pines and beeches, with the clear blue sky overhead and the eager breeze bringing the color to his cheeks, the sacrifice seemed paltry and scarcely a sacrifice at all. he smiled to himself, glad to have found the solution of paul's trouble, which was also his own; but suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps he had no right to do what he contemplated. the ethics were puzzling, and presently he turned to sydney, who had been silently and contentedly wheeling himself along across the road, and sought his counsel. "look here, syd, you're a level-headed sort of chump. give me your valuable opinion on this, will you? now--it's a supposititious case, you know--here are two fellows, a and b, each trying for the same--er--prize. now, supposing a has just about reached it and b has fallen behind; and supposing i--" "eh?" asked sydney. "yes, i meant a. supposing a knows that b is just as deserving of the prize as he is, and that--that he'll make equally as good use of it. do you follow, syd?" "y--yes, i think so," answered the other doubtfully. "well, now, the question i want your opinion on is this: wouldn't it be perfectly fair for a to--well, slip a cog or two, you know--" "slip a cog?" queried sydney, puzzled. "yes; that is," explained neil, "play off a bit, but not enough for any of the fellows to suspect, and so let b get the plum?" "well," answered sydney, after a moment's consideration, "it sounds fair enough--" "that's what i think," said neil eagerly. "but maybe a and b are not the only ones interested. how about the conditions of the contest? don't they require that each man shall do his best? isn't it intended that the prize shall go to the one who really is the best?" "oh, well, in a manner, maybe," answered neil. he was silent a moment. the ethics was more puzzling than ever. then: "of course, it's only a supposititious case, you understand, syd," he assured him earnestly. "oh, of course," answered the other readily. "hadn't we better turn here?" the journey back was rather silent. neil was struggling with his problem, and sydney, too, seemed to have something on his mind. when the town came once more into view around a bend in the road sydney interrupted neil's thoughts. "say, neil, i've got a--a confession to make." his cheeks were very red and he looked extremely embarrassed. neil viewed him in surprise. "a confession? you haven't murdered the dean, have you?" "no. it--it's something rather different. i don't believe that it will make any difference in our--our friendship, but--it might." "it won't," said neil. "now, fire ahead." "well, you recollect the day you found me on the way from the field and pushed me back to college?" "of course. your old ice-wagon had broken down and i--" "that's it," interrupted sydney, with a little embarrassed laugh. "it hadn't." "what hadn't? hadn't what?" "the machine; it hadn't broken down." "but i saw it," exclaimed neil. "what do you mean, syd?" "i mean that it hadn't really broken down, neil. i--the truth is i had pried one of the links up with a screw-driver." neil stared in a puzzled way. "but--what for?" he asked. "don't you understand?" asked sydney, shame-faced. "because i wanted to know you, and i thought if you found me there with my machine busted you'd try to fix it; and i'd make your acquaintance. it--it was awfully dishonest, i know," muttered sydney at the last. neil stared for a moment in surprise. then he clapped the other on the shoulder and laughed uproariously. "oh, to think of guileless little syd being so foxy!" he cried. "i wouldn't have believed it if any one else had told me, syd." "well," said sydney, very red in the face, but joining in the laughter, "you don't mind?" "mind?" echoed neil, becoming serious again, "why of course i don't. what is there to mind, syd? i'm glad you did it, awfully glad." he laid his arm over the shoulders of the lad on the seat. "here, let me push a while. queer you should have cared that much about knowing me; but--but i'm glad." suddenly his laughter returned. "no wonder that old fossil in the village thought it was a queer sort of a break," he shouted. "he knew what he was talking about after all when he suggested cold-chisels, didn't he?" chapter xviii neil is taken out the tuesday before the final contest dawned raw and wet. the elms in the yard _drip-dripped_ from every leafless twig and a fine mist covered everything with tiny beads of moisture. the road to the field, trampled by many feet, was soft and slippery. sydney, almost hidden beneath rain-coat and oil-skin hat, found traveling hard work. ahead of him marched five hundred students, marshaled by classes, a little army of bobbing heads and flapping mackintoshes, alternately cheering and singing. dana, the senior-class president, strode at the head of the line and issued his commands through a big purple megaphone. erskine was marching out to the field to cheer the eleven and to practise the songs that were to be chanted defiantly at the game. sydney had started with his class, but had soon been left behind, the rubber tires of the machine slipping badly in the mud. presently the head of the procession, but dimly visible to him through the mist, turned in at the gate, the monster flag of royal purple, with its big white e, drooping wet and forlorn on its staff. they were cheering again now, and sydney whispered an accompaniment behind the collar of his coat: "erskine! erskine! erskine! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah! erskine! erskine! erskine!" suddenly footsteps sounded behind him and the tricycle went forward apparently of its own volition. sydney turned quickly and saw mills's blue eyes twinkling down at him. "did i surprise you?" laughed the coach. "yes, i thought my wheel had suddenly turned into an automobile." "hard work for you, i'm afraid. you should have let me send a trap for you," said mills. "never mind those handles. put your hands in your pockets and i'll get you there in no time. what a beast of a day, isn't it?" "y--yes," answered sydney, "i suppose it is. but i rather like it." "like it? great scott! why?" "well, the mist feels good on your face, don't you think so? and the trees down there along the railroad look so gray and soft. i don't know, but there's something about this sort of a day that makes me feel good." "well, every one to his taste," mills replied. "by the way, here's something i cut out of the robinson argus; thought you'd like to see it." he drew a clipping from a pocketbook and gave it to sydney, who, shielding it from the wet, read as follows: erskine, we hear, is crowing over a wonderful new play which she thinks she has invented, and with which she expects to get even for what happened last year. we have not seen the new marvel, of course, but we understand that it is called a "close formation." it is safe to say that it is an old play revamped by erskine's head coach, mills. last year mills discovered a form of guards-back which was heralded to the four corners of the earth as the greatest play ever seen. what happened to it is still within memory. consequently we are not greatly alarmed over the latest production of his fertile brain. robinson can, we think, find a means of solving any puzzle that erskine can put together. "they're rather hard on you," laughed sydney as he returned the clipping. "i can stand it. i'm glad they haven't discovered that we are busy with a defense for their tackle-tandem. if we can keep that a secret for a few days longer i shall be satisfied." "i do hope it will come up to expectations," said sydney doubtfully. "now that the final test is drawing near i'm beginning to fear that maybe we--maybe we're too hopeful." "i know," answered mills. "it's always that way. when i first began coaching i used to get into a regular blue funk every year just before the big game; used to think that everything was going wrong, and was firmly convinced until the whistle sounded that we were going to be torn to pieces and scattered to the winds. it's just nerves; you get used to it after a while. as for the new defense for tackle-tandem, it's all right. maybe it won't stop robinson altogether, but it's the best thing that a light team can put up against a heavy one playing robinson's game; and i think that it's going to surprise her and worry her quite a lot. whether it will keep her from scoring on the tackle play remains to be seen. that's a good deal to hope for. if we'd been able to try the play in a game with another college we would know more about what we can do with it. as it is, we only know that it will stop the second and that theoretically it is all right. we'll be wiser on the 23d. "frankly, though, burr," he continued, "as a play i don't like it. that is, i consider it too hard on the men; there's too much brute force and not enough science and skill about it; in fact, it isn't football. but as long as guards-back and tackle-back formations are allowed it's got to be played. it was a mistake in ever allowing more than four men behind the line. the natural formation of a football team consists of seven players in the line, and when you begin to take one or two of those players back you're increasing the element of physical force and lessening the element of science. more than that, you're playing into the hands of the anti-football people, and giving them further grounds for their charge of brutality. "football's the noblest game that's played, but it's got to be played right. we did away with the old mass-play evil and then promptly invented the guards-back and the tackle-back. before long we'll see our mistake and do away with those too; revise the rules so that the rush-line players can not be drawn back. then we'll have football as it was meant to be played; and we'll have a more skilful game and one of more interest both to the players and spectators." mills paused and then asked: "by the way, do you see much of fletcher?" "yes, quite a bit," answered sydney. "we were together for two or three hours yesterday afternoon." "indeed? and did you notice whether he appeared in good spirits? see any signs of worry?" "no, not that i recall. i thought he appeared to be feeling very cheerful. i know we laughed a good deal over--over something." "that's all right, then," answered the coach as they turned in through the gate and approached the locker-house. "i had begun to think that perhaps he had something on his mind that troubled him. he seemed a bit listless yesterday at practise. how about his studies? all right there, is he?" "oh, yes. fletcher gets on finely. he was saying only a day or two ago that he was surprised to find them going so easily." "well, don't mention our talk to him, please; he might start to worrying, and that's what we don't want, you know. perhaps he'll be in better shape to-day. we'll try him in the 'antidote.'" but contrary to the hopes of the head coach, neil showed no improvement. his playing was slow, and he seemed to go at things in a half-hearted way far removed from his usual dash and vim. even the signals appeared to puzzle him at times, and more than once foster turned upon him in surprise. "say, what the dickens is the matter with you, neil?" he whispered once. neil showed surprise. "why, nothing; i'm all right." "well, i'm glad you told me," grumbled the quarter-back, "for i'd never have guessed it, my boy." before the end of the ten minutes of open practise was over neil had managed to make so many blunders that even the fellows on the seats noticed and remarked upon it. later, when the singing and cheering were over and the gates were closed behind the last marching freshman, neil found himself in hot water. the coaches descended upon him in a small army, and he stood bewildered while they accused him of every sin in the football decalogue. devoe took a hand, too, and threatened to put him off if he didn't wake up. "play or get off the field," he said. "and, hang it all, man, look intelligent, as though you liked the game!" neil strove to look intelligent by banishing the expression of bewilderment from his face, and stood patiently by until the last coach had hurled the last bolt at his defenseless head--defenseless, that is, save for the head harness that was dripping rain-drops down his neck. then he trotted off to the line-up with a queer, half-painful grin on his face. "i guess it's settled for me," he said to, himself, as he rubbed his cold, wet hands together. "evidently i sha'n't have to play off to give paul his place; i've done it already. i suppose i've been bothering my head about it until i've forgotten what i've been doing. i wish though--" he sighed--"i wish it hadn't been necessary to disgust mills and bob devoe and all the others who have been so decent and have hoped so much of me. but it's settled now. whether it's right or wrong, i'm going to play like a fool until they get tired of jumping on me and just yank me out in sheer disgust. "simson's got his eagle eye on me, the old ferret! and he will have me on the hospital list to-morrow, i'll bet a dollar. he'll say i've gone 'fine' and tell me to get plenty of sleep and stay outdoors. and the doctor will give me a lot of nasty medicine. well, it's all in the bargain. i'd like to have played in saturday's game, though; but paul has set his heart on it, and if he doesn't make the team he'll have seven fits. it means more to him than it does to me, and next fall will soon be here. i can wait." "_fletcher! wake up, will you_?" foster was glaring at him angrily. the blood rushed into neil's face and he leaped to his position. even ted foster's patience had given out, neil told himself; and he, like all the rest, would have only contempt for him to-morrow. the ball was wet and slimy and easily fumbled. neil lost it the first time it came into his hands. "who dropped that ball?" thundered mills, striding into the back-field, pushing players left and right. "i did," answered neil, striving to meet the coach's flashing eyes and failing miserably. "you did? well, do it just once more, fletcher, and you'll go off! and you'll find it hard work getting back again, too. bear that in mind, please." he turned to the others. "now get together here! put some life into things! stop that plunging right here! if the second gets another yard you'll hear from me!" "first down; two yards to gain!" called jones, who was acting as referee. the second came at them again, tackle-back, desperately, fighting hard. but the varsity held, and on the next down held again. "that's better," cried mills. "use your weight, baker!" shrieked one of the second's coaches, slapping the second's left-guard fiercely on the back to lend vehemence to the command. "center, your man got you that time," cried another. "into him now! throw him back! get through!" ten coaches were raving and shrieking at once. "signal!" cried the second's quarter, reardon. the babel was hushed, save for the voice of mills crying: "steady! steady! hold them, varsity!" "_44--64--73--81!_" came reardon's muffled voice. then the second's backs plunged forward. neil and gillam met them with a crash; cries and confusion reigned; the lines shoved and heaved; the backs hurled themselves against the swaying group; a smothered voice gasped "down!" the whistle shrilled. "varsity's ball!" said the referee. "first down!" the coaches began their tirades anew. mills spoke to foster aside. then the lines again faced each other. foster glanced back toward neil. "_14--12--34--9!_" he sang. it was a kick from close formation. neil changed places with full-back. he had forgotten for the moment the rã´le he had set himself to play, and only thought of the ball that was flying toward him from center. he would do his best. the pigskin settled into his hands and he dropped it quickly, kicking it fairly on the rebound. but the second was through, and the ball banged against an upstretched hand and was lost amidst a struggling group of players. in a moment it came to light tightly clutched by brown of the second eleven. "i don't have to make believe," groaned neil. "fate's playing squarely into my hands." five minutes later the leather went to him for a run outside of left tackle. he never knew whether he tried to do it or really stumbled, but he fell before the line was reached, and in a twinkling three of the second eleven were pushing his face into the muddy turf. the play had lost the varsity four yards. mills glared at neil, but said not a word. neil smiled weakly as he went back to his place. "i needn't try any more," he thought wearily. "he's made up his mind to put me off." a minute later the half ended. when the next one began paul gale went in at left half-back on the varsity. and neil, trotting to the locker-house, told himself that he was glad, awfully glad, and wished the tears wouldn't come into his eyes. chapter xix on the eve of battle neil was duly pronounced "fine" by the trainer, dosed by the doctor, and disregarded by the coaches. mills, having finally concluded that he was too risky a person for the line-up on saturday, figuratively labeled him "declined" and passed him over to tassel, head coach of the second eleven. tassel displayed no enthusiasm, for a good player gone "fine" is at best a poor acquisition, and of far less practical value than a poor player in good condition. it made little difference to neil what team he belonged to, for he was prohibited from playing on wednesday, and on thursday the last practise took place and he was in the line-up but five minutes. on that day the students again marched to the field and practised their songs and cheers. despite the loss of cowan and the lessening thereby of erskine's chance of success, enthusiasm reigned high. perhaps their own cheers raised their spirit, for two days before the game the college was animated by a totally unwarranted degree of hopefulness that amounted almost to confidence. the coaches, however, remained carefully pessimistic and took pains to see that the players did not share the general hopefulness. "we may win," said mills to them after the last practise, "but don't think for a moment that it's going to be easy. if we do come out on top it will be because every one of you has played as he never dreamed he could play. you've got to play your own positions perfectly and then help to play each other's. remember what i've said about team-play. don't think that your work is done when you've put your man out; that's the time for you to turn around and help your neighbor. it's just that eagerness to aid the next man, that stand-and-fall-together spirit, that makes the ideal team. i don't want to see any man on saturday standing around with his hands at his sides; as long as the ball's in play there's work for every one. don't cry 'down' until you can't run, crawl, wriggle, roll, or be pulled another inch. and if you're helping the runner don't stop pulling or shoving until there isn't another notch to be gained. never mind how many tacklers there are; the ball's in play until the whistle sounds. and, one thing more, remember that you're not going to do your best because i tell you to, or because if you don't the coaches will give you a wigging, or because a lot of your fellows are looking on. you're going to fight your hardest, fight until the last whistle blows, fight long after you can't fight any more, because you're wearing the purple of old erskine and can't do anything else but fight!" the cheer that followed was good to hear. there was not a fellow there that didn't feel, at that moment, more than a match for any two men robinson could set up against him. and many a hand clenched involuntarily, and many a player registered his silent vow to fight, as mills had said, long after he couldn't fight any more, and, if it depended on him, win the game for old erskine. on friday afternoon the men were assembled in the gymnasium and were drilled in signals and put through a hard examination in formations. afterward several of the coaches addressed them earnestly, touching each man on the spot that hurt, showing them where they failed and how to remedy their defects, but never goading them to despondency. "i should be afraid of a team that was perfect the day before the game," said preston; "afraid that when the real struggle came they'd disappoint me. a team should go into the final contest with the ability to play a little better than it has played at any time during the season; with a certain amount of power in reserve. and so i expect to-morrow to see almost all of the faults that we have talked of eliminated. i expect to see every man do that little better that means so much. and if he does he'll make mr. mills happy, he'll make all the other coaches happy, he'll make his captain and himself happy, and he'll make the college happy. and he'll make robinson unhappy!" then the line-up that was to start the game was read. neil, sitting listlessly between paul and foster, heard it with a little ache at his heart. he was glad that paul was not to be disappointed, but it was hard to think that he was to have no part in the supreme battle for which he had worked conscientiously all the fall, and the thought of which had more than once given him courage to go on when further effort seemed impossible. "stone, tucker, browning, stowell, witter, carey, devoe, foster, gale--" "good for you, paul," whispered neil. then he sighed as the list went on-"gillam, mason." then a long string of substitutes was read. neil's name was among these, but that fact meant little enough. "every man whose name has been read report at eleven to-morrow for lunch. early to bed is the rule for every one to-night, and i want every one to obey it." mills paused; then he went on in softer tones: "some of you are disappointed. some of you have worked faithfully--you all have, for that matter--only to meet with disappointment to-day. but we can't put you all in the line-up; i wish we could. but to those who have tried so hard and so honestly for positions in to-morrow's game, and who have of necessity been left out, i can only offer the sympathy of myself and the other coaches, and of the other players. you have done your share, and it no doubt seems hard that you are to have no better share in the final test. but let me tell you that even though you do not play against robinson, you have nevertheless done almost as much toward defeating her as though you faced her to-morrow. it's the season's work that counts--the long, hard preparation--and in that you've had your place and done your part well. and for that i thank you on behalf of myself, on behalf of the coaches who have been associated with me, and on behalf of the college. and now i am going to ask you fellows of the varsity to give three long erskines, three-times-three, and three long 'scrubs' on the end!" and they were given not once, but thrice. and then the scrub lustily cheered the varsity, and they both cheered mills and devoe and simson and all the coaches one after another. and when the last long-drawn "erskine" had died away mills faced them again. "there's one more cheer i want to hear, fellows, and i think you'll give it heartily. in to-morrow's game we are going to use a form of defense that will, i believe, enable us to at least render a good account of ourselves. and, as most of you know, this defense was thought out and developed by a fellow who, although unfortunately unable to play the game himself, is nevertheless one of the finest football men in college. if we win to-morrow a great big share of the credit will be due to that man; if we lose he still will have done as much as any two of us. fellows, i ask for three cheers for burr!" mills led that cheer himself and it was a good one. the pity of it was that sydney wasn't there to hear it. the november twilight was already stealing down over the campus when neil and paul left the gymnasium and made their way back to curtis's. paul was highly elated, for until the line-up had been read he had been uncertain of his fate. but his joy was somewhat dampened by the fact that neil had failed to make the team. "it doesn't seem just right for me to go into the game, chum, with you on the side-line," he said. "i don't see what mills is thinking of! who in thunder's to kick for us?" "i guess you'll be called on, paul, if any field-goals are needed." "i suppose so, but--hang it, neil, i wish you were going to play!" "well, so do i," answered neil calmly; "but i'm not, and so that settles it. after all, they couldn't do anything else, paul, but let me out. i've been playing perfectly rotten lately." "but--but what's the matter? you don't look stale, chum." "i feel stale, just the same," answered neil far from untruthfully. "but maybe you'll get in for a while; you're down with the subs," said paul hopefully. "maybe i will. maybe you'll get killed and gillam'll get killed and a few more'll get killed and they'll take me on. but don't you worry about me; i'm all right." paul looked at him as though rather puzzled. "by jove, i don't believe you care very much whether you play or don't," he said at last. "if it had been me they'd let out i'd simply gone off into a dark corner and died." "i'm glad it wasn't you," answered neil heartily. "thunder! so'm i!" the college in general had taken neil's deflection philosophically after the first day or so of wonderment and dismay. the trust in mills was absolute, and if mills said fletcher wasn't as good as gale for left half-back, why, he wasn't; that was all there was about it. there was one person in college, however, who was not deceived. sydney burr, recollecting neil's "supposititious case," never doubted that neil had purposely sacrificed himself for his room-mate. at first he was inclined to protest to neil, even to go the length of making mills cognizant of the real situation; but in the end he kept his own counsel, doubtful of his right to interfere. and, in some way, he grew to think that paul was not in the dark; that he knew of neil's plan and was lending his sanction to it; that, in fact, the whole arrangement was a conspiracy in which both neil and paul shared equally. in this he did paul injustice, as he found out later. he went to neil's room that friday night for a few minutes and found paul much wrought up over the disappearance of tom cowan. cowan's room looked as though a cyclone had struck it, paul declared, and cowan himself was nowhere to be found. "i'll bet he's done what he said he'd do and left," said paul. but sydney had seen him but an hour or so before at commons, and paul set out to hunt him up. "i know you chaps don't like him," he said; "but he's been mighty decent to me, and i don't want to seem to be going back on him just now when he's so down on his luck. i'll be back in a few minutes." sydney found neil quite cheerful and marveled at it. he himself was oppressed by a nervousness that couldn't have been worse had he been due to face robinson's big center the next day. he feared the "antidote" wouldn't work right; he feared robinson had found out all about it and had changed their offense; he feared a dozen evils, and neil was kept busy comforting him. at nine o'clock paul returned without tidings of cowan, and sydney said good-night. "i don't believe i'll go out to the field to-morrow," he said half seriously. "i'll stay in my room and listen to the cheering. if it sounds right toward the end of the game i'll know that things have gone our way." "you won't be able to tell anything of the sort," said neil, "for the fellows are going to cheer just as hard if we lose as they would had we won. mills insists on that, and what he says goes this year." "that's so," said paul; "and it's the way it ought to be. if ever a team needs cheering and encouragement it's when things are blackest, and not when it's winning." "and so, you see, you'll have to go to the field, syd," said neil as he followed the other out to the porch. "by jove, what a night, eh? i never saw so many stars, i believe. well, we'll have a good clear day for the game and a good turf underfoot. good-night, syd." "good-night," answered the other. then, sorrowfully, "i do wish you were going to play, neil." "thanks, syd; but don't let that keep you awake. good-night!" the room-mates chatted in a desultory way for half an hour longer and then prepared for bed. paul was somewhat nervous and excited, and displayed a tendency to stop short in the middle of removing a stocking to gaze blankly before him for whole minutes at a time. once he stood so long on one leg with his trousers half off that neil feared he had gone to sleep, and so brought him back to a recollection of the business in hand by shying a boot at him. as for neil, he was untroubled by nervousness. he believed erskine was going to win. for the rest, the eve of battle held no exciting thoughts for him. he could neither win the game nor lose it; he was merely a spectator, like thousands of others; only he would see the contest from the players' bench instead of the big new stand that half encircled the field. but despite the feeling of aloofness that possessed and oppressed him, sleep did not come readily. for a long time he heard paul stirring about restlessly across the little bedroom and the occasional cheers of some party of patriotic students returning to their rooms across the common. his brain refused to stop its labors; and, in fact, kept busily at them long after he had fallen asleep. he dreamed continually, a ceaseless stream of weird, unpleasant visions causing him to turn and toss all through the night and leaving him when dawn came weary and unrefreshed. out of doors the early sun was brushing away the white frost. the sky was almost devoid of clouds, and the naked branches of the elms reached upward unswayed by any breeze. it was an ideal day, that 23d of november, bright, clear, and keen. nature could not have been kinder to the warriors who, in a few short hours, were to meet upon the yellowing turf, nor to the thousands who were to assemble and cheer them on to victory--or defeat. chapter xx cowan becomes indignant breakfast at the training-table that morning was a strange meal, to which the fellows loitered in at whatever hour best pleased them. many showed signs of restless slumber, and the trainer was as watchful as an old hen with a brood of chickens. for some there were saturday morning recitations; those who were free were sent out to the field at ten o'clock and were put through a twenty-minute signal practise. among these were neil and paul. a trot four times around the gridiron ended the morning's work, and they were dismissed with orders to report at twelve o'clock for lunch. neil, paul, and foster walked back together, and it was the last that suggested going down to the depot to see the arrival of the robinson players. so they turned down poplar street to main and made their way along in front of the row of stores there. the village already showed symptoms of excitement. the windows were dressed in royal purple, with here and there a touch of the brown of robinson, and the sidewalk already held many visitors, while others were invading the college grounds across the street. farther on the trio passed the bicycle repair-shop. in front of the door, astride an empty box, sat the proprietor, sunning himself and keeping a careful watch on the village happenings. with a laugh neil left his companions and ran across the street. "good-morning," he said. the little man on the box looked up inquiringly but failed to recognize his tormentor. "mornin'," he grunted suspiciously. "i wanted to tell you," said neil gravely, "that your diagnosis was correct, after all." "hey?" asked the little man querulously. "yes, it _was_ a cold-chisel that did it," said neil. "you remember you said it was." "cold-chisel? say, what you talkin'--" then a light of recognition sprang into his weazened features. "you're the feller that owes me a quarter!" he cried shrilly, scrambling to his feet. neil was off on the instant. as the three went on toward the station the little man's denunciations followed them: "you come back here an' pay me that quarter! if i knew yer name i'd have ther law on yer! but i know yer face, an' i'll--" "his name's legion," called ted foster over his shoulder. "hey? what?" shrieked the repair man. "legion!" "i don't know what you say, but i'll report that feller ter th' authorities!" then a long whistle broke in upon the discussion, and the three rushed for the station platform. from the vantage-point of a baggage-truck they watched the robinson players and the accompanying contingent descend from the train. there were twenty-eight of the former, heavily built, strapping-looking fellows, and with them a small army of coaches, trainers, and supporters. neil dug his elbow against paul. "look," he said, "there's your friend brill." and sure enough, there was the robinson coach who had visited the two at hillton a year before and tried to get them to go to the rival college. "if you'd like to make arrangements for next year, paul," neil whispered mischievously, "now's your time." but paul grinned and shook his head. the players and most of the coaches tumbled into carriages and were taken out to erskine field for a short practise, and the balance of the arrivals started on foot toward the hotel. the three friends retraced their steps. luckily, the proprietor of the bicycle repair-shop was so busy looking over the strangers that they passed unseen in the little stream. there remained the better part of an hour before lunch-time, and they found themselves at a loss for a way to spend the time. foster finally went off to his room, as he explained airily, "to dash off a letter on his typewriter," a statement that was greeted with howls of derision from the others, who, for want of a better place, went into butler's bookstore and aimlessly looked over the magazines and papers. it was while thus engaged that paul heard his name spoken, and turned to find mr. brill smilingly holding out his hand. "i thought i wasn't mistaken," the robinson coach said as they shook hands. "and isn't that your friend fletcher over there?" neil heard and came over, and the three stood and talked for a few minutes. mr. brill seemed well pleased with the football outlook. "i'll wager you gentlemen will regret not coming to us after to-day's game is over," he laughed. "i hear you've got something up your sleeve." "we have," said neil. "so i heard. what's the nature of it?" "it's muscle," answered neil gravely. the coach laughed. "of course, if it's a secret, i don't want to hear it. but i think you're safe to get beaten, secret or no secret, eh?" "nonsense!" said paul. "you won't know what struck you when we get through with you." mr. brill laughed good-naturedly but didn't look alarmed. "by the way," he said, "i saw one of your players a while ago--cowan--the fellow we protested. he seemed rather sore." "where was he?" asked paul eagerly. "in a drug-store down there toward the next corner. have your coaches found a good man for his place?" "oh, yes, it wasn't hard to fill," answered neil. "witter's got it." "witter? i don't think i've heard of him." "no, he's not famous--yet; you'll know him better later on." paul was plainly anxious to go in search of cowan, and so they bade the robinson coach good-by. out on the sidewalk neil turned a troubled face toward his friend. "say, paul, cowan knows all about the 'antidote,' doesn't he?" "why, yes, i suppose so; he's seen it played." "and he knows the signals, too, eh?" "of course. why?" "well, i've been wondering whether--you heard what brill said--that cowan was feeling sore? well, do you suppose he'd be mean enough to--to--" "by thunder!" muttered paul. then: "no, i don't believe that cowan would do a thing like that. i don't think he's a--a traitor!" "well, you know him better than i do," said neil, "and i dare say you're right. only--only i wish we could be certain." "i'll find him," answered paul determinedly. "you wait here for me; or, no, i may have to hunt; i'll see you at lunch. i'll find out all right." he was off on the instant. as he had told neil, he didn't believe that cowan would reveal secrets to brill or any other of the robinson people; but--well, he realized that cowan was feeling very much aggrieved, and that he might in his present state of mind do what in a saner moment he would not consider. at the drug-store he was told that cowan had left a few minutes before. the only place that paul could think of where cowan was likely to be was his room, so thither he went. he found the deposed guard engaged in replacing certain of his pictures and ornaments which had been taken down. "hello!" he said. "thought you'd cut my acquaintance too." "nonsense," answered paul, "i've been trying to find you ever since last night. where've you been?" "oh, just knocking around. i got back late last night." "i was afraid you had left college. you know you said you might." "i know. well, i've changed my mind. i guess i'll stay on until recess anyway; maybe until summer. what's the use going anywhere else? if i went to robinson i couldn't play; erskine would protest me. i wish to goodness i'd had sense enough to let that academy team go hang! only i needed some money, and it seemed a good way to make it. after all, there wasn't anything dishonest about it!" "n--no," said paul. "well, was there?" cowan demanded, turning upon him fiercely. paul shook his head. "no, there wasn't. only, of course, you'd ought to have remembered that it disqualified you here." cowan looked surprised. "my, but you're getting squeamish!" he said. "the first thing you know you'll be as bad as fletcher." there was a moment's silence. "what does he say about it?" cowan asked carelessly. "who, neil? oh, he--he sympathizes with you," answered paul vaguely. "says it's awfully hard lines, but doesn't think the committee could do anything else." "humph!" "by the way," said paul, recollecting his errand, "i met brill of robinson a while ago. he said he'd seen you." "yes," grunted cowan. "i'd like to punch him. made believe he was all cut up over my being put off. why--why it was he that knew about that academy business! last september he tried to get me to go to robinson; offered me anything i wanted, and i refused. after all a--a fellow's got some loyalty! he asked all sorts of questions as to whether i was eligible or not, and i--i don't know what made me, but i told him about taking that money for playing tackle on that old academy team. he said that wouldn't matter any. but after i decided not to go to robinson he changed his tune; said he wasn't sure but that i was ineligible!" "he's a cad," said paul." "and then to-day he tried to get sympathetic, but i shut him up mighty quick. i told him i knew well enough he was the one who had started the protest, and offered to punch his nose if he'd come over back of the stores; but he wouldn't," added cowan aggrievedly. "you--you didn't let out anything to him that would--er--help them in the game, did you?" asked paul, studying the floor with great attention. "let out anything?" asked cowan in puzzled tones. "what do you--" he put down the picture he held and faced paul, the blood dying his face. "look here, paul, what do you mean by that?" "why, why--" "you want to know if i turned traitor? if i gave away our signals or something like that, eh?" there was honest indignation in his voice and a trace of pain, and paul regretted his suspicions on the instant. "oh, come now, old man," he began, "what i meant--" "now let me tell you something, gale," said cowan. "i may not be so nice as you and fletcher and devoe and a lot more of your sort, but i'm not an out-and-out rascal and traitor! and i didn't think you'd put that on me, by jove! i've no love for some of the fellows in this college, nor for mills, and i wouldn't care if we got beaten--" he paused. "yes, i would, too; i want robinson to get done up so hard that they'll throw that cheat brill out of there. but i want you to understand right here and now that i'm not cad enough to sell signals." "i beg your pardon, tom," said paul earnestly. "i didn't think it of you. only, when brill said he'd seen you and that you were feeling sore, we--i--" "oh, so it was fletcher that suspected it, was it?" demanded cowan. "no more than i," answered paul stoutly. "we neither of us really thought you'd turn traitor, but i was afraid that, feeling the way you naturally would, you might thoughtlessly say something that brill could make use of. that's all" cowan looked doubtful for a moment, then he sniffed. "well, all right," he said finally. "forget it." "you're going out to the game, aren't you?" paul asked. "yes, i guess so. what's fletcher think of being laid off?" "well, he doesn't seem to mind it as i thought he would. i--i don't know quite what to make of him. it almost seems that he's--well, glad of it!" "huh! you've got another guess, my friend." "how's that? what do you mean?" "nothing much; only i guess i've got better eyes than you," responded cowan with a grin. after a pause during which he rearranged the objects on the mantel-shelf to his satisfaction, he turned to paul again: "say, do you think fletcher and i could get on together if--well, if we knew each other better?" "i'm sure you could," answered paul eagerly. "well, i think i'd like to try it. he--he's not a bad sort of a chap. only maybe he wouldn't care to--er--" "oh, yes, he would," answered paul. "you'll see, tom." "well, maybe so. going? good luck to you. i'll see you on the field." paul hurried around the long curve of elm street toward pearson's boarding-house, where the players were already gathering for luncheon. he found neil on the steps and dragged him off and down to the gate. "it's all right," he said. "i found him and asked him, and i wish i hadn't. he was awfully cut up about it; seemed hurt to think i could suspect such a thing. though, really, i didn't quite suspect, you know." "i'm sorry we hurt his feelings," said neil. "it was a bit mean of me to suggest it." "he's going to stay for a while," went on paul. "and--and--look here, chum, don't you think that if--er--you tried you could get to like him better? from something he said to-day i found out that he thinks you're a good sort and he'd like to get on with you. maybe if we kind of looked after him we could--oh, i don't know! but you see what i mean?" "yes, i see what you mean," replied neil thoughtfully. "and maybe we'd get on better if we tried again. anyhow, paul, you ask him down to the room some night and--and we'll see." "thanks," said paul gratefully. "and now let's get busy with the funeral baked beans--i mean meats. gee, i've got about as much appetite as a fly! i--i wish the game was over with!" "so do i," answered neil, as with a sigh he listlessly followed his chum into the house. chapter xxi the "antidote" is administered [illustration] high up against a fair blue sky studded with fleecy clouds streamed a banner of royal purple bearing in its center a great white e--a flare of intense color visible from afar over the topmost branches of the empty elms, and a beacon toward which the stream of spectators set their steps. in the tower of college hall the old bell struck two o'clock, and the throngs at the gates of erskine field moved faster, swaying and pushing past the ticket-takers and streaming out onto the field toward the big stands already piled high with laughing, chattering humanity. under the great flag stretched a long bank of somber grays and black splashed thickly with purple, looking from a little distance as though the big banner had dripped its dye on to the multitude beneath. opposite, the rival tiers of crowded seats were pricked out lavishly with the rich but less brilliant brown, while at the end of the enclosure, where the throngs entered, a smaller stand flaunted the two colors in almost equal proportions. and between stretched a smooth expanse of russet-hued turf ribbed with white lines that glared in the afternoon sunlight. the college band, augmented for the occasion from the ranks of the village musicians, played blithely; some twelve thousand persons talked, laughed, or shouted ceaselessly; and the cheering sections were loudly contending for vocal supremacy. and suddenly on to this scene trotted a little band of men in black sweaters with purple 'e's, nice new canvas trousers, and purple and black stockings; and just as suddenly the north stand arose and the robinson cheers were blotted out by a mighty chorus that swept from end to end of the structure and thundered impressively across the field: "_erskine! erskine! erskine! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah! erskine! erskine! erskine!_" it was repeated over and over, and might, perhaps, have been sounding yet had not the robinson players, sturdy, brown-clad youths, ambled onto the field. then it was robinson's turn to make a noise, and she made it; there's no doubt about that. "_rah-rah-rah! robinson! rah-rah-rah! robinson! rah-rah-rah! robinson! robinson! robinson!_" the substitutes of both teams retired to the benches and the players who were to start the game warmed up. over near the east goal three erskine warriors were trying--alas, not very successfully!--to kick the ball over the cross-bar; they were devoe and paul and mason. nearer at hand ted foster was personally conducting a little squad around the field by short stages, and his voice, shrilly cheerful, thrilled doubting supporters of the purple hopefully. robinson's players were going through much the same antics at the other end of the gridiron, and there was a business-like air about them that caused many an erskine watcher to scent defeat for his college. the cheers had given place to songs, and the leader of the band faced the occupants of the north stand and swung his baton vigorously. presumably the band was playing, but unless you had been in its immediate vicinity you would never have known it. many of the popular airs of the day had been refitted with new words for the occasion. as poetic compositions they were not remarkable, but sung with enthusiasm by several hundred sturdy voices they answered the purpose. robinson replied in kind, but in lesser volume, and the preliminary battle, the war of voices, went on until three persons, a youth in purple, a youth in brown, and a man in everyday attire, met in the middle of the field and watched a coin spin upward in the sunlight and fall to the ground. then speedily the contesting forces took their position, the lines-men and timekeeper hurried forward, and the great stands were almost stilled. erskine had the ball and the west goal. stowell poised the pigskin to his liking and drew back. devoe shouted a last word of caution. the referee, a well-known football player and coach, raised his whistle. "are you ready, erskine? all ready, robinson?" then the whistle shrilled, the timekeeper's watch clicked, the ball sped away, and the game had begun. the brown-clad skirmishers leaped forward to oppose the invaders, while the pigskin, slowly revolving, arched in long flight toward the west goal. it struck near the ten-yard line and the wily robinson left half let it go; but instead of rolling over the goal-line it bumped erratically against the left post and bobbed back to near the first white line. the left half was on it then like a flash, but the erskine forwards were almost upon him and his run was only six yards long, and it was robinson's ball on her ten-yard line. the north stand was applauding vociferously this stroke of fortune. if erskine could get possession of the ball now she might be able to score; but her coaches, watching intently from the side-line, knew that only the veriest fluke could give the pigskin to the purple. and meanwhile, with hearts beating a little faster than usual, they awaited the first practical test of the "antidote." robinson lined up quickly. left tackle dropped from the line, and taking a position between full-back and right half, formed the center of the tandem that faced the tackle-guard hole on the right. left half stood well back, behind quarter, ready to oppose any erskine players who managed to get around the left of their line. the full-back who headed the tandem was a notable line-bucker, although his weight was but 172 pounds. the left tackle, balcom, tipped the scales at 187, while the third member of the trio was twenty pounds lighter. together they represented 525 pounds. opposed to them were gillam and mason, whose combined weight was 312 pounds. gillam stood between left-guard and tackle, with mason, his hands on the other's shoulders, close behind. the robinson quarter stared for an instant with interest at the opposing formation, and the full-back, crouched forward ready to plunge across the little space that divided him from the opponents' territory, looked uneasy. then the quarter stooped behind the big center. "_signal!_" he called. "_12--21--212!_" the ball came back to him. at the same instant the tandem moved forward, the erskine guard and tackle engaged the opposing guard and tackle, and gillam and mason shot through the hole, the former with head down and a padded shoulder presented to the enemy, and the latter steadying him and hurling him forward. then two things happened at the same moment; the ball passed from quarter to tackle, and gillam and the leader of the tandem came together. the shock of that collision was plainly heard on the side-lines. for an instant the tandem stopped short. then superior weight told, and it moved forward again, reenforced by quarter and right end; but simultaneously the erskine quarter and left half made themselves felt back of mason and gillam, and then chaos reigned. the entire forces of each side were in the play, and for nearly half a minute the swaying mass moved inch by inch, first forward, then backward, the robinson left tackle refusing to believe that their famous play was for once a failure and so clinging desperately to the ball, the center of a veritable maelstrom of panting, struggling players. then the whistle sounded and the dust of battle cleared away. robinson had gained half a yard. the north stand cheered delightedly. it had only seen the robinson tandem stopped in its tracks, and did not know that in the struggle just passed erskine had used a new and novel defense for the first time on any football field, had vindicated her coaches' faith in it, and brought surprise and dismay to the brown-clad warriors and their adherents. if it had known as much as mills and jones and sydney about the "antidote" it would have shouted itself hoarse. gillam trotted back to his place. his extra-padded head-harness and heavy shoulder-pads had brought him forth unscathed. on the side-line the erskine coaches talked softly to each other, trying hard to look unconcerned, but nevertheless showing their pleasure. sydney burr, rather pale, was among them, and was, perhaps, the happiest of all. the bench whereon the substitutes sat was one long grin from end to end. but robinson was far from being beaten, and the game went on. again the tandem was hurled at the same point, and again gillam met the shock of it. this time the defense worked better, and robinson lost the half-yard of gain and another half-yard on top of that. "six yards to gain," said the score-board. and the purple-decked stand voiced its triumph. robinson wisely decided to yield possession of the ball and get away from such a dangerous locality. on the next play she punted and paul was brought to earth on robinson's fifty yards. now was the time for erskine to test her offensive powers. on the first play, using the close-formation, gillam slashed a hole between the opposing center and right-guard and mason went through for two yards. the next play netted them another yard in the same place. then paul was given the pigskin for a try outside of right tackle and reeled off four yards more before he was downed. it was quick starting and fast running, and for the moment robinson was taken off her feet; but the next try ended dismally, for in an attempt to get through the left of the line between guard and tackle mason was caught and thrown back for a two-yard loss. another try outside of tackle on that side of the line netted but a bare three feet, and foster dropped back for a kick. his effort was not very successful, and the ball was robinson's on her twenty-seven yards. now she tried the tackle-tandem on the other side of center, hurling right tackle, followed by left half with the ball, and full-back at the guard-tackle hole. paul led the defense this time, and again robinson was brought up all standing. another try at the same point with like results, and robinson changed her tactics. with the tandem formation, the ball went to full-back, and with left end and tackle interfering he skirted erskine's right for seven yards and brought the wearers of the brown to their feet shouting wildly. perhaps no one was more surprised than bob devoe, for it was his end that had been circled. certainly no one was more thoroughly disgusted than he. the robinson left end had put him out of the play as neatly as though he had been the veriest tyro. devoe sized up that youth, set his lips together, and kept his eyes open. robinson now had the ball near her thirty-five yards and returned to the tackle-tandem. in two plays she gained two yards, the result of faster playing. then another try outside of right tackle brought her five yards. tackle-tandem again, one yard; again, two yards; a try outside of tackle, one yard; erskine's ball on robinson's forty-three yards. the pigskin went to gillam, who got safely away outside robinson's right end and reeled off ten yards before he was caught. again he was given the ball for a plunge through right tackle and barely gained a yard. mason found another yard between left-guard and tackle and foster kicked. it was poorly done, and the leather went into touch at the twenty-five yards, and once more robinson set her feet toward the erskine goal. so far the playing had all been done in her territory and her coaches were looking anxious. erskine's defense was totally unlooked for, both as regarded style and effectiveness, and the problem that confronted them was serious. their team had been perfected in the tackle-tandem play to the neglecting of almost all else. their backs were heavy and consequently slow when compared with their opponents. to be sure, thus far runs outside of tackle and end had been successful, but the coaches well knew that as soon as erskine found that such plays were to be expected she would promptly spoil them. kicking was not a strong point with robinson this year; at that game her enemy could undoubtedly beat her. therefore, if the tackle-back play didn't work what was to be done? there was only one answer: make it! there was no time or opportunity now to teach new tricks; robinson must stand or fall by tackle-tandem. and while the coaches were arriving at this conclusion, white, their captain and quarter-back, had already reached it. he placed the head of the tandem nearer the line, put the tackle at the head of it, and hammered away again. mills, seeing the move, silently applauded. it was the one way to strengthen the tandem play, for by starting nearer the line the tandem could possibly reach it before the charging opponents got into the play. momentum was sacrificed and an instant of time gained, and, as it proved, that instant of time meant a difference of fully a yard on each play. had the two erskine warriors whose duty it was to hurl themselves against the tandem been of heavier weight it is doubtful if the change made would have greatly benefited their opponents; but, as it was, the two forces met about on robinson's line, and after the first recoil the brown was able to gain, sometimes a bare eighteen inches, sometimes a yard, once or twice three or four. and now robinson took up her march steadily toward the purple's goal. the backs plowed through for short distances; gillam and paul bore the brunt of the terrific assaults heroically; the erskine line fell back foot by foot, yard by yard; and presently robinson crossed the fifty-five-yard line and emerged into erskine territory. here there was a momentary pause in her conquering invasion. a fumble by the full-back allowed devoe to get through and fall on the ball. erskine now knifed the brown's line here and there and shot gillam and paul through for short gains and made her distance. then, with the pigskin back in robinson territory, erskine was caught holding and robinson once more took up her advance. carey at right tackle weakened and the brown piled her backs through him. on erskine's thirty-two yards he gave place to jewell and the tandem moved its attack to the other side of the line. paul and gillam, both pretty well punished, still held out stubbornly. yard by yard the remaining distance was covered. on her fifteen yards, almost under the shadow of her goal-posts, erskine was given ten yards for off-side play, and the waning hopes of the breathless watchers on the north stand revived. but from the twenty-five-yard line the steady rushes went on again, back over the lost ground, and soon, with the half almost gone, robinson placed the ball on erskine's five yards. twice the tandem was met desperately and hurled back, but on the third down, with her whole back-field behind the ball, robinson literally mowed her way through, sweeping paul and mason, and gillam and foster before her, and threw bond over between the posts with the ball close snuggled beneath him. the south stand leaped to its feet, blue flags and streamers fluttered and waved, and cheers for robinson rent the air until long after the brown's left half had kicked a goal. then the two teams faced each other again and the robinson left end got the kick-off and ran it back fifteen yards. again the battering of the tackle-tandem began, and paul and gillam, nearly spent, were unable to withstand it after the first half dozen plays. mason went into the van of the defense in place of gillam, but the brown's advance continued; one yard, two yards, three yards were left behind. mills, watching, glanced almost impatiently at the timekeeper, who, with his watch in hand, followed the battle along the side-line. the time was almost up, but robinson was back on erskine's thirty-five yards. but now the timekeeper walked on to the gridiron, his eyes fixed intently on the dial, and ere the ball went again into play he had called time. the lines broke up and the two teams trotted away. the score-board proclaimed: erskine 0, opponents 6. chapter xxii between the halves neil trotted along at the tail-end of the procession of substitutes, so deep in thought that he passed through the gate without knowing it, and only came to himself when he stumbled up the locker-house steps. he barked his shins and reached a conclusion at the same instant. at the door of the dressing-room a strong odor of witch-hazel and liniment met him. he squeezed his way past a group of coaches and looked about him. confusion reigned supreme. rubbers and trainer were hard at work. simson's voice, commanding, threatening, was raised above all others, a shrill, imperious note in a rising and falling babel of sound. veterans of the first half and substitutes chaffed each other mercilessly. browning, with an upper lip for all the world like a piece of raw beef, mumbled good-natured retorts to the charges brought against him by reardon, the substitute quarter-back. [illustration: erskine vs. robinson--the first half.] "yes, you really ought to be careful," the latter was saying with apparent concern. "if you let those chaps throw you around like that you may get bruised or broken. i'll speak to price and ask him to be more easy with you." "mmbuble blubble mummum," observed browning. "oh, don't say that," reardon entreated. neil was looking for paul, and presently he discovered him. he was lying on his back while a rubber was pommeling his neck and shoulders violently and apparently trying to drown him in witch-hazel. he caught sight of neil and winked one highly discolored eye. neil examined him gravely; paul grinned. "there's a square inch just under your left ear, paul, that doesn't appear to have been hit. how does that happen?" paul grinned more generously, although the effort evidently pained him. "it's very careless of them, i must say," neil went on sternly. "see that it is attended to in the next half." "don't worry," answered paul, "it will be." neil smiled. "how are you feeling?" he asked. "fine," paul replied. "i'm just getting limbered up." "you look it," said neil dryly. "i suppose by the time your silly neck is broken you'll be in pretty good shape to play ball, eh?" simson hurried up, closely followed by mills. "how's the neck?" he asked. "it's all right now," answered paul. "it felt as though it had been driven into my body for about a yard." "do you think you can start the next half?" asked mills anxiously. "sure; i can play it through; i'm all right now," replied paul gaily. mills's face cleared. "good boy!" he muttered, and turned away. neil sped after him. "mr. mills," he called. the head coach turned, annoyed by the interruption. "well, fletcher; what is it?" "can't i get in for a while, sir?" asked neil earnestly. "i'm feeling fine. gillam can't last the game, nor paul. i wish you'd let--" "see devoe about it," answered mills shortly. he hurried away, leaving neil with open mouth and reddening cheeks. "well, that's what i get for disappointing folks," he told himself. "only he needn't have been _quite_ so short. what's the good of asking devoe? he won't let me on. and--but i'll try, just the same. paul's had his chance and there's no harm now in looking after neil fletcher." he found devoe with foster and one of the coaches. the latter was lecturing them forcibly in lowered tones, and neil hesitated to interrupt; but while he stood by undecided devoe glanced up, his face a pucker of anxiety. neil strode forward. "say, bob, get me on this half, can't you? mills told me to see you," he begged. "give me a chance, bob!" devoe frowned impatiently and shook his head. "can't be done, neil. mills has no business sending you to me. he's looking after the fellows himself. i've got troubles enough of my own." "but if i tell him you're willing?" asked neil eagerly. "i'm not willing," said devoe. "if he wants you he'll put you on. don't bother me, neil, for heaven's sake. talk to mills." neil turned away in disappointment. it was no use. he knew he could play the game of his life if only they'd take him on. but they didn't know; they only knew that he had been tried and found wanting. there was no time now to test doubtful men. mills and devoe and simson were not to be blamed; neil recognized that fact, but it didn't make him happy. he found a seat on a bench near the door and dismally looked on. suddenly a conversation near at hand engaged his attention. mills, jones, sydney burr, and two other assistant coaches were gathered together, and mills was talking. "the 'antidote's' all right," he was saying decidedly. "if we had a team that equaled theirs in weight we could stop them short; but they're ten pounds heavier in the line and seven pounds heavier behind it. what can you expect? without the 'antidote' they'd have had us snowed under now; they'd have scored five or six times on us." "easy," said jones. "the 'antidote's' all right, burr. what we need are men to make it go. that's why i say take gillam out. he's played a star game, but he's done up now. let pearse take his place, play gale as long as he'll last, and then put in smith. how about fletcher?" "no good," answered mills. "at least--" he stopped and narrowed his eyes, as was his way when thinking hard. "i think he'd be all right, mr. mills," said sydney. "i--i know him pretty well, and i know he's the sort of fellow that will fight hardest when the game's going wrong." "i thought so, too," answered mills; "but--well, we'll see. maybe we'll give him a try. time's up now.--o devoe!" "yes, coming!" "here's your list. better get your men out." there was a hurried donning of clothing, a renewed uproar. "all ready, fellows," shouted the captain. "answer to your names: kendall, tucker, browning, stowell, witter, jewell, devoe, gale, pearse, mason, foster." "there's not much use in talk," said mills, as the babel partly died away. "i've got no fault to find with the work of any of you in the last half; but we've got to do better in this half; you can see that for yourselves. you were a little bit weak on team-play; see if you can't get together. we're going to tie the score; maybe we're going to beat. anyhow, let's work like thunder, fellows, and, if we can't do any more, tear that confounded tackle-tandem up and send it home in pieces. we've got thirty-five minutes left in which to show that we're as good if not better than robinson. any fellow that thinks he's not as good as the man he's going to line up against had better stay out. i know that every one of you is willing, but some of you appeared in the last half to be laboring under the impression that you were up against better men. get rid of that idea. those robinson fellows are just the same as you--two legs, two arms, two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. go at it right and you can put them out of the play. remember before you give up that the other man's just as tuckered as you are, maybe more so. your captain says we can win out. i think he knows more about it than we fellows on the side-line do. now go ahead, get together, put all you've got into it, and see whether your captain knows what he's talking about. let's have a cheer for erskine!" neil stood up on the bench and got into that cheer in great shape. he was feeling better. mills had half promised to put him in, and while that might mean much or nothing it was ground for hope. he trotted on to the field and over to the benches almost happily. the spectators were settling back in their seats, and the cheering had begun once more. the north stand had regained its spirit. after all, the game wasn't lost until the last whistle blew, and there was no telling what might happen before that. so the student section cheered and sang, the band heroically strove to make itself heard, and the purple flags tossed and fluttered. the sun was almost behind the west corner of the stand, and overcoat collars and fur neck-pieces were being snuggled into place. from the west tiers of seats came the steady tramp-tramp of chilled feet, hinting their owners' impatience. the players took their places, silence fell, and the referee's whistle blew. robinson kicked off, and the last half of the battle began. chapter xxiii neil goes in but what a dismal beginning it was! pearse, who had taken gillam's place at right half-back, misjudged the long, low kick, just managed to tip the ball with one outstretched hand as it went over his head, and so had to turn and chase it back to the goal-line. but mason had seen the danger and was before him. seizing the bouncing pigskin, he was able to reach the ten-yard line ere the robinson right end bore him to earth. a moment later the ball went to the other side as a penalty for holding, and it was robinson's first down on erskine's twelve yards. neil, watching intently from the bench, groaned loudly. stone, beside him, kicked angrily into the turf. "that settles it," he muttered glumly. "idiots!" pearse it was who met that first fierce onslaught of the brown's tandem, and he was new to the play; but mason was behind him, and he was sent crashing into the leader like a ball from the mouth of a cannon. the tandem stopped; a sudden bedlam of voices from the stands broke forth; there were cries of "ball! ball!" and witter flung himself through, rolled over a few times, and on the twenty-yard line, with half the erskine team striving to pull him on and all the robinson team trying to pull him back, groaned a faint "down!" robinson's tackle had fumbled the pass, and for the moment erskine's goal was out of danger. "line up!" shouted ted foster. "signal!" the men scurried to their places. "_49--35--23!_" back went the ball and pearse was circling out toward his own left end, paul interfering. the north stand leaped to its feet, for it looked for a moment as though the runner was safely away. but seider, the brown's right half, got him about the knees, and though pearse struggled and was dragged fully five yards farther, finally brought him down. fifteen yards was netted, and the erskine supporters found cause for loud acclaim. "bully tackle, that," said neil. stone nodded. "seems to me we can get around those ends," he muttered; "especially the left. i don't think bloch is much of a wonder. there goes pearse." the ends were again worked by the two half-backs and the distance thrice won. the purple banners waved ecstatically and the cheers for erskine thundered out. neil was slapping stone wildly on the knee. "hold on," protested the left end, "try the other. that one's a bit lame." "isn't pearse a peach?" said neil. "oh, but i wish i was out there!" "you may get a whack at it yet," answered stone. "there goes a jab at the line." "i may," sighed neil. he paused and watched mason get a yard through the brown's left tackle. "only, if i don't, i suppose i won't get my e." "oh, yes, you will. the artmouth game counts, you know." "i wasn't in it." "that's so, you weren't; i'd forgotten. but i think you'll get it, just the--good work, gale!" paul had made four yards outside of tackle, and it was again erskine's first down on the fifty-five-yard line. the cheers from the north stand were continuous; neil and stone were obliged to put their heads together to hear what each other said. for five minutes longer erskine's wonderful good fortune continued, and the ball was at length on robinson's twenty-eight yards near the north side-line. foster was waving his hand entreatingly toward the seats, begging for a chance to make his signals heard. from across the field, in the sudden comparative stillness of the north stand, thundered the confident slogan of robinson. the brown-stockinged captain and quarter-back was shouting incessantly: "steady now, fellows! break through! break through! smash 'em up!" he ran from one end to the other, thumping each encouragingly on the back, whispering threats and entreaties into their ears. "now, then, robinson, let's stop 'em right here!" foster, red-faced and hoarse, leaned forward, patted stowell on the thigh, caught the ball, passed it quickly to mason as that youth plunged for the line, and then threw himself into the breach, pushing, heaving, fighting for every inch that gave under his torn and scuffled shoes. "second down; four to gain!" robinson was awake now to her danger. foster saw the futility of further attempts at the line for the present and called for a run around left end. the ball went to pearse, but bloch for once was ready for him, and, getting by kendall, nailed the runner prettily four yards back of the line to the triumphant pã¦ans of the south stand. when the teams had again lined up foster dropped back as though to try a kick for goal, a somewhat difficult feat considering the angle. the robinson captain was alarmed; he was ready to believe that a team who had already sprung one surprise on him was capable of securing goals from any angle whatever; his voice arose in hoarse entreaty: "get through and block this kick, fellows! get through! get through!" "_signal_!" cried foster. "_44--18--23!_" the ball flew back from stowell and foster caught it breast-high. the erskine line held for a moment, then the blue-clad warriors came plunging through desperately, and had foster attempted a kick the ball would never have gone ten feet; but foster, who knew his limitations in the kicking line as well as any one else, had entertained no such idea. the pigskin, fast clutched to paul's breast, was already circling the brown's left end. devoe had put his opponent out of the play, thereby revenging himself for like treatment in the first half, and pearse, a veritable whirlwind, had bowled over the robinson left half. there is, perhaps, no prettier play than a fake kick, when it succeeds, and the friends of erskine recognized the fact and showed their appreciation in a way that threatened to shake the stand from its foundations. paul and pearse were circling well out in the middle of the field toward the robinson goal, now some thirty yards distant measured by white lines, but far more than that by the course they were taking. behind them streamed a handful of desperate runners; before them, rapidly getting between them and the goal, sped white, the robinson captain and quarter. to the spectators a touch-down looked certain, for it was one man against two; the pursuit was not dangerous. but to paul it seemed at each plunge a more forlorn attempt. so far he had borne more than his share of the punishment sustained by the tackle-tandem defense; he had worked hard on offense since the present half began, and now, wearied and aching in every bone and muscle, he found himself scarce able to keep pace with his interference. he would have yielded the ball to pearse had he been able to tell the other to take it; but his breath was too far gone for speech. so he plunged onward, each step slower than that before, his eyes fixed on the farthest white streak. from three sides of the great field poured forth the resonance of twelve thousand voices, triumphant, despairing, appealing, inciting, the very acme of sound. yet paul vows that he heard nothing save the beat of pearse's footsteps and the awful pounding of his own heart. on the fifteen-yard line, just to the left of the goal, the critical moment came. white, with clutching, outstretched hands, strove to evade pearse's shoulder, and did so. but the effort cost him what he gained, for, dodging pearse and striving to make a sudden turn toward paul, his foot slipped and he measured his length on the turf; and ere he had regained his feet the pursuit passed over him. pearse met the first runner squarely and both went down. at the same instant paul threw up one hand blindly and fell across the last line. on the north stand hats and flags sailed through the air. the south stand was silent. paul lay unmoving where he had fallen. simson was at his side in a moment. neil, his heart thumping with joy, watched anxiously from the bench. presently the group dissolved and paul emerged between simson and browning, white of face and stumbling weakly on his legs, but grinning like a jovial satyr. mills turned to the bench and neil's heart jumped into his throat; but it was smith and not he who struggled feverishly out of his sweater, donned a head-harness, and sped on to the field. neil sighed and sank back. "next time," said stone sympathetically. but neil shook his head. "i guess there isn't going to be any 'next time,'" he said dolefully. "time's nearly up." "not a bit of it; the last ten minutes is longer than all the rest of the game," answered stone. "i wonder who'll try the goal." "we've got to have it," said neil. "surely devoe can kick an easy one like that! why, it's dead in the center!" stone shook his head. "i know, but bob's got a bad way of getting nervous times like this. he knows that if he misses we've lost the game, unless we can manage to score again, which isn't likely; and it's dollars to doughnuts he doesn't come anywhere near it!" paul staggered up to the bench, simson carefully wrapping a blanket about him, and the fellows made room for him a little way from where neil sat. he stretched his long legs out gingerly because of the aches, sighed contentedly, and looked about him. his eyes fell on neil. "hello, chum!" he said weakly. "haven't you gone in yet?" "not yet," answered neil cheerfully. "how are you feeling?" "oh, i'm--ouch!--i'm all right; a bit sore here and there." "devoe's going to kick," said stone uneasily. the ball had been brought out, and now foster was holding it directly in front of the center of the cross-bar. the south stand was cheering and singing wildly in a desperate attempt to rattle the erskine captain. the latter looked around once, and the robinson supporters, taking that as a sign of nervousness, redoubled their noise. "muckers!" groaned neil. stone grinned. "everything goes with them," he said. the referee's hand went down, devoe stepped forward, the blue-clad line leaped into the field, and the ball sped upward. as it fell neil turned to stone and the two stared at each other in doubt. from both stands arose a confused roar. then their eyes sought the score-board at the west end of the field and they groaned in unison. "no goal." "what beastly luck!" muttered stone. neil was silent. mills and jones were standing near by and looking toward the bench and neil imagined they were discussing him. he watched breathlessly, then his heart gave a suffocating leap and he was racing toward the two coaches. "warm up, fletcher." that was all, but it was all neil asked for. in a twinkling he was trotting along the line, stretching his cramped legs and arms. as he passed the bench he tried to look unconcerned, but the row of kindly, grinning faces told him that his delight was common property. paul silently applauded. meanwhile the teams had again faced each other. twelve minutes of play remained and the score-board said: erskine 5, opponents 6. both elevens had made changes. for erskine, graham, immense of bulk but slow, had replaced stowell at center, and reardon was in foster's position. robinson had put in new men at left tackle, right end, and full-back. the game went on again. devoe got the kick-off and brought the ball back to his thirty yards; but he was injured when thrown and bell took his place. smith and mason each made two yards around the ends and pearse got through left-guard for one. then a plunge at right tackle resulted disastrously, mason being forced back three yards, and smith took the pigskin for a try outside of right tackle. he was stopped easily and mason kicked. robinson got the ball on her fifty yards and ran it back to erskine's forty-three. once more the tackle-tandem was brought into play. smith failed to stop it, and the head of the defense was given to pearse; but robinson's new left tackle was a good man, and yard by yard erskine was borne back toward her goal. the south stand blossomed anew with brown silk and bunting. on her thirty yards erskine was penalized for off-side and the ball was almost under her goal. the first fierce plunge of the tandem broke the purple line in twain and the backs went through for three yards. mason was hurt and the whistle shrilled. a cheer arose from the north stand and a youth running into the field from the side-line heard it with fast-beating heart. "_erskine! erskine! erskine! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah! fletcher! fletcher! fletcher!_" mason was taken off, protesting feebly, and on the next plunge of the tackle-tandem neil, with pearse behind him, brought hope back to erskine hearts, for the "antidote" worked to perfection again. all the pent-up strength and enthusiasm of neil's body and heart were turned loose, and he played, as he had known he could if given the opportunity, as he had never played before, either at erskine or hillton. the spirit of battle held him; he was perfectly happy, and every knock and bruise brought him joy rather than pain. his chance had come to prove to both the coaches and the fellows that their first estimate of him was the correct one. robinson made her distance and gained the twenty-yard line by a trick play outside of left tackle; but that was all she did on that occasion, for in the next three downs she failed to advance the ball a single inch, and it went to erskine. neil dropped back and the pigskin settled into his ready hands. when it next touched earth it was in robinson's possession on her own fifty yards. that punt brought a burst of applause from the north seats. robinson tried tackle-tandem again and neil and pearse stopped it short. again, and again there was no advance; but when neil picked himself out of the pile-up he made the discovery that something was radically wrong with his right arm and shoulder. he sat down on the trampled turf to think it over and closed his eyes. he heard the whistle and reardon's voice above him: "hurt?" neil looked up and shook his head. his gaze fell on simson headed toward him followed by the water-carrier. he staggered to his feet, reardon's arm about him. "keep 'baldy' away," he muttered. "i'm all right; but don't let him get to me." reardon looked at his white face for a second in doubt. simson was almost up to them. he wanted to win, did reardon, and-"all right here," he cried. neil went to his place, simson retreated, suspicion written all over his face, and the whistle sounded. neil met the next attack with his left shoulder fore-most. and it was erskine's ball on robinson's fifty-yards. on the first try around the brown's left end smith took the leather twenty yards, catching bloch napping. the north stand was on its feet in an instant. cheer after cheer broke forth encouraging the purple warriors to fight their way across those six remaining white lines and wrest victory from defeat. but there was no time to struggle over the thirty yards that intervened. a long run might bring a touch-down if erskine could again get a back around an end, but two minutes was too short a time for line-bucking; and, besides, reardon had his orders. on the side-line the timekeeper was keeping a careful eye upon his stop-watch. a try by neil outside of right tackle netted but a yard and left him half fainting on the ground. pearse set off for the left end of the line on the next play, but never reached it; the robinson right tackle got through on to him and stopped him well back of his line. "third down," called the referee, "five to gain!" the teams were lined up about half-way between the robinson goal and the south side of the field, the ball just inside the thirty-yard line. reardon had been directed to try for a field-goal as soon as he got inside the twenty-five yards. this was only the thirty yards, and the angle was severe. there was perhaps one chance in three of making a goal from placement; a drop-kick was out of the question. moreover, to make matters more desperate, neil was injured; just how badly reardon didn't know, but the other's white, drawn face told its own story. if the attempt failed he would be held to blame by the coaches, if it succeeded he would be praised for good generalship; it was a way coaches had. his consideration of the problem lasted but a fraction of a minute. he glanced at neil and their eyes met. the quarter-back's mind was made up on the instant. "_signal_!" he cried. "_steady, fellows; we want this; every one hold hard_!" he trotted back to the thirty-five-yard line and dropped to his knees, directly behind and almost facing center. neil took up his position three yards from him and facing the goal. pearse and smith stood guard between him and the line. the robinson right half turned and sped back to join the quarter, whose commands to "get through and stop this kick!" were being shouted lustily from his position near the goal-line. "signal!" reardon repeated. graham stooped over the ball. neil, pale but with a little smile about his mouth, measured his distance. victory depended upon him. from where reardon knelt to the goal was nearly forty yards on a straight line and the angle was severe. if he made it, well and good; if he missed--he recalled what mills had told him ere he sent him in: "i think you can win this for us, fletcher. once inside their twenty-five reardon will give you the ball for a kick from drop or placement, as you think best. whatever happens, don't let your nerves get the best of you. if you miss, why, you've missed, that's all. don't think the world's coming to an end because we've been beaten. a hundred years from now, when you and i aren't even memories, erskine will still be turning out football teams. but if we can, we want to win. just keep cool and do your level best, that's all we ask. now get in there." neil took a deep breath. he'd do his best. if the line held, the ball ought to go over. he was cool enough now, and although his shoulder seemed on fire, the smile about his mouth deepened and grew confident. reardon stretched forth his hands. "_signal!_" he cried for the third time; but no signal was forthcoming. instead graham sped the ball back to him, steady and true, and the robinson line, almost caught napping, failed to charge until the oval had settled into reardon's hands and had been placed upon the ground well cocked at the goal. then the brown's warriors broke through and bore down, big and ugly, upon pearse and smith; but neil was stepping toward the ball; a long stride, a short one, a long one, and toe and pigskin came together. pearse was down and smith was shouldering valiantly at a big guard. two blue-clad arms swept upward almost into the path of the rising ball; there was a confused sound of crashing bodies and rasping canvas, and then a robinson man bounded against neil and sent him reeling to earth. for an instant the desire to lie still and close his eyes was strong. but there was the ball! he rolled half over, and raising himself on his left hand looked eagerly toward the posts. the pigskin, turning lazily over and over, was still in flight. straight for the goal it was speeding, but now it had begun to drop. neil's heart stood still. would it clear the cross-bar? it seemed scarcely possible, but even as despair seized him, for an instant the bar came between his straining eyes and the dropping ball! a figure with tattered purple sleeves near at hand leaped into the air, waving his arms wildly. on the stand across the field pandemonium broke loose. neil closed his eyes. a moment later simson found him there, sitting on the thirty-five-yard line, one arm hanging limply over his knee, his eyes closed, and his white face wreathed in smiles. erskine 10, opponents 6, said the score-board. chapter xxiv after the battle "you'll not get off so easily this time," said the doctor. "no, sir," replied neil, striving to look concerned. he was back on the couch again, just where he had been four weeks previous, with his shoulder swathed about in bandages just as it had been then. "i can't see what you were thinking about," went on the other irritably, "to go on playing after you'd bust things up again." "no, sir--that is, i'm sure i don't know." neil's tone was very meek, but the doctor nevertheless looked at him suspiciously. "humph! much you care, i guess. but, just the same, my fine fellow, it'll be christmas before you have the use of that arm again. that'll give you time to see what an idiot you were." "thank you, sir." the doctor smiled in spite of himself and looked away. [illustration: erskine vs. robinson--the second half.] "doesn't seem to have interfered with your appetite, anyhow," he said, glancing at the well-nigh empty tray on the chair. "no, sir; i--i tried not to eat much, but i was terribly hungry, doc." "oh, i guess you'll do." he picked up his hat; then he faced the couch again and its occupant. "the trouble with you chaps," he said severely, "is that as long as you've managed to get a silly old leather wind-bag over a fool streak of lime you think it doesn't matter how much you've broke yourselves to pieces." "yes, it's very thoughtless of us," murmured neil with deep contriteness. "humph!" growled the doctor. "see you in the morning." when the door had closed neil reached toward the tray and with much difficulty buttered a piece of graham bread, almost the only edible thing left. then he settled back against the pillows, not without several grimaces as the injured shoulder was moved, and contentedly ate it. he was very well satisfied. to be sure, a month of invalidism was not a pleasing prospect, but things might have been worse. and the end paid for all. robinson had departed with trailing banners; the coaches and the whole college were happy; paul was happy; sydney was happy; he was happy himself. certainly the bally shoulder--ouch!--hurt at times; but, then one can't have everything one wants. his meditations were interrupted by voices and footsteps outside the front door. he bolted the last morsel of bread and awaited the callers. these proved to be paul and sydney and--neil stared--tom cowan. "rah-rah-rah!" shouted paul, slamming the door. "how are they coming, chum? here's burr and cowan to make polite injuries after your inquiries--i mean inquiries--well, you know what i mean. tom's been saying all sorts of nice things about your playing, and i think he'd like to shake hands with the foot that kicked that goal." neil laughed and put out his hand. cowan, grinning, took it. "it was fine, fletcher," he said with genuine enthusiasm. "and, some way, i knew when i saw you drop back that you were going to put it over. i'd have bet a hundred dollars on it!" "thunder, you were more confident than i was!" neil laughed. "i wouldn't have bet more than thirty cents. well, board of strategy, how did you like the game?" sydney shook his head gravely. "i wouldn't care to go through it again," he answered. "i had all kinds of heart disease before the first half was over, and after that i was in a sort of daze; didn't know really whether it was football or friday-night lectures." "you ought to have been at table to-night, chum," said paul. "we made rome howl. mills made a speech, and so did jones and 'baldy,' and--oh, every one. it was fine!" "and they cheered a fellow named fletcher for nearly five minutes," added sydney. "and--" "hear 'em!" cowan interrupted. from the direction of the yard came a long volley of cheers for erskine. dinner was over and the fellows were ready for the celebration; they were warming up. "great times to-night," said paul happily. "i wish you were going out to the field with us, neil." "maybe i will." "if you try it i'll strap you down," replied paul indignantly. "by the way, mills told me to announce his coming. he's terribly tickled, is mills, although he doesn't say very much." "he's still wondering how you went stale before the game and then played the way you did," said sydney. "however, i didn't say anything." he caught himself up and glanced doubtfully toward cowan. "i don't know whether it's a secret?" he appealed to neil, who was frowning across at him. "what's a secret?" demanded paul. "don't mind me," said cowan. "it may be a secret, but i guessed it long ago, didn't i, paul?" "what in thunder are you all talking about?" asked that youth, staring inquiringly from one to another. sydney saw that he had touched on forbidden ground and now looked elaborately ignorant. "oh, nothing, paul," answered neil. "when are you all going out to the field?" "but there is something," his chum protested warmly. "now out with it. what is it, cowan? what did you guess?" "why, about fletcher going stale so that you could get into the game," answered cowan, apparently ignorant of neil's wrathful grimaces. "i guessed right away. why--" "oh, shut up, won't you?" neil entreated. "don't mind them, paul; they're crazy. sydney, you're an ass, if you only knew it." "but i thought he knew--" began sydney. "no, i didn't know," said paul, quietly, his eyes on neil's averted face. "i--i must have been blind. it's plain enough now, of course. if i had known i wouldn't have taken the place." "you're all a set of idiots," muttered neil. "i'm sorry i said anything," said sydney, genuinely distressed. "i'm glad," said paul. "i'm such a selfish brute that i can't see half an inch before my nose. chum, all i've got to say--" "shut up," cried neil. "listen, fellows, they're marching across the common. some one help me to the window. i want to see." paul strode to his side, and putting an arm under his shoulders lifted him to his feet. sydney lowered the gas and the four crowded to the window. across the common, a long dark column in the starlight, tramped all erskine, and at the head marched the band. "gee, what a crowd!" muttered cowan. the head of the procession passed through the gate and turned toward the house, and the band struck up 'neath the elms of old erskine. hundreds of voices joined in and the slow and stately song thundered up toward the star-sprinkled sky. paul's arm was still around his room-mate; its clasp tightened a little. "say, chum." "well?" muttered neil. "thanks." "oh, don't bother me," neil grumbled. "let's get out of this; they're stopping." sydney had stolen, as noiselessly as one may on crutches, to the chandelier, and suddenly the gas flared up, sending a path of light across the street and revealing the three at the window. neil, exclaiming and protesting, strove to draw back, but paul held him fast. from the crowd outside came the deep and long-drawn _a-a-ay!_ and grew and spread up the line. and then the cheering began. left guard gilbert _by the same author_ left end edwards left tackle thayer [illustration: "well, come on! how did it happen?" (page 14)] left guard gilbert by ralph henry barbour author of left end edwards, full-back foster, etc. illustrated by e. c. caswell grosset & dunlap publishers new york copyright, 1916, by dodd, mead and company, inc. contents chapter page i the boy from kansas 1 ii in number six 11 iii amy holds forth 21 iv the first game 35 v don goes to the second 46 vi the search of adventure 58 vii fighting fire 71 viii coaching the tackles 85 ix the width of a finger 103 x tim exults and explains 118 xi mr. brady forgets 128 xii the joke on mr. moller 139 xiii southby yields 155 xiv walton writes a note 166 xv a proposition 177 xvi don visits the doctor 186 xvii dropped from the team 195 xviii "good-bye, timmy!" 206 xix friends fall out 216 xx amy appears for the defence 231 xxi the doctor tells a story 247 xxii coach robey is puzzled 260 xxiii cross-examination 268 xxiv "all ready, brimfield?" 277 xxv tim goes over 289 xxvi left guard gilbert 300 illustrations "well, come on! how did it happen?" (page 14) _frontispiece_ facing page finally, don was unceremoniously yanked up and through 90 "will you unlock that door?" demanded don angrily 224 the runner smashed into sight, wild-faced for an instant before he put his head down and charged in 306 left guard gilbert left guard gilbert chapter i the boy from kansas "hold up!" coach robey, coatless, vestless, hatless, his old flannel trousers held up as by a miracle with the aid of a leather strap scarcely deserving the name of belt, pushed his way through the first squad players. the brimfield head coach was a wiry, medium-sized man of about thirty, with a deeply-tanned face from which sharp blue eyes looked out under whitish lashes that were a shade lighter than his eyebrows and two shades lighter than his sandy hair. as the afternoon was excessively hot, even for the twenty-first day of september and in proximity to long island sound, mr. george robey's countenance was bathed in perspiration and the faded blue silk shirt was plastered to his body. "that was left half through guard-tackle, wasn't it? then don't put the ball in your arm, st. clair. you ought to know better than that. on plays through the line hold it against your stomach with both hands. how long do you think you'd keep that ball in your elbow after you hit the line? someone would knock it out in about one second! now try it again and think what you're doing. all right, carmine. same play." the panting and perspiring backs crouched once more, carmine shrilly called his signals, thayer and gafferty plunged against an imaginary foe as thursby shot the ball back and st. clair, hugging the pigskin ecstatically with wide-spread fingers, trotted through the hole, stopped, set the ball on the grass and wiped his streaming face with the torn sleeve of a maroon jersey. "all right," said the coach. "that will do for today. in on the trot, everyone!" the first squad, exhaling a long, deep sigh of relief as one man, set their faces toward the gymnasium and trotted slowly off, their canvas-clad legs _swish-swashing_ as they met. coach robey walked further down the sun-baked field to where the nearer of the remaining four squads was at work. "oh, put some pep into it, mcphee!" called the coach as he approached. "you all look as if you were asleep! come on now! wake up! jones, get up there. you're away out of position. that's better. now then, quarter! hold up! what's your down?" "third, sir, and four to go." "all right. show me what you're going to do with it. head up, martin! look where you're going." "36--27--43--86!" grunted the quarter-back. "36----" "signal!" cried gordon, at right half. mcphee straightened, cast a withering look at the half-back, wiped the perspiration from the end of his sun-burnt nose and repeated: "36--27--43----" gordon shifted his feet, and-"hold up!" barked the coach. "gordon, don't give the play away. shifting your feet like that makes it a cinch for the other fellow. get your position now and hold it until the ball's passed. all right. once more, quarter." "36--27--43--86!" wailed mcphee. "36--27----" the pigskin shot into his waiting hands, gordon leaped forward, took it at a hand-pass and ran out behind his line, left half in advance, turned sharply in and set the ball down. "first down!" called mcphee. "sturges over." "hold up! try a forward pass, mcphee. you're on the ten yards and it's third down. get into this, you ends. put some pep into it!" "signal! martin back! 37--32--14--71--hep!" the backs jumped to the left one stride. "37--32----" back flew the ball to the full-back, right end shot out and down the field across the mythical last line, the defence surged against the imaginary enemy and martin, poising the ball at arm's length, threw over the line to lee. "all right," commented the coach. "that'll be all for today. trot all the way in, fellows." five minutes later the field was empty of the sixty-odd boys who had reported for the second day's practice and the sun was going down behind the tree-clad hill to the west. in the gymnasium was the sound of rushing water, of many voices and of scraping benches. mr. robey wormed his way through the crowded locker-room to where danny moore, the trainer, stood in the doorway of the rubbing-room in talk with jim morton, this year's manager of the team. morton was nineteen, tall, thin and benevolent looking behind a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles. "did you put them on the scales, dan?" asked the coach. "sure, the first, second and third, sir. some of 'em dropped a good three pounds today. by gorry, i feel like i'd dropped that much meself!" "it certainly is warm. look here, jim, is this all we get to work on? how many were out today?" "sixty-two, coach. that's not bad. i suppose there'll be a few more dribble along tomorrow and the next day." "well, they look pretty fair, don't you think? some of the new fellows seem to have ideas of football. all the last year fellows on hand?" "all but gilbert. he hasn't shown up. i don't know why, i'm sure." "better look him up," said the coach. "gilbert ought to make a pretty good showing this year, and we aren't any too strong on guards." "gilbert rooms with tim otis, i think," replied morton. "oh, tim! tim otis!" a light-haired boy of seventeen, very straight, and very pink where an enormous bath-towel failed to cover him, wormed his way to them. "say, tim, what's the matter with gilbert?" asked morton. "isn't he coming out?" tim otis shrugged a pair of broad, lean shoulders. "he hasn't got here yet, morton. i don't know what's happened. he wrote me two weeks ago that he'd meet me at the station in new york yesterday for the three-fifty-eight, but he wasn't there and i haven't heard a word from him." "probably missed his connection," suggested morton. "he lives out west somewhere, doesn't he?" "yes, osawatomie, kansas." "it probably takes a good while to get away from a place with a name like that," said mr. robey drily. "well, when he shows up, otis, tell him to get a move on if he wants a place." "yes, sir, i will. i'm pretty certain he will be along today some time. i wouldn't be surprised if he was here now." "all right. by the way, otis, how do you feel at right half? seem strange to you?" "no, sir, i don't notice it. i did play right, you know, two years ago on the second. seems to me it's easier to take the ball from that position, too." "well, don't try the fool trick your side-partner did today," said mr. robey, smiling. "putting the ball under your elbow for a line plunge is a fine piece of business for a fellow who's been playing three years!" tim laughed. "i guess he did that because it was just practice, sir. he knows a lot better than to do it in scrimmage." "i hope so. well, hurry gilbert along, will you? if he doesn't get out here inside of a few days he won't find much of a welcome, i'm afraid. i'm not going to keep positions open for anyone this year, not with the first game coming along in four days!" "don't you worry, mr. robey," replied tim, with a chuckle and a flash of white teeth. "i'll have him out here the first day he shows up, even if i have to lug him all the way. don't think i'll have to, though, for you couldn't keep don from playing football unless you tied him up!" "nice chap," commented morton, nodding at tim as the latter returned to his bench. "awfully clean-cut sort." "a fine lad," agreed danny moore, and mr. robey nodded thoughtfully. "i don't believe we're going to miss kendall and freer as much as i thought," he said after a moment. "otis looks to me like a fellow who will stand a lot of work and grow on it. well, i'm going to get a shower and get out of this sweat-box. as soon as you get time, jim, i wish you'd catalogue the players the way we did last year and let me have the list. you know how black did it, don't you?" "yes, sir. i'll have the list ready for you tomorrow." "good! got a towel i can use, dan? i haven't brought any yet. thanks." the coach nodded and sought a place to disrobe. the trainer's gaze followed him until he was lost to sight beyond the throng. "i wonder will he put it over again this year," he mused. "surest thing you know," asserted morton. "think i'm going to have the team licked the year i'm manager, danny? not so you'd notice it!" "well, between you and him," chuckled danny, "i've no doubt you'll turn out a fine team. say, he's the lad that can do it, though, now ain't he? four years he's been at it, and it's fifty-fifty now, ain't it?" "yes, we lost the first two years and won last year and the year before. it was andy miller's team that started the ball rolling for us. no one could have won those first two years, anyhow, danny. robey had to start at the bottom and build up the whole thing. we hadn't been playing football here for several years before that. it takes a couple of years at the least to get a foundation laid. if we win this year we'll have something to boast of. no other team ever beat claflin three times running." "maybe we won't either. i'm hoping we do, though. still and all, it don't do to win too many times. you get to thinking you can't lose, d'ye see, and the first thing anyone knows you're all shot to pieces. i've seen it happen, me boy." "oh, i dare say, danny, but don't let's start the losing streak until next year. i want to manage a winning team. well, so long. see about some cooler weather tomorrow, will you?" "i will so," replied the little trainer gravely. "i'll start arrangements to once." meanwhile tim otis, again arrayed in grey flannels and a pair of tan, rubber-soled shoes rather the worse for a hard summer, was on his way along the row to the last of the five buildings set end to end on the brow of the hill. as he swung in between wendell and torrence--the gymnasium stood behind wendell, and, save for the cottage, as the principal's residence was called, was the only building out of alignment--he saw the entrances to dormitories and main hall thronged with youths who evidently preferred the coolness of outdoors to the heat of the rooms, while others were seated on the grass along the walk. it almost seemed that the entire roster of some one hundred and eighty students was before him. he answered many hails, but declined all inducements to tarry, keeping on his way past main hall and hensey until billings was reached. there he turned in and tramped to the right along the first floor corridor to the open door of number 6, a room on the back of the building that looked out upon the tennis courts and, beyond, the football and baseball fields. from the fact that no sound came from the room, tim decided that don gilbert had, after all, and in spite of what tim called a "hunch," failed to arrive. but when he entered his mistake was instantly apparent. a maroon-coloured cushion hurtled toward him, narrowly missing the green shade of the droplight on the study table and, thanks to prompt and instinctive action on the part of tim, sailed on, serene and unimpeded, into the corridor. whereupon tim uttered a savage whoop of mingled joy and vengeance and, traversing the length of the room in four leaps, hurled himself upon the occupant of the window-seat. chapter ii in number six for a long minute confusion and the noise of battle reigned supreme. then, in response to a sudden yelp of pain from don, tim drew off, panting and grinning. don was extending a left hand, funereally wrapped in a black silk handkerchief, further along the window-seat and away from the scene of action. "hello!" said tim. "what's the matter with that?" "hurt it a little," replied don. "well, i supposed you had, you idiot! how? hit it against your head?" the other smiled in his slow fashion. "we had a sort of a wreck coming on. out in indiana somewhere. i got this. that's why i'm behind time." "i'm beastly sorry, old man! i didn't notice the crêpe. did i hurt it much!" "no. i yelled so you wouldn't. preparedness, you know. safety first and so on. it isn't much. how's everything here?" tim seated himself at the other end of the seat, took his knees in his hands, and beamed. "oh, fine! say, i'm tickled to death to see your ugly mug again, don. you aren't a bit handsomer, are you?" "i've been told i was. trouble with you is, you don't recognise manly beauty when you see it." "oh, don't i?" tim twirled an imaginary moustache. "i recognise it every time i look in the glass! well, how are you aside from the bum fist?" "great! i've just had a séance with josh. i tried to register and sneak by, but brooke wouldn't have it that way. 'er, quite so, gilbert, quite so, but i--er--think you had better see mr. fernald.' so i did, and josh read me the riot act. thought for awhile he was going to send me home again." "but didn't you tell him your train was wrecked?" "yes, but he didn't believe in it much. thought i was romancing, i guess. got a railway guide and showed me how i might have got here on time just the same. maybe he's right, but i couldn't figure it out in cincinnati. besides, i didn't get away with much of anything besides pajamas and overcoat and shoes, and so i had to refit. that lost me the first connection and then i got held up again at pittsburg. so here i am, the late mr. gilbert." "josh is an idiot," said tim disgustedly. "didn't he see your hand? how did he think you did that if you weren't in a wreck?" "oh, i kept that in my pocket and i guess he didn't notice it. he came around all right in the end, though. we parted friends. at least, i did." "well, what about that?" tim nodded at the injured hand. "how'd you cut you, burn you?" "yes. things got on fire." "you're the most vivid descriptionist i ever listened to! come across with the sickening details. how did it happen? i didn't see anything about it in the papers." "probably wasn't on the sporting page," replied don gravely. "oh, dry up and blow away! wasn't it in the papers?" "cincinnati papers had it. i haven't read the others. it wasn't much of a wreck really. engineer killed, fireman scalded, about twenty passengers injured more or less. several considerably more. express messenger expected to pass out. just a nice, cosy little wreck with no--no spectacular features, as you might say." "well, come on! how did it happen?" "freight train taking a siding and went to sleep at it. our engine bumped the other engine and they both went smash. hot coals and steam and so on got busy. it was about five in the morning. just getting lightish. everyone snuggled up in bed. _biff! wow!_ i landed out on the floor on my hands and knees. everyone yelled. car turned half over and sat that way. doors got jammed. we beat it out by the windows. i was a roman senator with a green berth curtain wrapped about me. afterwards i sneaked back and pulled out my shoes and overcoat. always sleep with my shoes under my pillow, you see. good idea, too. if i hadn't had them there i'd never have got them. couldn't get my bag out. car was on fire by that time. three others, too. they saved all but the one i was in and the express and baggage cars. after awhile a wrecking train came and then a lot of us walked to a village about a mile and a half away and had breakfast and went on to cincinnati about noon." "gee! but, still, you know, i don't see how you got burned." "well, things were pretty hot. some of them got burned a lot worse than i did. had to pull some of them out the windows and through the roofs. women, too. lucky thing our car had only two in it. two women, i mean. things were fairly busy for awhile." "must have been. the engineer was killed straight off, eh?" "ours was. the other one managed to jump. firemen got off all right, too. the other fireman. ours got caught and scalded like the dickens. saw the engineer myself." don frowned and shuddered. "nasty mess he was, too, poor fellow. let's talk about something else. i don't like to remember that engineer." "too bad! but, say, you were lucky, weren't you? you might have been killed, i suppose." "might have, maybe. didn't come very near it, though. first wreck i ever saw and don't want to see any more. funny thing, though, i didn't mind it at all until i was on the train going to cincinnati. excitement, i suppose. then i came near keeling over, honest! what do you know about that, timmy?" "i guess anyone would have. how bad is your burn?" "not bad. hurts a bit, though. it's the inside of the fingers and the palm. it'll be all right in a few days, i guess. doctor chap said i'd have to have it dressed every day for awhile." "but, great scott, don, what about football?" "i've thought of that. nothing doing for a week or so, i guess. rotten luck, eh?" "beastly! and robey was telling me only half an hour ago to hurry you up. said you'd have to come right out if you wanted a place. still, when he understands what the trouble is----" "i'll see him tonight, i guess. who's playing guard, tim?" "joe gafferty, left; tom hall, right. walton and pryme and lawton are all after places. walton's been doing good work too, i think." "all the fellows back?" "every last one. remember howard, who played sub half-back for the second last year? he's showing great form. still, you can't tell much yet. there's to be scrimmage tomorrow. we play thacher saturday, you know. sort of quick work and i don't believe we'll be anywhere near ready for them." "thacher's easy. we beat them 26 to 3 last year." "twenty-three to three." "twenty-six." "twenty-three. bet you!" "i don't bet, timmy. know i'm right, though. anyway, thacher's easy. tell me the news." "oh, there isn't anything startling. we had the usual polite party at josh's last night. shook hands with the new chaps and told 'em how tickled we were to see them. ate sandwiches and cake and lemonade and--by the way, we've got a new master; physics; moller his name is; caleb moller, b.a. quite a handsome brute and a swell dresser. comes from lehigh or one of those southern colleges, i believe." "lehigh's in pennsylvania, you ignoramus." "is it?" answered tim untroubledly. "all right. let it stay there. anyhow, caleb is some cheese." "where's rollinson gone?" "don't know what happened to rollo. draper said he heard he'd gone to some whopping big prep school up in new hampshire or somewhere." "or some other southern school," suggested don soberly. "dry up! and, say, get a move on. it's nearly time for eats and i'm starved." "timmy, i never saw the time you weren't starved. all right. i'm sort of hungry myself. haven't had anything since about ten o'clock this morning. ran out of money. got here with eight cents in my pocket. that and my tuition check. i'd have cashed that if i could have and had a dinner. i was sure hungry!" "well, wash your dirty face and hands," said tim, "and come along. oh, say, don, wait till you see the classy norfolk suit i've got. i enticed dad into crook's when we struck the city; told him i had to have some hankies and ties, you know. then i steered him up against this here suit, and this here suit made a hit with him right away. if he could have got into it himself he'd have walked out in it. it's sort of green with a reddish thread wandering carelessly through it. it's some apparel, take it from me." "maybe i will if it fits me," responded don. "will what?" "take it from you." "gee, but you're bright! getting wrecked's put an edge on you, sonny. i'm afraid that suit wouldn't fit you, though, don. you've grown about an inch since spring, haven't you? you're beastly fat, too." "i am not," denied don, good-humouredly indignant. "i've kept in strict training all summer. what you think is fat is good hard muscle, timmy. feel of that arm if you don't believe it." "yes, quite village-blacksmithy." "quite _what_?" "village-blacksmithy. 'the muscles of his mighty arms were strong as iron bands,' or something like that. get out of the way and let me wash up." don retired to his dresser and passed the brushes over his brown hair and snugged his tie up a bit. the face that looked back at him from the mirror was not, perhaps, handsome, although it by no means merited tim's aspersions. there was a nice pair of dark brown eyes, rather slumberous looking, a nose a trifle too short for perfection and a mouth a shade too wide. but it was a good-tempered, pleasant face, on the whole, intelligent and capable and matching well the physically capable body below, a body of wide shoulders and well-knit muscles and a deep chest that might have belonged to a youth of eighteen instead of seventeen. compared with tim otis, who was of the same age, don gilbert suffered on only two counts--quickness and vivacity. tim, well-muscled, possessed a litheness that don could never attain to, and moved, thought and spoke far more quickly. in height don topped his friend by almost a full inch and was broader and bigger-boned. they were both, in spite of dissimilarity, fine, manly fellows. tim, wiping his hands after ablutions, turned to survey don with a quizzical smile on his good-looking face. and, after a moment's reflective regard of his chum's broad back, he broke the silence. "say, don," he asked, "glad to get back?" don turned, while a slow smile crept over his countenance. "_su-u-re_," he drawled. chapter iii amy holds forth brimfield academy is at brimfield, and brimfield is a scant thirty miles out of new york city and some two or three miles from the sound. it is more than possible that these facts are already known to you; if you live in the vicinity of new york they certainly are. but at the risk of being tiresome i must explain a little about the school for the benefit of those readers who are unacquainted with it. brimfield was this fall entering on its twenty-fifth year, a fact destined to be appropriately celebrated later on. the enrollment was one hundred and eighty students and the faculty consisted of twenty members inclusive of the principal, mr. joshua l. fernald, a.m., more familiarly known as "josh." the course covers six years, and boys may enter the first form at the age of twelve. being an endowed institution and well supplied with money under the terms of the will of its founder, brimfield boasts of its fine buildings. there are four dormitories, wendell, torrence, hensey and billings, all modern, and, between torrence and hensey, the original academy building now known as main hall and containing the class rooms, school offices, assembly room and library. the dining hall is in wendell, the last building on the right. behind wendell is the gymnasium. occupying almost if not quite as retiring a situation at the other end of the row, is the cottage, mr. fernald's residence. each dormitory is ruled over by a master. in billings mr. daley, the instructor in modern languages, was in charge at the period of this story, and since it was necessary to receive permission before leaving the school grounds after supper, don and tim paused at mr. daley's study on the way out. don's knock on the portal of number 8 elicited an instant invitation to enter and a moment later he was shaking hands with the hall master, a youngish man with a pleasant countenance and a manner at once eager and embarrassed. mr. daley was usually referred to as horace, which was his first name, and, as he shook hands, don very nearly committed the awful mistake of calling him that! after greetings had been exchanged don explained somewhat vaguely the reason for his tardy arrival and then requested permission to visit coach robey in the village after supper. "yes, gilbert, but--er--be back by eight, please. i'm not sure that mr. robey isn't about school, however. have you inquired?" "no, sir, but tim says he isn't eating in hall yet, and so----" "ah, in that case perhaps not. well, be back for study hour. if you're going to supper i'll walk along with you, fellows." mr. daley closed his study door and they went out together and, as they trod the flags of the long walk that passed the fronts of the buildings, mr. daley discoursed on football with tim while don replied to the greetings of friends. they parted from the instructor at the dining hall door and sought their places at table, don's arrival being greeted with acclaim by the other half-dozen occupants of the board. once more he was obliged to give an account of himself, but this time his narrative was considered to be sadly lacking in detail and it was not until tim had come to his assistance with a highly coloured if not exactly authentic history of the train-wreck that the audience was satisfied. don told him he was an idiot. tim, declining to argue the point, revenged himself by stealing a slice of don's bread when the latter's attention was challenged by harry westcott at the farther end of the table. westcott, who was one of the editors of the school monthly, _the review_, had developed the journalistic instinct to a high degree of late and had visions of a thrilling story in the november issue. but don utterly refused to pose as a hero of any sort. the best harry could get out of him was the acknowledgment that he had seen several persons removed from the wreck and had helped carry one to the relief train later. that wasn't much to go on, and, subsequently, harry regretfully abandoned his plan. after supper don and tim walked down to the village and don had a few minutes of talk with the coach. mr. robey was sympathetic but annoyed. although he didn't say so in so many words he gave don to understand that he had failed in his duty to the school and the team in allowing himself to become concerned in a train-wreck. he didn't explain just how don could have avoided it, and don didn't think it worth while to inquire. "you have that hand looked after properly and regularly, gilbert," he said, "and watch practice until you can put on togs. losing a week or so is going to handicap you. no doubt about that. and i'm not making any promises. but you keep your eyes open and maybe there'll be a place for you when you're ready to work. it's awfully hard luck, old chap. see you tomorrow." don went back to school through the warm dusk slightly cast down, although he had previously realised that football would be beyond him for at least a week. it is sometimes one thing to acknowledge a fact oneself and another to hear the same fact stated by a second person. there's a certain finality about the latter that is convincing. but if don was downcast he didn't show it to his companion. don had a way of concealing his emotions that tim at once admired and resented. when tim felt blue--which was mighty seldom--he let it be known to the whole world, and when he felt gay he was just as confiding. but don--well, as tim often said, he was "worse than an indian!" after study they sallied forth again, arm in arm, and went down the row to torrence and climbed the stairs to number 14. as the door was half open knocking was a needless formality--especially as the noise within would have prevented its being heard--and so tim pushed the portal further ajar and entered, followed by don, on a most animated scene. eight boys were sprawled or seated around the room, while another, a thin, tall, unkempt youth with a shock of very black hair which was always falling over his eyes and being brushed aside, was standing in a small clearing between table and windows balancing a baseball bat, surmounted by two books and a glass of water, on his chin. so interested was the audience in this startling feat that the presence of the new arrivals passed unnoted until the juggler, suddenly stepping back, allowed the law of gravity to have its way for an instant. then his right hand caught the falling bat, the two books crashed unheeded to the floor and his left hand seized the descending tumbler. simultaneously there was a disgruntled yelp from jim morton and a howl of laughter from the rest of the audience. for the juggler, while he had miraculously caught the tumbler in mid-air, had not been deft enough to keep the contents intact and about half of it had gone into the football manager's face. however, everyone there except morton applauded enthusiastically and hilariously, and larry jones, sweeping his offending locks aside with the careless and impatient grace of a violin virtuoso, bowed repeatedly. "great stuff," approved amory byrd, rescuing his books from the floor. "do it again and stand nearer jim." "if he does it again i'm going into the hall," said morton disgustedly, wiping his damp countenance on the edge of clint thayer's bedspread. "you're a punk juggler, larry." "all right, you do it," was the reply. larry proffered the bat and tumbler, but morton waved them indignantly aside. "i don't do monkey-tricks, thanks. gee, my collar's sopping wet!" "oh, that's all right," called someone. "you'll be going to bed soon. say, larry, do that one with the three tennis balls." "isn't room enough. i know a good trick with coins, though. any fellow got two halves?" groans of derision were heard and at that moment someone discovered the presence of don and tim and larry's audience deserted him. when the new-comers had found accommodations, such as they were, conversation switched to the all-absorbing subject of football. most of the fellows assembled were members of the first or second teams: larry jones was a substitute half; clint thayer was first-choice left tackle; steve edwards, sprawled on clint's bed, was left end and this year's captain; the short, sturdy youth in the morris chair was thursby, the centre; tom hall, broad of shoulders, was right guard; harry walton, slimmer and rangier, with a rather saturnine countenance, was a substitute for that position. jim morton was, as we know, manager, and only amory--or "amy"--byrd and leroy draper, the tow-headed, tip-nosed youth sharing the morris chair with thursby, were, in a manner of speaking, non-combatants. but being a non-combatant didn't prevent amy byrd from airing his views and opinions on the subject of football, and that he was now doing. "every year," he protested, "i have to hear the same line of talk from you chaps. it's wearying, woesomely wearying. now, as a matter of fact, every one of you knows that we've got the average material and that we'll go ahead and turn out an average team and beat claflin as per usual. the only chance for argument is what the score will be. you fellows like to grouse and pretend every fall that the team's shot full of holes and that the world is a dark, dreary, dismal place and that winning from claflin is only a hectic dream. for the love of lemons, fellows, chuck the undertaker stuff and cheer up. talk about something interesting, or, if you must talk your everlasting football, cut out the sobs!" "oh, dry up, amy," said tom hall. "you oughtn't to be allowed to talk. someone stuff a pillow in his mouth. no one has said we were shot full of holes, but you can't get around the fact that we've lost a lot of good players and----" "oh, gee, he's at it again!" wailed amy. "yes, thomas darling, you've lost two fellows out of the line and two out of the backfield and there's nothing to live for and we'd better poison ourselves off before defeat and disgrace come upon us. all is lost save honour! ah, woe is me!" "cut it out, amy," begged edwards. "you don't know anything about football, you idiot." "two in the line and two in the backfield is good," jeered tim. "we've lost blaisdell and innes and tyler----" "never was any good," interpolated amy. "and roberts and marvin----" "carmine's better!" "and kendall and harris!" concluded tim triumphantly. "never mind, timmy, you've still got me!" replied amy sweetly. "gee, to hear you rave you'd think the whole team had graduated!" "so it has, practically!" "ah, yes, and i heard the same dope this time last year. we'd lost miller and sawyer and williams and--and milton and a dozen or two more and there wasn't any hope for us! and all we did was to go ahead and dodder along and beat claflin seven to nothing! not so bad for a lifeless corpse, what?" steve edwards laughed. "well, maybe we do talk trouble a good deal about this time of year. it's natural, i guess. you lose fellows who played fine ball last year and you can't see just at first how anyone can fill their places. someone always does, though. that's the bully part of it. i dare say we'll manage to dodder along, as amy calls it, and rub it into old claflin as we've been doing." "first sensible word i've heard tonight," said amy approvingly. "i wouldn't kick so much if i only had to hear this sort of stuff occasionally, but i'm rooming with the original crêpe-hanger! clint sobs himself to sleep at night thinking how terribly the dear old team's shot to pieces. if i remark in my optimistic, gladsome way, 'clint, list how sweetly the birdies sing, and observe, i prithee, the sunlight gilding yon mountain peak,' clint turns his mournful countenance on me and chokes out something about a weak backfield! say, i'm gladder every day of my life that i stayed sane and----" "stayed _what_?" exclaimed jim morton incredulously. "and didn't become obsessed with football mania!" "where do you get the words, amy?" sighed clint thayer admiringly. "amy's the original phonograph," commented tim. "only he's an improvement on anything edison ever invented. you don't have to wind amy up!" "no, he's got a self-starting attachment," chuckled draper. "returning to the--the original contention," continued amy in superb disdain of the low jests, "i'll bet any one of you or the whole kit and caboodle of you that we beat claflin again this year. now make a noise like some money!" "amy, we don't bet," remarked tom hall. "at least, not with money. betting money is very wrong. (amy sniffed sarcastically.) but i'll wager a good feed for the crowd that we have a harder time beating claflin this year than we had last. and i'll----" "oh, piffle! i don't care whether you have to work harder to do it or not. i say you'll do it! hard work wouldn't hurt you, anyway. you're a lot of loafers. all any of you do is go out to the field and strike an attitude like a hero. why----" cries of expostulation and threats of physical violence failed to disturb the irrepressible amy. "tell you what i'll do, you piffling greeks, i'll blow you all off to a top-hole dinner at the inn if claflin beats us. there's a sporting proposition for you, you undertakers' assistants!" "yah! what do we do if she doesn't?" exclaimed walton. amy surveyed him coldly. he didn't like harry walton and never attempted to disguise the fact. "why, harry, old dear, you'll just keep right on squandering your money as usual, i suppose. but i don't want you to waste any on me. this is a one-man wager." "no, it isn't," said leroy draper, "i'm in on it, amy. i'll take half of it." "all right, roy. but our money's safe as safe! this bunch of grousers won't get fat off us, old chap!" "say," said walton, who had been trying to get amy's attention for a minute, "what's the story about my squandering my money? anybody seen you being careless with yours, amy?" "not that i know of. i'm not careless with it; i'm careful. but being careful with money is different from having it glued to your skin so you have to have a surgical operation before----" "oh, cut it, amy," said tim. "i spend my money just as freely as you do," returned walton hotly. "you talk so much with your face----" "let it go at that, harry," advised tom hall soothingly. "amy's just talking." "that's all," agreed amy sweetly. "just talking. you're the original little spendthrift, harry. i'm going to write home to your folks some time and warn 'em. hold on, you chaps, don't hurry off. the night is still in its infancy. wait and watch it grow up. steve! _sit down!_" "thanks, i've got to be moseying along," replied captain edwards. "it's pretty near ten. i think it would be a rather good idea if we had a rule that football men were to be in their rooms at a quarter to ten all during the season." "i can see that you're going to be one of these here martinets you read about," said tim with a sigh. "steve, remember you were young once yourself." "he never was!" declared amy with decision. "steve was grown-up when he was quite young and he's never got over it. thank the fates _i_ don't have to be bossed by him! are you all leaving? clint, count the spoons and forks! come again, everyone. i've got lots more to say. good-night, don. glad to see you back again, old sober-sides. sorry about that fin of yours. be careful with him, tim. you know how it is with the dear old team. we need every man we can get. hold on, harry! did you drop that quarter? oh, i beg pardon, it's only a button. that's right, thurs, kick the chair over if it's in your way. we don't care a bit about our furniture. for the love of lemons, larry, don't grin like that! think of the team, man! remember your sorrows! good-_night_!" half-way to billings don broke the silence. "fellows are funny, aren't they?" he murmured. "funny? how do you mean?" asked tim. "oh, i don't know," replied don after a thoughtful moment. "they're--they're so different, i guess." "who's different from who?" "everyone," answered don, smothering a yawn. tim viewed him in the radiance of the light over the doorway with profound admiration. "don, you're a brilliant chap! honest, sometimes i wonder how you do it! doesn't it hurt?" don only smiled. chapter iv the first game don sat on the bench and watched the game with thacher school. with him were nearly a dozen other substitutes, but they, unlike don, were in football togs and might, in fact probably would, get into the game sooner or later. there was no such luck for don so long as his hand remained swathed in bandages, and he was silently bewailing his luck. at his right sat danny moore, chin in hand and elbow in palm, viewing the contest from half-closed eyes. the trainer was small and red of hair and very freckled, and he was thoroughly irish and, in the manner of his race, mightily proud of it. also, he was a clever little man and a good trainer. an attempted forward pass by the visitors grounded and the horn squawked the end of the first period. danny turned his beady green eyes on don. "likely you're wishin' yourself out there with the rest of 'em, boy," he said questioningly. don nodded, smiled his slow smile and shook his head. "i guess i won't get into it for a week yet. doc says this hand has got to do a lot of healing first. he has a fine time every day pulling and cutting the old skin off it. guess he enjoys it so much he will hate to have it heal. i should think, danny, that if i had a heavy glove, sort of padded in the palm, i might play a little." "sure, i'll fix you up something real nate," replied danny readily. "nate an' scientific, d'ye see? an' so soon as the doc says the word you come to me an' i'll be having it ready for you." "will you? thanks, danny. that's great! i would like to get back to practice again. i'm afraid i'll be as stiff and stale as anything if i stay out much longer." "go easy on your eating, lad, and it'll take you no time at all to catch up with the rest of 'em. spread this hand for me while i see the shape of it. what happened to your finger there?" "i broke it when i was a little kid, playing baseball." "sure, whoever set it for you must have been cross-eyed," said the trainer, drily. "'tis a bum job he did." "yes, it's a little crooked, but it works all right." "you'd have hard work gettin' your engagement ring over that lump, i'm thinking. it's a fortunate thing you're not a girl, d'ye mind." don laughed. "engagement rings go on the other hand, don't they, danny?" "faith, i don't know. bad luck to him, he's done it again!" "who? what?" asked don startledly. "jim morton. that's twice today he's spilled most of the water from the pail. well, i'll have to go an' fill it, i suppose." danny went off to get the water bucket and the teams lined up again near the visitors' twenty-five yard line. coach robey had put in a somewhat patched-up team today. captain edwards was at left end, clint thayer at left tackle, gafferty at left guard, peters at centre, pryme at right guard, crewe at right tackle, lee at right end, carmine at quarter, st. clair and gordon at half and martin at full. it was not the best line-up possible, but it was so far handling the situation fairly satisfactorily. the practice of the last two days had developed one or two strains and proved more than one of the first-choice fellows far below condition. tim otis was out for a day or two with a twisted knee and tom hall with a lame shoulder. thursby had developed an erratic streak the day before and was nursing his chagrin further along the bench. holt, the best right end, was in trouble with the faculty, and rollins, full-back, had pulled a tendon in his ankle. a full team of secondand third-string players were having signal work on the practice gridiron. in the stands a fairly good-sized gathering of onlookers was applauding listlessly at such infrequent times as the maroon-and-grey team gave it any excuse. thus far, however, exciting episodes had been scarce. the weather, which was enervatingly warm, affected both elevens and the playing was sluggish and far from brilliant. the brimfield backs, with the exception of carmine, who was always on edge, conducted themselves as if they were at a rehearsal, accepting the ball in an indifferent manner and half-heartedly plunging at the opposing line or jogging around the ends. as the first half drew to a close both goal lines were still unthreatened and from all indications would remain so for the rest of the contest. a slight thrill was developed, though, just before the second period came to an end when a thacher half-back managed to get away outside crewe and romped half the length of the field before he was laid low by carmine. after that there was an exchange of punts and the teams trotted off to the gymnasium. don left the bench with the others, but did not follow them to the dressing room. instead, he strolled down the running track and across to the practice field, where tim was superintending the signal practice. don joined him and followed the panting, perspiring players down the field. tim's conversation was rather difficult to follow, since he continually interrupted himself to instruct or admonish the toilers. "i feel like a slave-driver, pushing these poor chaps around in this heat. how's the game going? no score? we must be playing pretty punk, i guess. what sort of a team has--jones, you missed your starting signal again. for the love of mud, keep your ears open!--thacher must be as bad as we are. who's playing in my place? gordon? is he doing anything?--try them on that again, mcphee, will you? robbins, you're supposed to block hard on that and not let your man through until the runner's got into the line.--i could have played today all right, but that idiot, danny, wouldn't let me. my knee's perfectly all right." "then why do you limp?" asked don innocently. "force of habit," said tim. "what time is it?" don consulted his silver watch and announced a quarter to four. "thank goodness! that'll do, fellows. you'd better get your showers before you try to see that game. if danny catches you over there the way you are he will just about scalp you! by the way, mcphee, you saw what i meant about that end-around play, didn't you? you can't afford to slow up the play by waiting for your end to get to you. he's got to be in position to take the pass at the right second. otherwise they'll come through on you and stop him behind the line. there ought to be absolutely no pause between smith's pass to you and your pass to compton, or whoever the end is. you get the ball, turn quick, toss it to the end and fall in behind him. it ought to be almost one motion. of course, i know you fellows were pretty well fagged today, but you don't want to let your ends think they can take their time on that play, old man, for it's got to be fast or it's no earthly good. thus endeth the lesson. come on, don, and we'll go over and add the dignity of our presence to that little affair." they reached the bench just as the two teams trotted back and brimfield's supporters raised a faint cheer. don imagined that there was a little more vim in the way the maroon-and-grey warriors went into the field for the second half and the results proved him right. it was the home team's kick-off, and after captain edwards, in the absence of hall, had sped the ball down to thacher's twenty yards and a thacher player had sped it back to the thirty, brimfield settled down to business. probably coach robey's remarks in the interim had been sufficiently caustic to get under the skin. at all events brimfield forced thacher to punt on third down and then almost blocked the kick. as it was, the ball hurtled out of bounds near the middle of the field and became brimfield's on her forty-eight. two plunges netted five yards, and then st. clair, returning to form, ripped his way past tackle on the left and fought over two white lines before he was halted. gordon and martin made it first down in three tries and carmine worked the left end for four more. thacher stiffened then, however, and after two ineffectual plunges st. clair punted and brimfield caught on her goal line and ran back a dozen yards, lee, right end, missing his tackle badly and steve edwards being neatly blocked off. but thacher found the going even harder than her opponent had and in a moment she, too, was forced to punt. this time it was st. clair who caught and who, eluding both thacher ends, ran straight along the side line until he was upset near the enemy's thirty-five yards. as he went down he managed to get one foot over the line and the referee paced in fifteen yards, set the ball to earth and waved toward the thacher goal. martin faked a forward pass and the ball went to gordon for a try at right tackle. thayer and gafferty opened a fine hole there and gordon romped through and made eight before the thacher secondary defence brought him down. martin completed the distance through centre. from the twenty-four yards to the ten the ball went, progress, however, becoming slower as the attack neared the goal. on a shift that brought thayer to the right side of the line, st. clair got around the short end for three and martin added two more, leaving the pigskin on the five-yard line. it was third down and martin went back to kick. but after a moment's hesitation carmine changed his signals and the ends stole out toward the side lines. thacher proceeded to arrange her forces to intercept a forward pass and again carmine switched. the ends crept back and martin retired to the fifteen-yard line and patted the turf. carmine knelt in front of him and eyed the goal. then the signals came again, and with them the ball, and it was martin who caught it and not carmine. two steps to the right, a quick heave, a frenzied shouting from the defenders of the goal, a confused jostling, and captain edwards, one foot over the line, reached his arms into the air, pulled down the hurtling pigskin, tore away from one of the enemy, lunged forward and went down under a mass of bodies, but well over the goal line. brimfield found her enthusiasm then, and her voice, and cheered loudly and long, only ceasing when carmine walked out with the ball under his arm and flung himself to the turf opposite the right hand goal post. thursby, hustled in by coach robey, measured distance and direction, stepped forward and, as the line of thacher warriors swept forward with upstretched hands, swung his toe against the ball and sent it neatly across the bar. with the score seven to nothing against her, thacher returned to the fray with a fine determination, but, when the teams had changed places after the kick-off and the last period had begun, she speedily found that victory was not to be her portion. mr. robey sent in nearly a new team during that last ten minutes and the substitutes, fresh and eager, went at it hammer-and-tongs. thacher enlisted fresh material, too, but it couldn't stop the onslaught that soon took the ball down the field to within close scoring distance of her goal. that brimfield did not add another touchdown was only because her line, overanxious, was twice found off-side and penalised. even then the ball went at last to within six inches of the goal line and it was only after the nimble referee had dug into the pile-up like a terrier scratching for a bone in an ash-heap that the fact was determined that thacher had saved her bacon by the width of the ball. she kicked out of danger from behind her goal and after two plays the final whistle blew. it was a very hot and very weary crowd of fellows who thronged the dressing room in the gymnasium five minutes later and, above the swish of water in the showers, shouted back and forth and discussed the game from as many angles as there had been participants. possibly brimfield had no very good reason for feeling proud of her afternoon's work, for last year she had defeated thacher 26 to 3. that game, however, had taken place two weeks later in the season, when the maroon-and-grey was better off in the matter of experience, and so perhaps was not a fair comparison. at all events, brimfield liked the way she had "come back" in that third period and liked the way in which the substitutes had behaved, and displayed a very evident inclination to pat herself on the back. tim, who had haled don into the gymnasium on the way back to hall, tried his best to convince all those who would listen to him that they had played a perfectly punk game and that nothing but the veriest fluke had accounted for that score. but they called him a "sore-head" and laughed at him, and even drove him away with flicking towels, and he finally gave it up and consented to accompany don back to billings, limping a trifle whenever he thought no one was looking. don missed tim at supper, for the training tables started that evening and tim went off to one of them with his napkin ring and his own particular bottle of tomato catsup, leaving his chum feeling forlornly "out of it." chapter v don goes to the second life at brimfield academy settled down for don into the accustomed routine. the loss of one day made no difference in the matter of lessons, for with tim's assistance--they were both in the fifth form--he easily made up what had been missed. they were taking up german that year for the first time and don found it hard going, but he managed to satisfy mr. daley after a fashion. don was a fellow who studied hard because he had to. tim could skim his lessons, make a good showing in class and remember enough of what he had gone over to appear quite erudite. don had to get right down and grapple with things. he once said enviously, and with as near an approach to an epigram as he was capable of, that whereas tim got his lessons by inhaling them, he, don, had to chew them up and swallow them! but when examination time came don's method of assimilation showed better results. the injured hand healed with incredible slowness, but heal it did, and at last the day came when the doctor consented to let his impatient pupil put on the padded arrangement that the ingenious danny moore had fashioned of a discarded fielder's glove and some curled hair, and don triumphantly reported for practice. his triumph was, however, short-lived, for coach robey viewed him dubiously and relegated him to the second squad, from which mr. boutelle was then forming his second team. "boots" was a graduate who turned up every fall and took charge of the second or scrub team. it was an open secret that he received no remuneration. patriotism and sheer love of the game were the inducements that caused mr. boutelle to donate some two months of time and labour to the cause of turning out a second team strong enough to give the first the practice it needed. and he always succeeded. "boutelle's babies," as someone had facetiously termed them, could invariably be depended on to give the school eleven as hard a tussle as it wanted--and sometimes a deal harder. boots was a bit of a driver and believed in strenuous work, but his charges liked him immensely and performed miracles of labour at his command. his greeting of don was almost as dubious as had been coach robey's. "of course i'm glad to have you, gilbert, but the trouble is that as soon as we've got you nicely working mr. robey will take you away. that's a great trick of his. he seems to think the purpose of the second team is to train players for the first. it isn't, though. he gives me what he doesn't want every year and i do my best to make a team from it, and i ought to be allowed to keep what i make. well, never mind. you do the best you can while you're with us, gilbert." "maybe he won't have me this year," said don dejectedly. "he seems to think that being out for a couple of weeks has queered me." "well, you don't feel that way about it, do you?" "no, sir, i'm perfectly all right. i've watched practice every afternoon and i've been doing a quarter to a half on the track." "hm. well, you've got a little flesh that will have to come off, but it won't take long to lose it this weather. sit down a minute." they were in front of the stand and mr. boutelle seated himself on the lower tier and don followed his example. "let me see, gilbert. last year you played left guard, didn't you?" "yes, sir." "and if i remember aright your chief difficulty was in the matter of weight." "i'm twelve pounds heavier this fall, air." "yes, but some of that'll come off, i guess. however, that doesn't matter. you were getting along pretty well at the last of the season, i remember. who's ahead of you on the first?" "well, gafferty's got the first choice, i guess. and then there's harry walton." "you can beat walton," said boots decisively. "walton lacks head. he can't think things out for himself. you can. what you'll have to do this year, my boy, is speed up a little. it took you until about the middle of the season to find your pace. remember?" "yes, sir, i know." "well, you won't stay with us long, as i've said, and so i'm not going to build you into the line, gilbert. i've got some good-looking guard material and i can't afford to work over you and get dependent on you and then have robey snatch you away about the middle of the fall. that won't do. but i'll tell you what we will do, gilbert. we'll use you enough to bring you around in form slowly. you'll play left guard for awhile every day. but what i want you to really do is to help with the others. you've been at it two years now and you know how the position ought to be played and you've got hard common-sense. i'll put the guard candidates in your hands. see what you can do with them. there's a couple of likely chaps in kirkwell and merton, and there are two or three more after positions. you take them in charge, gilbert, and show me what you know about coaching. what do you say?" "why, mr. boutelle, i--i don't know that i can show anyone else what to do. i can play the position myself after a fashion, but--well, i guess it's another thing to teach, isn't it?" "oh, i don't know. it is if you go into it with the idea that it is, but don't do that. play the position as it ought to be played, tell the others why, call them down when they make mistakes, pat them on the back when they do right. just forget that you're trying to teach. if a fellow came to you and said: 'gilbert, i want to play guard but i don't know how, and i wish you'd tell me how you do it,' why, you wouldn't have any trouble, would you?" "n-no, sir, i guess not," replied don a trifle doubtfully. "well, there you are. try it, anyway. you'll get on all right. i'll be right on hand to dig the spurs in when your courage fails." mr. boutelle smiled. "we're going to have a dandy second team this fall, my boy. we've got nothing to build on, only a lot of green material, and that's the best part of it. i don't care how inexperienced the material is if it's willing to learn and has the usual number of arms and legs and such things and a few ounces of grey matter in the cranium. well, here we go. nothing today but passing and punting, i guess. sure your hand's all right?" "yes, sir, thanks. i don't really need this contrivance; it's awfully clumsy; but doc said i'd better wear it for a few days." "best to be on the safe side. i'll have you take one squad of these chaps, i guess, and i'll give the other to lewis. you know the usual stuff, gilbert. rest 'em up now and then; they're soft and the weather's warm. but work 'em when they're working. any fellow who soldiers gets bounced. all out, second squad!" there wasn't anything that afternoon but the sort of drudgery that tries the enthusiasm of the tyro: passing the ball in circles, falling on it, catching it on the bound and starting. don was surprised to discover how soft he was in spite of his daily exercise on the cinders. when the hour's practice was over he was just about as thankful as any of the puffing, perspiring youths around him. considering it afterward, don was unable to view the material with the enthusiasm mr. boutelle had displayed. to him the thirty-odd boys who had reported for the second team were a hopeless lot, barring, of course, a few, not more than four in all, who had had experience last season. in another week mr. robey would make a cut in the first squad and the second would find itself augmented by some ten or twelve cast-offs. but just now the second squad looked to don to be a most unlikely lot. when he confided all this to tim that evening the latter said: "don't you worry, old man. boots will make a team out of them. why, he could make a football team out of eleven clothing store dummies! sometimes i think that boots ought to be head coach instead of robey. i've got nothing against robey, either. he's a bit of a 'miracle man' himself, _but_ for building a team out of nothing boutelle has him both shoulders to the mat!" "i don't believe boots would want to coach the first," replied don. "why not?" "i don't know. he's sort of--well, he kind of likes to--oh, i don't know." "very clearly explained, donald." "well, boots, if he was a soldier, would be the sort that would want to lead a charge where the odds were against him. see what i mean?" "you mean he has a hankering for the forlorn chance business? maybe so. that's not a bad name for the second, is it? the forlorn chances! i guess you've got him dead to rights, though. boots is for the under dog every time. i guess coaching the first and having his pick of the players wouldn't make any sort of a hit with boots. it would be too tame. boots likes to take three discarded veterans, two crips and a handful of green youngsters and whittle them into a bunch that will make us sweat and toil to score on. and, what's more, he does it! bet you anything, don, this year's second will be every bit as good as last year's." "i won't take it, because i think so myself," laughed don. "i can't see how he's going to do it, tim, but something tells me he will!" "oh, with you to coach the guards it will be no trick at all," said tim, grinning. don smiled thinly. "i'll make an awful mess of it, i guess," he muttered. "not you, boy!" and tim slapped him encouragingly on the back. "you'll blunder right ahead to glory, same as you always do. you'll make hard work of it and all that, but you'll get there. don, you're exactly like the porpoise--no, the tortoise in the fable. you don't look fast, old man, but you keep on moving ahead and saying nothing and when the hares arrive you're curled up on the finish line fast asleep. tortoises can't curl up, though, can they? and, say, what the dickens _is_ a tortoise, anyway? i always get tortoises and porpoises mixed." "a porpoise is a fish," replied don gravely. "and a tortoise is a land turtle. but they're both anthropoids." "are they?" asked tim vaguely. "all right. here, what are you grinning at? anthropoids nothing! an anthropoid is a monkey or--or something." "you're an anthropoid yourself, timmy." "meaning i'm a monkey?" "not at all. here, look it up." and don shoved a dictionary across the table. tim accepted it suspiciously. "all right," he said, "but if it's what i think it is you'll have to fight. anthesis, anthropocosmic----say, i'm glad you didn't call me that! here it is. now let's see. 'anthropoid, somewhat like a human being in form or other characteristics'! something like---you wait till i get you in the tank again! 'something like a human being'! for two cents i'd lay you on the bed and spank you with that tennis racket!" "i've got two cents that say you can't do it," replied don. "well, i could if there wasn't so much of you," grumbled tim. "now shut up and let me stuff awhile. horace has been eyeing me in a way i don't like lately. how's your german going?" "not very well. it's a silly language, i think. but i guess i'll get the hang of it after awhile. what i want to know is why they can't make their letters the way we do." "because they're afraid someone might be able to read the plaguy stuff. tell you what we'll do, don." "what'll we do?" "we'll go for a swim in the tank after study. will you?" don winked slowly. "not after that threat, thanks." "i won't touch you, honest to goodness, don! did you learn to swim any better this summer?" "where would i learn?" asked the other. "there's no place to swim out my way, unless it's the river." "well, don't the rivers in kansas contain water?" "yes, sometimes! winter, usually. if you'll promise not to grab me when i'm not looking i'll go. i hate the taste of that tank water, tim." "you ought to know how to swim, old man. never mind, mr. conklin will get hold of you this winter and beat it into you." "i can swim now," replied don indignantly. "oh, yes, you can swim like a hunk of lead! the last time i saw you try it you did five strokes and then got so elated that you nearly drowned yourself trying to cheer! i could teach you in three lessons if you'd let me." "much obliged, but nothing doing, timmy. i'd as lief drown by myself as have you hold my head under water." "that was just a joke, don. i won't ever do it again. i wanted you to get used to the water, you see." "i don't mind getting used to it outside, but i hate to fill up with it, tim. it tastes very nasty. you may be a good teacher, but i don't like your methods." "well, we'll go and have a dip, anyway," laughed tim. "it'll set us up and refresh us after our arduous stuffing." "if you don't cut out the chatter there won't be any stuffing," warned don. "it's almost half-past now. and i've got three solid pages of this rot to do. dry up, like a good pal." chapter vi the search of adventure by that time brimfield had played her second game and lost it, 6 to 14, to canterbury high school. canterbury was not considered very formidable and brimfield usually had little trouble with her. but this year things had gone wrong from the start of the game to the finish, wrong, that is, from brimfield's point of view. fumbling had been much in evidence and poor judgment even more. carmine had worked like a trojan at quarter-back for two periods, but had somehow failed to display his usually good generalship, and mcphee, who had taken his place at the beginning of the second half, while he ran the team well, twice dropped punts in the backfield, one of which accounted for canterbury's second touchdown and goal. oddly enough, it was the veterans who failed most signally to live up to expectations, and of all the veterans tom hall was the worst offender. possibly tom's shoulder still bothered him, but even that couldn't have accounted for all his shortcomings. crewe, who played tackle beside tom, was not a very steady man, and tom's errors threw him off his game badly, with the result that, until coach robey put pryme in for tom in the third period, canterbury made a lamentable number of gains at the right of the brimfield line. even tim otis, usually undisturbed by anything short of an earthquake, was affected by the playing of the others and finally had what he called a "brain-storm" in the third period, getting the signals twisted and being thrown back for an eight-yard loss. that misadventure bothered him so that he was heartily glad when gordon was rushed in a few minutes later. the team took the beating to heart and the school at large was disposed to indulge in sarcasm and bitterness. only coach robey seemed undisturbed. he lavished no praise, you may be sure, but, on the other hand, neither did he utter any criticism after the contest was over. instead, he laid off more than half the line-up on monday and tuesday, and, since the weather continued almost unseasonably warm, the rest was just what the fellows needed. wednesday's practice went with a new snap and vim and those who broiled in the afternoon sun and watched it found grounds for hope. it was on wednesday that don began his connection with the second team, and by then the injured hand was so well along that he was able to discard the glove. three days of kindergarten work followed, with, on saturday, a short signal drill. the first team journeyed away that afternoon to play miter hill school, and don would have liked very much to have gone along. but boots put his charges through a good, hard hour and a half of work, and don had all he could attend to at home. just before supper he did, however, walk down to the station and meet tim when the team arrived home. tim, who seemed remarkably fresh for a youth who had played through the most of four ten-minute periods, scorned the coach and he and don footed it back. "twenty to nothing, my boy," said tim exultantly. "they never had a look-in. it was some game, believe me, dearie! and i want to tell you, too, that miter hill is fifty per cent better than canterbury ever thought of being!" "that's fine," said don. "what sort of a game did you play?" "me? oh, i was the life of the party. got off two nice little runs, one for thirty and the other for forty-five yards. got a touchdown the second time. i wouldn't have, though, if steve hadn't paced me most the way down and put the quarter out. old steve played like a whirlwind today. we all did, i guess. there was only one fumble, and that wasn't anyone's fault. holt got a forward pass and a miter hill chap plunged into him and just about knocked the breath out of him and he let go of the ball." "twenty to nothing? three touchdowns, then." "yep, and rollins only missed one goal. rollins scored once, i scored once and steve took over the last one." "forward pass?" "no, end-around. it went off great, too. we were way back on the eighteen yards, i think it was, and we worked the fake forward pass play, with steve taking the ball from carmine. we fooled them finely. they never got onto it at all until steve was over the line. some of the fellows who were doing so much grousing last week ought to have come along today and seen some real football. robey was as pleased as anything. you could tell that because he looked sort of cross and told us how bad we were!" "wish i'd seen it," mourned don. "it was some game, all right, all right! we're going to have a modest celebration this evening; just tom hall and clint thayer and hap crewe, maybe, and yours truly. better come along. will you?" "where are you going?" "oh, just down to the village. we'll leave the window open." "you'll get nabbed if you try that," demurred don. "better not, tim." "well, we may be back by ten. no harm in having a way open in case something delays us, though. we'll have a little feed at the inn, you know, and----" "don't be a chump," growled don. "you're in training and you know mighty well robey won't stand for any funny-business." "what robey doesn't know isn't going to hurt him," replied tim untroubledly. "and he won't know anything about this because he's off for home on the seven o'clock train. tom heard him tell steve he wouldn't be back until monday noon." "yes, but someone will see you and robey'll hear of it. and then you'll get the dickens from him and be hauled up to the office. better not risk it, timmy." "gee, you're worse than mr. poe's crow! or was it a raven? what's the difference, anyhow? now don't tell me they're both anthropeds or pods, or whatever it is, because i'm onto you as a disseminator of knowledge! i never got even with you yet for calling me 'something like a human being'." "i'll take it back, then; you aren't. but, just the same, tim, i wish you'd cut out the celebration." "you're all the time interfering with my innocent pleasures," protested tim. "why, bless you, dearie, we aren't going to cut-up. we're merely going to stroll quietly to the village, trolling a song, mayhap, and look in the windows." "that'll take you a long time," don laughed. "there are only half a dozen." "wrong. a fellow opened a watchmaker's emporium next door to the post office t'other day and has a most fascinating window. it has four alarm clocks, three pairs of cuff-links and a chronometer in it! oh, it's swell! do you realise, don, that slowly but surely our little village is taking on the--the semblance of a metropolis? all we want is a movie palace!" "let's start one. they say there's a lot of money in them." "bet there is! we've got three or four at home, and they're peaches. full every minute, too. i went a lot last summer; had filmitis, i guess. but how about the party? will you come along?" "no, thanks." "oh, come on, don! have a heart! be one of our merry gang." "i'd rather not, thank you. i like josh well enough, but i don't like to stand on the carpet and hear him say 'until further notice, gilbert.' nothing doing, tim!" and don remained adamant the rest of the way to school and while they made a hurried toilet and rushed to dining hall in an effort to reach it before the food gave out. the team members received an ovation that evening when they entered the dining hall. it seemed as if the school wanted to make up for its unkindness of a week before. some few of the fellows, recalling sarcastic comments overheard, were inclined to be haughty and unforgiving, but eventually they melted. don, now at the second training-table, presided over by mr. boutelle, saw that coach robey's chair was vacant, which fact bore out tim's statement that the coach had gone home over sunday. but, even granting that, don didn't approve of tim's celebration, for, as he very well knew, after a football victory fellows were very likely to be carried away by their enthusiasm and to forget such trifling things as rules and regulations. he determined to try again to dissuade tim after supper. but tim, who was in a very cheerful and expansive mood, refused to be dissuaded. instead, he turned the tables and begged so hard for don to come with him that don finally relented. after all, there was no harm in the excursion if they got permission and were back in hall by ten o'clock. and it was a wonderfully pleasant, warm evening, much too fine an evening to spend indoors, and--well, secretly, don wanted some fun as much as any of them, perhaps! permission was easily obtained and at seven they met tom hall and clint thayer in front of torrence. crewe failed them, but tim said it didn't matter; that there were only four "three musketeers" anyhow! so they set off for the village in high spirits, through a warm, fragrant, star-lighted evening, with no settled plan of action in mind save to do about as they liked for the succeeding three hours. clint thayer had a strip of plaster across the saddle of his nose, which gave him a strangely benign expression. tom walked a bit stiffly and confessed to "a peach of a shin," which probably meant something quite different from what it suggested. only tim, of the three first team fellows, had emerged unscathed, and he referred to the fact in an unpleasantly superior manner which brought from tom hall the remark that it was easy enough to get through a game without any knocks if you didn't do anything! whereupon tim flicked him across the cheek with an imaginary glove, the challenge was issued and accepted and the two fought an exciting duel with rapiers--as imaginary as the glove--on the sidewalk, feinting, thrusting, parrying, until clint cried "the guard! the guard!" and they all raced down the road to the nearest lamp-post, where tim insisted on looking to his wounds. to hear him tell it, he was as full of holes as a sieve, while, on the same authority, tom was a dead man. tom denied being dead, but tim insisted and refused to pay any heed to him all the rest of the way to the village on the ground that, being dead, tom had no business to talk. but when they reached what tim called "the heart of the city" tom was allowed to come to life again. the heart of the city consisted of the junction of two village streets whereon were located the diminutive town hall, the post office, a fire house and five stores. they began with the druggist's, ranging themselves in front of one of the two windows and pretending to be overwhelmed with the beauty and magnificence of the goods displayed. "what beautiful soap," exclaimed tom. "i never saw such beautiful soap, fellows. pink and green and white! looks almost good enough to wash with, doesn't it?" "and get on to the lovely toilet set in the green velvet box," begged tim awedly. "scissors and brushes and little do-funnies and----" "i'm going to buy a bottle of that hair-grower," announced don. "i want to raise a beard." "let's get a bottle and present it to uncle sim," suggested clint. uncle sim was mr. simkins, the greek and latin instructor, and was noticeably bald. the others chuckled and thought very well of the suggestion until tom discovered that the price, as stated on the label, was one whole dollar. they had, they decided, better uses for what little money they carried. eventually they went inside, and sat on stools in front of the small soda fountain and drank gaily-coloured concoctions which, according to tim, later, sounded better than they tasted. having exhausted the amusement to be derived from the drug store, they went to the fire house next door and, pressing their noses against the glass, debated what would happen if an alarm was rung in. there was a box beside the doors, a most tempting red box and tim eyed it longingly until don led him gently but firmly away from temptation. in the small store across the street they examined all the books and magazines displayed on the counters, which didn't take long, as literature was not a large part of the stock. tim spent ten cents for a football guide, explaining that he had always wanted to know some of the rules of that game! don bought some candy and clint a bag of peanuts, although the others protested that if they ate truck they'd spoil their appetites for real food. the force of the protest was somewhat marred by the actions of the protestants, who helped themselves liberally to the contents of the two bags. there was a convenient fence a few steps along the street and they perched themselves on the top rail and consumed the peanuts and candy and watched the "rush of the great city," to again quote the poetic tim. during the next twenty minutes exactly eight carriages and four automobiles entered their range of vision; and at that clint insisted that they had counted one automobile twice. he accused it of going around the block in order to add to the confusion. possibly some three dozen people passed within sight, although that may have been a too liberal estimate. tom at last declared that he couldn't stand the excitement any longer; that his brain reeled and his eyes ached; and that he was going to find a quiet spot far from the dizzy whirl. so they adjourned to the grocery and butcher shop and talked learnedly of loins and shoulders and ribs. and clint dragged what he alluded to as a "brisket" into the conversation to the confusion of the others, who had never heard of it and didn't believe in it anyway. tom said clint meant "biscuit" and that this wasn't a bakery. then he caught sight of some rather pathetic and unseasonable radishes and, having a passion for radishes, went in and purchased four bunches. that outlay led to an expenditure for salt, and as a large, round pasteboard carton of it was the least they could buy, they retreated down the street to the inn porch, trickled the salt along the top of the railing, drew up chairs and consumed the radishes at their leisure. all, that is, save tim. tim didn't like radishes, called them "fire-crackers" and pretended to be deeply disgusted with his companions for eating them. when the radishes were consumed they invaded the inn and assaulted the water tank in force. then, as there were practically no sights left to be viewed, they went back to their chairs and, as tom had it, waited for inspiration. don was for trolleying over to the shore, having a dip in the ocean and returning to school in good time. but tim pointed out that the trolley line was a good half-mile distant, that he had not filled himself with radishes and was consequently quite famished for food and favoured remaining within easy distance of the inn so that, in case he grew faint, he could reach sustenance. don's motion was defeated. in view of what eventually occurred, that was, perhaps, unfortunate. chapter vii fighting fire "this," said tim presently, "is a bit dull, if you ask me. i came out for some excitement. let's do something." "what?" asked clint, yawning loudly. "let's eat." the others groaned. "that's all right for you chaps, but i'm getting hungry," tim asserted. "i thought we were going to have a feed. they'll be closing this place up the first thing we know. how about a rarebit, fellows?" "oh, let's wait awhile," said don. "let's take a walk and get up an appetite." "walk!" jeered tim. "gee, i've walked enough. and there's nothing the matter with my appetite right now. tell you what----" tim paused. an automobile was stopping in front of the inn. the headlights suddenly dimmed and the single occupant, a tall man in a light overcoat, got out, walked up the path, ascended the steps and passed into the house. "now, who's he?" asked tim. "say, i wish he'd loan us his car for awhile." "run in and ask him," suggested tom. "he looked kind." "maybe he'd give us a ride if we asked him," pursued tim. "it's a peach of a car; foreign, i guess." "it's a mercy dear," said tom. "or a fierce sorrow," hazarded clint. "bet you it's a cheerless," said don, "or a backhard." "don't care what it is," persisted tim. "i want a ride in it." "let's go down and stand around it with our fingers in our mouths," said tom, with a chuckle. "perhaps he will take pity on us and ask us in." "or we might open the door for him," offered don. at that moment clint, who had left his chair to lean across the railing and gaze past the end of the porch, interrupted with an exclamation. "say, fellows, what's that light over there?" he asked eagerly. "fire, by jingo!" cried tim. "that's what!" agreed tom. "say, you don't suppose it's the school, do you?" "of course not! the school's over that way. besides, that fire's away off; maybe two miles. come on!" and clint started for the steps. "wait!" called tim. "i want to see the engine come out. bet you it's a fine sight! anyway, we can't foot it two miles." "maybe it isn't that far," said don. "fires look further than they are sometimes." "yes, and nearer, too," replied tim. "think we ought to run over and tell them about it?" but that question was speedily answered by the sudden clanging of a gong inside the fire house, followed by the sound of running footsteps and, an instant later, the wild alarm of the shrill-tongued bell in the little belfry. "my word!" exclaimed tom. "i didn't know there were so many folks in the town!" already a small-sized crowd had gathered in front of the fire house, some fifty yards up the street. the doors rolled open and a figure pushed through the throng and loped across the street and disappeared. the bell clanged on and on. don and clint and tom made a dash for the steps. tim slid over the railing. but before any of them had more than reached the sidewalk the tall owner of the automobile catapulted himself down the steps, hailing them as he came. "where is it, boys?" he shouted. "over there," answered clint, pointing. but the glow in the sky was scarcely visible from the sidewalk and they all swarmed back to the porch again. "i see," said the man. "some farm house, i guess. they'll know at the fire house." he sprang down the steps again, the boys streaming after him. he was already in the car when tim asked breathlessly: "you going, sir?" "sure! want to come? pile in, then. there are some packages in there. look out for them." clint had already put his foot down hard on something that, whatever it might be, was never meant to be walked on, but he made no mention of the fact. the car leaped forward, swung to the right, stopped with a jerk six inches from a lamp-post, backed, straightened out and careened along to the fire house. all was excitement there. men were rushing into the building and rushing out again, agitatedly donning rubber coats and hats. speculation was rife. a score of voices argued as to the location of the fire. the throng swayed back and forth. the man in the car demanded information as he drew up at the curb and a dozen answers were flung at him. then a small, fat man ran up and leaned excitedly across the front of the auto. "hello, mr. brady!" he panted. "you going out there?" "yes, but i've got a load, johnson. where is it?" "don't no one seem to know. jim cogswell knows, but he's gone for the horses." "look out! here they come!" "get that auto out of the way there!" "stand aside, everyone!" "get a move on, jim!" a lean little man in his shirt sleeves suddenly appeared leading two jogging horses, while a third horse trotted along behind. the crowd scampered aside and the horses beat a tattoo on the floor as they wheeled to their places. mr. brady jumped from his seat, pushed his way through the crowd as it closed in again about the doorway and disappeared. tim whooped with delight. "what did i tell you?" he demanded. "didn't i say it would be a great sight? gee, i haven't had such a good time since i had the measles!" mr. brady reappeared, scrambled back to his seat and slammed the door behind him. "jim says it's corrigan's barn," he said. "sit tight, boys!" the car leaped forward once more, took the first corner at twenty miles an hour, took the next at thirty and then, in the middle of a firm, hard road, simply roared away into the starlit darkness, the headlights throwing a great white radiance ahead. tim, on the front seat, whipped off his cap and stuffed it into his pocket. behind, the three boys huddled themselves low in the wide seat while the wind tore past them. "must be going ninety miles an hour!" gasped clint. "suppose we bust something!" said tom awedly. don braced his feet against the foot-rail. "let it bust!" he answered exultantly. that was a memorable ride. tim owned afterward that he thought he had ridden fast once or twice before, but that he was mistaken. "i watched that speedometer from the time we turned the second corner," he declared, "and it never showed less than fifty-three and was generally around sixty! if i hadn't been so excited i'd been scared to death!" now and then one of the boys behind looked back along the road, but if anyone was following them the fact wasn't apparent. almost before they were conscious of having travelled any distance the car topped a slight hill at a dizzy speed and the conflagration was in sight. a quarter of a mile distant a big barn was burning merrily. the car slowed down at the foot of the descent, swung into a lane and pitched and careened toward the burning structure. other buildings were clustered about the barn and a good-sized white dwelling house stood in dangerous proximity. between house and barn, standing out black against the orange glow of the fire, was a group of women and children, while a few men, not more than a half-dozen it seemed, were wandering hither and thither in the radiance. a horse with trailing halter snorted and dashed to safety as the automobile turned from the lane and came to a stop under an apple tree. "far as we go!" shouted mr. brady. "come on, boys, and lend a hand!" the lights dimmed, the engine stopped and the occupants of the car scrambled out and ran up the lane. "they can't save that barn," panted mr. brady, "but they'd ought to save the rest of them." a man attired principally in a pair of overalls and a flannel shirt and carrying an empty bucket advanced to meet them. "is the engine coming?" he asked listlessly. "they hadn't started when i left," answered mr. brady, "and i guess you needn't look for them for fifteen or twenty minutes. got any water handy when it does come?" "i've got a tank full up there, and there's a pond behind the house. but i don't know's they can do anything. looks to me like everything's bound to go. well, i got insurance." "got plenty of buckets?" asked mr. brady, peeling off his coat. "how many men are here?" "about six or seven, i guess. yes, there's buckets enough, but the heat's so fierce----" "animals all out?" "there's some pigs down there. we tried to chase 'em out, but the plaguy things wouldn't go. we got the horses and cows out and a couple o' wagons. all my hay's done for, though. and there's a heap o' machinery in there----" "well, we can save the other buildings, can't we?" asked mr. brady impatiently. "get your buckets and your men together, corrigan. here are five of us, and we can make a line and keep the roofs wet down until the engine comes, i guess. send the women for all the pails and things you've got. get a hustle on, man!" mr. corrigan hesitated a moment and then trotted away. the water supply was contained in a wooden tank set some ten feet above ground, and high beyond that, dimly discernible through the cloud of smoke, the spectral arms of a wind-mill revolved imperturbably. mr. brady, followed by the boys, went on around to the further side of the burning building. it was a huge hip-roofed structure. one end, that nearest the house, was already falling, and the tons of crackling hay in the mows glowed like a furnace. the heat, even at the foot of the wind-mill, a hundred feet or more away, was almost intolerable. a row of one-story buildings ran along one side of the barn, so near that the flying sparks blew over rather than on to them. several other detached structures stood at greater distances. mr. brady, surveying the scene, shook his head doubtfully. "guess he's right," he said. "there's not much use trying to save those nearer buildings. we couldn't stay on those roofs a minute. i guess the chief danger will be from sparks lighting on the house and that creamery there. things are mighty dry." four or five men dangling empty buckets, one of them mr. corrigan's son and the others neighbours, came up and asked about the fire department and mr. brady repeated what he had told the older man. "what we've got to do," he continued, "is to keep the roof on the house and the dairy wet. those sparks are flying all over them. what's that small building over there?" "that's the ice-house, mr. brady." "well, we won't bother about that. how many are there of us?" "six, i guess," said one of the men, but another corrected him. "old man meredith and tom young just drove in," he announced. "that makes eight of us, and there's five of you----" "well, come on, then," mr. brady interrupted briskly. "you fellows get your pails full and look after the dairy. get on the roof, a couple of you, and keep it wet down. the rest can lug water. got a ladder handy? all right. somebody fetch it in a hurry. hold on! isn't there water in the dairy?" "yes, sir, plenty of it." "then fill your buckets inside and hand them up to the men on the roof. i'll take my gang and go over to the house." the following half-hour was a busy time for the four boys. mr. brady and don stood precariously athwart the ridge of the house roof while tim and clint and tom, later assisted by others, filled buckets in the kitchen, raced up two flights of stairs and a short ladder--often losing half of their burden on the way--and passed them through a skylight to those outside. a dozen times the dry shingles caught fire under the rain of sparks, but mr. brady, climbing along the ridge like a cat, tossing buckets of water with unerring precision, kept the fire at bay. it was warm work for all. on the roof the heat of the fire was unpleasantly apparent, while in the house it was stiflingly close and the work of carrying the pails up and down stairs soon had the three boys in a fine perspiration and badly off for breath! when the engines arrived, heralded by loud acclaim from the onlookers, who had by then multiplied remarkably, the barn was merely a huge pyre of glowing hay and burning timbers, only one far corner remaining erect. the piggery and adjoining buildings were ablaze in several places. the creamery roof had caught once or twice, but each time the flames had been subdued. if the engine and hose-cart and two carriages bearing members of the volunteer fire department had been slow in arriving, at least the fire-fighters got to work expeditiously and with surprisingly little confusion. don, pausing for a moment in his labour of passing buckets to look down, decided that brimfield had no cause to be ashamed of its department. in a jiffy the hose-cart was rattling across the yard--and, incidentally, some flower beds--in the direction of the pond behind the house, and a moment or two later the engine was pumping vigorously and a fine stream of water was wetting down the roofs of the threatened structures. axes bit into charring timbers, sparks flew, enthusiastic, rubber-clad firemen dashed here and there, shouting loudly, the audience cheered and the worst was over! with the collapse of the remaining section of barn wall the danger from sparks was past, and, emptying one final bucket, mr. brady, followed by a very wet, very tired and very warm don, crept back through the skylight and joined the others below. mr. brady rescued his coat, led the way to the kitchen pump and drank long and copiously, setting an example enthusiastically emulated by the boys. tim declared that if he drank as much as he wanted there wouldn't be enough water left to put out the fire with! "well, boys," said mr. brady, finally setting down the dipper and drawing a long breath, "i guess we did pretty well for amateurs, eh? i don't know whether we get any thanks, for i've a suspicion that corrigan would have been just as pleased if everything had gone. from the way he talked when we got here i guess he wanted the insurance more'n he did the buildings!" mr. brady chuckled. "well, we put one over on him in that case, eh? want to stick around much longer? i guess most of the fun's over; unless they're going to serve some of that roast pig!" "they got the pigs out," chuckled tim. "they were running around here awhile ago like crazy. about twenty of them, big and little, squealing and getting between people's feet. those pigs had the time of their lives!" "well, then, suppose we start along home?" said mr. brady. "you fellows ready?" they agreed that they were. the remains of the barn were already blackening, and, while the firemen, evidently determined to make the most of the occasion, were still swinging axes and pouring water on the already extinguished and well-soaked buildings, there was no danger of further trouble. mr. corrigan, surrounded by a group of sympathetic neighbours, was cataloguing his losses and mr. brady called to him as they passed. "good-night, corrigan! sorry for you, but you've saved your house anyway!" "yes, sir, mr. brady. i'm greatly obliged to you, sir, and them young fellers, too. it's a bit of a loss, sir, but there's pretty good insurance." "that's fortunate. good-night!" mr. brady chuckled as they went on into the darkness of the orchard. "bet you he's downright peeved with us, boys, for wetting that roof down! i happen to know that he's been losing money on this place for five years and been trying to sell it for a twelvemonth." "you don't suppose," began tom, "that he--er--that he----" "set the fire? well, i'd rather not suppose about that. as there's no evidence against him we'd better give him the benefit of the doubt, i guess." chapter viii coaching the tackles the ride back was far less exciting. mr. brady drove the big car leisurely and conversed with clint, who had succeeded to the seat of honour in front. mr. brady, it appeared, had a poultry farm some distance on the other side of brimfield. he seemed a trifle surprised and pained when he discovered that clint had never heard of the cedar ridge poultry farm, and at once issued an invitation to visit it. "you come over some time and i'll show you some stock that'll open your eyes. bring your friends along. tell the conductor on the trolley where you want to go and he'll set you down right at my gate. you can't miss it, though, anyhow, for i've got nearly a quarter of a mile of houses there. silver campines are my specialty. raise a few white wyandottes, too. you wouldn't think to look at me that the doctors came mighty near giving me up ten or eleven years ago, eh? did, though. that was just after i finished college. they said the only thing would save me was hiking out to colorado or arizona or new mexico. some said one place and some said another. seeing that they couldn't decide, i settled the question myself. came out here, bought ten acres of land--i've got nearly forty now--and lived in a tent one summer while my house was building. doctors said it wouldn't do, but i fooled them. slept out of doors every night, worked like a slave fourteen hours a day and put on flesh right from the start. i'm not what you'd call fat now, i guess, but you ought to have seen me then! an old chap i had putting up my first chicken house told me he could work me in nicely for a roosting pole! went back to one of the doctors three years ago and had him look me over. he had to admit that i was a pretty healthy specimen. you could see that he was downright peeved about it, though!" mr. brady chuckled. "then i settled the matter to my own satisfaction by taking out some life insurance. when i got my policy i stopped worrying about my health. you drop over some afternoon and let me show you how to live like a white man and make a little money, too. there's no life like it, and i wouldn't go back to the city if they gave me the ritz-carlton to live in!" [illustration: finally, don was unceremoniously yanked up and through] clint responded that he and the others would like very much to visit cedar ridge some day, but that just now they were all pretty busy in the afternoons with football. that struck a responsive chord and mr. brady harked back to his school and college days when he, too, had fondled the pigskin. "i wasn't much of a player, though," he acknowledged. "i was sort of tall and puny-looking and not very strong. still, i did get into my school team in my senior year and played on my freshman team in college. the next year i had to give it up, though. i'd like to come over some day and see you fellows play. i've always been intending to. i haven't seen a real smashing football game for years. that's funny, too, for i can remember the time when i used to think that if i could get on my 'varsity eleven i'd die happy." he laughed as he swept the searchlights around a corner. "a man's ambitions change, don't they? now what i want to do is to raise the champion egg producer. i'm going to do it, too, before long." and clint quite believed it. any man, he told himself, who could take command of a situation as mr. brady had that evening, and who could make enough money in the poultry business to own a three-thousand dollar automobile was capable of anything! when they approached the town mr. brady swung off to the left, explaining that he would take the boys up to the school. there was a moment of silence and then clint protested weakly. "shucks," was the reply, "it won't take five minutes longer, and after the way you fellows have worked tonight you don't deserve to have to walk home!" "well, then--then i guess you'd better let us out at the corner," said tim. "we'd hate to wake up the masters, mr. brady." "oh, that's it, eh?" mr. brady laughed loudly. "stayed out too late, have you?" "i'm afraid we have, sir," said clint. "we're supposed to be in hall before ten and it's long after that now. if you'll let us out at the corner of the grounds we can sort of sneak around back and maybe get in without being seen. faculty's beastly strict about outstaying leave." the car crossed the railroad track and presently pulled up quietly in the gloom of the trees along the road and the four boys noiselessly descended, shook hands, promised to pay a visit some day to cedar ridge and stole off to the right through the darkness. a moment later the tiny red light of the automobile vanished from sight. tim called a halt at the wall. "you'd better bunk out with us tonight, clint," he whispered. "we'll beat it around back of the gym and get in the shadows of the buildings. say, don, you're sure we left that window unlatched?" "of course we did! it hasn't been closed for a week." "then forward, my brave comrades! if anyone sees us we'd better scatter and hide out for awhile." they climbed over a stone wall and made their way through a grove adjoining the school grounds, keeping close to the boundary fence. it was as dark as pitch in the woods and every now and then one or another would walk into a tree or fall over a root. don's teeth were chattering like castanets, for the night had grown cooler and a little breeze was blowing from the west, and his clothing was still far from dry. they crept past the back of the cottage very cautiously, for there were lights upstairs and down, and breathed easier when the black bulk of the gymnasium loomed before them and they could crawl over the fence and drop back into school ground. from the corner of the gymnasium to billings was a long distance, and looked just now longer than it ever had before. also, in spite of the fact that there was no moon, the night was surprisingly light and tim scowled disapprovingly at the stars as they paused for an instant at the corner of the building to get their breaths. "keep low," advised tim, "and make for torrence. then we'll stay close to the walls of the buildings. you want to see if there's a window open in torrence, clint?" "no, i'll stay with you fellows. i'd probably walk into a chair or a table and someone would take me for a burglar." "come on, then. haste to yon enfolding darkness!" they "hasted," and a second or two after were creeping, doubled up lest their heads show above the darkened windows and arouse unwelcome curiosity, along the rear of torrence. then they raced across the space dividing torrence from main hall and repeated the proceedings until, finally, they were under the windows of number 6 billings. both were open at the bottom and their doubts and tribulations were at an end. clint was assisted in first, tom followed and then tim and, finally, don was unceremoniously yanked up and through. "eureka!" breathed tim. "can you make it to your room, tom? if you don't want to risk it you can bunk out here on the window-seat or somewhere." "you may have half of my bed," offered don. but tom was already removing his shoes. "if horace hears me," he whispered, "he's got better ears than i think he has. good-night, fellows. we had a bully time, even if we didn't get that rarebit!" tim groaned hollowly. "there! now you've gone and reminded me that i'm starved to death!" "shut up," warned don. "don't forget that horace's bedroom is right there." he nodded toward the wall. "beat it, tom, and don't fall over your feet!" the door opened soundlessly, closed again and tom was gone. they listened, and, although the transom was slightly open, not a creak or a shuffle reached them. "he's all right," whispered tim. "me for bed, fellows. want to come in with me, clint, or will you luxuriate on the window-seat?" "window-seat, thanks. got a coat or something?" tim pulled a comforter from the closet shelf and tossed it to him, and quietly and quickly they got out of their clothes and sought their couches. ten minutes later three very healthy snores alone disturbed the silence of number 6. the next morning clint joined the others and walked unobtrusively along the row with them in the direction of wendell and breakfast, but when he reached torrence he quite as unobtrusively slipped through the doorway and sought his room to repair his appearance and relieve the anxiety of amory byrd. and that seemed to conclude the adventure for all hands, and don, for one, was extremely thankful that they had escaped detection and the punishment which would have certainly followed. but that sunday afternoon, while on his way to torrence to recover a book which leroy draper had borrowed in the spring and neglected to return, he fell in with harry walton and made the disconcerting discovery that he had congratulated himself too soon. don had no particular liking for walton, although he by no means held him in the disdain that amy byrd and some others did, and he was a little surprised when harry fell into step beside him. "have a good time last night?" asked harry with an ingratiating leer. "last night?" echoed don vacantly. he remembered then that lawton roomed in number 20 billings, directly above number 6. "what about last night?" harry winked meaningly and chuckled. "well, i guess there was a party, wasn't there? i noticed you got home sort of late." "did i? what makes you think that?" "i happened to be looking out my window, don. it was sort of hot and i wasn't sleepy. who were the other fellows?" "other fellows? i guess you didn't see any others, walton." harry's saturnine countenance again wreathed itself with a growing grin. "didn't, eh? all right. i probably imagined them." "maybe you were asleep and dreamed it," said don gravely. "guess you must have, walton." "oh, i'm not going to talk, don. you needn't be afraid of that." "i'm not," responded the other drily. "well, i'm going in here. so long, walton." "bye, don. i'm mum." don nodded and entered torrence, but on the way upstairs he frowned disgustedly. he didn't believe for an instant that walton would deliberately get them into trouble, but he might talk so much that the facts would eventually work around to one of the masters. don wished that almost any fellow he knew save walton had witnessed that entry by the window of number 6. later, when he returned from his visit to roy draper, without the book, by the way, since it had mysteriously disappeared, he recounted his conversation with walton to tim. tim didn't let it bother him any, however. "harry won't give us away. why should he? besides, if he did he would know mighty well that i'd spoil his brunette beauty!" "well, he may tell it around and horace or somebody'll hear it. that's all i'm worrying about." "don't worry, donald. keep a clear conscience and you'll never know what worry is. that's my philosophy." don smiled and dismissed the matter from consideration. on monday he had his first try at coaching the second team tackles and found that, after all, he got on fairly well. there were four candidates for the positions and two of them, kirkwell and merton, promised well. kirkwell, in fact, had already had a full season of experience on the second. merton was a graduate from his last year's hall team. the other two, brace and goodhugh, were novices and had everything to learn, and it was with them that don laboured the hardest. monday's practice ended with a ten-minute scrimmage between two hastily selected teams, and don, for the first time that fall, played in his old position of left guard. merton, who opposed him, found that he still had much to learn. on tuesday, after a long and grilling tackling practice at the dummy, coach boutelle announced his line-up for the scrimmage against the first team, and don was disappointed to find that kirkwell and not he was down for left guard. the right guard position went to merton. don, with mr. boutelle and a half-dozen of the more promising substitutes, followed their team about the field, boots criticising and driving and don breaking in with hurried instructions to the guards. the first team had no trouble in piling up four touchdowns that afternoon, even though three regulars were still out of the line-up. between the short periods don coached kirkwell and merton again, and kirkwell, who was a decent chap but fancied himself a bit, was inclined to resent it. "chop it off, gilbert," he said finally. "give a fellow a chance to use his own brains a little. i'm no greenhorn, you know. i played guard all last year on this team." "i know you did," answered don. "and i don't say you can't play your position all right. but the best of us make mistakes, and boots has told me to look out for them and try and correct them. i'd a lot rather be playing than doing this, kirkwell, but while i am doing it i'm going to do it the best i know how. a fellow who isn't in the game sees a lot the player doesn't, and when----" "oh, all right. only don't tell me stuff i know as well as i know my name, gilbert. don't nag." "sorry. i'll try not to. but you see what i mean about that stiff-arm business, don't you? don't get out of position when you're not sure where the play's coming, kirkwell. stiff-arm your man and hold him off until you see what's doing. then you can play him right or left or shove him back. once or twice you waited too long to find out where the play was coming and you didn't hold your man off. get me?" "yes, but we don't all play the position the same way, you know. what's the good of sparring with your man when you've got to find where the play's coming? you can't watch the ball and your opponent too, can you?" "it doesn't sound reasonable," said don, "but you can! you watch hall do it, if you don't believe me. maybe you don't actually look two ways at once, kirkwell, but you can watch your man and locate the play at the same time. i suppose it comes with practice." "i'd like to see you do it," replied kirkwell aggrievedly. "watch hall do it. he's the best guard around here. i'm not setting up as an example." "you talk like it," muttered kirkwell. but merton, who had been a silent audience, stepped in to don's support. "gilbert's only trying to help us, ned. quit grousing. come on; time's up." in spite of mutinous objections kirkwell profited by don's advice and instruction and soon showed an improvement in his defensive playing. it didn't appear that day, for kirkwell was replaced by don before the second period was more than a few minutes old, while merton gave way to goodhugh. don's advent considerably strengthened the left of the second team's line and more than once during his brief presence there he had the satisfaction of outwitting tom hall and once got clear through and smeared a play well behind the first team's line. boots cut his squad from day to day and on friday only some eighteen candidates remained. brace went with the discard. between parting with brace and goodhugh, don, when consulted, chose to sacrifice the former. possibly young brace suspected don's part in his release, for, for some time after that, he viewed don with scowls. don's hand was now entirely healed, although the scars still showed, and, according to the doctor, would continue to show for a long time. mr. boutelle used don at right guard during some portion of every scrimmage game against the first, a fact which caused kirkwell a deal of anxiety. kirkwell had from the first, and not unreasonably, resented don's appearance with the second team squad. don had been, as every fellow knew, slated for the first team, and kirkwell thought it was unfair of him to drop back to the second and "try to do him out of his place." feeling as he did, it isn't surprising that he took more and more unkindly to don's teaching. it took all of don's good nature at times to prevent an open break with kirkwell. once the latter accused don of trying to "ball him up" so that he would play poorly and don would get the position. the next day, though, he made an awkward apology for that accusation and was quite receptive to don's criticisms and instructions. but don's task was no easy one and it grew harder as the season progressed and the second team, especially as to its linemen, failed to develop the ability mr. boutelle looked for. don more than once was on the point of resigning his somewhat thankless task, but tim refused to sanction it, and what tim said had a good deal of influence with don. "well, then," he said moodily, "i hope kirkwell will break something and get out of it." "tut, tut," remonstrated tim. "them's no christian sentiments." "i do, though. or, anyway, i hope something will happen to let me out of it. boots said he was afraid robey would take me on the first, but i don't see any chance of it." "i don't see why he doesn't, though," mused tim. "your hand's all right now and you're playing a corking good game. you can work all around any guard he's got except, maybe, tom. tom's rather a bit above the average, if you ask me. neither walton nor pryme amounts to a whole lot." "robey's been playing walton a good deal lately," said don. "i wouldn't be surprised if he put him in ahead of gafferty before long." "there isn't a lot to choose between them, i guess," answered tim. "gafferty's no earthly good on offence. wait till we run up against benton tomorrow. those huskies will show gafferty up finely. and maybe some more of us," tim added with a chuckle. "oh, well----" began don, vaguely, after a minute. but tim interrupted. "know what i think? i think robey means to take you on the first later and is letting you stay with boots just so you'll get fined down and speeded up a bit. you know you're still a little slow, donald." "i am?" don asked in genuine surprise. "i didn't know it. how do you mean, slow, tim?" tim leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together behind his head. "every way, donald. i'm telling you this for your own good, dearie. i thought you realised it, though, or i'd have said it before. you start slow and you don't get up steam until the play's about over. if it wasn't that you're an indecently strong chap we'd get the jump on you every time. we do, as it is, only it doesn't do us much good, because you're a tough chap to move. now you think it over, don. see if you can't ginger up a bit. bet you anything that when you do robey'll have you yanked off that second team in no time at all!" "i'm glad you told me," said don, after a moment's consideration. "i thought i was doing pretty well this fall. i know well enough it was being all-fired slow that kept me off the first last fall, but i surely thought i'd picked up a whole lot of speed. i'll have to go back to practising starts, i guess." "oh, never mind the kindergarten stuff, old man. just put more jump into it. you'll find you can do it all right, now that you know about it. why, i'll bet you'll be performing like a jack rabbit before the season's over!" "like a jackass, more likely," responded don ruefully. "no, for a jackass, dearie, doesn't take a hint." "well, but i don't believe i _can_ play any faster, tim. if i could i'd be doing it, wouldn't i? just naturally, i mean." "never mind the conundrums, don. you try it. if you do i'll be willing to guarantee you a place on the first." "i guess your guarantee wouldn't cut much ice," objected don, with a laugh. then he sobered and added: "funny game, though, me coaching kirkwell and merton and goodhugh. looks as if i was the one needed the coaching." "sure. we all need it. no one's perfect, don, although, without boasting, i will say that i come pretty near it." "you come pretty near being a perfect chump, if that's what you mean." tim shook his head. "it isn't at all what i mean. now cut out the artless prattle and let me find some sense in this history stuff--if there is any!" chapter ix the width of a finger at chapel the next morning mr. fernald, the principal, after the usual announcements had been made, lifted a newspaper from the table at his side and ran his eyes over an item there. "i have here," he said, "a copy of this week's brimfield _times_, which tells of an incident of which i had not learned. in telling of a fire on saturday night last which destroyed a barn and damaged other buildings on the farm of mr. william corrigan, some three miles from the village, the _times_ makes mention of the valuable assistance of a mr. grover brady and four boys of this school. according to the _times_, mr. brady and four boys dashed to the scene in a high-powered automobile, organised a bucket brigade and saved"--mr. fernald consulted his authority again--"saved the dwelling house from the devouring element. the metaphor is that of the paper. possibly the _times_ is misinformed with regard to the heroic young firemen, although i hope not. i should be very pleased to discover that they were really brimfieldians. if they were, if they are before me at this moment, i trust they will signify the fact by standing up. i'm sure we'd all like to know their identity and give them well-deserved applause. now then, will the modest heroes kindly reveal themselves?" silence ensued, a silence broken only by a few whispers and some shuffling of feet. every fellow's eyes searched the room, or, at least, that is true of almost every fellow. tim smiled innocently and expectantly at the principal, clint studied the back of the head in front of him most interestedly, don observed the scar in his hand absorbedly and tom grinned because steve edwards was whispering from the side of his mouth: "why don't you get up, you bloomin' hero, why don't you get up?" harry walton was smiling that knowing smile of his and doing his best to catch don's eye. and don somehow knew it and didn't dare look toward him. "i'm disappointed," said mr. fernald after a minute. "either the paper is mistaken or the fellows are over-modest. well, if they won't speak for themselves perhaps someone else will volunteer to wrest them from the obscurity they so evidently court. how about that, boys? anyone know who the heroes are?" again silence for an instant, and then, in various parts of the room, the sudden moving of seats or tramping of feet as though someone was about to get up. but no one did, and some of the younger boys in front began to titter nervously. mr. fernald smiled and laid the brimfield _times_ back on the table. "no heroes amongst us, eh? well, doubtless if any of you had been there you'd have performed quite as well as these unknown young gentlemen did. i like to think so. dismissed." "do you think he suspects us?" asked tom as he ranged himself beside tim on the way out. "gee, i thought once he was looking right at me!" "that's what it is to have a guilty conscience," replied tim, in a virtuous tone. "of course he doesn't suspect. if he did he'd have named us, sure as shooting. the funny part of it is that he hasn't thought about what time the fire was! maybe the paper didn't say. if he knew that he'd probably be a sight more anxious to find us!" "i was scared stiff that harry walton would blab. i didn't dare look at him." "harry doesn't know you were with us. he recognised don, or says he did, and he naturally thinks i was along, but he doesn't know who the other two were. if he opens his mouth i'll brain him." "i guess he won't. he's a sort of a pup, but he isn't mean enough for that. gee, but it almost ruined my appetite for breakfast!" "even if josh did find out," said tim as they turned into wendell, "he wouldn't do much to us, i guess. it wasn't our fault the fire was late in getting started, and the paper calls us heroes----" "i don't believe it does. that's some of josh's nonsense. i'm going to get a copy of the _times_ and see what it does say." "take my advice and let the _times_ alone," advised tim. "why, i wouldn't be seen with a copy of it in my possession! it would be circumstantial evidence, or corroborative evidence or something horrid, and i'd get pinched for sure. you keep away from the _times_, dearie." there was a good deal of interested speculation as to the identity of the four youths who had participated in the rescue of farmer corrigan's dwelling, but the general opinion was to the effect that the local paper had erred. one fellow made the suggestion in don's hearing that if faculty would look it up and see who had leave of absence saturday night they might spot the chaps. don sincerely hoped the idea wouldn't occur to mr. fernald! but interest in the matter soon waned, for brimfield was to play benton military academy that afternoon and what sort of a showing she would make against that very worthy opponent was a far more absorbing subject for speculation. benton had been defeated handily enough last year, but reports from the military academy this fall led brimfield to expect a hard contest. and her expectations were fulfilled. benton brought at least a hundred neatly uniformed rooters along and the field took on a very gallant appearance. the visitors seemed gaily confident of victory and from the time they marched into the field and took their places in the stand until the kick-off there was no cessation of the songs and cheers from the blue-clad cohorts. coach robey started his best men in that game and, as was quickly proved, needed to. the first period was a bitterly contested punting duel in which rollins, and, later, st. clair came off second best. but the difference in the kicking of the rival teams was not sufficient to allow of much advantage, and the first ten-minute set-to ended without a score. in fact, neither team had been at any time within scoring distance of the other's goal line. when play began again benton changed her tactics and started a rushing game that for a few minutes made headway. but a fumble cost her the ball and a possible score on the maroon-and-grey's twenty-yard line and the latter adopted the enemy's plan and banged at the soldiers' line for fair gains. a forward pass brought the spectators to their feet and gained twenty-two yards for brimfield, steve edwards being on the receiving end of a very pretty play. but benton stiffened presently and brimfield was forced to kick. that kick spelled disaster for brimfield. rollins dropped back to near his own thirty yards and sent a remarkable corkscrew punt to benton's twenty. it was one of the prettiest punts ever seen on the brimfield gridiron, for it was so long that it went over the quarter-back's head, so high that it enabled the maroon-and-grey ends to get well down under it and was nicely placed in the left-hand corner of the field. the benton quarter made no effort to touch it while it was bounding toward the goal line, for with both edwards and holt hovering about him a fumble might easily have resulted, and it was only when the pigskin had settled down to a slow, toppling roll and it was evident that it did not mean to go over the line that the benton quarter seized it. what happened then was little short of a miracle. both captain edwards and holt took it for granted that the quarter-back meant to drop on the ball and call it down, and, since there was no necessity to smother the opponent, each waited for the other to tackle and hold him. but the first thing anyone knew the benton quarter had the ball in his hands, had squirmed somehow between edwards and holt and was speeding up the middle of the field! between him and the fifty-yard line friend and foe were mingled, and to win through seemed a preposterous undertaking. and yet first one and then another of the enemy was passed, team-mates formed hasty interference for the runner and, suddenly, to the consternation of the brimfield stand, the quarter, with the ball snuggled in the crook of his left elbow, was out of the mêlée, with a clear field before him and two benton players guarding his rear. crewe made a desperate effort to get him near the thirty-yard line, but the interference was too much for him, and after that, although brimfield trailed the runner to the goal line and over, there was no doubt as to the result. and when the benton quarter deposited the ball squarely between the posts and laid himself down beside it friend and foe alike arose from their seats and cheered him long and loudly. never had a more spectacular run been made there, for not only had the quarter practically traversed the length of the field, but had eluded the entire opposing eleven. benton deserved to secure the odd point by kicking goal, but goal-kicking was the quarter-back's business and he was far too tuckered to try, and so the player who did make the attempt failed miserably, and benton had to be satisfied with those six points. probably she was, for she cheered madly and incessantly while the period lasted and then spent the half-time singing triumphant paeans. and those military academy chaps could sing, too! brimfield, a bit chastened, listened and applauded generously and only found her own voice when the maroon-and-grey warriors trotted back again. carmine had given place to mcphee at quarter and holt to cheep at right end. otherwise brimfield's line was the same as in the first half. mcphee opened his bag of tricks soon after play began and double-passes and delayed-passes and a certain fake plunge at guard with quarter running wide outside the drawn-in end made good gains and took the ball down the field with only one halt to benton's twenty-three yards. there the military academy team solved a fake-kick and st. clair was laid low behind his line. rollins made up the lost distance and a little more besides, and finally, with the ball on benton's nineteen yards on fourth down, captain edwards called for a try-at-goal and rollins dropped back to the thirty. fortunately the maroon-and-grey forwards held back the plunging enemy in good style, rollins had all the time he wanted, the pigskin dropped neatly over the bar, and the score-board figures proclaimed 6 to 3. benton kicked off and once more brimfield started up the field, st. clair, tim otis and rollins banging the line from end to end and edwards varying the monotony by sweeping around behind and launching himself off on wide runs. but the advance slackened near the middle of the field and an attempted forward pass was captured by benton. that play brought the ten-minute period to an end. benton tried the brimfield centre and got through for four yards, hit it again and made three and placed the ball on the home team's forty-yard line. time was called for brimfield and danny moore trotted on to administer to gafferty. the left guard was soon on his feet again, although a trifle unsteady, it seemed, and benton, with three yards to gain, swung into the other side and pushed a half-back through for the distance. carmine replaced mcphee and holt went back to end position. benton once more thrust at gafferty and, although the secondary defence plugged the hole, went through for two yards. time was again called and this time the trainer led joe gafferty off the field, the latter protesting bitterly, and harry walton was hurried in. benton tried a forward pass and made it go for a small gain and then, on third down, got past thayer and reached the eighteen before carmine tipped up the runner. across the gridiron, benton's supporters yelled mightily and a second touchdown looked imminent. benton fumbled and recovered for a two-yard loss and then sent that heroic quarter up the field to try a drop kick. it looked easy enough, for the ball was near the twenty-eight yards and in front of the right hand goal post. captain edwards implored his men to block the kick and comparative quiet fell over the field. back shot the ball and the quarter's foot swung at it, but the left side of the benton line crumbled and hall and crewe flung themselves into the path of the ball. four seconds later it was snuggled under tim otis's chest near the thirty-five yards, for tim had followed the forwards through and trailed the bouncing pigskin up the field. that misadventure seemed to take the heart out of the visitors, and when brimfield, with new courage and determination, smashed at her line she fell back time and again. substitutes were sent in lavishly, but although the right side of the benton line stiffened for awhile, the left continued weak. coach robey sent in compton to replace steve edwards and, later, howard for st. clair. with the best part of five minutes left, brimfield hoped to put over a winning touchdown, and the backs responded gallantly to carmine's demands. near the enemy's forty-yard line rollins threw a neat forward to holt and the latter raced along the side of the field for a dozen yards before he was forced over the line. that took the ball to benton's twenty-one. two tries at the line netted but six yards and compton took the pigskin on an end-around play and just made the distance. brimfield hammered the enemy's left wing and reached her five-yard line in three downs, but benton, fiercely determined, her feet on the last line mark, was putting up a strong defence. tom hall, captain pro tem., and carmine consulted. a forward pass might succeed, and if it did would win the game, but benton would be watching for it and neither holt nor compton was a brilliant catcher of thrown balls. a goal from the field would only tie the score, but it seemed the wisest play. so rollins dropped back to the twenty and stretched his arms. but benton was sure a forward was to result and when the ball went back her attempts to block the kick were not very enthusiastic. that was fortunate for brimfield, for thursby's pass had been short and rollins had to pick the ball from the turf before he could swing at it. that delay was almost his undoing, since the benton forwards were now trickling through, and it was only by the veriest good fortune that the ball shot between them from rollins's toe and, after showing an inclination to pass to the left of the goal and changing its mind in mid-air, dropped over the bar barely inside the post. brimfield cheered and the 3 on the board changed to 6. coach robey called rollins and tim otis out, replacing them with martin and gordon. brimfield kicked off once more and, with a scant minute and a half to play, the maroon-and-grey tried valiantly to add another score. carmine caught on his twenty and took the ball to the thirty-six before he was stopped, and brimfield cheered wildly and danced about in the stand. plugging the line would never cover that distance to the farther goal line and so carmine sent gordon off around the left end. but gordon couldn't find the hole and was run down for no gain. a forward pass, carmine to compton, laid the ball on the forty-eight yards. howard slid off right tackle for six and, on a fake-kick play, martin ran around left end for seven more. brimfield shouted imploringly from the stand and, across the field, benton cheered incessantly, doggedly, longing for the whistle. the benton team used all allowable methods to waste time. the timekeeper hovered nearby, his eyes darting from the galloping hand of his watch to the players. "twenty-nine seconds," he responded to tom hall's question. carmine clapped his hands impatiently. "signals now! make this good! left tackle over! 27--57--88--16! hep! 27--57--88----" the backs swung obliquely to the right, carmine dropped from sight, his back to the line, benton's left side was borne slowly away, fighting hard, and confusion reigned. then carmine whirled around, sprang, doubled over, through the scattered right side of the enemy's line, challenged only by the end, who made a desperate attempt at a tackle but failed, and, with only the opposing quarter between him and the goal line, raced like the wind. about him was a roaring babel of sound, voices urging him on, shouts of dismay, imploring shrieks from behind. then the quarter was before him, crouching with out-reached hands, a strained, anxious look on his dirt-streaked face. they met near the twenty-yard line. the benton quarter launched himself forward. carmine swung to the left and leaped. a hand groped at his ankle, caught, and carmine fell sprawling to the turf. but he found his feet like a cat, wrenched the imprisoned ankle free and went staggering, stumbling on. again he fell, on the five-yard line, and again the benton quarter dived for him. but carmine was not to be stopped with the line only five short yards away. he wrested himself to his feet again, the arms of the benton quarter squirming about his knees, plunged on a stride, dragging the enemy with him, found his legs locked firmly now, struggled desperately and then flung himself sidewise toward the last white streak. and as he fell his hands, clasping the ball, reached forward and a whistle blew. it was said afterward that a half-inch decided that touchdown. and the half-inch was on the wrong side of the line! carmine wept frankly when he heard the decision and tom hall had to be held away from the referee, but facts were facts and carmine had lost his touchdown and brimfield the victory by the width of a finger! benton departed joyously, cheering and singing, and brimfield tried hard to be satisfied with a drawn game. but she wasn't very successful, and for the next few days the referee's decision was discussed and derided and regretted. what sorrow don felt was largely mitigated when, after supper that evening, steve edwards found him in front of billings. "you come to us monday, don," said the captain. "robey told me to tell you. joe gafferty's got a rib caved in and is out of it for a fortnight at least. get tim to coach you up on the signals. don't forget." as though he was likely to! chapter x tim exults and explains when don told tim the latter insisted on performing a triumphal dance about the room to the tune of "boola." when don squirmed himself loose tim continued alone until the droplight was knocked to the floor at the cost of one green shade. then he threw himself, panting but jubilant, on his bed and hilariously kicked his feet in air. don observed him with a faint smile. "you wooden indian, you!" exclaimed tim, sitting up and dropping his feet to the floor with a crash. "there you stand like a--a graven image, looking as though you'd just received an invitation to a funeral! cheer, you idiot! make a noise! aren't you tickled to death?" "you bet i am!" replied don. "well, do something, then! you ought to have a little of my latin temperament, don. you'd be a heap easier to live with. if it was i who had just been waited on humbly by the first team captain and invited to join the eleven i'd--i'd make a--a noise!" "what do you think you've been doing?" laughed don. "you'll have horace in here in a minute. steve says you're to coach me on the signals." "tomorrow!" tim waved his hand. "time enough for that, don. just now it behooves us to celebrate." "how?" asked don. tim thought long and earnestly. finally, "let's borrow larry jones's accordion and serenade josh!" he said. "let's not. and let's not go to a fire, either! think of something better, timmy." "then we'll go out and bay at the moon. i've got to do something! by the time joe's got his busted rib mended you'll have that left guard position nailed to the planks, don." "how about walton?" asked don dubiously. "a fig for walton! two figs for him! a whole box of figs! all you've got to do is speed up a bit and----" "suppose i can't?" "suppose nothing! you've _got_ to! if you don't you'll have me to fight, donald. if you don't cinch that position in just one week i--i'll take you over my knee and spank you with a belt! come on over to clint's room. let us disseminate the glorious tidings. let us----" "i'd rather learn the signals," said don. "there's only tonight and tomorrow, you know." tim appealed despairingly to the ceiling with wide-spread hands. "there's no poetry in his soul," he mourned, "no blood in his veins!" he faced don scornfully. "donald p. gilbert is your name, my son, and the p stands for practical. all right, then, draw up a chair and let's have it over. to think, though, that i should have to sit indoors a night like this and teach signals to a wooden-head! i wooden do it for anyone else. ha! how's that! get a pad and a pencil and try to look intelligent." "all right? mark 'em down, then. starting at the left, number your holes 1, 3, 5, 7, 8, 6, 4, 2. got that? number your left end 1, the next man 3, the next 5. omit centre. right guard 6, right tackle 4, right end 2. now, your backfield. quarter 0, left half 7, right half 8, full-back 9." "gee, that's hard to remember," murmured don. "and hard to guess," answered tim. "now, your first number, unless it's under thirty, is a fake. if it's under thirty it means that the next number is the number of a play. over thirty, it means nothing. your second digit of your second number is your runner. the second digit of the third number is the hole. the fourth number, as you doubtless surmise, is also a fake. now, then, sir! 65--47--23--98! what is it?" "left half between end and tackle." "on the left. correct. 19--87--77--29?" "i don't know. nineteen calls for a numbered play." "right again, mr. gilbert, your performance is startling! the pity of it is, though, that about the time you get these signals pat robey'll change them for the claflin game. so far we've only got eight numbered plays, and they aren't complicated. want to go into them tonight?" "no, i guess not. i'd rather get these holes and players sort of fixed in my mind first. we'll go over the plays tomorrow, if you don't mind." "it will break my heart, but i'll do it for you. now will you come over to clint's?" "i'd rather not, tim. you go. i want to mull over these signals." presently, having exhausted his vocabulary on his room-mate, tim went. don settled his head in his hands and studied the numbered diagram for the better part of an hour. don was slow at memorising, but what was once forced into his mind stayed there. a little before ten o'clock he slipped the diagram under a box in a bureau drawer and went to bed with a calm mind, and when tim returned riotously a few minutes later don was sleeping peacefully. on monday, in chapel, don and the "heroes" of farmer corrigan's conflagration had another shock, and don, for one, wondered when he was to hear the last of that affair. "since last week," said mr. fernald drily, "when i requested the four boys who helped to put out a fire at the corrigan farm to make themselves known to an admiring public, i have gained an understanding of their evident desire to conceal their identities. i am forced to the conclusion that it was not altogether modesty that kept them silent. the fire, it appears, did not break out until nearly half-past nine. consequently the young gentlemen were engaged in their heroic endeavours at a time when they should have been in their dormitories. i have not yet found out who they were, but i am making earnest efforts to do so. meanwhile, if they wish to lighten the consequences of their breach of school regulations, i'd earnestly advise them to call and see me. i may add that, in view of the unusual circumstances, had they made a clean breast of the affair i should have dealt very leniently with them. that is all, i think. dismissed." none of the culprits dared to so much as glance at the others on the way out of the hall, but afterward, when breakfast was over, they gathered anxiously together in number 6 billings and discussed the latest development with lowered voices, like a quartette of anarchists arranging a bomb party. "he's right up on his ear," said clint gloomily. "if he gets us now he will send us all packing, and don't you doubt it!" "piffle!" this from tim, the least impressed of the four. "probation is all we'd get. didn't the paper say we were heroes?" "no, it didn't," answered tom shortly. "and i wish that paper was in halifax!" "might as well be fired as put on pro," said clint. "it would mean no more football this year for any of us. my word, wouldn't robey be mad!" "wouldn't i be!" growled tom. "look here, do you really suppose he's trying to find out who we were, or was that just a bluff to scare us into 'fessing up!" "josh isn't much of a bluffer," observed don judiciously. "what he says he means. what i don't savvy is why he hasn't found out already. every hall master has a record of leaves." "yes, but it was saturday night and i'll bet half the school had leave," said tim. "i dare say, though, that if any fellows are suspected we're amongst 'em, don. being on the first floor, josh knows we could sneak in easily. still, he can't prove it on us." "i'm not so sure," replied don thoughtfully. "suppose he asked mr. brady?" a dismayed silence ensued until tom laughed mirthlessly. "that's one on us," he said. "we never thought of that. maybe he has asked brady already." "brady doesn't know our names," said tim. "you didn't tell him, did you, don?" "no, he didn't ask. but he could easily describe us so that josh would recognise us, i guess." "that's the trouble with being so plaguy distinguished looking," mourned tim. "seems to me, fellows, that there's just one thing to be did, and did sudden." "you mean warn mr. brady?" asked clint. "exactly, my discerning young friend. maybe the horse is stolen----" "what horse?" asked tom perplexedly. "merely a figure of speech, tom. i was about to observe when so rudely interrupted----" "oh, cut out the verbiage," growled tom. "that possibly it was too late to lock the stable door," continued tim, "but we'd better do it, just the same. let's see if he has a telephone." "of course he has," said clint, "but i don't think it would be safe to call him up. we'd better see him. or write him a letter." "he wouldn't get a letter until tomorrow, maybe," objected don. "one of us had better beat it over to his place as soon as possible and ask him to keep mum." "i can't go," said tom. "i've got four recits this morning and robey would never let me off practice." "i don't believe any of us will do much work this afternoon," said tim. "i'll go if robey'll let me cut. i wish someone would come along, though. it's a dickens of a trip to make alone. you come, clint." "i will if i can. we'll ask robey at dinner. what shall we say to this brady man?" "just tell him what's doing and ask him to forget what we looked like if josh writes to him or calls him up or anything. brady's a good old scout, i'll bet," added tim with conviction. "maybe we'd better buy a setting of eggs to get on the good side of him." "don't be a chump," begged tim. "i don't call this a comedy situation, if you do, tim. i'd certainly hate to get on pro and have to drop football!" "don't be a chump," begged tom. "i don't say it's a comedy, but there's no use weeping, is there? what's done is done, and we've got to make the best of it, and a laugh never hurt anyone yet." "well, then, let's make the best of it," answered tom peevishly. "talking doesn't do any good." "neither does grouching," said tim sweetly. "you leave it all to clint and me, tom. we're a swell pair of fixers. if we can get to brady before josh does we're all right. and it's a safe wager josh hasn't asked brady yet, for if he had he'd be on to us. there's the nine o'clock bell, fellows, and i've got a recit. see you later. hope for the best, tom, and fear the worst!" tim seized his books and dashed out, followed more leisurely by clint. tom remained a few minutes longer and then he, too, took his departure, still filled with forebodings. don, left to himself, drew a chair to the table and began to study. truth, however, compels me to state that what he studied was not his german, although he had a recitation coming in forty minutes, but two sheets of buff paper torn from a scratch-pad and filled with writing interspersed with numerals and adorned with strange diagrams, in short, tim's elucidation of the eight numbered plays which up to the present comprised brimfield's budget of tricks. it can't be said that don covered himself with glory in mr. daley's german class that morning or that the instructor was at all satisfied, but don had the secret satisfaction of knowing that stored away in the back of his brain was a very thorough knowledge of the brimfield football signal code and of mr. robey's special plays. chapter xi mr. brady forgets that afternoon don's knowledge stood him in good stead, for with more than half the first-string players excused from practice, his services were called on at the start, and, with mcphee and cotter running the squad, the signal drill was long and thorough. harry walton viewed don's advent with disfavour. that was apparent to don and anyone else who thought of the matter, although he pretended a good-natured indifference that wasn't at all deceiving. don more than once caught his rival observing him with resentment and dislike, and, remembering that harry walton had been a witness of his unconventional return to hall that night, he experienced misgivings. of course, harry wouldn't "peach," but--well, don again wished anyone rather than harry had stumbled on the secret. but he didn't have much time for worrying about that matter, for coach robey went after them hard that day. in the practice game with the second team don started at left guard and played the position until within a few minutes of the whistle. then harry walton, who had been disgruntledly adorning the bench, took his place. he didn't look at don as he accepted the latter's head-guard, but don was well aware that harry felt anything but good-will for him. naturally enough, harry had, don reflected, expected to step into gafferty's place without opposition when news of the extent of the latter's injury had become known, and it was undoubtedly a big disappointment to him to discover that he had to fight a new opponent. don could sympathise with harry, for he had endured disappointments himself during his brief football career, but it is difficult to sympathise very enthusiastically when the subject of your sympathy shows his dislike for you, and don metaphorically shrugged his shoulders as he trotted up to the gymnasium. "it isn't my fault," he said to himself. "i didn't bust joe gafferty's rib and i'm not responsible for robey's taking me on the first team. walton will just have to make the best of it." don couldn't flatter himself that he had played that afternoon with especial brilliancy, although he had managed to hold his end up fairly well. the fact was that he had been so intent on getting speeded into his performance that he had rather skimped the niceties of line-play. and he wasn't at all certain that he had shown any more speed than usual, either. he awaited mr. robey's appearance in the locker-room with some apprehension, certain that if he had erred badly he would soon learn of it. when the coach did arrive at the tail of the procession of panting players and said his say without once singling out don for special attention, the latter was relieved. he couldn't, he told himself, have done so very badly, after all! tom walked back to billings with don to learn the result of tim's and clint's embassy to the cedar ridge poultry farm, for the two had obtained leave of absence from mr. robey and had set forth on their journey the minute a three o'clock recitation was finished. tim wasn't in number 6 when they reached it, but he and clint tramped in soon after, dusty and weary but evidently triumphant. tim narrated their experiences. "missed the three-fifty car, just as i told clint we would if he didn't hustle----" "i had to find a cap to wear, didn't i?" interpolated clint. "well, we found the place all right, fellows, and, say, it's some poultry farm, believe me, dearies! isn't it corking, clint?" clint grunted assent, stretching tired legs across the floor. "there's about a thousand acres of it, i guess, and a mile of red chicken houses and runs, or whatever you call 'em. how many hens and things did he tell us he had, clint?" "eighteen hundred, i think. maybe it was eighteen thousand. i don't remember. all i know is there were chickens as far as you could see, and then some." "never mind the descriptive matter," urged tom. "what did he say? had josh been at him? did he promise----" "i'm coming to that, dearie. when we found him he was doing something to that car of his in a cute little garage. and, say, it's an eight-cylinder lothrop, and a regular jim-dandy! well, he took us into his house first----" tom groaned in despair. "----and fed us on crackers and cake and ginger ale. say, he's got a peach of a bungalow there; small but entire; and a cute little jap who cooks and looks after things for him. well, then he took us out and showed us around the place. chickens! gee, i didn't know there were so many in the world! and we saw the incubators and the--what you call them--brooders, and----" "for the love of mud!" exclaimed tom. "can't you get down to dots? _is it all right or isn't it?_" tim smiled exasperatingly. "then he showed us----" tom arose to his feet and took a step toward him. "it's all right," said tim hurriedly. "everything, thomas! we told him what was up and how we didn't want josh to find out it was us who attended mr. corrigan's fire party and asked him if he would please not remember what we looked like if josh asked him. and he said----" "he laughed," interrupted clint, and chuckled himself. "that's right! he laughed a lot. 'you're a little bit late,' he said. 'mr. fernald called me up by telephone nearly a week ago, fellows, and wanted to know all about it.' 'you didn't tell him?' i yelped. 'no, i couldn't,' he said. 'you see, you hadn't told me your names, and it was pretty dark that night and somehow or other i just couldn't seem to recall what you looked like! mr. fernald sounded considerably disappointed and like he didn't quite believe me, but that can't be helped.' say, fellows, i wanted to hug him! or--or buy an egg or something! honest, i did! he's all right, what?" "he's a corker!" said tom, sighing with relief. "you don't suppose corrigan or any of the others there that night would remember us, do you?" "not likely. mr. brady didn't think so, anyway." "then it's all to the merry!" cried tom. "gee, but that's a load off my mind!" "off your what?" asked tim curiously. "it's all right if harry walton keeps quiet," said don. "if he gets to talking----" "if he does i'll beat him up," said tim earnestly. "but he won't. he wouldn't be such a snip, in the first place, and he wouldn't dare to in the second." "n-no, i guess not," agreed don. but his tone didn't hold much conviction. "only, if----" "i'll tell you fellows one thing," announced tom vehemently. "don't strain yourself," advised tim. "and that," continued the other, scowling at the interruption, "is that no one gets me into any more scrapes until after the claflin game!" "gee, to hear you talk," exclaimed tim indignantly, "anyone would think we'd tied you up with a rope and forcibly abducted you! who's idea was it, anyway, to go to the village that night?" "yours, if you want to know! i don't say i didn't go along willingly enough, tim. what i do say is--_never again_! anyway," he added, "not until football's over!" morgan's school, which had defeated brimfield the year before, 6 to 3, came and departed. brimfield took the visitor's measure this time, and, although she only scored one touchdown and failed to kick goal, the contest was far less close and interesting than the score would suggest. brimfield played the opponents to a standstill in the first half and scored just before the end of it. in the third quarter coach robey began substituting and when the last ten minutes started the maroon-and-grey had only three first-string fellows in her line-up. the substitutes played good football and, while not able to push the pigskin across morgan's line, twice reached her fifteen yards and twice tried and narrowly missed a goal from the field. on the whole it could not be said that brimfield's performance that blustery saturday afternoon was impressive, for she was frequently caught napping on the defensive, showed periods of apathy and did more fumbling, none of which resulted disastrously, than she should have. tim otis had a remarkably good day and was undeniably the best man in the backfield for the home team. carmine played a heady, snappy game, and don, who played the most of three quarters at left guard, conducted himself very well. don's work was never of the spectacular sort, but at his best he was a steady and thoroughly reliable lineman and very effective on defence. he was still slow in getting into plays, a fact which made him of less value than joe gafferty on attack. even harry walton showed up better than don when brimfield had the ball. but neither gafferty nor walton was as strong on defence as don. walton had been very earnestly striving all the week to capture the guard position, but the fact that don had been played through most of the morgan's game indicated that the latter was as yet a slight favourite in coach robey's estimation. during the week succeeding the morgan's game the two rivals kept at it nip and tuck, and their team-mates looked on with interest. at practice mr. robey showed no favour to either, and each came in for his full share of criticism, but when, the next saturday, the team journeyed away from home and played cherry valley, it was again don who started the game between thayer and thursby and who remained in the line-up until the fourth period, by which time brimfield had piled up the very satisfactory score of twenty-six points. in the final five minutes cherry valley managed to fool the visitors and get a forward pass off for a gain that placed the ball on brimfield's fourteen yards, and from there her drop-kicker put the pigskin over the cross-bar and tallied three points. the game was uninteresting unless one was a partisan, and even then there were few thrills. brimfield played considerably better than in the morgan's game and emerged with no more important damages than a wrenched ankle, which fell to the share of martin, who had taken rollins's place in the last period. joe gafferty came back to practice the following monday, but was missing again a day or two later, and the school heard with some dismay that joe's parents had written to mr. fernald and forbidden joe to play any more football that year. joe was inconsolable and went around for the next week or so looking like a lost soul. after that he accepted the situation and helped mr. boutelle coach the second. that second had by that time been shaken together into a very capable and smooth-running team, a team which was giving the first more and more trouble every day. coach robey had again levied on it for a player, taking merton to the first when gafferty was lost to him, and again mr. boutelle growled and protested and, finally, philosophically shrugged his shoulders. a week later merton was released to the second once more and pryme, who had been playing at right guard as a substitute for tom hall, was tried out on the other side of centre with good results. pryme's advent as a contender for the left guard position complicated the battle between don and harry walton, and until after the southby game the trio of candidates indulged in a three-cornered struggle that was quite pretty to watch. unfortunately for don, that struggle for supremacy threatened to affect his class standing, for it occupied so much of his thought that there was little left for study. when, however, the office dropped a hint and mr. daley presented an ultimatum, don realised that he was taking football far too seriously, and, being a rather level-headed youth, he mended his ways. he expected, as a result, to find himself left behind in the race with walton and pryme, but, oddly enough, his game was in no degree affected so far as he could determine. in fact, within a few days the situation was simplified by the practical elimination of pryme as a contender. this happened when, just before the southby game, tom hall, together with eight other members of mr. moller's physics class went on probation, and pryme was needed at right guard. i have mentioned tom's probation very casually, quite as if it was a matter of slight importance, but you may be sure that the school viewed it in no such way. coming as it did little more than a fortnight before the big game, it was looked on as a dire catastrophe, no more and no less; and the school, which had laughed and chuckled over the incident which had caused the catastrophe, and applauded the participants in it, promptly turned their thumbs down when the effect became known and indignantly dubbed the affair "silly kid's play" and blamed tom very heartily. how much of the blame he really deserved you shall judge for yourself, but the affair merits a chapter of its own. chapter xii the joke on mr. moller amy byrd started it. or, perhaps, in the last analysis, mr. moller began it himself. mr. moller's first name was caleb, a fact which the school was quick to seize on. at first he was just "caleb," then "caleb the conqueror," and, finally, "the conqueror." the "conqueror" part of it was added in recognition of mr. moller's habit of attiring himself for the class room as for an afternoon tea. he was a new member of the faculty that fall and brimfield required more than the few weeks which had elapsed since his advent to grow accustomed to his grandeur of apparel. mr. caleb moller was a good-looking, in fact quite a handsome young man of twenty-five or six, well-built, tall and the proud possessor of a carefully trimmed moustache and vandyke beard, the latter probably cultivated in the endeavour to add to his apparent age. he affected light grey trousers, fancy waistcoats of inoffensive shades, a frock coat, grey gaiters and patent leather shoes. his scarf was always pierced with a small black pearl pin. there's no denying that mr. moller knew how to dress or that the effect was pleasing. but brimfield wasn't educated to such magnificence and brimfield gasped loudly the first time mr. moller burst on its sight. afterward it laughed until the novelty began to wear off. mr. moller was a capable instructor and a likeable man, although it took brimfield all of the first term to discover the latter fact owing to the master's dignified aloofness. being but a scant eight years the senior of some of his pupils, he perhaps felt it necessary to emphasise his dignity a little. by the last of october, however, the school had accepted mr. moller and was, possibly, secretly a little proud to have for a member of its faculty one who possessed such excellent taste in the matter of attire. he was universally voted "a swell dresser," and not a few of the older fellows set themselves to a modest emulation of his style. there remained, however, many unregenerate youths who continued to poke fun at "the conqueror," and of these was amy byrd. it isn't beyond the bounds of reason that jealousy may have had something to do with amy's attitude, for amy was "a swell dresser" himself and had a fine eye for effects of colour. amy's combinations of lavender or dull rose or pearl-grey shirts, socks and ties were recognised masterpieces of sartorial achievement. the trouble with amy was that when the tennis season was over he had nothing to interest himself in aside from maintaining a fairly satisfactory standing in class, and i'm sorry to say that amy didn't find the latter undertaking wildly exciting. he was, therefore, an excellent subject for the mischief microbe, and the mischief microbe had long since discovered the fact. usually amy's escapades were harmless enough; for that matter, the present one was never intended to lead to any such unfortunate results as actually attended it; and in justice to amy it should be distinctly stated that he would never have gone into the affair had he foreseen the end of it. but he couldn't see any further into the future than you or i, and so--yes, on the whole, i think it may be fairly said that amy byrd started it. it was on a tuesday, what time amy should have been deep in study, that clint thayer, across the table, had his attention wrested from his book by the sound of deep, mirthful chuckles. he glanced over questioningly. amy continued to chuckle until, being bidden to share the joke or shut up, he took clint into his confidence. clint was forced to chuckle some himself when he had heard amy through, but the chuckles were followed by earnest efforts to dissuade his friend from his proposed scheme. "he won't stand for it, amy," clint protested. "he will report the lot of you to josh and you'll be in a peck of trouble. it would be terribly funny, all right, but you'd better not try it." "funny! my friend, it would be excruciating! and i certainly am going to have a stab at it. let's see who will go into it. steve edwards--no, steve wouldn't, of course. tom hall will, i'll bet. and roy draper and harry wescott, probably. we ought to get as many of the fellows as we can. i wish you were in that class, clint." "i don't. you're a chump to try such a trick, amy. you'll get pro for sure. maybe worse. i don't believe moller can take a joke; he's too haughty." "oh, rot! he will take it all right. anyway, what kick can he have? we fellows have just as much right to----" "you'll wish you hadn't," said clint. "see if you don't!" clint's prophecy proved true, and amy did wish he hadn't, but that was some days later, and just now he was far too absorbed in planning his little joke to trouble himself about what might happen as a result. as soon as study hour was over he departed precipitately from number 14. torrence and clint saw no more of him until bedtime. then his questions met only with more chuckles and evasion. the result did not appear until two days later, which brings our tale to the forenoon of that unlucky thursday preceeding the southby contest. mr. moller's class in physics 2 met at eleven o'clock that morning. physics was an elective course with the fifth form and a popular one, many of the fellows taking it only to fill out their necessary eighteen hours a week. mr. moller, attired as usual with artistic nicety, sat in his swivel chair, facing the windows, and drummed softly on the top of the desk with immaculate finger-tips and waited for the class to assemble. had he been observing the arriving students instead of the tree-tops outside he might have noticed the peculiar fact that this morning, as though by common consent, the students were avoiding the first two rows of seats nearest the platform. but he didn't notice it. in fact, he didn't turn his head until the gong in the lower hall struck and, simultaneously, there sounded in the room the carefully-timed tread of many feet. then "the conqueror" swung around in his chair, felt for the black ribbon which held his tortoise shell glasses and, in the act of lifting the glasses to his well-shaped nose, paused and stared. down the side aisle of the room, keeping step, grave of mien, walked nine boys led by the sober-countenanced amy byrd. each was attired in as near an approach to mr. moller's style as had been possible with the wardrobes at command. not all--in fact, only two--wore frock coats, and not all had been able to supply themselves with light grey trousers, but the substitutions were very effective, and in no case was a fancy waistcoat wanting. wing collars encircled every throat, grey silk scarves were tied with careful precision, stick-pins were at the proper careless tilt, spats, some grey, some tan, some black, covered each ankle, a handkerchief protruded a virgin corner from every right sleeve and over every vest dangled a black silk ribbon. that only a few of them ended in glasses was merely because the supply of those aids to vision had proved inadequate to the demand. soberly and amidst an appalling silence the nine exquisites paced to the front of the room and disposed themselves in the first two rows. mr. moller, his face extremely red, watched without word or motion. the rest of the class, their countenances too showing an unnatural ruddiness, likewise maintained silence and immobility until the last of the nine had shuffled his feet into place. then there burst upon the stillness a snigger which, faint as it was, sounded startlingly loud. whereupon pent up emotions broke loose and a burst of laughter went up that shook the windows. it seemed for a minute that that laughter would never stop. fellows rolled in their seats and beat futilely on the arms of their chairs, gasping for breath and sobriety. and through it all mr. moller stared in a sort of dazed amazement. and then, when the laughter had somewhat abated, he arose, one hand on the desk and the other agitatedly fingering his black ribbon, and the colour poured out of his cheeks, leaving them strangely pallid. and amy, furtively studying him, knew that clint had been right, that mr. moller couldn't take a joke, or, in any event, had no intention of taking this one. amy wasn't frightened for himself, in fact he wasn't frightened at all, but he did experience a twinge of regret for the others whom he had led into the affair. then mr. moller was speaking and amy forgot regrets and listened. "i am going to give you young gentlemen"--was it imagination on amy's part or had the instructor placed the least bit of emphasis on the last word--"two minutes more in which to recover from your merriment. at the end of that time i shall expect you to be quiet and orderly and ready to begin this recitation." he drew his watch from his pocket and laid it on the desk. "so that you may enjoy this--this brilliant jest to the full, i'll ask the nine young gentleman in the front rows to stand up and face you. if you please, hall, stearns, draper, fanning, byrd----" it was several seconds before this request was responded to. then amy arose and, one by one, the others followed and faced the room. amy managed to retain his expression of calm innocence, but the others were ill at ease and many faces looked very sheepish. "now, then," announced mr. moller quietly. "begin, please. you have two minutes." a dismal silence ensued, a silence broken at intervals by a nervous cough or the embarrassed shuffling of feet. mr. moller calmly divided his attention between the class and the watch. surely never had one hundred and twenty seconds ticked themselves away so slowly. there was a noticeable disinclination on the part of the students to meet the gaze of the instructor, nor did they seem any more eager to view the various and generally painful emotions expressed on the countenances of the nine. at last mr. moller took up his watch and returned it with its dangling fob to his pocket, and as he did so some thirty sighs of relief sounded in the stillness. "time's up," announced the instructor. "be seated, young gentlemen. thank you very much." the nine sank gratefully into their chairs. "i am sure that we have all enjoyed your joke vastly. you must pardon me if, just at first, i seemed to miss the humour of it. i can assure you that i am now quite--quite _sympathique_. we are told that imitation is the sincerest flattery, and i accept the compliment in the spirit in which you have tendered it. again i thank you." mr. moller bowed gravely and sat down. glances, furtive and incredulous, passed from boy to boy. amy heaved a sigh of relief. after all, then, mr. moller could take a joke! and for the first time since the inception of the brilliant idea amy felt an emotion very much like regret! and then the recitation began. that would have ended the episode had not chance taken a hand in affairs. mr. fernald very seldom visited a class room during recitations. one could count such occurrences on one hand and the result would have sufficed for the school year. and yet today, for some reason never apparent to the boys, mr. fernald happened in. harry westcott was holding forth when the principal's tread caught his attention. westcott turned his head, saw and instantly stopped. "proceed, westcott," said mr. fernald. westcott continued, stammeringly and much at random. mr. fernald quietly walked up the aisle to the platform. mr. moller arose and for a moment the two spoke in low tones. then the principal nodded, smiled and turned to retrace his steps. as he did so his smiling regard fell upon the occupants of the two front rows. a look of puzzlement banished the smile. bewilderment followed that. westcott faltered and stopped altogether. a horrible silence ensued. then mr. fernald turned an inquiring look upon the instructor. "may i ask," he said coldly, "what this--this quaint exhibition is intended to convey?" mr. moller hesitated an instant. then: "i think i can explain it better, sir, later on," he replied. mr. fernald bowed, again swept the offenders with a glance of withering contempt and took his departure. mr. moller looked troubledly after him before he turned to westcott and said kindly: "now, westcott, we will go on, if you please." what passed between principal and instructor later that day was not known, but the result of the interview appeared the next morning when mr. fernald announced in chapel that because they had seen fit to publicly insult a member of the faculty he considered it only just to publicly inform the following students that they were placed on probation until further notice. then followed the names of hall, westcott, byrd, draper and five others. mr. fernald added that but for the intercession of the faculty member whom they had so vilely affronted the punishment would have been far heavier. nine very depressed youths took their departure from chapel that morning. to tom hall, since the edict meant that he could not play any more football that season, unless, which was scarcely probable, faculty relented within a week or so, the blow was far heavier than to any of the others. being on probation was never a state to be sought for, but when one was in his last year at school and had looked forward to ending his football career in a blaze of glory, probation was just about as bad as being expelled. in fact, for a day or two tom almost wished that mr. fernald had selected the latter punishment. what made things harder to bear was the attitude of coaches and players and the school at large. after the first shock of surprise and dismay, they had agreed with remarkable unanimity that tom had not only played the fool, but had proved himself a traitor, and they didn't fail to let tom know their verdict. for several days he was as nearly ostracised as it was possible to be, and those days were very unhappy ones for him. of course tom was not utterly deserted. steve edwards stood by him firmly, fought public opinion, narrowly escaped a pitched battle with the president of the sixth form, worried coach robey to death with his demands that that gentler man intercede for tom at the office and tried his best all the time to keep tom's spirits up. clint and don and tim and a few others remained steadfast, as did amy, who, blaming himself bitterly for tom's fix, had done everything he could do to atone. following that edict in chapel, amy had sought audience with mr. fernald and begged clemency for the others. "you see, sir," amy had pleaded earnestly, "i was the one who started it. the others would never have gone into it if i hadn't just simply made them. why----" mr. fernald smiled faintly. "you're trying to convince me, byrd, that boys like draper and hall and stearns and westcott are so weak-willed that they allowed you to drag them into this thing against their better judgment and inclinations?" "yes, sir! at least--perhaps not exactly that, mr. fernald, but i--i nagged them and dared them, you see, sir, and they didn't like to be dared and they just did it to shut me up." "it's decent of you, byrd, to try to assume all the blame, but your story doesn't carry conviction. even if it did, i should be sorely tempted to let the verdict stand, for i should consider boys who were so easily dragged into mischief badly in need of discipline. i do wish you'd tell me one thing, byrd. how could a fellow, a manly, decent fellow like you, think up such a caddish trick? wounding another man's feelings, byrd, isn't really funny, if you stop to consider it." "i didn't mean to hurt mr. moller's feelings, sir," replied amy earnestly. "we--i thought it would just be a--a sort of a good joke to dress like him, sir, and--and get a laugh from the class. i'm sorry. i guess it was a pretty rotten thing to do, sir. only i didn't think about it that way." "i believe that. since you've been here, byrd, you've been into more or less mischief, but i've never known you to be guilty before of anything in such utterly bad taste. unfortunately, however, i can't excuse you because you didn't think. you should have thought." "yes, sir," agreed amy eagerly, "and i don't expect to be excused, sir. i only thought that maybe you'd let up on the others if you knew how it all happened. i thought maybe it would do just as well if you expelled me, sir, and let the other fellows off easy. tom hall----" "i see. it's hall who's worrying you, is it? you're afraid hall's absence from the team may result disastrously! possibly it will. if it does i shall be sorry, but hall will have to take his medicine just like the rest of you. perhaps this will teach you all to think a little before you act. no, byrd, i shall have to refuse your offer. expelling you would not be disciplining the rest, nor would it be an equitable division of punishment. the verdict must stand, my boy." amy went sorrowfully forth and announced the result to clint. "i think he might have done what i wanted," he complained a trifle resentfully. "you're an utter ass," said clint with unflattering conviction. "what good would it do you to get fired in your last year?" "none, but if he'd have let the others off----" "do you suppose that the others would have agreed to any such bargain? they're not kids, even if you try to make them out so. they went into the thing with their eyes open and are just as much to blame as you are. they wouldn't let you be the goat, you idiot!" "they needn't have known anything about it, clint. oh, well, i suppose there's no use fussing. i don't care about the others. it's tom i'm sorry for. and the team, too. pryme can't fill tom's shoes, and we'll get everlastingly walloped, and it'll be my fault, and----" "piffle! tom's a good player, one of the best, but he isn't the whole team. pryme will play the position nearly as well. i'm sorry for tom, too, but he's the one who will have to do the worrying, i guess. now you buck up and quit looking like a kicked cur." "if only the fellows didn't have it in for him the way they have," mourned amy. "everyone's down on him and he knows it and he's worried to death about it. they're a lot of rotters! after the way tom's worked on that team ever since he got on it! why, he's done enough for the school if he never played another lick at anything! and i'll tell you another thing. someone's going to get licked if i hear any more of this knocking!" "you'll have to lick most of the school then," replied clint calmly. "try not to be a bigger chump than nature made you, amy. you can't blame the fellows for being a bit sore at tom. i am myself. only i realise that he didn't mean to get into trouble with the office, and the rest of them don't, i reckon. it'll all blow over in a few days. cheer up. a month from now you won't care a whoop." "if we're beaten by claflin i'll get out of school," answered amy dolefully. "all right, son, but don't begin to pack your trunk yet. we won't be." chapter xiii southby yields the game with southby academy that week was played away from home. as a general thing southby was not a formidable opponent and last year's contest had resulted in a 17 to 3 win for brimfield. but this fall southby had been piling up larger scores against her opponents and her stock had risen. consequently brimfield, being deprived of tom hall's services at right guard and of rollins's at full-back, journeyed off that morning more than a little doubtful of the result of the coming conflict. most of the school went along, since southby was easily reached by trolley and at a small outlay for fares, and brimfield was pretty well deserted by one o'clock. out of some one hundred and eighty students a scant forty remained behind, and of that two-score we can guess who nine were! the game started with edwards at left end for brimfield, thayer at left tackle, gilbert at left guard, peters at centre, pryme at right guard, sturges at right tackle, holt at right end, carmine at quarter, st. clair at left half, otis at right half and martin at full-back. later on, toward the end of the second quarter, thursby went in at centre, and in the fourth period several substitutes had their chances, amongst them harry walton. walton had begun to realise that he was playing a losing game. since pryme had been shifted back to the right side of the line don gilbert had come more than ever to the fore and harry had spent a deal more time with the substitute squad in practice and on the bench during scrimmage than he approved of. harry had a very special reason for wanting to win that left guard position and to play in it during the claflin game, and this afternoon, sitting on the side line with a dozen other blanketed substitutes and enviously watching don in the coveted place, his brain evolved a plan that promised so well that by the time the second period had started he was looking almost cheerful. and that is saying a good deal, since harry walton's countenance very seldom expressed cheer. southby showed her mettle within five minutes of the kick-off, when, getting the ball on a fumble on her forty-five yard line, she tore off thirty-three yards on a complicated double-pass play and then, ripped another down from the astonished adversary. on the maroon-and-grey's nine yards, however, her advance was halted, and after two downs had resulted in a loss, she sent her kicker back and placed a neat drop over the cross-bars, scoring three points before the stop-watch had ticked off six minutes of playing time. that score was apparently just what brimfield needed to bring her to her senses, for the rest of the period was marked by brilliant defensive work on her part, followed toward the end of the twelve minutes by some equally good attacks. when the teams changed places brimfield had the pigskin on southby's thirty-eight yards with four to go on third down. a forward pass, carmine to st. clair, produced three of the required four and martin slipped through between left guard and tackle for the rest. after that ten well-selected plays took the ball to the sixteen yards. but there southby rallied, and steve edwards, dropping back as if to kick, tore off five more around the left end. a touchdown seemed imminent now, and the hundred or so brimfield rooters shouted and cheered madly enough. but two plunges at the right of the southby line were stopped for scant gain and, with martin back, a forward pass to holt missed that youth and fell plump into the hands of a southby end, and it was southby's ball on her eight yards when the dust of battle had cleared away. that was brimfield's last chance to score in that half and when the whistle sounded southby had the pigskin once more in her adversary's territory. so far the teams had proved evenly matched in all departments, with a possible slight superiority in punting belonging to the visitors. st. clair and martin divided the punting between them and together they managed to outmatch the efforts of the southby kicker. in the line both teams were excellent on defence, and both showed similar weakness in attack. in tom hall's place pryme had worked hard and had, on the whole, done all that was expected of him. but he wasn't tom hall, and no amount of coaching would make him tom's equal that fall. pryme lacked two factors: weight and, more especially, experience. southby had made some good gains through him in the first half and would have made more had not peters and sturges helped him valiantly. as to the backfields, a disinterested spectator would have liked the brimfield players a bit the better, less perhaps for what they actually accomplished that day than for what they promised. even with rollins out, the maroon-and-grey backs showed a fine and consistent solidarity that was lacking in the opponents. coach robey was a believer in team-play as opposed to the exploitation of stars, while southby, with a remarkable half-back in the person of a blonde-haired youth named elliston, had built her backfield about one man. as a consequence, when elliston was smothered, as was frequently the case, since southby's opponents naturally played for him all the time, the play was stopped. today captain edwards had displayed an almost uncanny ability to "get" elliston when the play was in his direction, and so far the blonde-haired star had failed to distinguish himself save in that one thirty-three-yard gambol at the beginning of the contest. what might happen later was problematical, but so far brimfield had solved elliston fairly well. a guard seldom has an opportunity to pose in the limelight, and so you are not to hear that don pulled off any brilliant feats that afternoon. what he did do was to very thoroughly vindicate mr. robey's selection of him for gafferty's position by giving an excellent impersonation of a concrete block on defence and by doing rather better than he had ever done before when his side had the ball. don had actually speeded up considerably, much as tim had assured him he could, and while he was still by no means the snappiest man in the line, nor was ever likely to be, he was seldom far behind his fellows. for that matter the whole line of forwards was still much slower than mr. robey wanted them at that time of year, and don showed up not badly in comparison. after all, what is needed in a guard is, first and foremost, fighting spirit, and don had that. if he was a bit slower to sense a play, a little later in getting into it, at least when he did start he started hard and tackled hard and always played it safe. in the old days when a guard had only his small territory between centre and tackle to cover, don would have been an ideal player for the position, but now, when a guard's duties are to free-lance, so to speak, from one end of the line to the other and to get into the play no matter where it comes, don's qualifications were more limited. a guard in these amazing times is "soldier and sailor too," and don, who liked to deal with one idea at a time, found it a bit confusing to have to grapple with a half-dozen! brimfield returned to the battle at the beginning of the second half highly resolved to take no more fooling from her opponent. fortune ordered it that the south goal should fall to her portion and that a faint but dependable breeze should spring up between the halves. that breeze changed coach robey's plans, and the team went on with instructions to kick its way to within scoring distance and then batter through the line at any cost. and so the spectators were treated to a very pretty punting exhibition by both teams, for, wisely or unwisely, southby accepted the challenge and punted almost as often as her adversary. that third period supplied many thrills but no scoring, for although brimfield did manage to get the ball on southby's twenty-five-yard line when a back fumbled, the advantage ended there. two rushes failed, a forward pass grounded and when st. clair tried to skirt his own left end he was pulled down just short of his distance and southby soon punted out of danger. when time was called both teams made several substitutions. don yielded his place to harry walton, crewe went in at right tackle and mcphee took carmine's position at quarter. with the advantage of the wind no longer hers, brimfield abandoned the kicking game and used her backfield for all it was worth. from the middle of the field to southby's thirty yards she went without much difficulty, st. clair, martin and tim otis carrying the ball for short but consistent gains. but at the thirty southby braced and captured the pigskin on downs by a matter of inches. it was then that elliston repeated. following two attempts at pryme's position, which yielded a scant four yards, elliston got away around steve edwards's end and, with some good interference for the first ten or twelve yards, passed the whole field except mcphee and was only brought down by that player after he had run to brimfield's twenty-six yards. southby's adherents cheered wildly and demanded a touchdown, and it looked for awhile as though their team was to give them what they asked for. southby twice poked a back through the centre of the maroon-and-grey line and then tore off ten yards around clint thayer, steve edwards being put wholly out of the play. then, however, brimfield dug her cleats and held the enemy, giving a very heartening exhibition of stubborn defence, and again southby decided that half a loaf was better than none and tried a field-goal. she ought never to have got it, for the left side of her line was torn to ribbons by the desperate defenders. but she did, nevertheless, the ball in some miraculous manner slipping through the upstretched hands and leaping bodies and just topping the bar. those three added points seemed to spell defeat for brimfield, and many of her supporters in the stand conceded the victory to southby then and there. but the team refused to view the matter in that light and came back fighting hard. with only some seven minutes of the twelve left, mcphee opened the line when southby had finally been forced to punt from her twelve yards and st. clair had caught on his forty-five, and started a series of direct-pass plays that, coming as they did on the heels of an afternoon of close-formation plays, confused the enemy until the ball had been planted near her thirty-five yards. brimfield fought desperately then, closing her line again and sending edwards off on an end-around run that took the pigskin eight yards nearer the last white mark. it was then that st. clair really showed what was in him. four times he took the ball and four times he plunged, squirming, fighting, through the southby centre and, with the brimfield shouts cheering him on, put the leather down at last on southby's eighteen. otis got three off left tackle and mcphee tried the same end for no gain. martin went back and, faking a kick, threw forward to edwards, who romped to the nine yards before he was smothered. it was fourth down then, with less than a yard to go, and st. clair was called on. a delayed-pass did the business and southby was digging her toes into her seven yards. martin slid off right tackle for two, bringing the ball nearly in front of goal, and the defenders again fell back. carmine was sent in again for mcphee and lawton took pryme's place. carmine evidently brought instructions, for captain edwards fell back to kicking position after the conference, and the ball was passed to him. but with only five to go and three downs to do it in a drop-kick was not likely, especially as three points would still leave brimfield beaten, and so southby disregarded the bluff. but if a kick was out of the question a forward pass was not, and it was a forward pass that southby set herself for. and so, with her ends drawn out and her backs spread, the touchdown came easily. for steve faked a throw to the right, where holt apparently waited, and then dashed straight ahead, the ball against his ribs, his head down and his feet flying, struck the hastily-formed massing of southby's centre like a battering ram and literally tore his way through until, when he was at last pulled down, he was five yards over the line! since brimfield needed that goal badly, rollins, in spite of bandages, was sent in for martin, and, when carmine had canted the ball to his liking, very calmly put it squarely between the uprights above the bar. the remaining minute and a half of play brought no results and brimfield trotted off victor by the narrow margin of one point, while her adherents flowed across the field cheering and flaunting their banners in triumph. chapter xiv walton writes a note the southby game was played on the sixth of november, a fortnight before the final contest with claflin school, and practically marked the end of the preparatory season. brimfield would meet her blue-legged rival with what plays she had already learned and the time for instruction was passed. the remaining two weeks, which held but ten playing days, would be devoted to perfecting plays already known, to polishing off the rough angles of attack and defence and to learning a new set of signals as a matter of precaution. those ten days were expected to work a big improvement in the team. whether they would or not remained to be seen. on the whole, brimfield had passed through a successful season. she had played seven games, of which she had lost one, won five and tied one. next week's adversary, chambers, would in all likelihood supply a sixth victory, in which case the maroon-and-grey would face claflin with a nearly clean slate. claflin, on her part, had hung up a rather peculiar record that fall. she had played one more game than brimfield, had won four, lost one and tied three. she had started out strongly, had had a slump in mid-season and was now, from all evidence at hand, recovering finely. on comparative scores there was little to choose between the rivals. if any perceptible advantage belonged to brimfield it was only because she had maintained a steadier pace. there was a lay-off for most of the first-string players on monday, a fact which gave harry walton a chance to conduct himself very capably at left guard during the four ten-minute periods of scrimmage with the second. don didn't go near the field that afternoon and so was saved any of the uneasiness which the sight of walton's performance might have caused him. rollins got back for a short workout and showed few signs of his injury. the second team, profiting by some scouting done by coach boutelle and joe gafferty on saturday, tried out the claflin formation and such claflin plays as had been fathomed against the first team and made some good gains thereby until the second-string players solved them. on tuesday harry walton disgruntledly found himself again relegated to the bench during most of the practice game and saw don open holes in the second team's line in a style that more than once brought commendation from coach robey. walton glowered from the bench until cotter disgustedly asked if he felt sick. whereupon walton grinned and cotter, with a sigh, begged him to scowl again! the first team presented its full strength that afternoon, and mr. boutelle's claflin plays made little headway. with rollins back in place, the first team scored almost at will during three periods, and even after an entirely new backfield was put in it continued to smash the second up very effectually. mr. boutelle scolded and raved and threatened, but all to scant purpose. the first got its plays off very smoothly, played low and hard and, for once, played together. the final score that day was the biggest ever piled up in a practice contest, 30 to 3. had mr. robey allowed rollins to try goals from touchdowns it would have been several points larger. tom hall had so far carefully avoided the field, but today he appeared there and sat in the stand with roy draper and tried his best to be cheerful. but his best wasn't very good. already the feeling against him had largely subsided, and the school, realising, perhaps, that tom's loss to the team did not necessarily spell defeat for it, was inclined to be sorry for him. but tom didn't realise that, since he still kept to himself and was suspicious of advances. he hadn't quarrelled with the school's verdict, but it had hurt him and, as he didn't like being hurt any more than most of us, he avoided the chance of it. in those days he stuck pretty close to his room, partly because the office required it and partly because he had no heart for mingling with his fellows. roy draper had to plead long and earnestly that afternoon to get him to the gridiron. as badly as he felt about losing his place on the team, however, tom didn't begrudge pryme his good fortune, and he was honestly pleased to see that the latter, in spite of his deficiencies, would doubtless fill the right guard position very capably in the claflin game. he studied pryme's work attentively that afternoon, criticised it and praised it and showed no trace of animosity. "he will do all right," he confided to roy. "crewe will help him a lot, and so will thursby. if he could use his hands a bit better he'd be fine. he holds himself nicely, doesn't he? on his toes all the time. i hate to see a lineman play flat-footed. that's one trouble with don gilbert. don's doing a heap better than he did last year, though. i guess he's every bit as good as joe gafferty. he's a regular whale on defence, isn't he? he's a queer chap, don, but a mighty nice one." "don," replied roy in his somewhat didactic manner, "is the sort of fellow i'd pick out to be cast away on a desert island with. he isn't so scintillant, you know, but he'd wear forever." "that's him to a t." tom chuckled. "they tell me harry walton is as mad as a hatter because don butted in and grabbed that position away from him. can't say i altogether blame him, either. that is, there's no use getting mad about it, but it is tough luck. harry isn't a half-bad guard, either." "if he can play good football," answered roy, "i'm glad to know it. i've always wondered what walton was for." tom laughed. "oh, he isn't so bad, i guess. his manner's against him." "i've noticed it," said roy drily. "also his looks and his remarks and a number of other things. larry jones says he comes from the best sort of family." "a fellow's family doesn't prove anything, i guess." "evidently not. there's the whistle. let's go back." presently roy added, as they headed for torrence: "i can quite understand why walton's family sent him to school." "why they sent him to school?" repeated tom questioningly. "yes, it was to get rid of him." "you've certainly got your little hammer with you," said tom, with a smile. "what's harry done to you?" "not a thing. i wouldn't advise him to, either. i just don't like him, tom. can't stand being in the same room with him. well, see you later, old chap. and, say, think over what i said about--you know." "oh, that's all right," replied tom, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "fellows can think what they like about me. i don't blame them. but you can't expect me to like it!" "i know, tom, but they don't feel that way now. it was just for a day or two. i've heard a lot of fellows say lately that it's nonsense blaming you, tom. so come out of your shell, like a sensible chap, and show that you don't feel any--any ill-will." "well, i don't, i suppose. as for coming out of my shell, i'll be crawling out pretty soon. don't bother about me, roy. i'm feeling fine. so long." perhaps what tom really meant was that he was feeling a whole lot better than he had a few days before, for he certainly had not become quite reconciled to the loss of his position with the team. he was getting used to the idea, but he wasn't happy over it. when he squarely faced the fact that when claflin came trotting onto the field on the twentieth he would be sitting in the grand stand instead of being out there in togs, his heart sank miserably and he hardly knew whether he wanted to kick something or get off in a corner and cry. at such moments the question of whether his school fellows liked him or detested him bothered little. if he could only play against claflin, he assured himself, the school might hate him to its heart's content! going on to billings and his room, he considered what roy had told him of the altered sentiment toward him, but somehow he didn't seem to care so much today. watching practice had brought back the smart, and being liked or disliked seemed a little thing beside the bigger trouble. still, he thought, if roy was right perhaps he had better meet fellows half-way. there was no use in being a grouch. as a starter and in order to test the accuracy of roy's statement, he decided that he would drop in on carl bennett, who roomed in number 3. bennett was a chap he rather respected and, while they had never been very close friends, tom had seen a good deal of the other during the fall. but bennett was not in and tom was making his way back to the stairs when the door of number 6 opened and harry walton came out. perhaps it was roy's dressing-down of that youth that prompted tom to be more decent to him than usual. at all events, tom stopped and hailed him and they conversed together on their way up the stairs. it wasn't until later that tom, recalling harry's grudge against don, wondered what had taken him to the latter's room. then he concluded that harry had probably been calling on tim, and thought no more of it. just now he asked harry how he was getting on with the team and was a little puzzled when harry replied: "all right, i guess. of course, gilbert's got the call right now, but i'm going to beat him out before the big game. did you see practice today?" "yes. you fellows put up a great game, harry." "i didn't get into it for more than ten minutes. robey's playing don gilbert for all he knows." harry laughed disagreeably. "robey's a bit of a fox." "how's that!" tom inquired. "oh, he's sort of keeping me guessing, you see. thinks i'll get worried and dig harder." "huh. i see. you seem mighty certain of that place, harry." "sure, i'm certain. you just wait and see, old top." harry nodded and entered his room across the hall, leaving tom a trifle more sympathetic toward roy's estimation of him. walton certainly did have a disagreeable manner, he reflected. as a matter of fact, harry hadn't been calling on anyone in number 6 for the simple reason that he had found no one at home. moreover, he had expected to find no one, for he had left tim at the gymnasium and seen don and harry westcott sitting in the window of the latter's room in torrence as he passed. what he had done was leave a hastily scrawled note for don on the table in there, a note which don discovered an hour later and which at once puzzled and disturbed him. "come up and see me after supper will you," the note read, with a superb disdain of punctuation, "i want to see you. important. h. walton." "what's he want to see you about?" asked tim when don tossed the note to him to read. "i don't know." don frowned thoughtfully. "i hope he isn't going to make trouble about that old business." "what old business?" asked tim carelessly, more interested in a set of bruised knuckles than anything else just then. "why, you know harry saw us climbing in the window that night." "saw us climb--well, what of it? that was years ago. why should he want to make trouble about that? and how could he do it? i'd like to see him start anything with me." "oh, well, i just happened to think of that." "more likely he's going to ask you to break a leg or something so he can get your place," chuckled tim. "don't you do it, don, if he does. it doesn't pay to be too obliging. ready for eats?" "in a minute." don dropped the note and began his toilet, but he didn't speak again until they were on their way down the stairs. then: "if it should be that," he remarked, "i wouldn't know whether to punch his head or laugh at him." "don't take any chances," advised tim grimly. "punch his head. better still, bring the glad tidings to me and let me do it. why, if that idiot threatened to open his face about us i'd give him such a walloping that his own folks wouldn't recognise the remnants! gee, but i'm hungry tonight! toddle along faster and let's get there before rollins and holt and the rest swipe all the grub." chapter xv a proposition don sought harry walton's room soon after supper was over and found neither harry nor his room-mate, jim rose, at home. he lighted the droplight, found a magazine several months old and sat down to wait. he had, however, scarcely got into a story before harry appeared. "hello," greeted the latter. "sorry i was late. had to stop at the library for a book." in proof of it he tossed a volume to the table. "i asked you to come up here, gilbert, because i have a proposition to make and i thought you wouldn't want anyone around." harry seated himself, took one knee into his clasped hands and smiled at the visitor. it was a peculiarly unattractive smile, don decided. "proposition?" don frowned perplexedly. "what sort of a proposition, walton?" "well, i'll tell you. it's like this, gilbert. you see, old man, you and i are fighting like the mischief for the left guard position and so far it's about nip-and-tuck, isn't it?" don viewed the speaker with some surprise. "is it?" he asked. "i thought i had rather the best of it, walton." harry smiled and shrugged. "that's only robey's foxiness. i'm not saying he might not pick you for the place in the end, of course, but i stand just as good a show. robey doesn't like to show his hand. he likes to keep you guessing. i'm willing to bet that if nothing happened he'd drop you next week and stick me in there. of course you might get in for awhile in the claflin game, if i got hurt, but i wouldn't advise you to bank much on that because i'm rather lucky about not getting hurt. honestly, gilbert, i don't really think you've got much of a chance of final selection." don observed his host's countenance with some bewilderment. "well," he said at last, "that may be so or not. what is it you want me to do?" "i'll tell you." harry tried hard to look ingenuous, but only succeeded in grinning like a catfish. "it's this way. my folks are coming up for the claflin game; father and mother and kid brother, you know. well, naturally, i'd like to have them see me play. they think i'm going to, of course, because i've mentioned it once or twice in my letters. i'd feel pretty cheap if they came up here and watched me sitting on the bench all through the game. see what i mean, old man?" don nodded and waited. "well, so i thought that as your chance is pretty slim anyway maybe you wouldn't mind dropping out. i wouldn't ask you to if i really thought you had much chance, you know, gilbert." "oh! that's it? well, i'm sorry if you're folks are going to be disappointed, walton, but i don't feel quite like playing the goat on that account. you might just write them and sort of prepare them for the shock, mightn't you? tell them there's a bare chance that you won't get into the fracas, you know. i would. it would soften the blow for them, walton." walton scowled. "don't be funny," he said shortly. "i've given you the chance to drop out gracefully, gilbert, and you're a fool not to take it." "but why should i drop out! don't you suppose i want to play in the claflin game just as much as you do?" "perhaps you do, but you won't play in it any way you figure it. if you don't quit willingly you'll quit the other way. i'm giving you a fair chance, that's all. you've only got to make believe you're sick or play sort of rottenly a couple of times. that will do the trick for you and there won't be any other trouble." "say, what are you hinting at?" demanded don quietly. "what have you got up your sleeve?" "plenty, gilbert. i've got enough up my sleeve to get you fired from school." there was a moment of silence. then don nodded thoughtfully. "so that's it, is it?" he murmured. "that's it, old man." harry grinned. "think it over now." "what do you think you've got on me?" asked don. "i don't think. i know that you and three other fellows helped put out that fire that night and that you didn't get back to hall until long after ten-thirty." harry dropped his knee, thrust his hands into his pockets, leaned back in his chair and viewed don triumphantly. "i don't want to go to faculty with it, gilbert, although it's really my duty and i certainly shall if you force me." "hm," mused don. "but wouldn't faculty wonder why you'd been so long about it?" "probably. i'd have to tell the truth and----" "i guess that would hurt," interpolated the other drily. "and explain that i'd tried to shield you fellows, but that my conscience had finally prevailed." and harry grinned broadly. "josh wouldn't like it, but he wouldn't do anything to me. what he'd do to you, though, would be a plenty, gilbert. it would be expulsion, and you know that as well as i do." "yes, i do." don dropped his gaze to his hands and was silent a moment. then: "of course you've thought of what it would mean to you, walton? i wouldn't be likely to keep you out of it, you know." harry shrugged. "fellows might talk some, but i'd only be doing my duty. as long as my conscience was clear----" "you're a dirty pup, walton," said don, "and if i wasn't afraid of getting the mange i'd give you the beating you deserve." "calling names won't get you anything, gilbert. i'm not afraid of anything you could do to me, anyway. i may be a pup, but i'm where i can make you sit up and beg, and i'm going to do it." "you think you are," said don contemptuously. "let me tell you now that i'd rather be fired a dozen times than make any bargains with a common skunk like you!" "that means you want me to go ahead and tell josh, does it?" "it means that you can do anything you want to, walton." don stood up. "but if you do go to faculty with the story you'll get the worst licking you ever had or heard of, and fellows will make it so unpleasant here for you that you won't stay much longer than i do. now _you_ think it over!" "what fellows say or think won't hurt me a mite, thank you, and i'm not afraid of you or any of your friends, gilbert. wait a minute now. we're not through yet." "i am, thanks," replied don, moving toward the door. "oh, no you're not. you may feel heroic and all that and too mad to give in just now, but you're not considering what it will mean if you make me squeal to faculty. why, we wouldn't have a ghost of a show with claflin!" "i thought you considered yourself quite as good a guard as me, walton," answered don. "i do, old man. but i don't think i'm able to take the places of all the other fellows who would be missing from the team." don turned, with his hand on the door-knob, and stared startledly. "what do you mean by that?" he asked. "i thought that would fetch you," chuckled harry. "i mean that you're not the only one who would quit the dear old school, gilbert. you haven't forgotten, i suppose, that there were three other fellows mixed up in the business?" "no, but faculty would have to know more than i'd tell them before they'd find out who the others were." "oh, you wouldn't have to tell them, old man." "meaning you would? you don't know, walton." "don't i, though? you bet i do! i know every last one of them!" "you told me----" "oh, i let you think i didn't, gilbert. no use telling everything you know." "i don't believe it!" but, in spite of the statement, don did believe it and was trying to realise what it meant. . "don't be a fool! why wouldn't i know? if i could see you why couldn't i see clint thayer and tim otis and tom hall? you were all as plain as daylight. of course, tom's out of it, anyway, but i guess losing a left tackle and a right half-back a week before the game would put rather a dent in our chances, what? and that's just what will happen if you make me go to josh with the story!" "you wouldn't!" challenged don, but there was scant conviction in his tone. harry shrugged his shoulders. "oh, i'd rather not. i don't want to play on a losing team, and that's what i'd be doing, but you see i've sort of set my heart on playing right guard a week from saturday, gilbert, and i hate to be disappointed. hate to disappoint my folks, too." "they must be proud of you!" "they are, take it from me." harry's smile vanished and he looked ugly as he went on. "don't be a fool, gilbert! you'd do the same thing yourself if you had the chance. you're playing the hypocrite, and you know it. i've got you dead to rights and i mean to make the most of it. if you don't get off the team inside of two days i'll go to josh and tell him everything i know. it isn't pretty, maybe, but it's playing your hand for what there is in it, and that's my way! now you sit down again and just think it all over, gilbert. take all the time you want. and remember this, too. if i keep my mouth shut you've got to keep yours shut. no blabbing to tim otis or clint thayer or anyone else. this is just between you and me, old man. now what do you say?" "the thing's as crazy as it is rotten, walton! how am i to get off the team without having it look funny?" "and how much do i care whether it looks funny or not? that's up to you. you can play sick or you can get out there and mix your signals a few times or you can bite robey in the leg. i don't give a hang what you do so long as you do it, and do it between now and saturday. that's right, sit down and look at it sensibly. mull it over awhile. there's no hurry." chapter xvi don visits the doctor "what did walton want of you?" asked tim a half-hour later, when the occupants of number 6 were settled at opposite sides of the table for study. "walton?" repeated don vaguely. "oh, nothing especial." "nothing especial? then why the mysterious summons? did he make any crack about that little escapade of ours?" "he mentioned it. shut up and let me get to work, tim." "mentioned it how? what did he say? any chance of beating him up? i've always had a longing, away down deep inside me, donald, to place my fist violently against some portion of walton's--er--facial contour. say, that's good, isn't it? facial contour's decidedly good, don." "fine," responded the other listlessly. tim peered across at him under the droplight. "say, you look as if you'd lost a dozen dear friends. anything wrong? look here, has walton been acting nasty?" "don't be a chump, tim. i'm all right. or, anyway, i'm only sort of--sort of tired. dry up and let me stuff." "oh, very well, but you needn't be so haughty about it. i don't want to share your secrets with dear harry. everyone to his taste, as the old lady said when she kissed the cow." tim's sarcasm, however, brought no response, and presently, after growling a little while he pawed his books over and dropped the subject, to don's relief, and silence fell. don made a fine pretence of studying, but most of the time he couldn't have told what book lay before him. when the hour was up tim, who had by then returned to his usual condition of cheerful good nature, tried to induce don to go over to hensey to call on larry jones, who, it seemed, had perfected a most novel and marvellous trick with a ruler and two glasses of water. but don refused to be enticed and tim went off alone, gravely cautioning his room-mate against melancholia. "try to keep your mind off your troubles, donald. think of bright and happy things, like me or the pretty birds. remember that nothing is ever quite as bad as we think it is, that every line has a silver clouding and that--that it's always dawnest before the dark. farewell, you old grouch!" don didn't have to pretend very hard the next day that he was feeling ill, for an almost sleepless night, spent in trying to find some way out of his difficulties, had left him hollow-eyed and pale. breakfast had been a farce and dinner a mere empty pretence, and between the two meals he had fared illy in classes. it was scarcely more than an exaggeration to tell coach robey that he didn't feel well enough to play, and the coach readily believed him and gave him over to the mercies of danny moore. the trainer tried hard to get don to enumerate some tangible symptoms, but don could only repeat that he was dreadfully tired and out of sorts. "eat anything that didn't agree with you?" asked danny. "no, i didn't eat much of anything. i didn't have any appetite." "sure, that was sensible, anyway. i'll be after giving you a tonic, me boy. take it like i tell you, do ye mind, keep off your feet and get a good sleep. after breakfast come to me in the gym and i'll have a look at you." don took the tonic--when he thought of it--ate a fair supper and went early to bed, not so much in the hope of curing his ailment as because he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. he slept pretty well, but was dimly conscious of waking frequently during the night, and when morning came felt fully as tired as when he had retired. breakfast was beyond him, although mr. robey, his attention drawn to don by harry walton's innocent "you're looking pretty bum, gilbert," counselled soft boiled eggs and hot milk. don dallied with the eggs and drank part of the milk and was glad to escape as soon as he could. danny gave him a very thorough inspection in the rubbing room after breakfast, but could find nothing wrong. "sure, you're as sound as colin meagher's fiddle, me boy. where is it it hurts ye?" "it doesn't hurt anywhere, danny," responded don. "i'm all right, i suppose, only i don't feel--don't feel very fit." "a bit fine, you are, and i'm thinking you'd better lay off the work for today. be outdoors as much as you can, but don't be tiring yourself out. have you taken the tonic like i told ye?" "i've taken enough of the beastly stuff," answered don listlessly. danny laughed. "sure, it's the fine-tasting medicine, lad. keep at it. and listen to me, now. if you want to play agin claflin, donny, you do as i'm tellin' you and don't be thinkin' you know more about it than i do. sure, robey won't look at ye at all, come a week from tomorrow, if you don't brace up." "oh, i'm all right, danny, thanks. maybe if i rest off today i'll be fine tomorrow." "that's what i'm tellin' you. see that ye do it." that afternoon he watched practice from the bench without getting into togs and saw harry walton play at left guard. he would much rather have remained away from the field, but to have done so might, he thought, have looked queer. coach robey was solicitous about him, but apparently did not take his indisposition very seriously. "'take it easy, gilbert," he said, "and don't worry. you'll be all right for tomorrow, i guess. you've been working pretty hard, my boy. better pull a blanket over your shoulders. this breeze is rather biting. can't have you laid up for long, you know." harry walton performed well that afternoon, playing with a vim and dash that was something of a revelation to his team-mates. tim was evidently troubled when he walked back to hall with don after practice. "for the love of mud, don," he pleaded, "get over it and come back! did you see the way walton played today? if he gets in tomorrow and plays like that against chambers robey'll be handing him the place! what the dickens is wrong with you, anyway?" "i'm just tired," responded don. "tired!" tim was puzzled. "what for? you haven't worked since day before yesterday. what you've got is malaria or something. tell you what we'll do, don; we'll beat it over to the doctor's after supper, eh?" but don shook his head. "danny's tonic is all i need," he said. "i dare say i'll be feeling great in the morning." "you dare say you will! don't you feel sure you will? because i've got to tell you, donald, that this is a plaguy bad time to get laid off, son. if you're not a regular little bright eyes by monday robey'll can you as sure as shooting!" "i wouldn't much care if he did," muttered don. "you wouldn't much---say, are you crazy?" tim stopped short on the walk and viewed his chum in amazement. "is it your brain that's gone back on you? don't you _want_ to play against claflin?" "i suppose so. yes, of course i do, but----" "then don't talk like a piece of cheese! you'll come with me to the doctor after supper if i have to drag you there by one heel!" and so go he did, and the doctor looked at his tongue and felt his pulse and "pawed him over," as don put it, and ended by patting him on the back and accepting a nice bright half-dollar--half-price to academy students--in exchange for a prescription. "you're a little nervous," said the doctor. "thinking too much about that football game, i guess. don't do it. put it out of your mind. take that medicine every two hours according to directions on the bottle and you'll be all right, my boy." don thanked him, slipped the prescription in a pocket and headed for school. but tim grabbed him and faced him about. "you don't swallow the prescription, donald," he said. "you take it to a druggist and he gives you something in a bottle. that's what you swallow, the stuff in the bottle. i'm not saying that it mightn't do you just as much good to eat the paper, but we'd better play by the rules. so come on, you lunk-head." "oh, i forgot," murmured don. "of course you did," agreed the other sarcastically. "and, look here, if anyone asks you your name, it's donald croft gilbert. think you can remember that? donald croft----" "oh, dry up," said don. "how much will this fool medicine cost me?" "how much have you got?" "about eighty cents, i think." "it'll cost you eighty cents, then. ask me something easier. i don't pretend to know how druggists do it, but they can always look right through your clothes and count your money. never knew it to fail!" but it failed this time, or else the druggist counted wrong, for the prescription was a dollar and tim had to make up the balance. he insisted on don taking the first dose then and there, so that he could get in another before bedtime, and don meekly obeyed. after he had swallowed it he begged a glass of soda water from the druggist to take the taste out of his mouth, and the druggist, doubtless realising the demands of the occasion, stood treat to them both. on the way back tim figured it that if they had only insisted on having ice-cream sodas they would have reduced the price of the medicine to its rightful cost. don, though, firmly insisted that it was worth every cent of what he had paid for it. "no one," he said convincedly, "could get that much nastiness into a small bottle for less than a dollar!" chapter xvii dropped from the team whether owing to danny moore's tonic, the doctor's prescription or a good night's rest, don awoke the next morning feeling perfectly well physically, and his first waking moments were cheered by the knowledge. then, however, recollection of the fact that physical well-being was exactly what wasn't required under the circumstances brought quick reaction, and he jumped out of bed to look at himself in the mirror above his dresser in the hope of finding pale cheeks and hollow eyes and similar evidences of impending dissolution. but fate had played a sorry trick on him! his cheeks were not in the least pale, nor were his eyes sunken. in short, he looked particularly healthy, and if other evidence of the fact was needed it was supplied by tim. tim, when don turned regretfully away from the glass, was sitting up and observing him with pleased relief. "ata boy!" exclaimed tim. "feeling fine and dandy, aren't you? i guess that medicine was cheap at the price, after all! you look about a hundred per cent better than you did yesterday, donald." don started to smile, caught himself in time and drew a long sigh. "you can't always tell by a fellow's looks how he's really feeling," he replied darkly. "oh, run away and play! what's the matter with you? you've got colour in your face and look great." "too much colour, i'm afraid," said don, shaking his head pessimistically. "i guess--i guess i've got a little fever." tim stared at him puzzledly. "fever? what for? i mean---say, are you fooling?" "no. my face is sort of hot, honest, tim." and so it was, possibly the consciousness of fibbing and the difficulty of doing it successfully was responsible for the flush. tim pushed his legs out of bed and viewed his friend disgustedly. "don, you're getting to be one of those kleptomaniacs--no, that isn't it! what's the word? hydrochondriacs, isn't it? anyway, whatever it is, you're it! you've got so you imagine you're sick when you aren't. forget it, donald, and cheer up!" "oh, i'll be all right, thanks," responded the other dolefully. "i guess i'm lots better than i was." "of course you are! why, hang it, man, you've simply got to be o. k. today! if you're not robey'll can you as sure as shooting! smile for the gentleman, don, and then get a move on and come to breakfast." "i don't think i want any breakfast, thanks." "you will when you smell it. want me to start the water for you?" "if i was a hydrochondriac i wouldn't want any water, would i?" "hypochondriac's what i meant, i guess. hurry up before the mob gets there." tim struggled into his bath-robe and pattered off down the corridor, leaving don to follow at his leisure. but, instead of following, don seated himself on the edge of his bed and viewed life gloomily. if tim refused to believe in his illness, how was he to convince coach robey of it? he might, he reflected, rub talcum on his face, but he was afraid that wouldn't deceive anyone, the coach least of all. and, according to his bargain with harry walton, he must sever his connection with the team today. if he didn't walton would go to the principal and tell what he had witnessed from his window that saturday night, and not only he, but tim and clint as well, would suffer. and, still worse, the team would be beaten by claflin as surely as--as tim was shouting to him from the bathroom! he got up and donned his bath-robe and set off down the corridor with lagging feet, so wretched in mind by this time that it required no great effort of imagination to believe himself ailing in body. to his surprise--and rather to his disgust--he found himself intensely hungry at breakfast and it was all he could do to refuse the steak and baked potato set before him. under the appraising eye of mr. robey, he drank a glass of milk and nibbled at a piece of toast, his very soul longing for that steak and a couple of soft eggs! afterward, when he reported to danny, the trainer produced fresh discouragement in him. "fine, me boy!" declared the trainer. "you're as good as ever, aren't you? keep in the air all you can and go light with the dinner." "i--i don't feel very fit," muttered don. "get along with you! you're the picture of health! don't be saying anything like that to mr. robey, or he might believe it and bench you. run along now and mind what i tell you. game's at two-fifteen today." it was fortunate that don had but two recitations that morning, for he was in no condition for such unimportant things. his mind was too full of what was before him. at dinner it was easy enough to obey danny's command and eat lightly, for he was far too worried to want food. the noon meal was eaten early in order that the players might have an hour for digestion before they went to the field. chambers came swinging up to the school at half-past one, in all the carriages to be found at the station, while her supporters trailed after on foot. the stands filled early and, by the time the chambers warriors trotted on to the gridiron for their practice, looked gay and colourful with waving pennants. don kept close to tim from the time dinner was over until they reached the locker-room in the gymnasium. tim was puzzled and disgusted over his chum's behaviour and secretly began to think that perhaps, after all, he was not in the condition his appearance told him to be. don listlessly dragged his playing togs on and was dressed by the time coach robey came in. he hoped that the coach would give him his opportunity then to declare his unfitness for work, but mr. robey paid no attention to him. he said the usual few words of admonition to the players, conferred with manager morton and the trainer and disappeared again. captain edwards led the way out of the building at a few minutes before two and they jogged down to the field and, heralded by a long cheer from the stand, took their places on the benches. it was a fine day for football, bright and windless and with a true november nip in the air. chambers yielded half the gridiron and coach robey approached the bench. "all right, first and second squads," he said cheerfully. "try your signals out, but take it easy. rollins, you'd better try a half-dozen goals. martin, too. how about you, gilbert? you feeling all right?" don felt the colour seeping out of his cheeks as the coach turned toward him, and there was an instant of silence before he replied with lowered eyes. "n-no, sir, i'm not feeling very--very fit. i'm sorry." "you're not?" mr. robey's voice had an edge. "danny says you're perfectly fit. what's wrong?" "i--i don't know, sir. i don't feel--well." a number of the players still within hearing turned to listen. mr. robey viewed don with a puzzled frown. then he shrugged impatiently. "you know best, of course," he said shortly, "but if you don't work today, gilbert, you're plumb out of it. i can't keep your place open for you forever, you know. what do you say? want to try it?" don wished that the earth under his feet would open up and swallow him. he tried to return the coach's gaze, but his eyes wandered. the first time he tried to speak he made no sound, and when he did find his voice it was so low that the coach impatiently bade him speak up. "i don't think it would be any good, sir," replied don huskily. "i--i'm not feeling very well." there was a long silence. then mr. robey's voice came to him as cold as ice. "very well, gilbert, clean your locker out and hand in your things to the trainer. walton!" "yes, sir?" "go in at left guard on the first squad." mr. robey turned again to don. "gilbert," he said very quietly, "i don't understand you. you are perfectly able to play, and you know it. the only explanation that occurs to me is that you're in a funk. if that's so it is a fortunate thing for all of us that we've discovered it now instead of later. there's no place on this team, my boy, for a quitter." coach and players turned away, leaving don standing alone there before the bench. miserably he groped his way to it and sat down with hanging head. his eyes were wet and he was horribly afraid that someone would see it. a hand fell on his shoulder and he glanced up into tim's troubled face. "i heard, don," said tim. "i'm frightfully sorry, old man. are you sure you can't do it!" don shook his head silently. tim sighed. "gee, it's rotten, ain't it? maybe he didn't mean what he said, though. maybe, if you're all right monday, he'll give you another chance. i'm--i'm beastly sorry, don!" the hand on his shoulder pressed reassuringly and drew away and tim hurried out to his place. presently don took a deep breath, got to his feet and, trying his hardest to look unconcerned but making sorry work of it, skirted the stand and retraced his steps to the gymnasium. his one desire was to get out of sight before any of the fellows found him, and so he pulled off his togs as quickly as he might, got into his other clothes, made a bundle of his suit and stockings and shoes and left them in the rubbing-room where danny could not fail to find them and then hurried out of the building and through the deserted yard to billings and the sunlit silence and emptiness of his room. there was very little consolation in the knowledge that he had done only what was right. martyrdom has its drawbacks. he had lost his position with the team and had been publicly branded a quitter. the fact that his conscience was not only clear but even approving didn't help much. being thought a quitter, a coward, hurt badly. if he could have got at harry walton any time during the ensuing half-hour it would have gone hard with that youth. after a time, though, he got command of his feelings again and, since there was nothing better to do, he seated himself at the window and watched as much of the football game as was visible from there. once or twice he was able to forget his trouble for a brief moment. chambers put up a good game that day and it was all the home team could do to finally win out by the score of 3 to 0. for two periods chambers had brimfield virtually on the run, and only a fine fighting spirit that flashed into evidence under the shadow of her goal saved the latter from defeat. as it was, luck took a hand in matters when a poor pass from centre killed chambers's chance of scoring by a field-goal in the second quarter. brimfield showed better work in the second half and twice got the ball inside the visitor's twenty-yard line, once in the third period and again shortly before the final whistle blew. the first opportunity to score was lost when carmine called for line-plunges to get the pigskin across and howard, who was playing in st. clair's position because of a slight injury to the regular left half, fumbled for a four-yard loss. chambers rallied and took the ball away a minute later. in the fourth period dazzling runs outside of tackles by tim otis and hard line-plugging by rollins and howard took the ball from brimfield's thirty-five to the enemy's twenty-five. there a forward pass grounded--chambers had a remarkable defence against that play--and, on third down, rollins slid off left tackle for enough to reach the twenty. but with only one down remaining and time nearly up, a try-at-goal was the only course left, and rollins, standing squarely on the thirty-yard line, drop-kicked a scanty victory. in some ways that contest was disappointing, in others encouraging. team-play was more in evidence than in any previous game and the maroon-and-grey backfield had performed prodigiously. and the plays had, as a general thing, gone off like clock-work. but there were weak places in the line still. pryme, at right guard, had proved an easy victim for the enemy and the same was true, in a lesser degree, of harry walton, on the other side of centre. and crewe, at right tackle, had allowed himself to be boxed time after time. it might be said for crewe, however, that today he was playing opposite an opponent who was more than clever. but the way in which chambers had torn holes in brimfield's first defence promised poorly for next saturday and the spectators went away from the field feeling a bit less sanguine than a week before. "no team that is weak at both guard positions can hope to win," was the general verdict, and it was fully realised that claflin's backs were better than chambers's. for a day or two there was much talk of a petition to the faculty asking for the reinstatement of tom hall, but it progressed no further than talk. josh, it was known, was not the kind to reverse his decision for any reason they could present. and yet, although the weekly faculty conference on monday night had no written petition to consider, the subject of tom's reinstatement did come before it and in a totally unprecedented manner. chapter xviii "good-bye, timmy!" tim found a dejected and most unsatisfactory chum when he got back to the room after the chambers game that saturday afternoon. all of tim's demands for an explanation of the whole puzzling affair met only with evasion. don was not only uncommunicative, but a trifle short-tempered, a condition quite unusual for him. all tim could get from him was that he "felt perfectly punk" and wasn't going to try to change mr. robey's decision. "i'm through," he said. "i don't blame robey a bit. i'm no use on the team as i am. he'd be foolish to bother with me." "well, all i can say," returned tim, with a sigh of exasperation, "is that the whole thing is mighty funny. i guess there's more to it than you're telling. you look like thirty cents, all right enough, but i'll wager anything you like that you could go out there and play just as good a game as ever on monday if robey would let you and you cared to try. now couldn't you!" "i don't know. what does it matter, anyhow? i tell you i'm all through, and so there's no use chewing it over." "oh, all right. nuff said." tim walked to the window, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and, after a minute's contemplation of the darkening prospect without, observed haltingly: "look here, don. if you hear things you don't like, don't get up on your ear, eh?" "what sort of things?" demanded the other. tim hesitated a long moment before he took the plunge. then: "well, some of the fellows don't understand, don. you can't altogether blame them, i suppose. i shut two or three of them up, but there's bound to be some talk, you know. some fellows always manage to think of the meanest things possible. but what fellows like that say isn't worth bothering about. so just you sit snug, old man. they've already found that they can't say that sort of thing when i'm around." "thanks," said don quietly. "what sort of things do you mean?" "oh, anything." "you mean that they're calling me a quitter?" "well, some of them heard robey get that off and they're repeating it like a lot of silly parrots. i called holt down good and hard. told him i'd punch his ugly face if he talked that way again." "don't bother," said don listlessly. "i guess i do look like a quitter, all right." "piffle! and, hang it all, robey had no business saying that, don! he couldn't really believe it." "why couldn't he? on the face of it, tim, i'd say that i looked a whole lot like a quitter." "but that's nonsense! why would you or any fellow want to quit just before the claflin game? why, all the hard work's done with, man! only a little signal practice to go through with now. why would you want to quit? it's poppycock!" "well, some fellows do get cold feet just before the big game. we've both known cases of it. look at----" "yes, i know what you're going to say, but that was different. he never had any spunk, anyway. nobody believed in him but robey, and robey was wrong, just as he is about you. anyway, all i'm trying to say is that there's no use getting waxy if some idiot shoots off his mouth. the fellows who really count don't believe you a--a quitter. and the whole business will blow over in a couple of days. look how they talked about tom at first!" "they didn't call him a quitter, though. they were just mad because he'd done a fool thing and lost the team. i wouldn't blame anyone for thinking me a--a coward, and i can't resent it if they say it." "can't, eh? well, i can!" don smile wanly. "thought you were telling me not to, tim." tim muttered. there was silence for a minute in the twilit room. then tim switched on the lights and rolled up his sleeves preparatory to washing. "the whole thing's perfectly rotten," he growled, "but we'll just have to make the best of it. ten years from now----" "yes, but it isn't ten years from now that troubles me," interrupted don thoughtfully. "it--it's right this minute. and tomorrow and the next day. and the day after that. i've a good mind to----" "to what?" demanded tim from behind his sponge. "nothing. i was just--thinking." "well, stop it, then. you weren't intended to think. you always do something silly when you get to thinking. wash up and come on to supper." "i'm not going over tonight," answered don. "i'm not hungry. and, anyway, i don't feel quite like facing it yet." "now, look here," began tim severely, "if you're going to take it like that----" "i'm not, i guess. only i'd rather not go to supper tonight. i am through at the training-table and i funk going back to the other table just now. besides, i'm not the least bit hungry. you run along." tim observed him frowningly. "well, all right. only if it was me i'd take the bull by the horns and see it through. fellows will talk more if you let them see that you give a hang." "they'll talk enough anyway, i dare say. a little more won't matter." "i just hope holt gets gay again," said tim venomously, shying the towel in the general direction of the rack and missing it by a foot. "want me to bring something over to you?" "no, thanks. i don't want a thing." "we-ell, i guess i'll beat it then." tim loitered uncertainly at the door. "i say, donald, old scout, buck up, eh?" "oh, yes, i'll be all right, timmy. don't you worry about me. and--and thanks, you know, for--for calling holt down." "oh, that!" tim chuckled. "holt wasn't the only one i called down either." then, realising that he had not helped the situation any by the remark, he tried to squirm out of it. "of course, holt was _the_ one, you know. the others didn't really _say_ anything, or--or mean anything----" don laughed. "that'll do, tim. beat it!" and tim, red-faced and confused, "beat it." for the next five minutes doors in the corridor opened and shut and footfalls sounded as the fellows hurried off to wendell. but i doubt if don heard the sounds, for he was sunk very low in the chair and his eyes were fixed intently on space. presently he drew in his legs, sat up and pulled his watch from his pocket. a moment of speculation followed. then he jumped from the chair as one whose mind is at last made up and went to his closet. from the recesses he dragged forth his bag and laid it open on his bed. from the closet hooks he took down a few garments and tossed them beside the bag and then crossed to his dresser and pulled open the drawers. don had decided to accept coach robey's title. he was going to quit! there was a train at six-thirty-four and another at seven-one for new york. with luck, he could get the first. if he missed that he was certain of the second. the dormitory was empty, it was quite dark outside by now and there was scarcely a chance of anyone's seeing him. if he hurried he could be at the station before tim could return from supper. or, even if he didn't get away until the seven-one train, he would be clear of the hall before tim could discover his absence and surmise the reason for it. to elude tim was the all-important thing, for tim would never approve and would put all sorts of obstacles in his way. in fact, it would be a lot like tim to hold him back by main force! don's heart sank for a moment. it was going to be frightfully hard to leave old timmy. perhaps they might meet again at college in a couple of years, but they would not be likely to see each other before that time, and even that depended on so many things that it couldn't be confidently counted on. don paused in his hurried selection of articles from the dresser drawers and dropped into a chair at the table. but, with the pad before him and pen in hand, he shook his head. a note would put tim wise to what was happening and perhaps allow him to get to the station in time to make a fuss. no, it would be better to write to him later; perhaps from new york tonight, for don was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to get a through train before morning. so, with another glance at his watch, he began to pack again, throwing things in every which-way in his feverish desire to complete the task and leave the building before tim got back. he came across a scarf that tim had admired and laid it back in the top drawer. it had never been worn and tim should have it. and as he hurried back and forth he thought of other things he would like tim to have. there was his tennis racket, the one tim always borrowed when don wasn't using it, and a scarf-pin made of a queer, rough nugget of opal matrix. he would tell tim he was to have those and not to pack them with the other things. the thought of making the gifts almost cheered him for awhile, and, together with the excitement of running away, caused him to hum a little tune under his breath as he jammed the last articles in the bag and snapped it shut. it was sixteen minutes past now. he would, he acknowledged, never be able to make the six-thirty-four, with that burden to carry. but the seven-one would do quite as well, and he wouldn't have to hurry so. in that case, then, why not leave just a few words of good-bye for tim? he could put the note somewhere where tim wouldn't find it until later; tuck it, for instance, under the bed-clothes so that he would find it when he pulled them down. he hesitated a moment and then set his bag down by the door, dropped his overcoat and umbrella on the bed and seated himself again at the table. tim was never known to take less than a half-hour for supper and he still had a good ten minutes' leeway: "dear timmy [he wrote hurriedly], i'm off. it's no use sticking around any longer. fellows aren't going to forget as soon as you said and i can't stay on here and be thought a quitter. so i'm taking the seven-one to new york and will be home day after tomorrow. i wish you would pack my things up for me when you get time. there isn't any great hurry. i've got enough for awhile. you're to keep the racket and the blue and white tie and the opal matrix pin and anything else you like to remember me by. please do this, tim. i'll write from home and tell you about sending the trunk. i'm awfully sorry, tim, and i'm going to miss you like anything, but i shan't ever come back here. maybe we will get together again at college. i hope so. you try, will you? good-bye, tim, old pal. we've had some dandy times together, haven't we? and you've been an a1 chum to me and i wish i wasn't going off without saying good-bye to you decently. but i've got to. so good-bye, timmy, old man. think of me now and then like i will of you. good-bye. "your friend always, "don." that note took longer to write than he had counted on, and when he got up from the table and looked at his watch he was alarmed to find that it was almost half-past six. he folded the paper and tucked it just under the clothes at the head of tim's bed, took a last glance about the room, picked up coat and umbrella and turned out the light. then he strode toward the door, groping for his bag. chapter xix friends fall out tim didn't enjoy supper very much that evening. the game had left him pretty weary of body and mind, and on top of that was don and his trouble, and try as he might he couldn't get them out of his thoughts. mr. robey was not at table; someone said he had gone to new york for over sunday; and so tim didn't have to make a pretence of eating more than he wanted. and he wanted very little. a slice of cold roast beef, rather too rare to please him, about an eighth of one of the inevitable baked potatoes, a few sips of milk and a corner of a slice of toast as hard as a shingle, and tim was more than satisfied. tonight he was not especially interested in the talk, which, as usual after a game, was all football, and didn't see any good reason for sitting there after he had finished and listening to it. all during his brief meal he was on the alert for any mention of don's name, and more than once he glared, almost encouragingly, at holt. but holt had already learned his lesson and was doing very little talking, and none at all about don. nor was the absent player's name mentioned by anyone at that table, although what might be being said of him at the other tim had no way of knowing. he stayed on a few minutes after he had finished, eyeing the apple-sauce and graham crackers coldly, and then asked steve edwards to excuse him. "off his feed," remarked carmine as tim passed down the dining hall on his way out. "first time i ever saw old tim have nerves." "it's don gilbert, probably," said clint thayer. "they're great pals. tim's worried about him, i guess." "what do you make of it, steve?" asked crewe, helping himself to a third slice of meat. "what is there to make of it?" asked steve carelessly. "the chap's all out of shape, i suppose. i don't know what his trouble is, but i guess he's a goner for this year." "it's awfully funny, isn't it?" asked rollins. "gilbert always struck me as an awfully plucky player." "has anyone said he isn't?" inquired clint quietly. "n-no, no, of course not!" rollins flushed. "i didn't mean anything like that, clint. only i don't see----" "he hasn't been looking very fit lately," offered harry walton. "i noticed it two or three days ago. too bad!" "yes, you're feeling perfectly wretched about it, i guess," said big thursby drily, causing a smile around the table. walton shrugged and rewarded the speaker with one of his smiles that were always unfortunately like leers. "oh, i can feel sorry for him," said walton, "even if i do get his place. gilbert gave me an awfully good fight for it." "oh, was there a fight?" asked thursby innocently. "i didn't notice any." thursby got a real laugh this time and harry walton joined in to save his face, but with no very good grace. "if anyone has an idea that don gilbert is scared and quit for that reason," observed st. clair, "he'd better keep it to himself. or, anyhow, he'd better not air it when tim is about. he nearly bit my head off in the gym because i said that don was a chump to give up like this a week before the claflin game. tim flared up like--like a gasoline torch and wanted to fight! i didn't mean a thing by my innocent remark, but i had the dickens of a time trying to prove it to tim! and he almost jumped into you, too, didn't he, holt?" "yes, he did, the touchy beggar! you all heard what robey said, and----" "i didn't hear," interrupted steve, "and----" "why, he said----" "and, as i was about to remark, holt, i don't want to. and it will be just as decent for those who did hear to forget. robey says lots of things he doesn't mean or believe. perhaps that was one of them. i'm for don. if he says he's sick, he is sick. you've all seen him play for two years and you ought to know that there isn't a bit of yellow anywhere in his make-up." "that's so," agreed several, and others nodded, holt amongst them. "i didn't say he was a quitter, steve. i was only repeating what robey said, and tim happened to hear me. gee, i like don as well as any of you. gee, didn't i play a whole year with him on the second?" "gee, you did indeed!" replied crewe, and, laughing, the fellows pushed back their chairs and left the table. tim didn't hurry on his way along the walk to billings, for he was earnestly trying to think of some scheme that would take don's mind off his trouble that evening. perhaps he could get don to take a good, long walk. walking always worked wonders in his own case when, as very infrequently happened, he had a fit of the blues. yes, he would propose a walk, he told himself. and then he groaned at the thought of it, for he was very tired and he ached in a large number of places! only a few windows were lighted in billings as he approached it, for most of the fellows were still in dining hall and the rule requiring the turning out of lights during absence from rooms was strictly enforced. only the masters were exempted, and tim noticed as he passed mr. daley's study that the droplight was turned low by one of those cunning dimming attachments which tim had always envied the instructor the possession of. tim would have had one of those long ago could he have put it to any practical use. he passed through the doorway and down the dimly lighted corridor, the rubber-soled shoes which he affected in all seasons making little sound. he was surprised to see that no light showed through the transom of number 6, and he paused outside the door a moment. perhaps don was asleep. in that case, it would be just as well to not disturb him. but, on the other hand, he might be just sitting there in the dark being miserable. tim turned the knob and pushed the door open. the light from the corridor and the fact that don had stopped startledly at the sound of the turning knob prevented an actual collision between them. tim, pushing the door slowly shut behind him, viewed don questioningly. "hello," he said, "where are you going?" "for a walk," replied don. "why the coat and umbrella? and--oh, i see!" tim's glance took in the bag and comprehension dawned. "so that's it, eh?" there was an instant of silence during which tim closed the door and leaned against it, hands in pockets and a thoughtful scowl on his face. finally: "yes, that's it," said don defiantly. "i'm off for home." "what's the big idea?" "you know well enough, tim. i--i'm not going to stay here and be--be pointed out as a quitter. i'm----" "wait a sec! what are you doing now but quitting, you several sorts of a blind mule? think you're helping things any by--by running away? don't be a chump, donald." "that's all well enough for you. it isn't your funeral. i don't care what they say about me if i don't have to hear it. i'm sorry, tim, but--but i've just got to do it. i--there's a note for you in your bed. i didn't expect you'd be back before i left." "i'll bet you didn't, son!" said tim grimly. "now let me tell you something, don. you're acting like a baby, that's what you're doing! it's all fine enough to say that you don't care what fellows say as long as you don't hear it, but you don't mean it, don. you would care. and so would i. if you don't want them to think you a quitter, for the love of mud don't run away like--like one!" "i've thought of all that, tim, but it's the only thing to do." "the only thing to do, your grandmother! the thing to do is to stick around and show folks that you're _not_ a quitter. don't you see that getting out is the one thing that'll make them believe robey was right?" "oh, i dare say, but i've made up my mind, tim. i'm going to get that seven-one train, old man, and i'll have to beat it. if you want to walk along to the station with me----" "and carry your bag?" asked tim sweetly. he turned the key in the lock and then dropped it in his pocket. don took a stride forward, but was met by tim's challenging frown. "there's no seven-one train for you tonight, donald," said tim quietly, "nor any other night. put your bag down, old dear, and hang your overcoat back in the closet." [illustration: "will you unlock that door?" demanded don angrily] "don't act like a silly ass," begged don. "put that key back and let me out, tim!" "yes, i will--like fun! the only way you'll get that key will be by taking it out of my pocket, and by the time you do that the seven-one train will be half-way to the city." "please, tim! you're not acting like a good chum! just you think----" "that's just what i am acting like," returned tim, stepping past the other and switching on the lights. "and you'll acknowledge it tomorrow. just now you're sort of crazy in the head. i'll humour you as much as possible, donald, but not to the extent of letting you make a perfect chump of yourself. sit down and behave." "tim, i want that key," said don sternly. tim shrugged. "can't have it, don, unless you fight for it. and i'm not sure you'd get it then. now look here----" "you've no right to keep me here!" "i don't give a hang whether i've got the right or not. you're going to stay here." "there are other trains," said don coldly. "you can't keep that door locked forever." "i don't intend to try, but it'll stay locked until the last train tonight has whistled for the crossing back there. make up your mind to that, son!" don looked irresolutely from tim to the door and back again. he didn't want to fight tim the least bit in the world. he wasn't so sure now that he wanted to get that train, either. but, having stated his purpose, he felt it encumbent on him to carry it out. then his gaze fell on the windows and he darted toward them. but tim had already thought of that way of escape and before don had traversed half the distance from door to windows tim had planted himself resolutely in the way. "no you don't, donald," he said calmly. "you'll have to lick me first, boy, and i'm feeling quite some scrappy!" "i don't want to lick you," said don irritably, "but i mean to get that train. you'd better either give up that key or stand out of my way, tim." "neither, thanks. and, look here, if we get to scrapping horace will hear us and then you won't get away in any case. be sensible, don, and give it up. it can't be done, old man." "will you unlock that door?" demanded don angrily. "no, confound you, i won't!" "then i'm going out by the window!" "and i say you're not." tim swiftly peeled off his coat. "anyway, not in time to get that train." don dropped his bag to the floor and tossed overcoat and umbrella on his bed. "i've given you fair warning, tim," he said in a low voice. "i don't want to hurt you, but you'd better stand aside." "i don't want to get hurt, don," replied the other quietly, "but if you insist, all right. i'm doing what i'd want you to do, don, if i went crazy in the head. you may not like it now, but some day you'll tell me i did right." "you're acting like a fool," answered don hotly. "it's no business of yours if i want to get out of here. now you let me pass, or it'll be the worse for you!" "don, will you listen to reason? sit down calmly for five minutes and let's talk this thing over. will you do that?" "no! and i won't be dictated to by you, tim otis! now get out of the way!" "you'll have to put me out," answered tim with set jaw. "and you're going to find that hard work, donald. we're both going to get horribly mussed up, and----" but tim didn't finish his remark, for at that instant don rushed him. tim met the onslaught squarely and in a second they were struggling silently. no blows were struck. don was bent only on getting the other out of the way and making his escape through the open window there, while tim was equally resolved that he should do nothing of the sort. in spite of don's superior weight, the two boys were fairly equally matched, and for a minute or two they strained and tussled without advantage to either. then tim, his arms wrapped around don's body like iron bands, forced the latter back a step and against a chair which went crashing to the floor. don tore at the encircling arms, panting. "i don't--want to--hurt you," he muttered, "but--i will--if you don't--let go!" there was no answer from tim, but the grip didn't relax. don worked a hand under the other's chin and tried to force his head back. tim gave a little and they collided with the window-seat, stumbled and slid together to the floor, don on top. for a moment they writhed and thrashed and then don worked his right arm loose, slowly tore tim's left hand away and held it down to the floor. "let go or i'll punch you, tim," he panted. "punch--ahead!" don strained until he felt tim's other hand giving, and then, with a sudden fling of his body, rolled clear and jumped to his feet. but tim was only an instant behind him and, panting and dishevelled, the two boys confronted each other, silent. "i'm going out there," said don after a moment. tim only shook his head and smiled crookedly. "i am, tim, and--and you mustn't try to stop me this time!" "i've--got to, don!" "i'm giving you fair warning!" "i know." don took a deeper breath and stepped forward. "don't touch me!" he warned. but tim was once more in his path, hands stretched to clutch and hold. "out of my way, tim! fair warning!" don's face was white and his eyes blazing. "no!" whispered tim, and crouched. then don went on again. tim threw himself in the way, a fist shot out and tim, with a grunt, went back against the pillows and slipped heavily to the floor. don's hands fell to his sides and he stared bewilderedly. then, with a groan, he dropped to his knees and raised tim's head from the floor. "gee, but i'm sorry, timmy!" he stammered. "i didn't mean to do it, honest! i was crazy, i guess! timmy, are you all right!" tim's eyes, half-closed, fluttered, he drew a deep breath and his head rolled over against don's arm. "timmy!" cried don anxiously. "_timmy!_ don't you hear me! i didn't hit you awfully hard, timmy!" tim sighed. "what--time is it?" he murmured. "time? never mind the time. are you all right, tim?" tim opened his eyes and grinned weakly. "hear the birdies sing, don! it was a lovely punch! help me up, will you?" don lifted him to the window-seat. "i'm horribly sorry, tim," he said abjectedly. "i--i didn't know what i was doing, chum! i wish--i wish you'd hand me one, tim! go on, will you?" tim laughed weakly. "it's all right, donald. just give me a minute to get my breath. gee, things certainly spun around there for a second!" "where'd i hit you?" "right on the point of the jaw." tim felt of the place gingerly. "no harm done, though. it just sort of--jarred me a bit. what time is it?" don glanced at the tin alarm clock on his dresser. "ten of seven," he answered. "what's that got to do with it?" "well, you can't make the seven-one now, donald, unless you fly all the way, can you?" "oh!" said don, rather blankly. "i--i'd forgotten!" "good thing," muttered tim. "wish you'd forgotten before! if anyone ever tells you you're a nice good-natured, even-tempered chap, don, don't you believe him. you send 'em to me!" "i didn't know i could lose my temper like that," replied the other shamefacedly. "timmy, i'm most awfully sorry about it. you believe that, don't you?" "sure!" tim laughed. "but i'll bet you're not half as sorry as you would have been tomorrow if i'd let you go! don, you're an awful ass, now aren't you?" don nodded. "i guess i am, timmy. and you're a--a brick, old man!" "huh! any more trains to new york tonight?" "there's one at twelve-something," answered don, with a grin. "thinking of catching it?" "not a bit!" "all right then." tim dug in his pocket and then tossed the door-key beside him on the cushion. "better unpack your bag, you silly ass. then we'll go out and get some air. i sort of need it!" some three hours later tim, tossing back his bed-clothes, exclaimed: "hello! what have we here?" "that's just a note i wrote you," said don hurriedly. "hand it here, tim." "i should say not! i'm going to read it!" "no, please, tim! it's just about two or three things i was going to leave you! hand it over, like a good chap!" "something you were going to leave me?" said tim as he let don wrest the sheet of paper from him. "oh, i see. well,"--he felt carefully of the lump on his chin--"i guess you left me enough as it is, dearie!" chapter xx amy appears for the defence practice on monday was a wretched affair. to be sure, many of the fellows who had played in the chambers game had been excused, but that didn't account for the fact that those who did take part went at their work as if half asleep. both mcphee and cotter failed to get any life into the first, and the second, while it, too, seemed to have taken part in the general slump, managed to score twice while the first was with difficulty wresting three touchdowns from its opponent. mr. robey shouted himself red in the face, steve edwards, who followed practice, pleaded and exhorted, and a stocky, broad-shouldered, bearded individual who made his appearance that afternoon for the first time frowned and shook his head, and all to small purpose. the players accepted scoldings and insults as a donkey accepts blows, untroubledly, apathetically, and jogged on at their own pace, guilty of all the sins of commission and omission in the football decalogue. there was much curiosity about the newcomer and many opinions as to his identity were hazarded on the bench that afternoon. it was quite evident that he was a football authority, for coach robey consulted him at times all during practice. and it was equally evident that they were close friends, since the stranger was on one occasion seen to smite the head coach most familiarly between the shoulders! but who he was and what he was doing there remained a secret until after supper. then it became known that his name was proctor, doctor george g. proctor, that he was a practising physician some place in the middle west and that he was visiting coach robey. but that was unsatisfactory data and some enterprising youth hunted back in the football records and, lo, the mystery was explained. eight years before "gus" proctor had played tackle on the princeton eleven and in his junior and senior years had been honoured with a position on the all-american team. subsequently he had coached at a college in ohio and had put said college on the map. now, having stolen away from home to see princeton and yale play next saturday, he was staying for a day or two with mr. robey. after that became generally known doctor proctor was gazed at with a new respect whenever he appeared on field or campus. don and tim went up to number 12 that night after supper to call on tom hall. tim was having hard work making don face the music. if don could have had his way he would have kept to himself, but tim insisted on dragging him around. "just keep a firm upper lip, donald," he counselled, "and show the fellows that there's nothing in it. that's the only way to do. if you keep skulking off by yourself they'll think you're ashamed." "so i am," muttered don. "you're not, either! you've done nothing to be ashamed of! keep that in mind, you silly it. now come along and we'll go up and jolly tom a bit." steve edwards was not at home, but amy byrd was enthroned on the window-seat when they entered in response to tom's invitation, and amy had evidently been holding forth very seriously on some subject. "don't mind us," said tim. "go ahead, amy, and get it off your chest." "hello," said amy. "hello, don, old man. haven't seen you for an age. make yourselves at home. never mind tom, he's only the host. how did you like the practice today, tim?" "i didn't see it, but i heard enough about it. it must have been fierce!" "it was perfectly punk," growled tom. "i should think robey would want to throw up his hands and quit!" "did you see it, don?" asked amy. "no, i didn't go over. what was the trouble?" "well, i'm no expert," replied amy, taking his knees into his arms and rocking gently back and forth on the seat, "but i'd say in my ignorant way that someone had unkindly put sleeping-potions in the milk at training-table! the only fellow who seemed to have his eyes more than half open was mcphee. mac showed signs of life at long intervals. the rest sort of stumbled around in their sleep. i think peters actually snored." "oh, we're going to get a fine old drubbing next saturday," said tom pessimistically. "and what a fine exhibition for that chap proctor! i'll bet robey could have kicked the whole team all the way back to the gym. he looked as though it would have done him a world of good to have a try at it!" "oh, well, these things happen," said tim cheerfully. "it's only a slump. we'll get over it." "slump be blowed!" said tom. "this is a fine time to slump, five days before the game!" "i know that, too, but there's no use howling about it. what we need, tom, is to have you get back there at right guard, old man." "that's what i've been saying," exclaimed amy earnestly. "i want tom to go to josh and ask him to let him play, but he won't. says it wouldn't be any good. you don't know whether it would or not, tom, until you try it. look here, josh doesn't want us to get beaten saturday any more than we want it ourselves, and if you sort of put it up to him like that----" "i'd look well, wouldn't i?" laughed tom. "telling josh that unless he let me off pro the team would get licked! gee, that's some modest, isn't it?" "you don't have to put it like that," replied amy impatiently. "be--be diplomatic. tell him----" "what we ought to do," interrupted tim, "is get up a petition and have everyone sign it." "i thought of that, too," said amy, "but this dunder-headed turk won't stand for even that." "why not, tom?" asked don. "because." "and after that?" asked amy sweetly. "well, look here, you chaps." tom scowled intently for a moment. "look here. it's this way. josh put a bunch of us on pro, didn't he? well, what right have i to go and ask to be let off just because i happen to be a football man? you don't suppose those other fellows like it any better than i do, do you?" "oh, forget that! i'm one of them, and i'm having the time of my life. it's been the making of me, tom. i'm getting so blamed full of learning that i'll be able to loaf all the rest of the year; live on my income, so to say." and amy beamed proudly. "that's all right," answered tom doggedly, "but i don't intend to cry-baby. i'm just as much in it as any of you. if josh wants to let us all off, all right, but i'm not going to ask for a--a special dispensation!" "you don't need to," said tim. "let the fellows do it. that has nothing to do with you. what's to keep us from going ahead and getting up a petition?" "because i ask you not to," replied tom simply. "it's only fair that we should all be punished alike." "but you're not," said don. "we're not? why aren't we?" asked tom in surprise. "because you're getting it harder than amy and harry westcott and the others," answered don quietly. "they aren't barred from any sport, and you are." "by jove, that's a fact!" exclaimed amy. "but--but we all got the same sentence," protested tom. "i know you did, but"--don smiled--"put it like this. i hate parsnips; can't bear them. suppose you and i were punished for something we'd done by being made to eat parsnips three times a day for--for a month! you like them, don't you? well, who'd get the worst of that? the sentence would be the same, but the--the punishment would be a heap worse for me, wouldn't it?" "'father was right'!" said tim. "oh, father never spoke a truer word!" cried amy, jumping up from the window-seat. "that settles it, tom! get some paper, tim, and we'll write that petition this minute and i'll guarantee to get fifty signatures before ten o'clock!" "you'll do nothing of the sort," said tom stubbornly. "don talks like a lawyer, all right, but he's all wrong. and, anyway, i'm out of football and i'm going to stay out for this year. i've quit training and i probably couldn't play if josh said i might. so that----" "oh, piffle," said amy. "quit training! everyone knows you never quit training, tom. you could go out there tomorrow and play as good a game as you ever did. don't talk like a sick duck!" "there's no reason why i should play, though. pryme's putting up a bully game----" "pryme is doing the best he knows how," said tim, "but pryme can't play guard as you can, tom, and he never will, and you know it! now have a grain of sense, won't you? just sit tight and let us put this thing through. there isn't a fellow in school who won't be tickled to death to sign that petition, and i'll bet you anything you like that josh will be just as tickled to say yes to it. whatever you say about josh fernald, you've got to hand it to him for being fair and square, tom." "josh is all right, sure. i haven't said anything against him, have i? but i won't stand for any petition, fellows, so you might as well get that out of your heads. besides, my being on the team or off it isn't going to make a half of one per cent's difference next saturday." there was silence in the room for a moment. then amy went dejectedly back to the window-seat and threw himself on it at full length. "i think you might, tom," he said finally, "if only on my account!" "why on your account?" laughed tom. "because i'm the guy that got you all into the mess, that's why. and i've felt good and mean about it ever since. and now, when we think up a perfectly good way to--to undo the mischief i made, you act like a mule. think what a relief it would be to my conscience, tom, if you got off pro and went back and played against claflin!" "i don't care a continental about your conscience, amy. in fact i never knew before that you had one!" "i've got a very nice one, thanks. it's well-trained, too. it----" amy's voice trailed off into silence and for the next five minutes or so he took no part in the conversation, but just laid on the cushions and stared intently at the ceiling. then, suddenly, he thumped his feet to the floor and reached for his cap. "what time is it?" he demanded. "most eight," said tim. "we'd better beat it." "what time----" began amy. then he stopped, pulled his cap on his head and literally hurled himself across the room and through the door, leaving the others to gaze at each other amazedly. "well, what's wrong with him?" gasped tim. "he's got something in that crazy head of his," answered tom uneasily. "don't let him start that petition business, tim, will you? i don't want to seem mean or anything, you know, but i'd rather let things be as they are. come up again, fellows. and maybe today's showing doesn't mean anything, tim, just as you said. we'll hope so, eh?" faculty conferences took place on monday evenings at half-past seven in the faculty meeting room in main hall. at such times, with the principal, mr. fernald, presiding at the end of the long table and all members of the faculty able to attend ranged on either side, all and sundry matters pertaining to the government of the school came up for discussion. the business portion of the conference was followed by an informal half-hour of talk, during which many of the students were subjected to a dissection that would have surprised them vastly had they known of it. tonight, however, the executive session was still going on and mr. brooke, the secretary, was still making notes at the foot of the table, when there came a rap at the door. mr. fernald nodded to mr. brooke. "see who it is, please," he said. the secretary laid down his pen very carefully on the clean square of blue blotting-paper before him, pushed back his chair and opened the door a few inches. when he turned around his countenance expressed a sort of pained disapprobation. "it's byrd, sir," announced mr. brooke in a low, shocked voice. "he says he'd like to speak to you." "byrd? well, tell him i'm busy," replied the principal. "if he wants to wait i'll see him after the conference. although"--mr. fernald glanced at the clock--"it's only four minutes to eight and he'd better get back to his room. tell him i'll see him at the cottage at nine, mr. brooke. as i was saying," and mr. fernald faced the company again, "i think it would be well to arrange for a longer course this winter. last year, as you'll recall---eh? what is it?" "he says, sir, that it's a faculty matter," announced mr. brooke deprecatingly, "and asks to be allowed to come in for a minute." "a faculty matter? well, in that case----all right, mr. brooke, tell him to come in." as amy entered eight pairs of eyes regarded him curiously; nine, in fact, for mr. brooke, closing the door softly behind the visitor, gazed at him in questioning disapproval. "well, byrd, what can we do for you?" mr. fernald smiled, doubtless with the wish to dispel embarrassment. but he needn't have troubled about that, for amy didn't look or act in the least embarrassed. "i'm afraid," continued the principal, "that i can't offer you a chair, for we're rather busy just now. what was it you wanted to speak of?" "i guess it looks pretty cheeky, sir, for me to butt in here," replied amy, with a smile, "but it's rather important, sir, and--and if anything's to be done about it it'll have to be done tonight." "really? well, it does sound important. suppose you tell us about it, byrd." "thank you, sir." amy paused, gathering his words in order. "it's this, mr. fernald: when we fellows were put on pro--probation, i mean, it was intended that we should all get the same punishment, wasn't it, sir?" "let me see, that was the affair of---ah, yes, i recall it. why, yes, byrd, naturally it was meant to treat you all alike. what complaint have you?" "it isn't exactly a complaint, sir. but it's this way. there were nine of us altogether. it was my fault in the first place because i put them up to it. they'd never thought of it if i hadn't." amy glanced at mr. moller. "it was a pretty silly piece of business, sir, and we got what we deserved. but--but none of us meant to--to hurt anyone's feelings, sir. it was just a lark. we didn't think that----" "we'll allow that, byrd. please get down to the purpose of this unusual visit," said mr. fernald drily. "yes, sir. well, eight of us it doesn't matter so much about. we aren't football men and being on probation doesn't cut so much--i mean it doesn't matter so much. but tom hall's a football man, sir, and it's different for him. this is his last year here and losing his place on the team was hard lines. that's what i'm trying to get at, sir. you meant that we were all to be punished the same, but we weren't. it's just about twice as hard on tom as it is on the rest of us. you see that, sir, don't you?" there was a moment of silence and then mr. simkins coughed. or did he chuckle? amy couldn't tell. but the principal dropped his eyes and tapped his blotter with the tip of the pencil he held. at last: "that's a novel point of view, byrd," he said. "there may be something in it. but i must remind you that the law--and the faculty stands for the law here--takes no cognisance of conditions existing--hem!" mr. fernald glanced doubtfully down the table. "perhaps it should, though. we'll pass that question for the moment. what is it you suggest, byrd?" "well, sir, the team's in punk shape. it was awful today. it needs tom, sir; needs him awfully. i don't say that we'll beat claflin if he should play, mr. fernald, but i'm mighty sure we won't if he doesn't. and it seemed to me that maybe you and the other faculty members hadn't thought of how much harder you were giving it to tom than to the rest of us, and that if you did know, realise it, sir, you'd maybe consider that he'd had about enough and let him off so he might play saturday. the rest of us haven't any kick coming, sir. it's just tom. and he doesn't know that i'm here, either. we tried to get him to let us petition faculty, but he wouldn't. he said he was going to take the same punishment as the rest of us." "then he doesn't agree with your contention, byrd?" "oh, he sees i'm right, mr. fernald, but he--he's obstinate!" mr. fernald smiled, as did most of the others. "byrd, i think you ought to take a law course," said the principal. "i might answer you as i started to by pointing out that it is no business of ours whether a punishment is going to hit one fellow harder than another; that just because it might should make that one fellow more careful not to transgress. but you've taken the wind out of my sails by getting me to testify that we intended the punishment to be the same for all. you've put us in a difficult place, byrd. if we should lift probation in hall's case it would seem that we had different laws for team members than for boys unconnected with athletics. you've made a very eloquent plea, but i don't just see----" mr. fernald hesitated. then: "possibly someone has some suggestion," he added, and it seemed to amy that his gaze rested on mr. moller for an instant. at all events it was the new member of the faculty who spoke. "if i might, sir," he said hesitatingly, "i'd like to make the suggestion that probation be lifted from all. it seems to me that that would--would simplify things, mr. fernald." "hm. yes. possibly. as the target of the extremely vulgar proceeding, mr. moller, the suggestion coming from you bears weight. byrd, you'd better get to your studies. you'll learn our decision in the morning. your action is commendable, my boy, and we'll take that into consideration also. good-night." "good-night, sir. good-night, sirs. thank you." amy retired unhurriedly, unembarrassedly, and with dignity, as befitted one who had opened the eyes of authority to the error of its ways! the next morning mr. fernald announced in chapel that at the request of mr. moller, and in consideration of good behaviour, the faculty had voted to lift probation from the following students: hall---but just there the applause began and the other eight names were not heard. chapter xxi the doctor tells a story tuesday, with the return of all first-string players to the line-up and the appearance of tom hall once more at right guard, practice went about a hundred per cent better, and those who turned out to watch it went back to the campus considerably encouraged. the showing of the team naturally had an effect on the spirit of the mass meeting that evening. ever since the southby game the school had been holding meetings and "getting up steam" for the claflin contest, but they had been tame affairs in contrast with tonight's. brimfield was football-crazy now, for the big game loomed enormous but four days away. fellows read football in the papers, talked football and, some of them, dreamed football. the news from claflin was read and discussed eagerly. the fortunes of the rival eleven were watched just as closely as those of the home team. when a claflin player wrenched an ankle brimfield gasped excitedly. when it was published that cox, of the blue team, had dropped fourteen goals out of twenty tries from the thirty-five-yard line and at a severe angle, depression prevailed at brimfield. the news that the claflin scrubs had held the first to only one touchdown in thirty minutes of play sent brimfield's spirits soaring! fellows neglected lessons brazenly and during that week of the final battle there was a scholastic slump that would undoubtedly have greatly alarmed the faculty if the latter, rendered wise by experience, hadn't expected it. the first team players were excused from study hour subsequent to monday in order that they might attend blackboard lectures and signal drills in the gymnasium. on tuesday night, after an hour's session, and in response to public clamour, they filed onto the platform just before the meeting was to begin at nine-fifteen and, somewhat embarrassedly, seated themselves in the chairs arranged across the back. mr. fernald was there, and mr. conklin, the athletic director, and coaches robey and boutelle, and trainer danny moore, and manager morton and childers, captain of the baseball team. and steve payne was at the piano. also, sitting beside mr. robey, was doctor proctor. childers, who was cheer leader that fall, presided, and, after the assemblage had clapped and shouted "a-a-ay!" as each newcomer appeared on the platform, opened proceedings with the school song. then mr. fernald spoke briefly, captain edwards followed, each being cheered loudly and long, and childers introduced mr. robey. "what we are all anxious to know tonight," said childers, "is whether we're going to win next saturday. mr. fernald has said that he _hopes_ we shall, captain edwards has said that he _thinks_ we shall, and now we're going to hear from the only one who _knows_! fellows, a long cheer for mr. robey, and make it good! are you all ready? now then! one--two--three!" "brimfield! brimfield! brimfield! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! brimfield! brimfield! brimfield! robey!" when the cheering, and the shouting and clapping and stamping that followed for good measure, had quieted down, mr. robey said: "fellows, captain childers is much too flattering. i'm not gifted with second-sight, even if he thinks so. i don't know any more than he does or you do whether we're going to win on saturday. like mr. fernald, i _hope_ we are and, like captain edwards, i _think_ we are." cheers interrupted then. "but i don't want to make any prediction. i'll say one thing, though, and that is this: if the team plays the way it _can_ play, if it makes full use of the ability that's in it, there's only one thing that can happen, and that's a brimfield victory! i've got every reason to expect that the team _will_ do its utmost, and that is why i say that i think we'll win. we must remember that we're going up against a strong team, a team that in some ways has shown itself so far this season our superior. i don't say that the claflin eleven is any better than ours. i don't _think_ so, not for a moment. our team this fall is as good as last year's team. we've had our little upsets; we always do; but we've come down to practically the eve of the game in good shape. every fellow has done his best and, i am firmly convinced, is going to do a little better than his best on saturday afternoon. and that little better is what will decide the game, fellows. after the coaches have done their part and the players have toiled hard and earnestly and enthusiastically, why then it all comes down to _fight_! and so it's fight that's going to win the game. "you fellows must do your part, though. you must be right back of the team, every minute--and let them know it. cheering helps a team to win, no matter what anyone may say to the contrary. only cheer at the right times, fellows. just making a noise indiscriminately is poor stuff. but i don't need to tell you this, i guess, because your cheer leader knows what to do better than i do. but let the team know that you're right with them, backing them up all the time, fighting behind them, boosting them along! it counts, fellows, take my word for it! "and now there's one other thing i want to say before i make way for someone who can really talk. it's this, fellows. don't forget the team that has helped us all season, the team that doesn't get into the limelight. and don't forget the coach, who has worked just as hard, perhaps a good deal harder, to develop that team than i've worked. i'm going to ask you to show your appreciation of the unselfish devotion of coach boutelle and one of the finest second teams brimfield has ever had!" mr. robey bowed and retreated and childers jumped to his feet. "a cheer for coach boutelle, fellows!" he shouted. "a long cheer and a whopper!" and, when it had been given lustily: "and now one for the second team!" he cried. "everyone into it! one--two--three!" the enthusiasm was mounting high now, and, after the cheer had died away, there were demands for a song. "we want to sing!" proclaimed the meeting. "_we want to sing!_" childers held up a hand. "all right, fellows! just a minute, please! we've got a guest with us this evening, an honoured guest, fellows. those of you who know football history know his name as well as you know the names of heffelfinger and dewitt and coy and brickley and--and many others in the football hall of fame! i know you want to hear from him and i hope he will be willing to say a few words." childers glanced at doctor proctor and the latter, smiling, shook his head energetically. "he says he will be glad to, fellows," continued childers mendaciously, amidst laughter, "and so i'm going to call first for a cheer for--if the gentleman will pardon me--'gus' proctor, famous princeton and all-america tackle, and after that we're going to listen very attentively to him. now, then, everyone into this! a long cheer for doctor proctor!" "i'm an awfully poor speaker, fellows," began the doctor, when he had advanced to the front of the platform. "i appreciate this honour and if i don't do justice to the fine reputation your--your imaginative cheer leader has provided me with you must try to forgive me. speaking isn't my line. if any of you would like to have a leg sawed off or something of that sort i'd be glad to do it free of charge just to prove that--well, that there's something i _can_ do fairly decently! "i saw your team practice yesterday and i thought then that perhaps an operation would benefit it. then i saw it again today and discovered that my first diagnosis was wrong. fellows, i call it a good team. i think you've got material there that's equal to any i've ever seen on a school team. your coach says he won't prophesy as to your game on saturday. i've known george robey for ten years. he isn't a bad sort, take him all around, but he's a pessimist of the most pessimistic sort. he's the kind of chap who, if you sprang that old reliable one on him about every cloud having a silver lining, would shrug his shoulders and say, 'humph! more likely nickel-plated!' that's the sort he is, boys. now i'm just the opposite, and, at the risk of displeasing george, i'm going to tell you that, from what i've seen of the brimfield football team in practice, i'm firmly convinced that it's going to win!" loud and prolonged cheering greeted that prediction, and it was fully a minute before the speaker could proceed. "i've played the game in my day and i've coached teams, boys, and i think i've got a little of what your coach disclaimed. i mean a sort of--well, not second-sight, but a sort of ability to tell what a team will do from the looks of the players on it. in my profession we have to study human nature a lot and we get so we can classify folks after we've looked them over and watched them awhile. we make mistakes sometimes, but on the whole we manage fairly well to put folks in the classes they belong in. doing that with the members of your team i find that almost without exception they class with the kind of fellows who _don't like to be beaten_! and when a fellow doesn't like to be beaten he isn't--not very often. "i think i can read in the faces i see here tonight a great deal of that same spirit, and if the team has it and you fellows behind the team have it, why, i wouldn't give a last year's plug-hat for claflin's chances next saturday! "football," continued doctor proctor presently, "is a fine game. it's fun to play and it's a wonderful thing to train a fellow's body and mind. i've heard lots of folks object to it on various scores, but i've never heard an objection yet that carried any weight. more often than not those who run football down don't know the game. why, if it did no more than teach us obedience and discipline it would be worth while. but it does far more than that. it gives us strong, dependable bodies, it teaches us to think--and think quick, and it gives us courage, physical and moral. i'm going to tell you of an incident that i witnessed only a few weeks since if you'll let me. i fear i'm taking up too much time----" there were cries of "no, no!" and "go ahead!" "i'll try to be brief. last fall i was travelling on a train out my way, to be exact some eighty miles west of cincinnati, when we had an accident. a freight train was slow about taking a side track and we came along and banged into it. it was about five o'clock in the morning and most of the passengers were asleep. a wreck's a nasty thing in any case, but when it happens at night or before it is light enough to see it is worse. the forward cars of our train and the freight caught fire from the engines, and there was a good deal of loose steam around, and things were pretty messy for awhile. there happened to be another doctor on the train and, as soon as we got our bearings, we started a first-aid camp alongside the track. some of the passengers, mostly in the day coaches up front, were badly burned and we had our hands full. "there is always more or less confusion in an affair of that sort and it was some minutes after the accident before the rescue work got under way. but one of the first rescuers i noticed was a young chap, a boy in fact, probably about seventeen years old. he didn't have a great deal on, i remember, but he was certainly johnny-on-the-spot that morning! it was he who brought the first patient to me, a little dried-up hebrew peddler i judged him, who had been caught under some wreckage in the forward day-coach. he had a broken forearm and while i was busy with him i saw this young chap climbing in and out of windows and wading through wreckage and always coming out again with someone. how many folks he pulled away from the flames and the scalding steam i don't know, but i never saw anyone work harder or more--more efficiently. yes, efficiently is just the word i want! and i said to myself at the time: 'that fellow is a football man! and i'll bet he's a good one!' you see, it wasn't only that he had courage to risk himself, but he had the ability to see what was to be done and to do it, and do it quick! why, he was pulling injured women and children and men from those burning, overturned cars before a grown-up man had sensed what had happened! and later on, when we'd done what we could for the burned and scalded bodies and limbs, i got hold of the boy for a moment. i asked him his name and he told it, and then i said: 'you've played football, haven't you?' and he said he had, a little. he wasn't much of a talker, and when some of us said some nice things about what he had done he got horribly fussed and tried to get away. but someone wanted to shake hands with him, and he wouldn't, and i saw that his own hand was burned all inside the palm, deep and nasty. 'how did you do that?' i asked him as i dressed it. oh, he didn't know. he thought he'd got his hand caught between some beams or something; couldn't get it out for a minute. it wasn't much of a burn! well, the wrecking train and a hospital train came along about then and i lost sight of that chap, and i didn't see him again. "i've told the story because i think it bears me out when i say that football is fine training. i don't say that that boy wouldn't have been just as brave and eager to help if he hadn't been a football player, but i do maintain that he wouldn't have known what to do as readily or how to do it and wouldn't have got at it as quickly. and when the flames are eating their way back from car to car quickness means a whole lot! that's the end of my story, boys. but while i've been telling it i've been looking for some sign to tell me that you recognised the hero of it. i don't find the sign and i'm puzzled. perhaps you're so accustomed to heroes here at brimfield that one more or less doesn't stir you. for the satisfaction of my own curiosity i'm going to ask you if you know who i've been talking about." a deep silence was the only answer. the doctor's audience looked extremely interested and curious, but no one spoke. "i see. you don't know. well, perhaps i'd better not tell then." but a chorus of protest arose. the doctor hesitated, and his gaze seemed to rest intently on a spot at one side of the hall and about half-way back. finally, when silence had fallen again: "i guess i will tell," he said. "it can't do him or you any harm. it may help a little to know that there's one amongst you fine enough to do what i've described. i've never seen that boy from the moment the wrecking train reached the scene of the wreck until tonight, and so i've never spoken to him again. but as i sat on the platform here awhile ago i looked and saw him. i don't forget faces very easily, and as you can understand, i wasn't likely to forget his. as i say, i haven't spoken to him yet, but i'm going to now." there was a silence in which a dropped pin would have made a noise like a crowbar. half the audience had turned their heads in the direction of doctor proctor's smiling gaze, but all eyes were fixed on his lips. the breathless silence lengthened. then the doctor spoke. "how is your hand, gilbert?" he asked. chapter xxii coach robey is puzzled some twenty minutes later don dropped into a chair in number 6 and heaved a deep sigh of relief. "gee," he muttered, "i wouldn't go through that again for--for a million dollars!" tim chuckled as he seated himself beyond the table. "why not?" he asked innocently. "i thought everyone treated you very nicely." a smile flitted across don's face. "i suppose they did, only--i guess that was the trouble! i felt like an awful fool, tim! look here, what did he have to go and tell everything he knew for? i was afraid he was going to and i wanted like anything to sneak out of there, but the place was so quiet i didn't have the nerve! at first i didn't suspect that he had seen me. i didn't recognise him until he stood up to speak this evening. yesterday i thought he looked sort of familiar, but i couldn't place him. he--he talks too much!" "he said some awfully nice things about you, old man." "he said a lot of nonsense, too! exaggerated the whole thing, he did. why, to listen to him you'd think i saved about a thousand people from certain death! well, i didn't. i helped about six or seven folks out of those cars. they were sort of rattled and didn't seem to know enough to beat it." "they weren't in any danger, then?" "no, not much. all they had to do was crawl out of the way." "then they weren't any of them burned, don?" "a few were." "how about the man with the broken arm?" "oh, he'd got caught somehow." don looked up and saw tim's laugh. "well," he added defensively, "he needn't have told about it like that, right out in front of the whole school, need he?" "you bet he need! donald, you're a bloomin', blushin' hero, and we're proud of you! and when i say blushing i mean it, for you haven't stopped yet!" "i guess you'd blush," growled don, "if it happened to you!" "i dare say, but it never will. _i'll_ never have the whole school get up on their feet and cheer me like mad for three solid minutes! and i'll never have josh shake my hand off and beam at me and tell me i'm a credit to the school! such beautiful things are not for poor little tim!" don sighed. "well, it's over with, anyway." "over with, nothing! it won't be over with as long as you stay here, donald. a hero you are and a hero you remain, old chap. and--and i'm mighty proud of you, you old humbug! telling us you didn't do anything but help lug folks to the relief train, or something!" "i didn't say that," replied don defensively. "you let us think it. gee, if i'd done anything like that i'd have put it in the papers!" tim chuckled and then went on seriously. "you don't need to worry about the fellows thinking you a quitter any more, do you? i guess proctor settled that once and for all, don. and suppose you'd run away home the other night. this wouldn't have happened and fellows would have said you had a yellow streak. i guess it was a mighty lucky thing you have little tim to look after you, dearie!" "i'm glad i didn't," said don earnestly. "i'd have made a worse mess of it, shouldn't i? i--i'm sorry you got that punch, though, timmy." "forget it! it was worth it! being the room-mate of a hero atones for everything you ever did to me, donald. i'm that proud----" but tim didn't finish, for don started around the table for him. * * * * * at the time this conversation was taking place mr. robey and doctor proctor were walking back to the former's room in the village through a frosty, starlit night. "you certainly managed to spring a sensation, gus," observed the coach as they turned into the road. "i should say so! well, that boy deserved all the cheering and praise he received. and i'm glad i told that story." "well, it's got me guessing," responded the other. "look here, gus, take a chap like the one you described tonight. what would you think if he quit cold a week before the big game?" "quit? how do you mean, george?" "just that. develops an imaginary illness. tells you he doesn't feel well enough to play, in spite of the fact that he has nothing more the matter with him than you or i have. probably not so much. shows absolute relief when you tell him he's dropped. what would you say to that?" "you mean gilbert did that?" mr. robey assented. "i wondered why he wasn't on the platform with the rest of the team," mused the doctor. "i'd say there was something queer about it, george. when did this happen?" "last week. thursday or friday, i think. he'd been laid off for a day or so and i thought he'd gone a bit fine, although he's rather too phlegmatic to suffer much from nerves. some of the high-strung chaps do go to pieces about this time and you have to nurse them along pretty carefully. but gilbert! well, on saturday--yes, that was the day--he'd been reported perfectly fit by the trainer and just as a matter of form i asked him if he was ready to play. and, by jove, he had the cheek to face me and say he wasn't well enough! it was nonsense, of course. he'd simply got scared. i told him so and dropped him. but it's curious that a boy who could do what you told of this evening could prove a quitter like that." "you say he seemed relieved when you let him go?" "yes, he showed it plainly." "that is funny! i wonder what the truth of it is?" "nerves, i suppose. cold feet, as the fellows say." "never! there's something else, old man, that you haven't got hold of. can he play?" "y-yes. yes, he can play. he's the sort that comes slow and plays a bit logy, but he's steady and works hard. not a brilliant man, you know, but dependable. he's been playing guard. losing him has left us a bit weak on that side, too." "why not take him back then? look here, george, you're a good coach and all that, but you're a mighty poor judge of human nature." "piffle!" "it's so, though. you've only got to study that chap gilbert to see that he isn't the quitting kind. his looks show it, his manner shows it, the way he talks shows it. he's the sort that might want to quit; we all do sometimes; but he couldn't because he's got stuff in him that wouldn't let him!" "that's all well enough, gus, but facts are facts. gilbert _did_ quit, and quit cold on me. so theories don't count for much. and this human nature flapdoodle----" "i don't say he didn't quit. but i do say that you've made the wrong diagnosis, george. did you talk to him? ask him what the trouble was? go after the symptoms?" "no, i'm no physician. he said he wasn't feeling well enough to play. i told him we had no place for quitters on the team. he had nothing to say to that. if you think i can feel the pulse and look at the tongue of every fellow----" doctor proctor laughed. "and take his temperature too, eh? no, i don't expect you to do that, george. but i'll tell you what i would do, and i'd do it tomorrow too. i'd call around and see gilbert. i'd tell him that i wasn't satisfied with the explanation he'd made and i'd ask him to make a clean breast of the trouble, for he must be in some trouble or he wouldn't thank you for firing him. and then i'd stop cutting off my nose to spite my face and i'd reinstate him tomorrow afternoon!" "hmph! the trouble with you doctors is that you're too romantic. you imagine things, you----" "we have to imagine, george. if we stuck to facts we'd never get anywhere in our profession! you try a little imagination, old chap. you're too matter-of-fact. what you can't see you won't believe in." "i certainly won't! as the kids say, seeing's believing." "well, there's a very unattractive board fence across the road, george. on the other side of it there are shrubs and grass. i can't see them, but i know they're there." "more likely tin-cans and ashes," grunted mr. robey. "pessimist!" laughed the other. "but never mind; ashes or grass, something's there, and you can't see it and yet you've got to acknowledge the existence of it. now haven't you?" "i suppose so, but"--mr. robey laughed--"i'd rather see it!" "climb the fence and have a look then! but you'll try my plan with the boy, won't you?" "yes, i will. if only to satisfy my curiosity, gus. hang it, the chap _can't_ be a quitter!" "he isn't. i'll stake my reputation as--as a romanticist on that! i'd like mighty well to stay and solve the mystery with you, but i'll have to jump for that early train. i wish, though, that you'd drop me a line and tell me the outcome. i'm interested--and puzzled." "all right. i'm not much of a letter-writer, though. i'll see you before you go back and tell you about it. you'll be in new york on sunday, won't you?" "until two o'clock. have lunch with me and see me off. come to the hotel as early as you can and we'll hold post-mortems on the games. let's hope that princeton and brimfield both win next saturday, george!" chapter xxiii cross-examination don found being a hero an embarrassing business the next day. the masters bothered him by stopping and shaking hands and saying nice things, and the fellows beamed on him if they weren't well enough acquainted to speak and insisted on having a full and detailed history of that train-wreck if they were! of course they all, masters and students, meant well and wanted to show their admiration, but don wished they wouldn't. it made him feel horribly self-conscious, and feeling self-conscious was distinctly uncomfortable. at breakfast table his companions referred to last evening's incident laughingly and poked fun at don and enjoyed his embarrassment, but it wasn't difficult to tell that doctor proctor's narrative had made a strong impression on them and increased their liking for don. when, just before don had finished his meal, mr. robey left the training-table and crossed the room toward him he braced himself for another scene in which he would have to stand up and be shaken by the hand, and possibly, and worst of all, listen to some sort of an apology from the coach. but don was spared, for mr. robey only placed a hand on the back of his chair, included the rest of the occupants of the table in his "good-morning," and said carelessly: "gilbert, i wish you'd drop over to mr. conklin's office some time this morning and see me. what time can you come?" "half-past ten, sir?" "that will be all right, thanks." the coach returned to his table, leaving don wondering what was up. possibly, he thought, the coach wanted to make some sort of retraction of his accusation of saturday, although don didn't believe that mr. robey was the sort to funk a public apology. if it wasn't that it could only be that he was to be offered his place on the team again. don sighed. that would be beastly, for he would have to tell more fibs, and brand new ones, too, since not even a blind man would believe him ill now! it was something of a coincidence that don should run across walton in the corridor a few minutes later. don was for passing by with no recognition of the other, but walton, with a smirk, placed himself fairly in the way. "great stuff, gilbert," he said with an attempted heartiness. "some hero, eh, what?" "drop it, walton!" don lowered his voice, for others were passing toward the doorway. "and i'll thank you not to speak to me. you know my opinion of you. now shut up!" walton found nothing to say until it was too late. don approached the gymnasium after his ten o'clock recitation with lagging feet. he had scant taste for the impending interview and would have gladly avoided it if such a thing had been possible. but he didn't see any way out of it and he heard the big door bang to behind him with a sinking heart. why, he hadn't even thought up any new excuse! mr. robey and mr. conklin, the athletic director, were both in the latter's room when don knocked at the half-opened door. mr. conklin said "good-morning" and then followed it with: "i've got something to attend to on the floor, robey, if you'll excuse me," and went out, closing the door behind him. don wished he had stayed. he took the chair vacated by the director and faced coach robey with as much ease as he could assume, which was very little. the coach began without much preamble. "i didn't ask you over here to talk about last night, gilbert, or to offer you any apology for what i said on the field last saturday. i don't believe much in spoken apologies. if i'm wrong i show it and there's no mistake about it. i think i was wrong in your case, gilbert. and i'll say so, if you like, very gladly, and act so if you'll prove it." "i don't want any apology, sir," answered don. "i guess you were right enough." "well, that's what i want to find out. what _was_ the trouble, gilbert?" "why, just what i said, coach. i--i didn't feel very fit and i didn't think it would be any use playing, feeling like i did. if you don't feel well you can't play very well, and so i thought i'd say so. i didn't mind being dropped, sir. i deserved it. and--and that's quite all right." don got up, his eyes shifting to the door. "wait a minute! let's get the truth of this. you're lying, aren't you?" don tried to look indignant and failed, tried to look hurt and failed again. then he gave it up and dropped his gaze before the searching eyes of the other. "i'm feeling some better now," he muttered. coach robey laughed shortly. "gilbert, you can't lie worth a cent! now, look here. i'm your friend. why not come across and tell me what's up? i know you weren't sick. danny gave you a clean bill of health that morning. and i know you haven't got any nerves to speak of. there's something else, gilbert. now what is it?" "nothing, sir." "then why did you act that way?" "i--i just didn't want to play." "didn't want to play! why not?" "i wasn't doing very well, and it was pretty hard work, and there was walton after the place, too. he could play better than i could." "who told you so? walton?" asked the coach drily. "i could see it," murmured don. "so you were suddenly afraid of hard work, eh? it had never bothered you before, had it? last year or this year either?" "no, i guess not." "perhaps it was more because you felt that walton would be a better man for the place, then?" surmised the coach. don agreed eagerly. it was a case of any port in a storm by now and he was glad enough to have the coach find an explanation. "yes, sir, i guess that was it." "well, that was generous of you," said the other approvingly. "but didn't it occur to you that perhaps i would be a better one to decide that matter than you? you've never known me to keep a fellow on the team for sentimental reasons, have you?" "no, sir." "hm. now when was it--i mean how long before last saturday was it--that you and walton talked it over?" "sir?" don looked up startledly. "i--we--there wasn't any talk about it," he stammered. "well, what did walton say?" don hesitated, studying mr. robey's face in the hope of discovering how much that gentleman knew. finally: "when do you mean?" he asked. "i mean the time you and walton talked about which was the best man for the position," replied the other easily. to himself he reflected that he was following gus proctor's advice with a vengeance! but he was by this time pretty certain of his ground. "i don't remember that we ever--exactly did that," don faltered. "there was some talk, maybe, but he--he never said anything like that." "like what?" "why, that he was a better guard." "then what put the idea in your head, gilbert?" "i suppose i just saw it myself." "but you were playing the position pretty regularly before thursday or whatever day it was you were taken ill, weren't you?" "yes, sir." "then how could you tell that walton was better?" "i don't know. he--he seemed better. and then tim told me i was too slow." "tim otis? otis had better mind his own business," grumbled the coach. "so that was it, then. all right. i'm glad to get the _truth_ of the matter." the little tightening of don's mouth didn't escape him. "now, then, i'm going to surprise you, gilbert. i'm going to surprise you mightily. i'm going to tell you that walton is _not_ a better left guard than you. he isn't nearly so good. that does surprise you, doesn't it?" don nodded, his eyes fixed uneasily on the coach's. "well, there it is, anyway. and so i think the best thing for all of us, gilbert, is for you to come back to work this afternoon." don's look of dismay quite startled the other. "but i'd rather not, sir! i--i'm out of practice now. i've quit training. i've been eating all sorts of things; potatoes and fresh bread and pastry--no end of pastry, sir!--and--and candy----" mr. robey grunted. "you don't show it," he said. "anyway, i guess that won't matter. i'll chance it. three o'clock, then, gilbert." don's gaze sought the floor and he shook his head. "i'd rather not, sir, if you don't mind," he muttered. "but i do mind. the team needs you, gilbert! and now that i know that you didn't quit because you were _afraid_----" "i did, though!" don looked up desperately. "that was the truth of it!" mr. robey sighed deeply. "gilbert," he said patiently, "if i couldn't lie better than you can i wouldn't try it! you weren't afraid and you aren't afraid and you know it and i know it! so, then, is it walton?" after a moment don nodded silently. "you think he's a better man than you are, eh?" don nodded again, but hesitatingly. "or you've taken pity on him and want him to play against claflin, perhaps." "yes, sir. you see, his folks are going to be here and they'll expect him to play!" "oh, i see. you and walton come from the same town? but of course you don't. how did you know his folks were coming, then?" "he told me." "when?" "about--some time last week." "was it the day you had that talk about the position and which of you was to have it?" "i guess so. yes, sir, it was that time." "and he, perhaps, suggested that it would be a nice idea for you to back out and let him in, eh?" don was silent. "did he?" insisted the coach. "he said that his folks were coming----" "and that he'd like to get into the game so they wouldn't be disappointed?" "something like that," murmured don. "and you consented?" "not exactly, but i thought it over and--and----" mr. robey suddenly leaned forward and laid a hand on don's knee. "gilbert," he asked quietly, "_what has walton got on you_?" chapter xxiv "all ready, brimfield?" those who braved a chill east wind and went out that afternoon to watch practice enjoyed a sensation, for when the first team came trotting over from the gymnasium, a half-hour later because of a rigorous signal quiz, amongst them, dressed to play, was don gilbert! a buzz of surprise and conjecture travelled through the ranks of the shivering onlookers, that speedily gave place to satisfaction, and as don, tossing aside his blanket, followed the first-string players into the field a small and enthusiastic first form youth clapped approvingly, others took it up and in a moment the applause crackled along the side line. "that's for you," whispered tim to don. "lift off your head-guard!" but don glanced alarmedly toward the fringe of spectators and hid as best he could behind thursby! practice went with a new vim today. doubtless the return of don heartened the team, for one thing, and then there was a snap of winter in the air that urged to action. the second was as nearly torn to tatters this afternoon as it had ever been, and the first scored twice in each of the two fifteen-minute periods. "boutelle's babies" were a lame and tired aggregation when the final whistle blew! later it became known that walton was out of it, had emptied his locker and retired from football affairs for the year. all sorts of stories circulated. one had it that he had quarrelled with coach robey and been incontinently "fired." another that he had become huffy over gilbert's reinstatement and had resigned. none save don and coach robey and walton himself knew the truth of the matter for a long time. don did tell tim eventually, but that was two years later, when his vow of secrecy had lapsed. just now he was about as communicative as a sphinx, and tim's eager curiosity had to go unsatisfied. "but what did he _say_?" tim demanded after practice that afternoon. "he must have said _something_!" don considered leisurely. "no, nothing special. he said i was to report for work." "well, what did _you_ say?" "i said i would!" "well, what about walton? where does he get off?" "i don't know." tim gestured despairingly. "gee, you're certainly a chatty party! don't tell me any more, please! you may say something you'll be sorry for!" "i'll tell you some day all about it, tim. i can't now. i said i wouldn't." "then there is something to tell, eh? i knew it! you can't fool your uncle dudley like that, donald! tell me just one thing and i'll shut up. did you and walton have a row the time you went to see him in his room?" don shook his head. "no, we didn't." "well, then, why----" "you said you'd shut up," reminded the other. "oh, all right," grumbled tim. "anyway, i'm mighty glad. every fellow on the team is as pleased as punch. i guess the whole school is, too. it was mighty decent of robey, wasn't it? do you know, don, robey's got a lot of sense for a football coach?" don often wondered what had occurred and been said at the interview between mr. robey and harry walton. the coach had sworn don to silence at the termination of their interview. "if walton asks you whether you told me about the business you can say you did, if you like. or tell him i wormed it out of you, which is just about what i did do. but don't say anything to anyone else about it; at all events, not as long as walton's here. i'm going to find him now and have a talk with him. i don't think you need be at all afraid of anything he may do after i get through with him. you fellows clearly did wrong in outstaying leave that night, but you had a fairly good excuse and if you'd had enough sense to go to faculty the next morning and explain you'd have all got off with only a lecture, i guess. your mistake was in not confessing. however, i don't consider it my place to say anything. it's an old story now, anyhow. be at the gym at three with your togs, gilbert, and do your best for us from now on. i'm glad to have you back again. what i said that afternoon you'd better forget. i'll show the school that i've changed my mind about you. i suppose i ought to make some sort of an apology, but----" "please don't say anything more about it, sir," begged don. "well, i'll say this, gilbert: you acted like a white man in taking your medicine and keeping the others out of trouble. you certainly deserve credit for that." "i don't see it," replied the boy. "i don't see what else i _could_ have done, mr. robey!" the coach pondered a moment. then he laughed. "i guess you're right, at that! just the same, you did what was square, gilbert. all right, then. three o'clock." he held out his hand and don put his in it, and the two gripped firmly. hurrying back to main hall, don regretted only one thing, which was that he had in a way broken his agreement with walton to say nothing about their bargain. coach robey, though, had pointed out that the agreement had been terminable by either party to it, and that in confessing to him don had been within his rights. "walton can now go ahead and take the matter to faculty, as he threatened to do," said the coach. "only, when i get through talking to him i don't think he will care to!" and apparently he hadn't, for no dire summons reached don from the office that day or the next, nor did he ever hear more of the matter. walton displayed a retiring disposition that was new and novel. on such infrequent occasions as don ran across him walton failed to see him. the day of the game the latter was in evidence with his father, mother and younger brother; don saw him making the rounds of the buildings with them and he wondered in what manner walton had accounted to his folks for his absence from the football team. walton stayed on at school, very little in evidence, until christmas vacation, but when the fellows reassembled after the recess he was not amongst them. rumour had it that he had been taken ill and would not be back. rumour was proved partly right, at all events, for brimfield knew him no more. * * * * * the first and second teams held final practice on thursday. the first only ran through signals for awhile, did some punting and catching and then disappeared, leaving the second to play two fifteen-minute periods with a team composed of their own second-string and the first team's third-string players. after that was over, the second winning without much effort, the audience, which had cheered and sung for the better part of an hour, marched back to the gymnasium and did it some more, and the second team, cheering most enthusiastically for themselves and the first and the school and, last but by no means least, for mr. boutelle, joyously disbanded for the season. there was another mass-meeting that evening, an intensely fervid one, followed by a parade about the campus and a good deal of noise that was finally quelled by mr. fernald when, in response to demands, he appeared on the porch of the cottage and made a five-minute speech which ended with the excellent advice to return to hall and go to bed. the players didn't attend the meeting that night, nor were they on hand at the one that took place the night following. instead, they trotted and slithered around the gymnasium floor in rubber-soled shoes and went through their entire repertoire of plays under the sharp eyes of coaches robey and boutelle. there was a blackboard lecture, too, on each evening, and when, at nine-thirty on friday, they were dismissed, with practice all over for the year, most of them were very glad to slide into bed as quickly as possible. if any of them had "the jumps" that night it was after they were asleep, for the coach had tired them out sufficiently to make them forget that such things as nerves were a part of their system! but the next morning was a different matter. those who had never gone through a claflin contest were inclined to be finicky of appetite and to go off into trances with a piece of toast or a fork-full of potato poised between plate and mouth. even the more experienced fellows showed some indication of strain. thursby, for instance, who had been three years on the first team as substitute or first-choice centre, who had already taken some part in two claflin games, and who was apparently far too big and calm to be affected by nerves, showed a disposition to talk more than was natural. don never really remembered at all clearly how that saturday morning passed. afterward he had vague recollections of sitting in clint thayer's room and hearing amy byrd rattle off a great deal of nonsensical advice to him and clint and tim as to how to conduct themselves before the sacrifice (amy had insisted that they should line up and face the grand-stand before the game commenced, salute and recite the immortal line of claudius's gladiators: "_morituri te salutant!_"); of seeing manager jim morton dashing about hither and thither, scowling blackly under the weight of his duties; of wandering across to the woods beyond the baseball field with tim otis and larry jones and some others and sitting on the stone wall there and watching larry take acorns out of tim's ears and nose; and, finally, of going through a perfectly farcical early dinner in a dining hall empty save for the members of the training-table. after that events stood out more clearly in his memory. claflin's hosts began to appear at about half-past one. they wore blue neckties and arm-bands or carried blue pennants which they had the good taste to keep furled while they wandered around the campus and poked inquisitive heads into the buildings. then the claflin team, twenty-six strong, rolled up in two barges just before two, having taken their dinner at the village inn, disembarked in front of wendell and meandered around to the gymnasium laden with suit-cases and things looking insultingly care-free and happy, and, as it couldn't be denied, particularly husky! don, observing from the steps of torrence, wondered how they managed to appear so easy and careless. no one, as he confided to tom hall and tim, would ever suspect that they were about to do battle for the brimfield-claflin championship! "huh," said tom, "that's nothing. that's the way we all do when we go away to play. it's this sticking at home and having nothing to do but _think_ that takes the starch out of you. when you go off you feel as if you were on a lark. things take your mind off your troubles. but, just the same, a lot of those grinning dubs are doing a heap of worrying about now. they aren't nearly as happy as they look!" "they're a lot happier than they're going to be about three hours from now," said tim darkly. that struck the right note, and tom and don laughed, and tim laughed with them, and they all three put their shoulders back and perked up a lot! and then it was two o'clock and they were pulling on their togs in the locker-room; and danny moore was circulating about in very high spirits, cracking jokes and making them laugh, and coach robey was dispatching jim morton and jim's assistant on mysterious errands and referring every little while to his red-covered memorandum book and looking very untroubled and serene. and then there was a clamping of feet on the stairs above and past the windows some two dozen pairs of blue-stockinged legs moved briskly as the visitors went across to the field for practice. and suddenly the noise was stilled and coach robey was telling them that it was up to them now, and that they hadn't a thing in the world to do for the next two hours but knock the tar out of those blue-clad fellows, and that they had a fine day for it! and then, laughing hard and cheering a little, they piled out and across the warm, sunlit grass, past the line of fellow-students and home-folks and towners, with here and there a pretty girl to glance shyly and admiringly at them as they trotted by, and so to the bench. nerves were gone now. they were only eager and impatient. "squads out!" sang mr. robey. off came sweaters and faded blankets and they were out on the gridiron, with carmine and mcphee cheerily piping the signals, with their canvas legs rasping together as they trotted about, and with the brimfield cheer sounding in their ears, making them feel a little chokey, perhaps, but wonderfully strong and determined and proud! and presently they were back in front of the bench, laughing at and pummelling one another, and the rival captains and the referee were watching a silver coin turn over and over in the sunlight out there by the tee in midfield. behind them the stand was packed and colourful. beyond, brimfield was cheering lustily again. across the faded green, at the end of the newly-brushed white lines, nearly a hundred claflin youths were waving their banners and cheering back confidently. "claflin kicks off," sang captain edwards. "we take the west goal. come on, fellows! everyone on the jump now!" a long-legged claflin guard piled the dirt up into a six-inch cone, laid the ball tenderly upon it, viewed the result, altered it, backed off and waited. "all ready, claflin? all ready, brimfield?" the whistle blew. chapter xxv tim goes over coach robey put his best foot forward when the first period started by presenting the strongest line-up he had. fortunately, brimfield had reached the claflin game with every first-string man in top shape, something that doesn't often happen with a team. there was captain edwards at left end, thayer at left tackle, gilbert at left guard, thursby at centre, hall at right guard, crewe at right tackle, holt at right end, carmine at quarter, st. clair at left half, otis at right half and rollins at full. opposed to them was a team fully their equal in age, weight and experience. the claflin forwards were a bit taller and rangier, and their centre, unlike thursby, was below rather than above average size. behind their line, the four players were, with the exception of grady, full-back, small and light. but they were known to be fast and heady and claflin didn't make the mistake of underestimating their ability. the left half, cox, was a broken-field runner of renown as well as claflin's best goal-kicker. perhaps it would have been difficult that fall to have picked two teams to oppose each other that were more evenly matched than those representing the maroon-and-grey and the blue. for the first few minutes of play each eleven seemed to be feeling out its opponent. two exchanges of punts gained ground for neither side. brimfield got her backfield working then on her twenty yards and st. clair and tim tried each side of the blue line and in two downs gained a scant six yards. rollins punted out at claflin's forty-seven. the blue got past hall for two and slid off holt for three more. the next rush failed and claflin punted to carmine on the fifteen. the blue's ends were down on carmine and he was stopped for a five-yard gain. rollins tried a forward pass to edwards, but threw short and the ball grounded. tim otis ran the left end for four and, on a delayed pass, rollins heaved himself through centre for the distance, and brimfield cheered loudly when the linesmen pulled up stakes and trailed the chain ten yards nearer the centre of the field. a second forward pass was caught by holt, but he was brought down for a scant three-yard gain. once more rollins attempted the centre of the blue line, but this time he was stopped short. on third down rollins punted and claflin caught on her forty and ran the ball back to the middle of the field. claflin then found crewe for four yards and completed her distance on a straight plunge between gilbert and thayer. it was the blue's turn to cheer then and she performed valiantly. claflin tried edwards's end, but made nothing of it, poked cox past crewe for a couple of yards, made three around holt and then punted. st. clair misjudged the distance and the ball went over his head and there was a scamper to the goal line. carmine finally fell on the ball for a touchback and the excitement in the stands subsided. brimfield smashed otis at the blue's centre and reached the twenty-five-yard line. st. clair made three on a skin-tackle play at the right and rollins got the distance on a plunge after a fake-kick. brimfield again made first down on the forty-two yards and her supporters howled gleefully. a moment later they had new cause for rejoicing when rollins pegged the ball across the field to edwards and the maroon-and-grey's captain scampered and dodged along the side of the field for thirteen yards before he was tackled. time was called for a claflin back and brimfield drew off for a consultation, the result of which was seen in the next play. carmine called gilbert to the right side of centre, the backs spread themselves in wide formation ten yards behind the line and steve edwards, as the first signal began, ran back, straightened out as the ball was snapped, raced along behind his forwards and swept around his right end. claflin's right end and half-back plunged outside of thayer, were met by st. clair and rollins, and carmine, having taken the ball on a long pass from thursby, raced past them and then swung quickly in and found an almost clear field ahead. two white lines passed under his twinkling feet and then, near the twenty, he was challenged by a claflin back. carmine eluded him, crossed a third line, found himself confronted by the blue's quarter, attempted to slip by on the outside, was tackled and borne struggling across the side line and deposited forcibly on the ground. when the ball was stepped in by the referee it was set down some four inches inside the fifteen-yard line. in the stands and along the side of the field brimfield was cheering triumphantly, imploringly, and waving her banners. the linesmen scampered in obedience to the referee's waving arm. "first down!" shouted the official. "all right, brimfield? ready, claflin?" the whistle piped again. rollins was stopped squarely on a try at right guard and otis made a scant three past the left tackle. under the shadow of her goal-posts, claflin was digging her cleats in the turf and fighting hard. rollins went back. "get through, claflin! block this kick!" cried the blue's quarter-back. "_get through! get through!_" back went the ball from thursby, a trifle high but straight enough, rollins poised it, swung his leg, and then, tucking the pigskin under his arm, sprang away to the left. shouts of alarm, cries of warning, the hurried rush of feet and rasping of canvas! bodies crashed together and went down. rollins, at the ten yards now, side-stepped and got past a blue-legged defender, turned in and went banging straight into the mêlée. arms clutched at him. he was stopped momentarily. then he wrested free, plunged on for another yard and went to earth. "second down!" cried the referee when he had bored through the pile of squirming bodies and found the ball. he glanced along the five-yard line, set the pigskin to earth again, and "about two feet to go!" he added. brimfield was shouting incessantly now, standing and waving. "_touchdown! touchdown! touchdown!_" across the field claflin sent back a dogged chant: "_hold 'em, claflin! hold 'em, claflin! hold 'em, claflin!_" but surely claflin couldn't do that! it seemed too much to ask or expect. otis made it first down off left tackle, placing the ball on the three yards. before the next play could be started the period ended and the teams flocked to the water pails and then tramped down to the other end of the field. the cheering never paused, even if the playing did. childers, red-faced and perspiring, kept the brimfield section busy every instant. "once more, now! a long cheer with nine 'brimfields'! that's good! keep it up! we're going to score, fellows! let's have it again! all into it!" only three yards to go and four downs to do it! claflin lined up desperately, her forwards digging their toes barely inside their last line, her backfield men skirmishing anxiously about behind it. "push 'em back, claflin! you can do it! don't give 'em an inch! stop 'em right here, fellows! low, low, get _low_, you fellows! charge into 'em and smother this play!" the claflin quarter, pale of face, thumped crouching backs and watched the foe intently. "put it over now!" shrilled carmine. "here we go! get down there, hall! signals!" rollins leaped forward, took the ball from carmine and smashed straight ahead. there was a moment of doubt. his plunging body stopped, went on, stopped, was borne back. "second down! two and a half to go!" again the signals, the line shifted, claflin changed to meet the shift. st. clair slewed across and slammed past the claflin left tackle. but the secondary defence had him in the next instant and he was thrust, fighting, back and still back. but he had gained. "a yard and a half!" proclaimed the referee. "you've got to do it, brimfield!" shouted edwards intensely. "don't let them get the jump on you like that! get into it, crewe! watch that man, gilbert! come on now! put it over!" "signals!" shrieked carmine. "make it go this time! over with it!" back went rollins, hands outstretched. "fake!" shouted claflin. "watch the ball! watch the ball!" rollins's arms fell, empty, as st. clair grabbed the pigskin and swept wide to the right. "_in! in!_" cried carmine. st. clair turned and shot toward the broken line. his interference did its part, but the claflin left end had fooled holt and it was that blue-legged youth who got st. clair and thumped him to the sod. an anxious, breathless moment followed. brimfield called for time and st. clair, on his back, kicked and squirmed while they pumped the air back into his lungs. the referee, kneeling over the ball, squinted along the line. then: "fourth down and about two to go!" he announced. st. clair had lost a half-yard! claflin cheered weakly. steve edwards and carmine consulted. "we'd better kick it over," said carmine. "they're getting the jump on us every time, steve." carmine's voice was husky and he had to gasp his words out. steve, panting like an engine, shook his head. "we need the touchdown," he said. "we'll put it over. try 11. tim can make it." st. clair walked back to his place. the whistle sounded again. "come on, brimfield!" gasped carmine. "this is your last chance! if you don't do it this time you'll never do it! play like you meant it! stop your fooling and show 'em football! every man into this and _make it go_! hall over! signals!" hall pushed his way to the left of the line. claflin shuffled to meet the change. "signals! 83--38--11--106!" "_signals!_" cried st. clair. carmine turned on him, snarling. "use your bean! change signals! hall over! 61--16--11--37! 61--16--11----" back shot the ball to the quarter. off sped st. clair around his end, followed by rollins. carmine crouched, back to the line, while he counted five. then tim otis shot forward, took the delayed pass, jammed the ball against his stomach and went in past thursby on the right. tim struck the line as if shot out of a gun. there was no hole there, but tim made one. if the secondary defence, overanxious, had not been fooled by that fake attack at their end tim would never have gained a foot. but as it was claflin was caught napping in the centre of her line. tim banged against a brawny guard, carmine, following him through, added impetus, the claflin line buckled inward! shouts and grunts, stifled groans of despair from the yielding blue line! then brimfield closed in behind tim and he was borne off his feet and on and over to fall at last in a chaos of struggling bodies well across the goal line! the ball went over to the right of the goal and carmine decided on a punt-out. unfortunately, thayer juggled the catch and so brimfield lost her try-at-goal. but six points looked pretty big just then and continued to look big all the rest of the half and during the succeeding intermission. brimfield's supporters were confident and happy. they sang and cheered and laughed, and the sun, sinking behind the wooded ridge, cast long golden beams on the flaunting maroon banners. and then the teams came trotting back once more and cheers thundered forth from opposing stands. howard had taken st. clair's place, it was seen, and claflin had replaced her right guard. but otherwise the teams were unchanged. brimfield kicked off and claflin brought her supporters to their feet by running the ball back all the way to the forty-five-yard line. that was cox, the fleet-footed and elusive, and the blue's left half got a mighty cheer from his friends and generous applause from the enemy. after that claflin tried a forward pass and gained another down, and then, from near the middle of the field, marched down to brimfield's thirty-three before she was stopped. the maroon-and-grey got the ball on downs by an inch or two only. brimfield tried the claflin ends out pretty thoroughly and with otis and howard carrying, took back most of claflin's gain. but a forward pass finally went to a claflin end instead of holt and the tables were suddenly turned. it was the blue's ball on brimfield's forty-six then, and claflin opened her bag of tricks. just how cox got through the centre of the brimfield line no one ever explained satisfactorily, but get through he did, and after he was through he romped past otis and rollins and raced straight for the goal. carmine and howard closed in on him and it was carmine who brought him down at last on the twelve yards. how claflin shouted and triumphed then! the blue came surging down the field to line up against the astounded enemy, determination written large on every countenance. a plunge at gilbert gained a yard and was followed by a three-yard gain off holt. then claflin fumbled and recovered for a two-yard loss and, with eight to go on fourth down, decided that a goal from field was the best try. and, although brimfield tried hard to get through to the nimble-footed cox, and did smear the blue's line pretty fairly, the ball went well and true across the bar, and the 0 on the score-board was changed to a 3! chapter xxvi left guard gilbert that finished the scoring in the third period. all that claflin could do was to bring back brimfield's punts and try desperately to find holes in the maroon-and-grey line that weren't there. both teams were showing the effects of hard playing, and when the third quarter ended substitutes were hurried in from both benches. for brimfield, mcphee relieved carmine, lee went in for holt and sturges for crewe. claflin put in a new right end, a fresh full-back and returned her original right guard to the line-up. mcphee brought instructions from coach robey. brimfield was to hold what she had and play the kicking game. if she got within the blue's thirty-yard line she was to let rollins try a drop-kick. rollins punted regularly on second down and just as regularly claflin rushed until the fourth and then punted back. after five minutes of play, during which the ball went back and forth from one thirty-yard line to the other, it dawned on claflin that she was making no progress. a new full-back trotted in and displayed his ability by sending the ball over mcphee's head on his first attempt. fortunately, though, the punt, while long, was much too low, and mcphee had plenty of time to go after the pigskin, gather it in and run back a dozen yards before the claflin ends reached him. but after that mcphee played further back and rollins put still more power into his drives. with almost ten minutes of the final period gone, claflin, grown desperate, tried what forward passing would do. the first time, she lost the ball to thayer, and clint got ten yards before he was thrown, but the second attempt went better and cox, who made the catch, ran across three white lines and only stopped when edwards dragged him down from behind. claflin got another first down by two plunges at the right of the opponent's line and a wide end-run. then a penalty set her back fifteen yards and she had to punt after two ineffectual attempts at rushing. otis got through for five yards and then rollins punted again. the head linesman announced five minutes to play. on the stands the spectators were beginning to depart. claflin was back on her thirty-five yards, banging desperately at the maroon-and-grey line, desperately and a bit hopelessly. a forward pass was knocked down by captain edwards, an assault at the left of the brimfield line was smeared badly, cox tried the other end and was laid low for a loss. claflin punted. howard, on a double pass, swept around the enemy's left for fifteen yards and then squirmed past tackle for six more. rollins kicked to claflin's ten and edwards nailed the blue's quarter before he could move. brimfield cheered encouragingly. but claflin, after getting four around sturges, punted out of danger to brimfield's forty-seven. "three minutes!" announced the timekeeper. otis got two at centre and rollins again fell back to kick. the ball came to him low and he juggled it. claflin poured through the right of the line, the ball bounded back from some upthrown arm and went dancing along the field. blue players and maroon dashed after it. hall almost had it, but was toppled aside by a claflin man. carmine dived for it and missed. then tim otis and a claflin forward dropped upon it simultaneously and struggled for its possession. tim always maintained that he got more of it than his opponent, and got it first, but the referee awarded it to claflin and dismayedly brimfield gathered together and lined up only twenty yards from her goal! [illustration: the runner smashed into sight, wild-faced for an instant before he put his head down and charged in] "two minutes, fellows!" shouted the claflin quarter-back exultantly. "we've got time to do it! come on now, come on! we can win it right now! all together, claflin! we've got them on the run! they're all-in! they're ready to quit!" the claflin full-back faked a kick and circled around lee's end for a six-yard gain. then the blue's right half plugged the line and got three more past hall. it was one to go on third down. another attack on hall was pushed back, but claflin made it first down by sending cox squirming around thayer. the ball was on the eleven yards now. it was brimfield's turn to know the fear of defeat. edwards implored and bullied. claflin banged at gilbert for a yard. a quarter-back run caught steve edwards napping and put the pigskin on the seven yards. brimfield's adherents, massed along the side line, shouted defiantly. across the darkening, trampled field, the claflin cohorts were imploring a touchdown. "third down! six to go!" shouted the referee, hurrying out of the way. "on side, claflin right end and tackle!" warned the umpire. the signals came again and the claflin full-back smashed into the left of the opposing team. but it was like striking a stone wall that time. perhaps the ball nestled a few inches nearer the goal, but no more than that. it was don who bore the brunt of that attack and after the piled-up bodies had been pulled aside he and the claflin full-back remained on the ground. on came the trainers with splashing buckets. don came to with the first swash of the big, smelly sponge on his face. danny moore was grinning down at him. "are ye hurt?" he asked. don considered that a moment. then he shook his head. "i'm--all right,--danny," he murmured. "just--help me--up." "don't be in a hurry. take all the time the law allows ye." danny's fingers travelled inquiringly over the boy's body. "where do you feel it?" he asked. don kept his eyes stoically on the trainer's. if he flinched a little when danny's strong fingers pressed his right shoulder it was so little that the trainer failed to see it. nearby, the claflin full-back was already on his feet. tim came over and knelt by the trainer's side. "anything wrong, don?" he asked in a tired, anxious voice. "not a thing," replied don cheerfully. "give me a hand, will you? i'm sort of wabbly, i guess." on the side line pryme, head-guard in hand, was trotting up and down. coach robey was looking across intently. don shook himself, stretched his arms--no one ever knew what that cost him!--and trotted around a few steps. then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the coach say something to pryme, saw the disappointed look on the substitute's face and was half sorry for him. the whistle blew again and don was crouching once more beside thursby--why, no, it wasn't thursby any longer! it was peters, stout, complacent peters, wearing a strangely fierce and ugly look on his round countenance! "now hold 'em, brimfield!" chanted mcphee. "hold 'em hard! don't let them have an inch!" far easier said than done, though! a quick throw across the end of the line, a wild scramble and jumble of arms, a faint "_down!_" and, at the right end of the brimfield line, a mound of bodies with the ball somewhere down beneath and to all appearances across the goal line! anxious moments then! one by one the fallen warriors were pulled to their feet while into the pile dove the referee. the timekeeper hovered nearby, watch in hand. then the referee's voice: "claflin's ball! first down! a foot to go!" "line-up! line-up!" shrieked the claflin quarter. "we've got time yet! put it over!" "fight, brimfield!" shouted steve edwards. "there's only forty seconds! hold them off! don't let them get it! tom! peters! don! get into it now!" "signals! signals!" then a moment of silence save for the gasping breath of the players. the claflin quarter shouted his signals, the ball sped back, the lines heaved. straight at the left guard position plunged the back. "_stop him!_" growled peters. the secondary defence leaped to the rescue. back went the man with the ball. "_down!_" he cried in smothered tones. the referee pushed in and heeled the mark. "second down! a foot and a half to go!" don knew now that if he had fooled danny moore he had not fooled the claflin quarter-back. that quarter knew or guessed that he had been hurt and was playing for him. don gritted his teeth and ground his cleats into the sod. well, they'd see! the signals again, broken into by steve edwards's shrill voice in wild appeal. steve was wellnigh beside himself now. peters was growling like a bear in a cage. then again the plunge, hard and quick, the whole claflin backfield behind it! don felt an intolerable pain as he pushed and struggled. despair seized him for an instant, for he was being borne back. then someone hurtled into him from behind, driving the breath from his lungs, and he was staggering forward. peters was yanking him to his feet, a wild-eyed peters mouthing strange exultant words. "they can't do it! no, never! not if they were to try all night! we put 'em back again, gilbert! we'll do it again! come on, you blue-legged babies! try it again! you'll never do it!" don, dazed, swaying giddily, groped back to his place. thayer was muttering, too, now. don wondered if they were all crazy. he was quite certain that he was, for otherwise things wouldn't revolve around him in such funny long sweeps. then his mind was suddenly clear again. the claflin quarter was hurling his signals out hurriedly, despairingly, fighting against time. don didn't listen to those signals for he knew where the attack would come. and he was right, for once more the blue right guard and tackle sprang at him to bear him back. and then the runner smashed into sight, wild-faced for an instant before he put his head down and charged in. but don didn't yield. peters, roaring loudly, was fighting across him, and, front and rear, reinforcements hurled themselves into the mêlée. don closed his eyes, every muscle in his body straining forward. a roar of voices came to him only dimly. ages passed. * * * * * he wondered if danny moore had nothing better to do than eternally swab his face with that beastly old sponge! why didn't he pick on some other fellow? don felt quite aggrieved and tried to say so, but couldn't seem to make any sound. then he realised that he had forgotten to open his lips. when he did he got a lot of cold water in his mouth and that made him quite peevish. he tried to raise his right hand, changed his mind about it and raised his left instead. with that he pushed weakly at the offending sponge. "take it away," he muttered. "i'm--drowned." "can you walk or will we carry you?" asked danny in businesslike tones. "walk," said don indignantly. "let me up." recollection returned. "did they make it?" he gasped. "they did not. lie still a bit." "yes, but----" don's voice grew faint and he closed his eyes again. the sponge gave a final pat and disappeared. "what--what down was that?" asked don anxiously. "third." "then--then they've got another! help me up, danny, will you? we've got to stop them, you know. i don't believe they--can do it, do you? we put them back twice, you know." "sure you did," said the trainer soothingly. "here you are, tim. take his feet. and you get your arm under his middle, martin. so! careful of the shoulder, boys. he's got a fine broken blade in there!" "wait!" don kicked tim's hands away from his ankles as, raised to a sitting posture by danny and martin, his puzzled glance swept the field. "where's--where's everyone?" he gasped. "if you mean the team," laughed tim, "they're beating it for the gym." "oh!" said don. "but--but what happened? they didn't"--his voice sank--"they didn't do it, did they, tim?" "of course they didn't, old man! we pushed them back three times and we'd have done it again if the whistle hadn't saved them!" "then we won!" exclaimed don. "surest thing you know, dearie! if you don't believe it listen to that band of wild indians over in front of the gym! now are you ready to be lugged along?" "yes, thanks," sighed don. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page 22, "usully" changed to "usually" (daley was usually) page 24, "acknowlegement" changed to "acknowledgment" (the acknowledgment that) page 65, "muskateers" changed to "musketeers" (four "three musketeers") page 89, "castenets" changed to "castanets" (chattering like castanets) page 115, "rom" changed to "from" (darting from the galloping) page 129, "disgruntedly" changed to "disgruntledly" (had been disgruntledly) page 136, "that's" changed to "that" (that joe's parents had) page 145, "startingly" changed to "startlingly" (sounded startlingly loud) page 167, "disgruntedly" changed to "disgruntledly" (walton disgruntledly found) page 172, "positon" changed to "position" (of his position with) page 223, "demanded" changed to "demanded" on illustration caption. (demanded don angrily) [illustration: "listen, what was that?" whispered frank.--_page 83._] frank armstrong drop kicker by matthew m. colton author of "frank armstrong's vacation," "frank armstrong at queen's," "frank armstrong's second term," etc., etc. with four halftone illustrations by arthur o. scott [illustration] new york hurst & company publishers copyright, 1912, by hurst & company contents chapter page i. a new enterprise 5 ii. failure and a providential rescue 18 iii. queen's transportation company 33 iv. burton's arrival 46 v. the water carnival 57 vi. an old rival's stratagem 70 vii. coals of fire 84 viii. a swim for life 96 ix. saved 106 x. profits of queen's ferry 116 xi. the hazers' waterloo 129 xii. class nines 144 xiii. frank's football education 158 xiv. the telegraph company 172 xv. frank taken to warwick 184 xvi. the warwick game 197 xvii. frank saves the game 214 xviii. mrs. bowser's cat 228 xix. in the bell tower 241 xx. a heavy penalty 255 xxi. gamma's desperate tactics 270 xxii. saved by the wires 284 xxiii. end of gamma tau 299 illustrations "listen, what was that?" whispered frank. _frontispiece_ page frank turned just in time to see a flash of white disappearing beneath the surface. 27 "it's choctaw!" cried the codfish. "who can read choctaw?" 179 down it went to the ground, rose and was sent spinning on its long flight from frank's toe. 225 frank armstrong, drop kicker chapter i. a new enterprise. on a certain warm afternoon in the early part of july any one passing along the main street of the little summer resort of seawall might have observed, had he chanced to glance seaward, a trim sloop riding easily at anchor, her milk-white mainsail swaying idly in the scarce-moving breeze. the water was like glass, excepting that here and there it was wrinkled for a moment by a puff of wind which passed instantly, leaving the mirror-like surface as before. midway of the sloop's cockpit sat the ancient mariner himself, nodding. his back was braced against the gunwale and his pipe hung on his chest--a gentle-looking old man with a long, grizzled beard, taking his siesta as even nature seemed to be taking hers that afternoon. his toil-worn hand hung over the gunwale, and, had one been near enough, the old man might have been heard to snore softly. a quarter of a mile up the bay there appeared three black specks in the water. they might have been corks merely, but as they came steadily along you could have imagined them to be seals. they came nearer, swimming noiselessly, scarcely making a ripple. now they were right alongside the sloop. two of the seals, or whatever the dark forms were, glued themselves close under the sweep of the stern. the third swam cautiously toward the outstretched hand of the ancient mariner, and tweaked one of the fingers which hung within reach of any fish that might be bold enough to try a bite at the tempting morsel. instantly the ancient was in motion and the "seal" disappeared below the surface in a twinkling. "shiver my bloomin' timbers, what was that?" yelled the mariner as he jumped to his feet. "some ding-busted dog-fish trying to make a meal?" and he reached for his pike-pole to do execution to the attacking dog-fish. at this burst from the ancient there came from under the stern an answering burst of laughter. another and still another joyful chuckle followed, and in an instant there bobbed up three heads to the astonished gaze of the occupant of the boat. "you young rapscallions, so it wasn't a dog-fish after all," said the ancient. and then, rubbing his eyes, he looked again. "bust my bulkhead, if it isn't little frank armstrong!" "surest thing you know, captain silas," shouted frank, treading water and keeping his hands going at the same time with a fin-like motion that held him out of the water to his shoulders. "come on out, jimmy; come out, lewis; no use hiding now." "well, i swan!" was all captain silas could say, for it was indeed the old captain himself. "what are you doin' away out here in the bay? you're worse nor a parcel of fish." "oh, captain," cried jimmy turner, shooting out from the boat on his back and splashing water in lewis carroll's face, "we expected to have a lot of fun, but this galoot of a lewis had to snigger out loud, and that spoiled everything." "you sniggered yourself," retorted lewis. "we couldn't help it," said frank. "did it scare you much, captain?" "well, i reckon it wouldn't have scared me so much if i hadn't been dreaming i was hauling in a big sword-fish, and just as i was going to grab him with my gaff, up he jumps and grabs my hand. i give such a jump that i near fell out the other side o' the boat." the boys laughed again and splashed water. "come on into the boat," said the captain, grinning at the joke that had been played on him. "come on in and let's see how you look," and he held out a gnarled hand to frank, who seized it and was soon over the side. jimmy followed easily, but it took two of them to get lewis aboard, who, in spite of all his athletic endeavors, continued to grow more like an ordinary washtub every day. but finally, after much tugging, they landed lewis safely. the three swimmers sat and dripped water over captain silas' seats. "must have come into a fortune, captain," exclaimed frank, looking over the trim boat and aloft at the white sail, which was now swinging a little more widely with the land breeze. "oh, no," was the reply. "couldn't make much outen my old fishing job, so i took my little nest-egg outen the bank and put it in this here boat." "going pirating?" inquired jimmy. "not 'xactly that, kinder social piratin' maybe. i carry the city swells that want to go fer a sail. it pays better nor lobsters." "just a different kind of lobster, eh?" broke in lewis. "i take parties out for sails at twenty-five cents the head," continued the captain, not noticing the interruption by lewis, "but it's been bad business these last two or three days, not a breeze big enuff to blow a han'kerchief. so i was havin' a snooze when you fellers give me such a start," and the old man grinned pleasantly. "but it's breezin' up a bit now and maybe we can have a sail before the sun goes down. want to come?" "you bet we do!" was the simultaneous response of the three, who had scattered themselves comfortably around on the little deck forward with their faces up to the blue sky. "hadn't you better go and git some clothes on your backs? you'll freeze to death in them there skinny little bathing suits of yours." "oh, no, we'll be as warm as toast. see, our suits are nearly dry. we've put in most of the time these last two weeks in these rigs and we're used to it," said frank. the breeze was picking up every minute, and the captain, casting an eye to the pier end without seeing any prospective passengers, and apparently nothing loth to have back with him again the three spirited youngsters, began to pull up his anchor and make ready. in this the boys helped, and soon the sloop was heading off down the bay careening to the freshening breeze. "gee whiz!" sighed jimmy, prone on his back and stretched out like a star-fish, arms and legs extended, "but this beats school all hollow." "and what ye been doin' at school? learnin' your lessons, i s'pose?" said the captain, who had heard the remark. "s'pose your heads are just crammed full of knowledge, eh?" "not exactly that," replied frank, grinning. "there are a lot of blank spaces in my cranium that haven't been touched yet. but lewis is fearfully educated." "yes," added jimmy jokingly, "he's what they call a high-stand man." "wouldn't think it," said the old man, scrutinizing lewis closely. "i'd say he was a wide-stand man," still looking lewis over critically. frank and jimmy laughed heartily at this, and the captain joined in when it was explained to him that this particular kind of stand had nothing to do with the physique. "i say, captain," said frank, coming down from the deck to where captain brown sat at the tiller, "can't we do something to help you run the ship?" "she don't need no running mor'n she's doin' now. all you got to do is just keep 'er steddy, same's i'm doin' now. you're not big enuff to steer. i'm 'fraid she'd wallop ye all about in a heavy sea." "oh, i don't mean sailing her; i'm not much on that. but couldn't we help with the passengers? couldn't we put up the gangplank or put it down or whatever you do with it?" continued frank. "we are three husky fellows, and we want to do something to keep in training." "trainin', what fer?" said the old man. "oh, just training for football. we want to be ready for the fall and have our muscles hard and our wind good." "yes," broke in lewis, "we are going to be on the football team this fall up at queen's school. frank is going to be drop kicker, and i----" "oh, ho," laughed jimmy from his place up in the bow-sprit, where he had just stretched himself full length, face downward, with his legs coiled about the timber to keep himself from rolling into the sea, "did you hear lewis say 'we'? lewis has to keep in condition, so please, captain, give him some heavy work to do; let him spank the spinnaker and reef the anchor and splice the jib-boom." "i could do any of them," said lewis, throwing out his chest; and the captain chuckled. "i tell you," he said, "we can let lewis dust the mains'l; that would give him good exercise. but leavin' jokin' behind, ef ye want somethin' to do, why don't you get a motor boat and take out people for little runs among the islands here, same as i do? lots o' people want to go quicker nor i can go, but i wouldn't touch one of the pesky things." "by jiminy!" exclaimed frank, "that's an idea!" "yes, and where's your motor boat coming from?" said jimmy. "motor boats cost something, and i don't see any good, kind gentleman coming around handing us one." "we might hire one," said lewis, "and pay the rent from our profits. if we had luck we might be able to buy her by fall." "yes, and a house and lot and two yachts," said jimmy, who was skeptical about the plan. "guess i know where you boys might pick up one cheap," broke in the captain, as he dexterously swung the boat over on the starboard tack and headed her up the bay. "old man simpkins has a motor boat he hasn't used for mor'n a year. it's layin' hitched up to his wharf down turner's point way." "oh, i know who he is," said frank. "lives in that big house by the pine grove a little way this side of the point." "that's the feller," said the captain. "has a little girl, all kinder crippled up with some disease or other. comes down to sail with me two or three times a week. had a son at college who died of fever or something. it was his boat. that's the reason the boat's never used, i guess; old gentleman don't care for it no more." "great whippoorwills, but there's our chance!" said frank. "jimmy, get over your pessimism and think up some scheme for renting that boat. why, man," as jimmy just grinned, "there's millions in it. we'll organize a company." "i'll be with you on condition that you'll let me steer it," said jimmy. "you can be captain if you want to." "all right, my son, you may, and i'll take care of the motor," said frank. "that's a job for the best man." "and what am i to be?" said lewis. "can't i be skipper, or something like that?" "you'll be the ballast," said jimmy, grinning from his perch on the bow-sprit. he had turned over on his back now and was balancing precariously, one toe hooked in a coil of rope at the foot of the mast being his only anchorage from a bath in the cool green sea racing along a couple of feet below him. "we are talking as if we had the boat in commission already. but 'nothing venture, nothing have,' as the old saying goes. i'm going down to-morrow to see mr. simpkins and try my powers of persuasion on him." "beware of the dog," warned jimmy. "dog or no dog, i'm going to try." "what's this navigation company going to be called?" inquired lewis. "the name will be the 'queen's ferry,'" said frank. "sounds like an old english romance, but it's good," commented jimmy; "the queen's ferry, armstrong, captain, carroll, first mate----" "i don't want to be first mate," corrected lewis. "i want to be a skipper." "well, if you want to have such a lively name go ahead and take it. if skipper means anything speedy, you've got the most terrifically misplaced confidence in yourself i ever saw,--but if you must, you must, so you are to be the skipper." "and james turner will be first mate and helmsman," said frank. "aye, aye, sir," came the response. "now, that being done, we've got to have an agent to drum up our business, to see that the great and waiting public may know that at last in seawall there is a proper conveyance; a guide and courier, a kind of advertising man who will present our magnificent possibilities in transportation." the three boys looked at each other. "the codfish!" they shouted in chorus. "the codfish is the man. and he's coming to visit me in a week," added frank. "too long to wait," said jimmy, shaking his head. "we are losing profits every minute. let's telegraph him to come now. 'do it now'--or before--is my motto." "good!" said frank; "we'll telegraph to-night and offer him the job. let's see, this is thursday; we ought to begin our trips monday. yes, monday's the best day to begin anything on. we might get started on saturday if the codfish comes right away." "did you kids ever hear tell of countin' chickens before they was hatched?" broke in the voice of captain silas. "you haint got the boat yit," and the old man chuckled. "but that's the way youth do run on. and then how about drivin' poor old captain silas brown out of bisness with one o' them fast motor boats?" "oh, captain, do you think it would hurt your trade? we wouldn't do it for the world. we'll give it up. i didn't think of that," cried the generous boys in a breath. "go along with you, 'twon't hurt me. i was only jokin'. there'll be more than we all can do and i'm a thinkin' you'll get tired of it pretty quick. i'll help you all i can to git hold of the old boat, but don't ever ask me to go to sea in one o' the consarned things. 'member what happened to your old boat last year?" the boys looked at each other. "you bet we do!" they exclaimed in a breath. "but there are to be no matches aboard any boats i command in the future," cried frank. "well, here we are back again," said the captain, as he brought the _seagull_, for such was her name, up into the wind. "i'll take you off in my dinghy in a minnit." "thank you, captain, for a fine sail and a brilliant idea, and we won't bother you to take us off; we have our fins," said frank. "see you later," and one after the other the boys popped into the water like so many porpoises, and, led by frank, swimming a graceful and easy overhand, they went ploughing up the beach in the direction of the armstrong cottage. "water rats, nuthin' but derned water rats," said the old man, as his kindly eye followed the three swimmers pulling rapidly away towards the shore. chapter ii. failure and a providential rescue. "dad," said frank that night at the supper table, "we boys are going into the transportation business. got any objection?" "into the what?" said mr. armstrong, pausing in the act of filling his healthy son's plate for the second time. "transportation, if you please, sir," said frank, grinning and reaching for the full dish. "it's like this: old captain silas says there are lots of people about here who want to take little cruises around the islands these fine days. that's condition no. 1." "condition no. 1," repeated his father, smiling. "go on." "and condition no. 2 is, three strong, husky, able-bodied seamen, jimmy turner, lewis, and your dutiful son, who want to make some money and keep ourselves busy at the same time." "what about old captain silas himself?" inquired mrs. armstrong. "can't he take care of all the excursionists himself? or does he want to take you boys into partnership?" "no, mother, this is going to be a rapid passenger service," and in a few words he outlined the plan put into his head that afternoon by the old captain's remark. "the only things we need now are a ship and a manager." "not much, is it?" said mr. armstrong, laughing. "perhaps colonel powers would let you have his yacht." "oh, dad, i'm not joking. we are in a fair way to have both. at least we know where there's a motor boat, and the codfish was born to be a manager of the outfit. it is providential. we'll get him here ahead of time." "where's your motor boat?" inquired mrs. armstrong, smiling indulgently at her son's eagerness. "it is anchored down the shore a ways, belongs to mr. simpkins, and we're going to tackle him to-morrow. i think i can show him," added frank, cocking his head on one side, wisely, "that there would be good money in it for him to rent it. we can charge twenty-five cents a head for all passengers. let's see," counting on his fingers, "we ought to be able to carry half a dozen besides our crew if the boat's any size,--that'd be a dollar and a half for a trip of an hour. and we can make four or five trips a day, sure. that'd be seven dollars and fifty cents a day, and, six days a week, that'd be about forty-five dollars," triumphantly. "running expenses ought not to be more than fifteen dollars, and that would leave thirty dollars to divvy up between the four of us." frank's ambitions were running away with him. "and besides that, we'd have a better time than doing nothing. can't we do it, dad?" "well, i don't see any very strong objections," returned mr. armstrong, smiling at his wife across the table, "but if you are figuring on that boat of mr. simpkins' i wouldn't build my scheme too high, for it might tumble. mr. simpkins wouldn't probably be interested in dividends, for he has a pile of money, and, besides that, he is a pretty crusty old gentleman." "crusty or no crusty, we are going down to see him in the morning, provided you and mother don't say no." it was finally agreed in the family that there would be no objection. "they will soon get tired of it, mother," said mr. armstrong, "and it's dollars to pins that mr. simpkins will set the dog on them instead of handing over his motor boat, even though he doesn't use it himself." "and only one thing more," cried frank, in great glee that his parents threw no obstacle in the way of the queen's ferry company. "the codfish is coming down to make us a visit next week. can't we have him down right away? we need his head in this big venture." "glad to have him come along. we would like to see this wonderful roommate of yours, wouldn't we, mother?" said mr. armstrong. "whoop!" shouted frank, "then we'll telegraph. i'm off to meet the other officers of the company." the result of the conference between the captain, the helmsman, and the skipper was that this telegram was dispatched to the codfish: "big transportation company formed. you are elected manager. no work, big profits. come on next train. "(signed) frank, lewis, jimmy." about the middle of the next forenoon the boys met at the armstrong household and girt up their loins, or, in other words, nerved themselves for the negotiations with mr. simpkins. "you do the talking, frank," said jimmy. "you have the gift of gab. i'll guard the way and lewis can protect us from the dog." "protect nothing," said lewis. "i'm too important a member of this company to fatten any bulldogs in this neighborhood." "if any one is to be sacrificed on this expedition, it might as well be you," retorted jimmy. "skippers are always the first to be sacrificed." bantering each other, the three boys made their way down the shore walk, and boldly ascended the path to the big yellow house where mr. simpkins lived in solitary grandeur. they might have retreated before this point had not they strengthened their drooping spirits with a hurried inspection of the motor boat moored to the little pier. a long, racy-looking boat it was, lying close on the water and with every evidence of speed. the lines swept back from the bow in a graceful curve to a rather full beam at midships, and then swung in slightly as they approached the stern, ending abruptly in a square hull. the motor was covered by a rubber tarpaulin, and so they were not able to tell much about it. a generous bulk testified, however, to ample power to drive the craft at high speed. a kind of canvas awning partially protected the interior woodwork of the boat, but in spite of this the craft had a forlorn appearance. "she's a little the worse for weather, but she's a beauty in spite of it," exclaimed frank, as he looked her over. "she has _the foam_ knocked galley-west," he added. "that's a fact," was jimmy's only comment. he thought of the poor old _foam_ lying at the bottom out in the bay there. "well, here goes," said frank, and he led the way up the wide and imposing steps of the simpkins homestead. "here's where the queen's ferry transportation company sees the light or is buried thirty fathoms under. 'screw up your courage to the sticking point,' as hamlet said, and follow me." the big door opened to their ring and they stepped within in a huddled group. ten minutes later three dejected youths might have been seen making their way slowly towards seawall. disappointment was written deeply on each countenance. "he's what i call an old skinflint," said jimmy savagely. "didn't want the boat, wouldn't sell it, or lend it, or rent it," and he kicked an inoffensive shell out of the track. "a regular dog-in-the-manger," commented lewis. "well, that's settled, anyway," said frank, taking a long breath. "we've no ship, and of course we can't sail without a ship." in their disappointment the boys hunted up captain silas brown, who was hoisting his mainsail to the breeze and preparing for the prospective trippers. the old man listened to their story. "i'll tell you what i'll do," he said. "i need some one to help me out fer a day or two with this old craft. i've got a touch of the rheumatiz, and i'm not so smart as i might be." together they talked it all over and decided that that very afternoon the boys were to ship as able-bodied seamen. this somewhat cheered the officers of the defunct queen's ferry company. suddenly frank sprang up. "great scott, fellows, we forgot to telegraph the codfish! no use of him coming now. let's wire him the disaster. we don't want to get him here under false pretenses." the three boys hurried off to the telegraph office. arrived there, they called for a blank and frank was just getting the sad information down in the form of a telegram, when the clerk behind the counter said: "you're the fellows who sent a message to g. w. gleason at yarmouth this morning?" "yes." "well, here's an answer. it has just come in, pretty quick work that." frank tore the end off the yellow envelope, for it was addressed to him, and read: "don't care for the salary, too much money already, but the job with no work appeals to me. i'll be at seawall to-morrow night at six o'clock if the train stays on the track. "(signed) the codfish." "well, here's a pickle! but never mind, i know mother and father won't mind," said frank. "so let him come." the codfish was a great favorite with the three, in spite of his sharp tongue and rather unusual ways. they were not sorry that he was coming. that afternoon our trio reported to captain silas brown just as he was making up his party of voyagers at the end of seawall pier. it turned out to be a gallant sailing day. a steady wind blew from the southwest, making the _seagull_ dance merrily alongside the float to which the captain had drawn her to take on his passengers, of whom there were an unusually large number, attracted probably by the fair prospects for the afternoon. they were mostly women and children, and the three new assistants made themselves very useful at lending a hand as the passengers stepped into the rocking sloop. soon all were aboard and the mooring ropes were cast off. the sloop moved swiftly away down the bay under the guidance of captain silas on what proved to be an eventful voyage. the day was a glorious one, and the wind strong enough to heel the _seagull_ over till her bright green underbody showed well above the water on the windward side. every now and then a stronger puff of wind laid the _seagull_ so far over that her lee side was buried under the foaming water. but the passengers had confidence in the steady hand of captain silas, and chatted merrily, for the cockpit was protected from wave tops by a high wooden edge, and there was apparently no danger. the occasional dash of spray which came aboard was just enough to add zest to the outing, and the passengers enjoyed the lively dance of the sloop over the rolling water. [illustration: frank turned just in time to see a flash of white disappearing beneath the surface.--_page 27._] all of a sudden, when rounding the point off high island, there came a violent blast of wind which plucked the hat from the head of a little girl who had sat all the while very quietly with her maid on the leeward side of the sloop. she jumped to her feet, made a desperate grab for the flying head-covering, lost her balance, and pitched head first into the water. she was lost to sight in an instant, a big wave breaking over her head as she went down. at the scream of the maid, frank, who had been standing on the little deck forward with one arm around the mast, turned just in time to see a flash of white disappearing beneath the surface. "she is drowned! she is drowned!" screamed the maid, jumping to her feet and wringing her hands wildly. "oh, she's drowned!" the other women in the boat began to scream and point to the place where the little girl had gone down. with frank, to think was to act. without waiting to throw off any clothes, he made a flying leap for the spot where he had last seen the white dress; but so great had been the momentum of the boat, that when he struck the water he was some yards away from the spot. hampered as he was with his clothes and hindered by the breaking waves, he swam desperately, using his most powerful strokes. before he could cover the distance he saw a white sleeve and the top of a head appear above the surface for an instant and disappear immediately. half a dozen strokes carried him to the place, but the drowning girl had gone down for the second time. for a few moments only, frank paddled around waiting for the child to come to the surface. he had heard that a drowning person comes to the surface three times. "i won't risk it," he said to himself. "she may never come up again, and the water must be deep here." he stopped swimming, turned his back to the waves, took a deep breath, and dived straight for the bottom. how cold and strange it felt, and how quiet after the tumult he had left above him! the impulse of his dive soon ended, and yet there was no bottom, so he began to swim straight downward. his eyes were open and he could see quite plainly within a radius of ten feet. straining his eyes, he looked into the gloomy depths as he swam. what was that gleam of white far below him? it must be the girl's dress. how his head cracked with the pressure of the water, but on he went downward, ever downward. he was below the clear light, but the thought that he was nearing the drowning child gave him the power of a grown man. he swam on almost blindly, and with the strength of despair, because he knew it was the only chance to save a life. in the blackness of the depths he lost the gleam of white, then recovered it, lost it again, and after two or three strokes touched something which felt like seaweed. his hand closed instinctively, although he could see nothing now, and he realized with a great feeling of joy that it was the child's hair which had floated upward. he wound his hand securely in it, and struck madly for the surface with splitting head and bursting lungs. it could only have been a few seconds, but to frank it seemed an eternity before his head bobbed into the clear sunlight and he was able to take a great gulping breath. he felt as weak as a baby, but he had strength enough to pull his burden to the surface and turn on his back. "good boy," said a voice behind him. "let me take her. look out for yourself." frank turned his head and saw jimmy at his elbow. he resigned the little girl, who showed no signs of life, to his friend, and lay panting on the surface, the water breaking over him every now and then. he had barely strength left to work his hands fin-like to keep afloat, while captain silas maneuvered the sloop back to the spot where the two boys were struggling in the water. soon life buoys were thrown out to them, and a minute later the sloop, with her head to the wind and her mainsail snapping and cracking, lay close alongside. in a jiffy the unconscious girl, frank, and jimmy were pulled aboard the boat, where frank lay gasping like a fish out of water. well acquainted with and skilled in the methods of resuscitation, the old captain worked over the little girl, who lay as limp as a rag on the deck while the maid wept hysterically and several of the other women cried in sympathy. "ding bust it," cried the old man at last, "what ye crying about? she's not drownded, i tell ye. she's coming to." and the captain was right. first there was a little quiver of the eyelids, then a faint sigh from her lips, and finally a soft moan. "thank god!" said the captain. "the pore little girl will be all right in a few minutes. but i say, it was a narrow squeak. frank armstrong, you deserve the carnegie medal for that same trick." frank was on his feet again, and, although white and a little sick, he was able to help jimmy with the tiller, while the captain kept up his ministrations to the little girl, who opened her eyes at last and looked about her. "you'll be sound as a dollar in half an hour," said the captain, as he finally turned her over to the maid, who had by this time quieted down. captain silas went aft and took the tiller from the boys. "that was a good turn you did for old man simpkins," he observed. "that's his little girl you saved from a watery death. guess he'll feel different about that motor boat now," and the old captain smiled grimly. before the _seagull_ reached the dock the participators in what had nearly been a tragedy were rapidly recovering. frank was still wobbly on his legs, but quickly recovered his spirits. "thank you, old man," he said to jimmy as they disembarked. "if it hadn't been for you, both of us would have gone down. i didn't have the strength to keep even myself up and i wouldn't have let her go down alone." the two friends gave a silent pressure of the hand. "it was nothing," said jimmy. "i went after you as quickly as i could. it seemed to me you were down fully five minutes, and i had about given you up when your head bobbed through the surface." "seemed to me i was down about an hour, and i guess i must have been fifteen or twenty feet under when i got her. but it's all over now, and i'm glad." the gallant rescue was the talk of seawall that night. captain silas sat at the end of the pier with a group around him, and frank's daring deed lost nothing by the captain's telling. but frank was silent on the matter himself and denied that he had done anything to talk about. from him, his father and mother could only get the bare facts that he had jumped overboard and pulled in a little girl who had had the bad luck to fall into the water. chapter iii. queen's transportation company. the six o'clock train the next night brought with it the codfish in all his glory. he was radiant in a natty gray flannel suit, and sported a lavender tie and socks to match, with a dash of the same color in his hat band. "welcome to our city, codfish!" shouted frank, who with jimmy and lewis had been at the station long before the train from the north was due. "gentlemen," returned that individual as he descended mincingly from the parlor car, while a porter dragged two great suit-cases stuffed to bursting after him, "i am charmed with this reception. but where's the band?" "the only one i see," said jimmy laughingly, "is the one on your hat, and it sounds like a flock of trombones. don't you know you are liable to shock these sedate villagers with that raiment of yours? you might be arrested as a disturber of the peace." "you see in me not a shocker," replied the visitor, "but the great animator. business will pick up as soon as i am well established in your rural midst. children cry for me and all that sort of thing. but what's this job you have for me?" "oh, i'm sorry to say it's all off. we were about to telegraph you again to stay where you were, when we had your message saying you were coming." "all right, i'll take the next train back." "you'll take nothing back for about three weeks. we'll tell you what we had up our sleeve. here, jones"--to the village expressman--"take these miniature trunks down to my father's house," said frank. "we'll walk, if you feel able to take so much exercise, mr. gleason." "not used to it, of course, but i'll make an exception this time. now, fire away on this scheme of yours." as they trudged along, frank, aided by jimmy and occasionally by lewis, told of the conception and the smash of the scheme. "but never mind," he added, "we can find enough to do. we'll teach you to swim like a fish----" "no, you won't. i'm not a fish in spite of my name. i will fight before i'll swim, and goodness knows i'd hate to fight, for it's most exhausting." the boys all laughed at the whimsical codfish, for they all knew that he wasn't half so backward in athletic things as he tried to persuade them that he was. "hello," said frank, giving a whistle of surprise as he approached the house. "we have company. by crickets, it is--it is mr. simpkins! now, i wonder if his little girl hasn't got over her ducking yet." "principal people of the village here undoubtedly to welcome me," said the codfish. "'spose i'll have to make a speech and all that sort of thing. beastly bore; you shouldn't have let them know i was coming." by this time frank had mounted the steps of the house. "this is my son frank, mr. simpkins," said mr. armstrong. frank came forward and received a hearty handclasp from mr. simpkins. "my boy," said the latter, "when you were at my house this morning, i little thought that i'd have to thank you for saving my daughter's life. i do thank you from the bottom of my heart, and i want to ask your pardon for my seeming bluntness this morning." "oh, that was all right, sir. i happened to be handy to-day and helped to pull the little girl out of the water. that was all. and as for the motor boat, it was a matter of business and we couldn't come to terms. no one's fault." mr. simpkins smiled at the businesslike youngster who talked so clearly to the point. "well, i appreciate your quality more now than i did this morning, and i've come up not only to thank you, but to tell you that the motor boat you want is yours." "oh, i couldn't think of taking it! i did nothing to earn it," said frank, much embarrassed by the kindly tone and offer. "now i insist," said the visitor. "the boat is doing me no good whatsoever, and you might as well have it. it belonged to a son of mine who is gone, and i haven't had the heart to let it be used or even to sell it. in view of the obligation you have placed me under, my boy, i can square things with you partially, at least, by giving you the boat. it has not been used much and i'm sure it is in good condition. if it is not in good condition, i'll put it that way, so you can begin your transportation, as you call it, at once." "i'm awfully much obliged," said frank, "but it's too much of a gift for what i did. won't you let us buy it from you?" there was a sound of muffled protest from the boys at the other end of the veranda where they had withdrawn, although still within earshot of the conversation that was going on. "the boy is right, mr. simpkins, it is too much of a gift," said mr. armstrong. "i think his argument is good." "well, then," said mr. simpkins, turning again to frank, "make me an offer. i'm willing to sell to you and in some way discharge some of my debt. you are willing to buy, i think you said this morning." "yes, sir, but i'm afraid it would cost too much for us." "i don't know," said the old gentleman; "the boat's not doing me any good. let's see; i'd sell her for a hundred dollars and put her in running shape. how's that? and you can pay me half of that amount at the end of this summer and the other half a year later. will you take her?" there was a murmur of approval at the other end of the veranda, and frank, as soon as he could find his voice, exclaimed: "you bet we'll take her! i mean--thank you, sir; we will take her on those conditions." mr. simpkins smiled slyly at mr. armstrong, who, being later appealed to by his son, readily gave his consent to the deal, adding, "and i'll back frank and his chums in this venture." "i can already see that i'm dealing with a young man who will make good his word," said mr. simpkins. "and now i must be going. i'll have a man look over the boat to-morrow morning, and if everything is all right with the engine you can take possession at once. i'll have my man show you how to run her, but i imagine it won't take you long to learn. good night, all." you can readily imagine the jubilee that took place when mr. simpkins was out of hearing. the four boys grabbed each other and danced a wild highland fling. mr. and mrs. armstrong looked on laughing as the boys thumped each other on the back and shouted. "boys, boys, you won't leave a board in the veranda, and the neighbors will think you've taken leave of your senses," admonished mrs. armstrong. "and, anyway, it's time for supper, and mr. gleason must be hungry after his long ride." "dear old mum, you would dance, too, wouldn't you, if you had just bought a ship for a song, same as we have? here, salute the captain of the new transportation company!" his mother slipped her arm over her son's shoulder and kissed him gravely on the cheek: "thus i salute captain armstrong." "that's the best salute ever, mother. better than twenty-one guns in the navy." "and where do we come in, in these salutes," said the codfish. "aren't we important members of the company?" "i could kiss you all, to-day," said the motherly woman; "i'm so happy for your sakes. but there goes the bell. we'll have something more substantial than salutes." there was great planning at that supper of passenger carrying, swimming, racing and the like, things that all energetic boys on a summer vacation would enjoy. "if david were only here our party would be complete," said jimmy. "and where is he?" inquired gleason. "we hope he'll be in seawall next month. he is in europe now," returned frank; "and we will keep our purchase a secret from him at present. when he gets back we will suddenly burst on his vision in all our glory." "good old david," said jimmy; "won't he be glad? we can take him along as member of the crew. he'd make a ripping coxswain." "i don't know what a coxswain has to do, but he'd be all right for any job," said lewis. "and with all this crew you propose," said mr. armstrong, "where are you going to put your passengers?" "oh, don't worry about that, dad; she's a big boat. wait till you see her. are you willing to advance us running expenses for gasoline and oil till we get our first money on fares?" "provided it isn't more than a hundred dollars a day," returned his father, laughing. the next morning was spent down at the simpkins wharf with the mechanic. there was little to do. the motor was one of the best types, but while it had been idle it had acquired some rust. the pistons stuck hard in the cylinders for a time, but they were soon freed and the engine turned over as smoothly as the day it left the shop. when the batteries were renewed, the carburetor adjusted and the gas and oil tanks filled, the mechanic gave the fly wheel a sharp turn. instantly there was an explosion; another and another followed, and as the motor picked up speed under the careful manipulation of the mechanic, the explosions from the exhaust settled down into a steady purr. "that's a peach of an engine," said frank to the mechanic. "how much speed do you think the boat has?" "dunno," replied the mechanic; "mebby twenty miles, mebby more. don't think there's many around here that'll get away from her very much. now we're ready to see how she goes." the ropes which fastened the motor boat to the pier were thrown off and slowly the craft was backed from her berth. "take the wheel," said the mechanic, indicating frank, "and i'll look after the motor. we'll see what she can do." frank sprang to the wheel and after a little maneuvering headed her down the bay. "she steers like a bicycle," he cried. "gee whiz, isn't it great?" as the speed increased, the boat lifted her nose clear out of the water under the push from the powerful motor, and a white-capped wave rolled away from either side. they passed several sailing boats that seemed almost motionless by contrast. frank ranged up alongside another motor boat bound in the same direction and soon left it in the distance. then, after a long, sweeping turn, he headed back to the wharf, where mr. simpkins stood. "she's all right, i see," said that gentleman, "and evidently hasn't lost her speed." "i should say she hadn't," said frank. "we went like an express train. are you sure you still want to hold to your bargain, mr. simpkins?" "oh, yes; i'm glad my old boat has fallen into such appreciative hands. maybe i'll take a ride with you, when you have begun your ferry service. she isn't as handsome as she was before the weather got at her sides, but a lick of paint here and there will repair all the damage." "if our profits are big enough, we can lay her up this winter and give her a new dress," suggested jimmy; "but there's no time now." "if you are satisfied that you can run her," continued mr. simpkins, "and she is ready, there's no reason you can't take her now. what do you say?" "say? why, we say yes, if you don't mind. we can be getting used to her before we begin to make business runs. how about it, mates?" said frank, turning to his crew. of course the crew were of one mind. the mechanic was landed on the pier, and under the hands of her new crew, the _black duck_, for that was the name of the craft, shot once more into the sparkling waters of the bay. this time jimmy was at the wheel and frank manipulated the motor. halfway to the seawall pier the boys met the _seagull_, with a party aboard. jimmy swung in close and the crew of the motor boat gave such a yell as startled the old salt at the tiller of the _seagull_. "well, i'll be swizzled," they heard him say as they flashed by, and turning, with his arm on the tiller, he waved a friendly hand as they dashed on. before the day was over the boys had familiarized themselves thoroughly with their new possession, and the farther they went the more wonderful did they consider their luck in having such a craft. the next morning the town of seawall was startled in its morning walk by notices posted conspicuously as follows: queen's transportation company. a marvellous opportunity to see the magnificent scenery of seawall bay by motor boat. roomy accommodations. courteous attendants. every convenience. for the small sum of 25 cents. start made from seawall pier every hour. first trip 10 a. m. to-day. per order board of directors. the notice was prepared by the ready pen of the codfish, and it was given an added interest by a slap-dash drawing of a motor boat coasting down the side of a big wave, while little fishes and big fishes stood on their tails in astonishment. of course, every one who read went down to the pier at the hour named, and the young navigators started out on their first trip with every seat taken. during the trip the codfish acted as a kind of guide to the party and pointed out the "magnificent scenery," adding many fictitious details as the _black duck_ plowed along. the passengers, when landed at the starting point after an hour's trip, voted it the best ride they had ever taken and made way for a new boatload. it was a day of rushing business for the new company, and the profits before nightfall came to something over ten dollars. chapter iv. burton's arrival. this first day of business was the index of many days to come, and the money rolled in rapidly. "a little while more, fellows, and we will own half of her," said the captain, as they laid up to the pier one fine day waiting for passengers. "which half, captain," inquired the codfish; "bow or stern?" "never mind which," returned frank. "you keep on with your superb management and we will have a property here worth while. here comes another load for us. there's about two dollars in this for us. hustle up, my hearties, and be ready to lend a hand, fatty." this to lewis, who never disturbed himself unless under orders. lewis crawled laboriously over the gunwale onto the float. "well, well, well," said a young man of the party who had just come upon the float. "if my eyes do not deceive me, the captain of that ocean-going motor boat is none other than my old friend, frank armstrong!" frank, who had been fussing with the motor, raised his head. "mr. burton!" he exclaimed. "glad to see you! i didn't know you were around here." "i can say the same to you. how long have you been a navigator?" he added, as the party of young folks climbed aboard. "and there's jimmy and your little fat friend. my, this is quite a reunion. arrived only a day or two ago." the boys grinned their pleasure at the meeting. "do any swimming now?" said burton as the boat got under way. "oh, yes, we take the mornings for that. we do a little in athletics up at queen's school and we're kept in training, especially for football." "oh, yes, you are a freshman up there." "no, we are in our second year," said jimmy proudly. "i beg your pardon," said burton, laughing; "it is hard to be taken for a freshman when you've got away beyond that unhappy period. now, it is fortunate, frank, you've kept up your swimming, because i want you to come down to turner's point next week and show some of those fellows how we used to swim down in florida. can you come?" "can't leave my transportation job very well," replied frank. "oh, hang your transportation job! there will be no one to transport that day. every one will be down to the carnival. you know what a crowd we had last year, and it's going to be a bigger affair than ever. there'll be lots of people to come down from seawall. why don't you run a special excursion, swim in the meet and take your crowd back home in the evening? there you are, business and pleasure combined." "sounds good to me," said frank. "how about it for you, jimmy, and you, codfish and lewis?" "oh, come along," said burton. "i'll put you down, frank, in the hundred-yard race or anything you want to go in for. they've made me master of ceremonies again. and you will be interested to know that your old rival, peters, is back at the point and swimming better than ever. he's been practicing, he told me, hoping for the chance to get back at you. don't you want to take another fall out of him?" frank's eyes brightened. "i wouldn't mind," he added slowly. "i'm stronger than i was a year ago, but i don't know that i've improved the stroke you taught me." "i'm sure it's all right," said the buoyant burton. "i'll come up to-morrow morning and see what you've been doing in the way of speed, and after looking you and jimmy over i can tell the distance you can swim best. is it a go?" "it's a go for me," said frank. "me, too," said jimmy. "ditto," said lewis. "and how about mr. gleason?" said burton. "the codfish, in spite of his name, hates the water except in the bathtub," said jimmy. "but he'd be a fine scorer, eh, codfish?" "anything the captain says is good enough for me," said the codfish. "he's the boss. i'm on a salary and under orders." "well, you can be an ornament to the stake boat, or the float, or anywhere you want to be. it's settled that you are to come?" said burton. the boys nodded. burton went back to his party and the boys gave their attention wholly to navigation to the end of the trip. "don't forget, now; i'm going to be up your way in the morning. be all ready in your suits," burton called back over his shoulder, as with his friends he left the seawall pier. next morning the boys met early at the old swimming place and were splashing about trying various strokes, when burton's black head showed in the water a quarter of a mile off shore. "by the great horn spoon," said jimmy, "there he is, swimming up, and it's nearly a mile from the point." "he must be a wonder," said the codfish; "i wouldn't take all that exercise if you were to give me the _black duck_ and all her feathers. but there's no accounting for tastes. i'm overcome thinking how much energy he is wasting." the codfish was perched on a dry bit of rock. his raiment was as immaculate as ever, but the tone of it was pink this morning. "hello, boys," shouted burton as he approached. "ready, i see. now," as he pulled himself up on the rocks, "i want to see what you've accomplished since i saw you. in with you, frank." frank plunged into the water and swam a little distance, using the crawl stroke to the best of his ability, while burton observed him closely. "'tisn't quite right. look," and the coach dived off the rock and shot over to frank. "you ought to bring your hand clear out of the water. don't reach too far and don't let it go too deep; just like a paddle, you remember. your leg kick is good. get your arms right and there will be nothing to it." frank tried to follow the instructions as well as he could, and his efforts pleased his instructor, who shouted from his perch on the rock to which he had returned: "fine, fine, that's the way; now only one breath to half a dozen strokes; you waste too much time breathing." "same as me," commented the codfish from his perch. frank finished his lesson, and jimmy and lewis were sent in for some instruction. burton began to call for the crawl stroke, but both boys confessed they had never been able to learn it very well. they disliked burying their faces in the water, and so got along much better with the old overhand and breast strokes. burton tried to show them just how it was done, and was in the water and out of it half a dozen times coaching, but neither of the swimmers caught the idea. "well, never mind, let it go to-day and swim me a hundred yards, the three of you. frank, you take the crawl, and let the other two use what they want to. get ready, go!" the boys splashed into the water each in his different way, frank easy and graceful, jimmy determined but rather clumsy, and lewis like a walrus. "see how frank pulls away from them," said burton, now left alone with the codfish. "that boy is a wonder in the water. why, they're not any match for him at all, and only last year both of them could beat him. that's what comes of sticking to a thing. frank was determined to learn that stroke and he got it. the others thought there was nothing in it and didn't try hard." the swimmers reached the other side of the little rocky inlet and were heading back towards the starting point, with frank well in the lead, but he slowed up and finished easily, while the others pulled themselves up on the rocks almost exhausted. "we're no match for frank at all," said jimmy, puffing. "he has a motor attached to him somewhere." "it is the motor of perseverance, my son," said burton. "you would do better in a long race, i think. did you ever swim an eighth of a mile--the 220 yards?" "yes, but not in a race," answered jimmy. "you'll be as good as any of the rest of them at the distance, so i'll put you down for the 220 race. and lewis, we'll put him in for the plunge." "what's that?" said lewis. "just like this," and suiting the action to the word burton sprang from his rock, put his hands before him as he flew through the air, struck the water cleanly as a knife, and after disappearing a moment from view came to the top floating. his body traveled rapidly forward in a straight line, arms and legs held rigidly extended and the face buried. fifty feet from the rock, when his momentum had about ended, he turned over on his back and raced back to the starting point. "that's the way you do it," he said, as he climbed up, shaking the water out of his hair. "let's see you try it, lewis." "it's easy," said lewis, and took the dive. he landed flat as a pancake, nearly knocking all the breath out of his body, stretched out his arms and legs, as he had seen burton do, but didn't move five feet from the point where he struck the water. after lying on his face and imagining himself traveling forward, he looked up, disgusted, to note what little progress he had made, only to see his companions howling with laughter. "isn't so easy as it looks, is it?" said burton. "but keep at it." he illustrated again, and lewis, after one or two attempts, readily caught the idea. as there was no work to the job of plunging, he took a fancy to it, and before the morning's coaching was over was doing pretty well. "there," said burton finally, jumping up, "that's all the time i can give you this morning. all of you work every morning, but don't do too much. you have a week before the meet comes off. see you later." "can't we come a little way with you?" said frank. "sure, glad to have you," and frank and jimmy took the water with burton. they headed out clear of the rocks and turned down the shore at a distance of perhaps a hundred yards from land. lewis and the codfish walked leisurely down the sand, watching the three heads as they bobbed along in the waves. "you ought to take every chance you can get," said burton, as the three swam easily side by side, "to swim longer distances. there's no telling how handy it might come in, supposing you were pitched off a boat some day. the way to do, is to take it easy like we are now and use all your strokes. when you get tired with one, take another. that change rests you almost as much as stopping. use one arm over first, and then another," illustrating as he went along, "and if you get very tired, turn over on your back and float a while with your hands well over your head like this." again he illustrated. the three swam on for two or three hundred yards, the boys drinking in the instruction of the expert and trying to put into practice all that he was telling them. little did they think that they would need all and more than they were able to show in the way of strength and endurance in a short time. "well, good-by, boys; i've got to make time now," shouted burton. "maybe i'll see you before the meet, but if i don't, remember it is thursday week at four o'clock. be sure to come," and he was gone in a cloud of spray kicked up by his arms and legs as he started on his long swim down the shore. "good-by," echoed both boys, and with quickened pace they drew toward the shore and soon joined lewis and the codfish. chapter v. the water carnival. business still held good, and less than two weeks after the queen's ferry began its traffic there was money enough in the treasury to pay all running expenses and leave enough for the first installment of fifty dollars for mr. simpkins. "it isn't due until the end of the summer," said frank, "but we might as well pay it, and there's five dollars over for captain silas. that's for the idea." "and please, sir, where does the crew come in?" inquired the codfish. the boys were all seated on the veranda of the armstrong home. after dinner, with paper and pencil they had gone over their daily earnings, with the result that the decision to pay up had been made. all voted unanimously. "oh, you will get your reward by and by. isn't it enough to have such company as ours without pay?" queried lewis. "say, codfish," said jimmy, "that poster of yours was a dandy." he referred to the one that the codfish had spent the greater part of the day before preparing, and it was the announcement of the special excursion to turner's point on thursday. the codfish had put his best efforts on the work, and, like the others that had preceded it, it was embellished with drawings illustrating the coming carnival. "codfish is a genius and no mistake," laughed frank. "this outfit wouldn't be anywhere without him, and when the season is over we will vote him double pay." "i was brought here under false pretenses," said that individual in what he tried to make an aggrieved tone. "your telegram said: 'no work, big pay,' and since i arrived i've done nothing but work and haven't seen a red cent." "just a telegraph operator's mistake, i guess," said frank. "perhaps we wired you 'big work, no pay'--wasn't that it, jimmy?" "sure it was--something like that. but the codfish enjoys working for love. he has too much money already; he said so himself." "what time does your excursion start to-morrow?" inquired mrs. armstrong. "three o'clock, sharp," was frank's answer. "we take a holiday to-morrow so as to be ready for the big meet." "do you suppose you could take mother and me along if we pay regular fare?" inquired mr. armstrong, stepping up behind them. "pay nothing," said jimmy and the boys in a breath. "we'll take you as a super-cargo." "i'm afraid of your speedy boat," said mrs. armstrong. "john, we will ride down on the trolley car." "do come with us, mum; we will take care of you, and it will be more fun than a trolley. it's nearly a mile down there, and besides you will have a great place to watch from the boat. come along," frank pleaded. the result was that mr. and mrs. armstrong agreed to go down to the point in the _black duck_. that night all turned in early, but frank's slumbers were broken by dreams of the black head of a swimmer that he could not quite overtake bobbing along in front of him. the head looked singularly like that of his old rival peters. at three o'clock next day frank had the great honor of assisting his mother and father to their places in the _black duck_. captain silas had already started off with his boat loaded to the gunwale with people from seawall whose destination was the water carnival at turner's point, and, thanks to the wonderful and enticing posters that the codfish had prepared, there were twice as many people on the dock to go down in the motor boat as could be accommodated. "show your business instincts, frank; give up the swim this afternoon and make a double trip to the point. i hate to see the queen's ferry lose so many good dollars. peters will lick you, anyway," said the codfish. "he will, like a duck," retorted jimmy, who for once thought that the codfish was in earnest. "no," said frank, "this is a holiday. we made our first payment this morning and there are other days to work in. this is an outing." when the _black duck_ arrived at turner's point the whole place was alive with color and movement. scores of rowboats were drawn up alongside the hundred-yard course that had been laid out by burton, between two floats. sailboats with their mainsails down and jibs stowed, lay at anchor a little farther away. crowds of the people of the point were on the water front and all was expectancy. frank edged his boat in toward the public float and discharged his passengers. "mother, there are so many boats here that i think you and father better come and sit in the stand, where you can have a better view. we will make fast the _black duck_ here." "it would be better," said mr. armstrong. so the party threaded their way to the stand, which was built on the long pier, and took places there. "now, since you are all comfy," said frank, "i'll be off and see when my race comes. i may not be back again. don't get excited and fall off, mother," he warned. and he darted away. "good luck to you, son," his father called after him. he turned and waved his hand, and hurried along to the dressing room. like all water carnivals, the first events were of minor character. a sack race in which the swimmers were encased in a bag up to the waist caused endless mirth as, hampered by the bag which did not allow them the use of their legs, they floundered along, struggling and splashing. then came an obstacle race in which the swimmers had to climb over obstacles placed in the course. some did not try to climb, but dived underneath, and were declared out of the race for fouling. others attempted to climb and fell back into the water with a splash. then came the first real trial of skill, the preliminaries of the hundred-yard race. there were so many entries that three heats had to be run off, four in a heat, the first two to qualify. peters was drawn for the first trial, frank noticed. he watched his rival keenly as the first four took the water, and saw with a little sinking of the heart that the tall, slender peters was far and away better than his competitors. he swam a powerful trudgeon stroke, which carried him rapidly and easily. peters did not spurt. he did not have to, but finished easily in the lead of his nearest competitor by ten feet; and, instead of getting upon the float at the far end of the course, just to show that he was not exhausted he swung around and came back at even a faster clip than he had held in the race. as he pulled himself up on the float, he gave frank a glance from under his heavy brows, but did not show that he recognized him. "that's the lad for my money," observed a bystander. "did you see how easy he won that trial?" "he's the best here, i guess," said a companion. "there's a fellow here called armstrong, but i don't think he has any business with peters. that fellow's a cracker-jack," and they both gazed after the lad with admiration. frank heard, but said nothing. his friends were with him, jimmy in a natty bathing suit, lewis still in his regular street clothes, for the plunge did not come till later, and the codfish in immaculate flannels with flowing blue tie and socks to match. in a minute the next four were sent off in a nip-and-tuck race, at the end of which the announcer bawled out: "second trial goes to hatch, with burley second!" hatch also swam back to the float, as had peters, and was helped out by the latter, who complimented him on his winning the trial. frank noticed that the two swimmers, as they walked to the dressing room, cast a glance in his direction. they were speaking in low tones. "they're great pals, those two," said one of the nearby spectators. "and they're hatching up something for you, frank," said jimmy in a whisper. "i don't like the looks of either of them." "guess not," returned frank. "here we go," he added as the third trial was called. "take it easy," admonished burton, as frank balanced on the edge of the float and waited for the signal to go. "bang!" went the pistol. frank was rather slow in getting off, while his three competitors were almost ahead of the pistol. one of them did indeed beat the pistol, but as he dropped back before the first fifty yards had been covered, no attention was paid to the incident by the referee. swimming easily, frank was within touching distance of the leading man twenty-five yards from the finish line. but he did not exert himself very much. he let the leader work hard, being satisfied with second place, which was just as good as first, for both first and second qualified to enter the finals. when it was announced that bates had won the heat with armstrong second, there was a great commotion among the members of the armstrong family on the stand. "oh, dear, wasn't it too bad that frank couldn't win?" said mrs. armstrong, disappointment on every line of her face. her husband chuckled. "don't be worried, sarah, that's only a preliminary. second place gives him a chance to swim in the final trial." mrs. armstrong was comforted. "he was saving himself, i think," said the father. frank swam the few yards to the shore and walked slowly down the beach. he was met by codfish and lewis, who excitedly inquired why he didn't take first place. frank only smiled. "what did you want me to do," he said; "tire myself out?" "he did exactly right," said the astute codfish. "his real race is coming with peters a little later." meantime the exhibition of high diving had begun from a tower built on the outer edge of the pier, with platforms jutting out every ten feet up to the height of forty-five feet, the lowest one being five feet above the water. from these varying platforms an expert gave a series of dazzling evolutions--somersaults, back dives, swan dives, and finally a double somersault from the very top platform, which made the ladies scream with apprehension. but the diver struck the water like an arrow and bobbed up instantly, waving a joyful hand to the crowd. as soon as the diving was over the 220 race was called, with six entries, among them jimmy. at the outset he lagged behind and seemed to be hopelessly out of the race, but, urged on by the cries of his seawall friends, he got his second wind when half the distance was over and began to pull up on the leaders. one by one he overtook and passed them until only one was left ahead of him. for the last twenty yards it was a scramble between these two, but jimmy's hand shot out and touched the float a fraction of a second ahead. during the excitement that followed on the float, a boat was rowed rapidly over from the side of the course, containing among others a stout lady, who wore an enormous picture hat. even at a distance it could be seen that she was rather clumsy looking. her hands were covered by coarse cotton gloves and her face was concealed by a white veil. evidently it was the intention of the rowers to land her on the swimmers' float. in a moment the rowboat drew alongside the float. every one was watching the strange maneuvers of the boat and laughing at its queer occupant as it drew up to the float. there was much wondering as to what the lady could want. as the boat touched the edge of the float she stood up awkwardly and put one foot on the float, pushing with the other one in the boat to help herself up. of course, you all know what happened. the boat, instead of giving her the support she desired, shot away with her vigorous push. the queer woman lost her balance, toppled over backward, fell with a resounding crash into the water and sank, cotton gloves and all. immediately there was a cry from the spectators, and lewis, who happened to be standing nearest, without thought of his clothes, went over after her like a hero. almost immediately he appeared clutching something desperately. it was the skirt of the drowning woman. how he pulled to save her from a watery grave! but he pulled too savagely, for the skirt was left in his hands, and the woman sank like a stone. then the feather on that gorgeous picture hat came into view. lewis grabbed at the hat. that, too, came away in his hand, and he threw it on the float, debating with himself whether or not he would go to the bottom after her, as frank had dived a few days before for the drowning girl. he thought it strange that no one of all those swimmers came to help him, but he had been trying so desperately to do his duty that he had not looked up. a roar of laughter now caused him to look, and to his amazement every one on the float was convulsed, holding their sides and swaying back and forth. just then, right alongside him, bobbed up the round and smiling face of bunny taylor, the fattest boy of the point. a bedraggled wig of long hair floated out behind him and one cotton-gloved hand grabbed the side of the float. then the truth dawned on lewis. he had been the victim of a hoax. it wasn't a woman at all who had fallen overboard. he climbed out of the water and dashed for the dressing room while the crowd laughed and shouted. "poor old lewis," said frank, chasing after him. "it was too bad you were so near. that is one of the regular tricks at a water carnival. some one made up as a woman falls overboard, and sometimes an innocent and unsuspecting bystander, not on the inside, jumps in and rescues the drowning 'lady.' it's hard luck that it was you." lewis was almost in tears. "i certainly must have looked like a goat, jumping in after that galoot." "you were a hero," said the codfish, who had followed, "a real out-and-out first-class hero. if she hadn't been the most elusive woman in the world, you would have saved her for sure. but it's always safer to grab them by the neck than by the skirt; always remember that, lewis." "oh, shut up," said lewis, still ruffled. "i only wish it had been you, you walking advertisement for a gents' furnishing store!" "i tell you what you can do to even up with this crowd--go out and win the plunge," said frank, comforting him. "you can do it, and then they won't have the laugh on you. hurry up, there's the first call for the event." lewis got out of his wet street clothes, put on his water costume and walked rather sheepishly out on the float. there he was greeted with such a storm of cheers and hand-clapping that he forgot his chagrin and fell into a better humor--so good a humor, indeed, that he went determinedly at the work in hand and won the event by a clean five feet from the best plunger that turner's point could offer. "bully boy," said burton, as lewis passed him on the float, headed for the dressing room. "you turned the tables on them." whereat lewis grinned more broadly than ever. chapter vi. an old rival's stratagem. the great event of the day, the finals of the hundred yards' swim, was reserved for the last. all the other events were over and every one was looking eagerly forward to the trial of speed between frank armstrong and peters, for every one who had watched the early heats in this event knew that it lay between these two for first place. it was seawall against the point, or even more than that, for peters was one of the best swimmers at the school he attended in new york city. it was then seawall against the country! no wonder excitement ran high. "all ready for the finals in the hundred yards' swim," shouted the referee through his megaphone. out of their dressing rooms ran the six swimmers and lined up on the edge of the float. there was much craning of necks in the stand and everywhere to get a good look at the contestants. "my money on peters," said the individual who had proclaimed himself earlier in the day. "he'll show your seawall champion the way." "he'll show him the way to lose, maybe," said the codfish. "they can't beat that boy armstrong." every one was taking sides as to the outcome, while the referee was stationing the six young athletes on the float edge. little time was lost in preliminaries. "are you ready?" queried the high-pitched voice of the referee. "get set!" "crack!" went the pistol, and as if shot from a cannon the six hit the water together. peters with a longer spring immediately shot out in front of the bunch, his arms flying like flails and his long legs beating the water rhythmically. "hurrah, see peters go! he'll win easily," cried the friends of the new yorker. "wait a minute; the race is just beginning," said another. "wait till armstrong strikes his gait. there, see him go up!" frank was indeed gaining. in none of his races was he ever able to get under way fast at first, but he could always quicken up when he had been going for a few seconds. this was what happened now. slowly but surely he drew up on peters and bates, the friend of peters, who had won the heat from frank. at the half distance, he had shaken off three competitors and was closing on the fourth. slowly he gained, when suddenly bates, just ahead of him, swerved from his course. frank looked up just in time to prevent running into him, but he was obliged to change his direction a trifle in order to pass. the swerve lost him ground, for peters at this moment seemed to put on a fresh burst of speed. over the last twenty yards the race was a terrific one, the partisans of both sides yelling like mad for their favorites. on the boys came like whirlwinds. the water churned up into spray as they smashed through it. thirty feet from the float frank took his last look and his last gulp of air for that race, then, burying his head, he put every pound of strength he had left into driving himself forward. he was now so close to peters that he could feel the eddy of water from his hand as it swept backward. ten feet from the float, he fairly threw himself out of the water. he was alongside the leader now, and next thing he knew he crashed full tilt into the float. he raised his head to hear the shout: "peters wins! peters wins!" it was true frank had touched only a fraction of a second too late. it was peter's race. frank dropped off the float and swam back slowly, all but exhausted. jimmy was at the starting float, and as he lent the tired racer a hand to mount to the planks, his face was white with rage. "wasn't good enough, was i?" gasped frank. "good enough!" yelled jimmy; "of course you were. that chump who was swimming behind peters got in your way. i saw him cut across and block you." "i don't think so," said frank; "he was all in and didn't do it on purpose." "i know better than that, and i'd swear it was a put-up job. you can beat peters any day from ten yards to a million miles," said the indignant jimmy. "i kicked to the referee about it, but he wouldn't allow a foul because bates didn't touch you. did he?" "no," said frank; "i had to shift a little for him and it put me out a bit. i don't think it made any difference in the race. peters was too fast for me." "get out," said jimmy, still hot and angry; "you know he isn't. i'd bet my boots you could beat him any day, and if i were you, i'd challenge him for a race with no one around to get in your way." "i've had enough for to-day," said frank. "we ought to get dressed and headed for home as soon as we can. there are some black clouds coming up over there in the west." it was as frank said. the day had been a warm one and thunder heads were now showing in the west. down toward the horizon the clouds were piled thick and black, and every now and then the denser masses were edged by a little ribbon of fire. the lightning was beginning to play. the top of the pile was still white, for the lowering sun was shining full upon it; but soon this white top, climbing rapidly, shut off the sun. the wind had just begun to pick up in puffs and eddies and the sailboats were scudding about like anxious swallows, when mr. armstrong hurried up to the dressing room where frank was getting into his clothes. "mother and i have a chance to go back on the trolley. hurry up, son," he said. "it looks so bad over there to the west," jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the towering thunder-heads, "that i think you had better wait till the storm is over. mother is nervous about your going to seawall in the _black duck_." "oh, i guess we could get home all right," said frank. "it isn't going to be very heavy, is it?" for answer there came a blinding flash, and almost on its heels a roar of thunder that made the bathing houses dance on their foundations. the wind was running before the storm with almost hurricane force, lashing the sea into whitecaps. "gee whiz!" exclaimed jimmy, "that must have hit somewhere nearby. see the old _black duck_ jumping." the _black duck_ was indeed jumping, even though she was bound securely and lay partly in the lee of the dock. the wind and the rain came together, scattering the stragglers on the walks to places of shelter. in a few minutes the sea was beaten white and high waves sprang up like magic, their tops white-capped by the fierce drive of the gale. "it is so heavy it can't last," said the codfish, gingerly side-stepping a rivulet of water that broke through the shelter of the boys. "just like a chap who goes too hard at the first of his race--can't stick it out," he added sagely. but this particular storm did stick it out for some time. after an hour, however, the wind dropped almost as suddenly as it had sprung up, the thunder muttered itself out, and the sea began to go down. lacking the pressure of the gale behind it, the whitecaps soon disappeared, but in their place ran a long swell, down which the little sailboats at anchor coasted and rose again to the next, like some kind of a seabird. "we will have a tippy time of it going home," observed the codfish, as in the last few sprinkling drops the boys sought the wharf. "yes, and we aren't going to have much company, i guess," said frank. "their pedal extremities have congealed, evidently," observed the codfish. "here comes your father to say, 'no, thank you, frank, we will go up on the trolley to-night; we don't care for coasting.'" the boys laughed. for that was just about what mr. armstrong had come to repeat. "and i guess the others of your excursion are going back the same way," he added. "i saw the slocums light out for seawall in an automobile five minutes ago." "i'll wait a little while," said frank, "for my party, and then if they don't come i'll dig out for home, too." "i wouldn't wait too long," was his father's parting observation as he turned to go. "mother says she wishes you would leave the boat down here to-night and come for it in the morning. how about it?" "oh, there's no danger. we'll be home in a jiffy. the tide is low and i'll have to go outside of pumpkin island to avoid the reef. don't worry about us. the four of us could take her to new york to-night. couldn't we, jimmy?" "sure thing," said that individual, who rather enjoyed the prospects of the trip up. lewis and the codfish were not so hopeful, but they said they would stand by the ship. mr. armstrong turned again and left the boys with a last warning word. "where did the human fish, peters, go to?" inquired the codfish, as jimmy fussed with the motor and frank sponged off the seats. very little water had entered the boat, most of it having been shed by the very efficient awning which covered her from bow to stern. "don't know," said frank. "i wasn't interested in him after i saw that he hit the float first." "oh," said lewis, "i saw him jump into his motor boat with that chap who got in your way, just as soon as the race was over, and light out. guess they were trying to get down to the peters' dock before the storm came on so hard." "he had good nerve, starting then," said jimmy. "or bad judgment," said the codfish. "sometimes the one looks like the other." "here, stop getting sarcastic and help with these ropes," growled frank. "they are all in hard knots. what indian tied them like this?" soon they freed themselves and the motor, under slow speed, began to revolve. they backed slowly out from the dock. nothing was left of the gay scene of an hour or two before. "funny what a little water will do," observed the codfish, turning to look at the deserted stand, pier and floats. "yes, and it's funny what a little wind will do to water," commented frank as the _black duck_ got under way. he was driving her over the waves at a little angle and she pitched and rolled tremendously. the codfish didn't like it at all, and lewis, after five minutes of this kind of going, began to look white in the failing light. frank headed his craft well out beyond the pumpkin to avoid the treacherous rock teeth that showed white in a long broken line. he had a great respect for their destroying abilities. the tide, too, was on the turn, and he dreaded getting caught in the suck of it. many boats had met disaster there. so he headed her straight out into the bay, so straight indeed that the codfish finally cried out: "where in thunder are you heading for--france, or is it spain?" "don't be impatient," said the captain, "we'll turn in a minute." he had hardly spoken the words when the motor began to miss fire. instead of the steady hum of the exhaust, it was now an irregular chattering. the boat checked materially as the pistons choked in the dead cylinders. frank threw on more gas and for a minute or two the engine picked up and resumed its regularity. then it missed, sputtered, choked, gave one or two expiring explosions and died completely. "well, this is a nice mess you've got us into, isn't it?" whimpered lewis. there was a note of grave anxiety in his voice. "i didn't want to come, but i thought you knew all about your old boat." "what's the matter, old mother goose?" cried the codfish whimsically. "we're not dead yet. keep your lip stiff. frank will have it fixed in a minute." frank was working over the batteries with a face on which worriment showed in spite of himself. he gave the battery box a shake, tightened up the connections and cranked the motor. there were half a dozen explosions and silence fell again, broken only by the lapping of the running tide against the _black duck's_ sides. hastily he disconnected the wires and tried for a spark on the individual batteries. then he connected the batteries in series, and tried again. there was a faint flash, very different from the long, hot spark from full batteries. frank dropped the terminals and looked up into the faces of the three boys, who were intently watching him. "what's the matter?" inquired jimmy. "batteries?" "just that and nothing else. there isn't enough juice in the whole lot of them to light a grain of powder." "nice pickle we're in," grumbled lewis. "isn't it up to the captain to have his batteries all right?" "oh, shut up," commanded jimmy. "it isn't frank's fault that the old batteries are in trouble." "no," said frank; "i renewed them, you remember, only day before yesterday--six brand new ones, at twenty-five cents per. the rain must have got in somehow and short-circuited them. the shaking by the motor gave them life enough to carry us out here and then they died. see, there isn't a bit left." he tried again, rubbing the ends of the terminals together, but for all the result in the way of ignition they might as well have been made of wood. "well, never mind," said jimmy, "we're drifting the right way. look at us go! that's seawall over there, and while we are going sideways, like a crab, we may fetch up all right." "sure thing," said frank, "we are going sideways and fast, too. the tide here runs like a mill-race, but night is coming faster than we are going, and it's going to be as black as your shoes in ten minutes." "that's an encouraging sign," said the codfish, "for my shoes are yellow, and i don't mind yellow nights in the least." the codfish was always cheerful under difficulties. not so lewis. he grumbled and growled and blamed everybody for the plight in which they found themselves. "if i don't turn up by dark, mother will have a fit," he added. "well, i guess all our mothers will have fits," observed frank quietly, "but that isn't going to help us out of this trouble." "do you know how the drift of this tide goes?" inquired the codfish. "it might sweep us in shore far enough so that one of you fish-men could jump overboard and swim ashore for help." "yes, that's a good scheme. owing to the curve of the seawall shore we are now about a mile out. the current splits on flat rock, which ought to be showing pretty soon if we have light enough. if we have luck to swing over to the shore side of the rock we will drift pretty close, but if we go on the outside of it we are likely to go on up the coast or out to sea." "fine mess we're in," growled lewis, who grew more nervous as the night drew down over the waters. "oh, say something new," snapped the codfish sharply. "we've heard that for a long time. can't you think up an original remark?" lewis glowered in silence, muttering to himself. jimmy sat down on the bottom of the boat and began to tinker with the batteries, while frank and the codfish stood up and peered into the gathering darkness. "listen, what was that?" whispered frank. "didn't you hear some one calling?" the four huddled together close. jimmy left his tinkering and lewis forgot his hard luck for the moment. chapter vii. coals of fire. the four boys stood in the waist of the boat straining their ears for a repetition of the sound that had floated out over the black waters. "there it is again," whispered frank. "it seems to be dead ahead." again they held their breaths and listened. "help, help," came a faint voice. there was no mistaking it this time. "some one in trouble, and worse off than we are," said the codfish. "there it is, louder." "hello! hello! help! help!" came floating to their ears. "some one drowning out there," said lewis, shivering. again rose the cry, this time shriller and stronger. "i believe it is some one on flat rock," said frank. "i can't see, but the rock ought to be just ahead of us. what can any one be doing there? flat rock is all under water at high tide. that would be a bad fix, for certain sure." "let's give a call," added frank. the boys, uniting their voices, shouted: "what's the matter? who is it?" quite near now came the hail: "we are wrecked on a big rock here. come and help us. the tide's coming up and we'll be washed off. please hurry!" the voice dwindled off into nothing as if the speaker was in deadly fear and had no breath to state his troubles further. "jiminy crickets!" said jimmy. "we are not in much of a way to help any one, but we've got to do something for that fellow. give me the painter. i can see the outline of the rock. let me take the rope and i'll jump overboard and tow her. you handle the rudder, frank." frank was about to object to this arrangement, preferring to take the cold bath himself, when jimmy grabbed the rope's end and dived overboard. he struck out for the rock, which was outlined by a line of white where the running tide fringed its edge. the boys on the boat watched anxiously as he ploughed along. it was a small pull at best that he could give the _black duck_, but as both were going with the current, the pull that he did give was sufficient to guide the craft in the direction of the dark mass just ahead. "look out, frank, i'm touching," shouted jimmy over his shoulder. "pull your rudder sharp over to starboard." frank did as he was bid and the nose of the _black duck_ barely grazed a big black boulder just awash. "there, keep her steady," jimmy commanded. "let the tide carry her up and i'll pull her around into this little cove." "she'll bump, won't she?" queried frank anxiously. "no, it looks like deep water there just behind that rock you missed, and the pull of the tide won't bother much. i'll hitch this painter here." jimmy finished his work and straightened up, peering into the darkness, from which came a plaintive voice: "please hurry up! the tide's coming in and we'll be washed off. please come quick." "how many are there of you?" frank sang out. "two of us. we were knocked up here by the thunder storm and the boat is stove in. hurry, hurry, won't you? the tide is rising." "why doesn't he come down to us, whoever he is?" said the codfish. "there's a channel of water between this rock we are on," said jimmy, who was in a little better position to see, "and the place where those fellows are wrecked, and it's running like mad. can't you hear it boil?" it was as he said. the rock seemed to be in two sections, separated by a channel perhaps fifty feet wide, which looked black and threatening in the half gloom. jimmy began climbing over the slippery footing in the direction of the channel. "hold on there," shouted frank, "i'm going with you. you mustn't go there alone." "oh, don't leave us here," wailed lewis. "what, with me to protect you?" cried the codfish scornfully. "nothing will happen to you, you big baby," said frank, as he began to strip off his clothes. "i'm not going to let jimmy tackle that job alone. wait for me, jimmy; i'll be with you in a minute." he was stripped in a minute and lowered himself carefully over the side. with the water up to his waist, he found footing on the rock and edged his way carefully out to where jimmy stood. meantime the pleading voice on the other side of the channel kept calling for the rescuers to make haste. it was filled with a deadly anxiety, as well it might be, for the tide was pouring in from the sea with full power, gushing and eddying among the nooks and crannies of the big rock which obstructed its path. it sounded strangely like a low hum of voices and had a sinister and threatening tone, like the tone of a mob. "i don't like the look of this channel a little bit," said jimmy as he and frank worked their careful way across the slimy rock, occasionally slipping and grabbing each other for support. now they reached the edge of the swiftly running channel. "nothing to do but try it," said frank. "if these shipwrecked people can't swim, we will be as badly off as ever. come on, here goes." frank waded out to his waist in the swift current. the water tugged and pulled at him as if bent on destroying him. suddenly he found himself beyond his depth and began to swim. jimmy was at his elbow. the water caught them with its full force and whirled them along. but in spite of the current they made progress across it, and puffing and panting they pulled up on a shelving part of the main body of the rock, and staggered to their feet. the shipwrecked boys, seeing their rescuers at hand, rushed down to them shouting for joy, but the leader of the two staggered back as he came face to face with frank. "frank armstrong!" he gasped. "peters!" cried frank and jimmy in a breath. "great scott!" said the former, "we didn't know it was you." "please don't go away and leave me," whined peters. "we're in an awful fix." "we don't intend to go and leave you, but we are in a bad fix ourselves." "please take us off here," continued peters. there were tears in his voice. "we have a boat," said jimmy, "on the other side of that channel, but our motor is dead. the only thing we can do is to take you aboard her and wait till morning, or till some search party comes out for us." at this peters sank down on the rock and covered his face with his hand. "i can't swim that channel," he cried. "i don't dare try it. it serves me right. i put up a game to beat you this afternoon and was so ashamed of it afterward that i didn't stay a minute, but jumped into my boat and put out for home----" "and were caught in the storm?" interrupted frank. "yes. the wind kicked up such a sea that i couldn't cross it and had to run ahead of it. i tried to get around in the lee of this rock, but the wind drove me onto a ledge out there and knocked a hole in the bottom of the boat, and she sank." "and you swam here?" "yes, we were barely able to make it. we crawled up here and laid down till the storm went over. we've been here yelling ever since." "the storm drove every one in, so there wasn't much chance of your being heard. the wind, blowing in the direction it did, carried your voices out to sea. we barely heard you, although we were quite near," said frank. "you were awfully good to come to us. i'm sorry i played such a dirty trick on you. will you forgive me?" and peters held out his hand. "that's all right, peters," said frank, grasping the outstretched hand. "forget about it. you could probably have beaten me, anyway." "no, i couldn't," said the repentant peters. "i hated you for winning last year and i wanted to make sure you wouldn't this year. oh, i'm ashamed of myself," and peters hung his head. "i don't want the prize for that race, and i won't take it." "come, never mind, we'll race again some day on even terms," said frank, "but the main business now is to get over to the other side of this channel and get into the boat. we have no power, but we have a bottom under us, and it won't do us any harm to sleep out for one night, i guess." "it will be a kind of a lark," said jimmy, but his voice didn't have much enthusiasm in it. "the only thing that is bothering me," said frank, "is what mother and father will think, and your mother and father, and lewis's. they will be crazy thinking that some trouble has come to us." "say," said peters, who, now that he had confessed his sins, took on a brighter mind, "isn't there something in your boat we might pull out and set afire as a kind of a signal? i've no doubt that there are people watching over there on the shore. couldn't we try it?" "that's a good idea, peters," exclaimed jimmy. "we could yank out some of the boards from the cabin, put a little gasoline on them and have a bonfire here. that would show them on shore where we are and some one could pick us up in a jiffy." "good!" said frank. "we'll do it. it will save a lot of worry for our people if they know we are not drowned. let's get back and try it." so saying, he turned and made his way down to the edge of the channel which separated them from the boat. the three boys followed him cautiously. it was almost pitch dark now, and the water looked more forbidding than ever. "i'll lead off," said frank, "and you fellows follow me. keep as close in line as you can and look out for the sunken rocks." peters was shivering, partly with the cold and partly with terror. it had been a night of peril for him, and he did not have the animal courage of either frank or jimmy, or even of bates, who had scarcely said a word, but followed sullenly behind. frank was in the water to his waist now, but suddenly hailed the boat: "hey, codfish!" "hello," sang out the codfish. "we've found them and we're coming back," yelled frank at the top of his voice, for the wind was beginning to breeze up with the incoming tide. "have an eye out for us; we'll be with you in five minutes. come on," he said, turning to the boys behind him, "it's now or never! this channel is getting wider and there's nothing to be gained by waiting." he took another step and began to swim. the others followed silently. soon they were gripped by the current and began their fight to the other side. the current was more savage, if anything, than when jimmy and frank had crossed it a few minutes before. desperately they battled with it for their lives. "i can't make it," groaned peters from behind. "i can't make it. help me!" "don't give up," shouted frank encouragingly. "keep at it, old fellow," and frank stopped swimming for a moment till peters drew alongside him. elbow to elbow the two boys swam, as they had swum but a few hours before in the race, but now it was a battle for life. frank's encouraging words buoyed up the new yorker's drooping spirits. "only a few strokes more," he kept repeating. "stick it out." bates swam doggedly behind without a word. "i'm touching," yelled jimmy. "i'm touching. we're safe, we're safe!" the shout put heart into peters, who drove ahead with all his remaining strength, and soon the four lay panting on a little shelf of rock with more bare rock just in front of them. they were indeed over the worst part of it. but just as they struggled to safety, there came a tremendous yelling from the direction of the boat. "come quick, come quick, we're adrift!" it was the voice of the codfish. now lewis joined in: "quick, quick, we are adrift!" frank and jimmy sprang to the higher rocks and made for the boat, slipping, stumbling and rolling. they could not in the darkness see where they were going, and in the scramble they bruised their knees and tore their hands. the barnacles cut frank's bare feet, but he dashed on in the direction of the cries. jimmy was close on his heels and the others straggled behind, vaguely aware that some new trouble had come to crown their misfortunes of the night. what they worst feared from the shouts of the boys on the boat was only too true. in some manner the tugging at the boat of wind and tide had loosened the knot jimmy had put in the painter, and the _black duck_ was moving swiftly away from the rock with the two boys aboard, borne on the bosom of the tide. when frank reached the place where they had left the boat moored, only the dim outline of the _black duck_ was visible, and in a moment even that was lost to view. for a few minutes the shouts of the codfish and lewis could be heard, but soon those, too, died out, except when brought faintly in the lulls of the rising wind. "there goes our hope of safety," said frank. "now we _are_ in a pretty fix, and no mistake." chapter viii. a swim for life. "we're in for it now!" said jimmy in a voice which trembled in spite of himself. and indeed it looked bad for the four boys, trapped on a barren rock soon to be covered by the swiftly rising tide. "it's all my fault," he continued. "i thought i tied her fast. i'm going to be the means of drowning all of us. oh, dear! oh, dear!" peters was in a state of collapse. he had sunk down on a boulder too indifferent to notice that his feet were in the water. what did it matter now? they had no chance for their lives. "let's call for help," he cried, as none of the boys had moved, and raising his voice he shrieked: "help! help!" out there the wind which was blowing in from the sea, bearing with it little wisps of night fog, carried his words away. there was not even a cheering echo. apparently the others were too much discouraged at the outlook even to cry for help. in the silence that followed each of the boys could hear his heart beat above the lapping of the waters. peters turned suddenly and savagely on frank: "well, what are you going to do, stand there like a statue and see us all drown? oh, do something!" he wailed. frank was standing as rigidly as a statue, indeed. he was looking out over the dark stretch of tossing water. his face was toward the shore. he had hardly heard peters' last cry for help, so intently was he gazing and deliberating. "there's only one way," he said at last, turning to jimmy. "and what's that?" was the query. "swim it," replied frank steadily. even jimmy started back appalled, and peters, who was stepping nervously around, sank again on the rocks, weak at the very suggestion. "it must be a mile," said jimmy. "yes," said frank, measuring the distance to the lights, which twinkled along shore like far-off stars, "it is more than that. the bay curves well in off seawall." "it is a chance," said jimmy, "but a slim one." "oh, i can't do it," shrieked peters. "we might as well stay here and drown. it would be better than drowning out there in the dark." "some one might pick us up," suggested jimmy, "or perhaps the _black duck_ will be sighted and give the alarm." the offering was not a very hopeful one, and jimmy's tone was not even as hopeful as the offering. frank shook his head. "it's a slim chance, as you said," he replied slowly, "and meantime the water is creeping up here very fast. look, that big boulder is out of sight now under the tide. no, there's nothing but swim for it." peters jumped up in a frenzy. "i tell you i won't do it. i'll stay here and drown. i won't try to swim it. if you had had any sense you would have tied that boat securely. you'll be the cause of my death." peters was wild with fear. "would you have been any better off if we hadn't come?" said frank, turning sharply on his companion. "anyway, i didn't mean to ask you to swim ashore," he added in a milder tone; "i meant i would swim it myself." "and leave us here to drown?" whined peters. "no, i'll try it to save you. i'll go for help." "you mustn't, frank," exclaimed jimmy, coming up to him and taking hold of his shoulder. "it would be sure death." "well, it's sure death to stay here, isn't it?" said frank. "the tide is coming in like a racehorse and even as we are talking about it the water is creeping up. i'll go now." "we'll go together," said jimmy determinedly. "i will not let you go alone." "what, and leave us here?" cried peters. "for goodness sake, what do you expect? you won't swim and you don't want us to swim. don't you see, you coward, that it's the only chance we have?" jimmy was all out of patience with this boy for whose safety they had placed themselves in such a plight. "keep a stiff upper lip and we'll have some one back here in a jiffy." peters seemed not to hear. he sat down again plainly sobbing. "_you'll_ stay with me, bates," he blurted out. "don't you leave me." "i couldn't if i wanted to," said that silent boy. "i couldn't make half the distance. i never swam a mile in my life." "all right, then," said jimmy. "you two go onto the highest point of this rock, and every now and then make all the noise you can on the chance that some one might hear you," and he began stripping off what few clothes he had on. "hold on," said frank. "this is my job, jimmy. there's no use of both of us trying to swim it. you stay here----" he got no further. "what do you take me for?" burst out jimmy indignantly. "i'm going with you and that settles it. we might be able to help each other. i can't do anything waiting here, and i might be of some help to you. let's not spend any more time arguing about it. i'm ready." he was, as he said, ready. and be it known that frank, while he was willing to undertake the peril of the trip alone, felt better that his friend and tried companion would be with him through the terrors of the water. he did not argue any more about it, but stretched out his hand in the darkness, and the two boys clasped hands in a long, firm grasp. "all right, here we go!" said frank. "good-by, peters; keep your courage up and stick to the highest part of the rock." peters merely whimpered and bates said not a word. it was a strange sight to see there in the gloom, that of our two heroes stripped to the skin, their bodies showing white in contrast to the black rock and the still blacker water. free of all hampering clothing, they were ready for the trial of strength against the threatening monster--the sea. quickly they waded out on the shelving rock, gasping as the cold water struck them with its chill. another step and they were in deep water and struck out bravely for the far-distant shore. "let's keep close together," said frank, as they were caught by the full force of the tide and whipped away from the rock. "if we get separated we will never get together again." jimmy, at this, swam up close to frank, and elbow to elbow the boys drove ahead. the waves were running high but were not white-capped, which was a most fortunate thing for the swimmers, for the tide and the wind were traveling in the same direction. side by side they swam, climbing up the long black slopes and slipping down easily into the trough between the waves, but making good progress. their white arms swung rhythmically above the water. "it's like coasting," said jimmy, "only it's more exciting." "yes, it's great fun," said frank, but it was not the heartiest response in the world. "seems like when we go down in the hollows that we'd never come up again. and it seems as if we were going backwards. do you feel that way?" "yes," said jimmy; "there's nothing to gauge yourself by, but," casting an eye over his shoulder, "there's nothing to be seen of the island. i guess we are going ahead all right." nothing further was said for a time, the boys saving their breath for more important work. with every ounce of strength in their sturdy young bodies they forged ahead, now down "in the hollows," as frank had called them, with the water towering above them and not a light visible but the light of the stars over their heads; now up on the crest of a wave where for an instant they caught the twinkle of the shore lights and steered for them, heartened by the sight. "look, jimmy," said frank, "that big light over there to the left must be on seawall pier. take a look at it when you come up on the next wave. isn't it?" as jimmy slid up the slope to the top. "i guess it is," sputtered the latter who, in the endeavor to see, had been met with the slap of a little wavelet which filled his nose and eyes with salt water. "it ought to be about there if our bearings are right." "well, we'll make for it," said frank, "and we must keep to the left all the time, for the pull of the tide will take us away up the coast if we don't look out. what's the matter?" frank had heard a splash and a gurgle from jimmy, and then a succession of rapid strokes on the water. "what's wrong?" he shouted, as he got no answer. frank stopped swimming and began to tread water. his heart was in his throat. something had happened. "what's the matter?" he cried out again, and his voice rang with a strange appeal over that waste of water. "gee whiz!" said jimmy, "that was awful. it nearly scared me to death." "what nearly scared you to death?" queried frank, relieved to hear his companion's natural tone in spite of the shake in it. "something bite you?" "no," replied jimmy, after he recovered his breath, "but i ran my arm right through a big jelly fish that was probably lying just under the surface of the water." "horrors!" said frank, who hated the cold, slimy, slippery things even in daylight. how much worse it would be, he thought, to run into one in the pitch darkness of night! jimmy now swam up. "i'm all right again, but for a minute i thought i was going to die. i was swimming the overhand when, as i drove my under-hand ahead, i stuck it right through the body of this nasty, slimy thing. it slipped right up to my shoulder and stuck there. i thought sure something had me by the arm, and i stopped swimming and sank." jimmy, at the memory of it, raised his arms and smote them upon the water, throwing up a shower of spray. the action relieved his nerves. "don't do it again, please," said frank. "look ahead there, just to the right of the pier light! i think that's a light in our window! i wonder if mother set it there for me. we don't seem any nearer, do we?" "maybe we're being carried out to sea," said jimmy, but he was sorry the next minute that he had said it. frank made no answer. he was thinking of the comfortable sitting room at seawall, and wondering if his father and mother were hovering anxiously around there, or on the veranda looking seaward. perhaps they might be even now down at the end of the pier. yes, they would be down at the pier waiting. or perhaps they were getting searchers to scour the bay for them. but would they find them, or would the sea next morning toss up on the shore two white bodies limp and bedraggled? "i'm doing the best i can, mother," frank whispered to himself, as on the wave crest he caught a fleeting glimpse of the lights, and the water in his eyes was not all from the wave top that at that moment went over him. he wondered about the two boys who had been left behind. how far had the water gained on their little island of rock? if he and jimmy got to land and gave the warning, was there still time to get back and save them from the sea that must be even now creeping up on their feet? he shuddered in spite of himself. it was bad enough to be out here struggling with the sea, but it was something to do. it would be a hundred times worse back there waiting, waiting, watching the tide creep nearer and nearer to the last refuge on the highest point of the rock. he struck out more determinedly with the thought of the lone watchers in his mind. he must save them. chapter ix. saved. suddenly from the shore there shot up into the air a long, curving streak of fire. then came a dull, booming explosion, and the dark sea was lit up for a moment. the darkness which followed seemed even more black than before. "a rocket!" shouted frank. "they're giving us a signal." "gee," said jimmy, after a moment, "it feels good to know they're thinking of us, but it doesn't help much." "there goes another one!" rocket after rocket now split the air, marking distinctly the place for which they were heading. the boys redoubled their efforts, swimming side by side with a steady over-arm stroke. something of the horror of the darkness and the mystery of the rolling waters was taken away by the thought that the people on shore knew of their distress and were trying to help. but little could those on shore know how really bad their plight was. the rockets were being sent up as a guide to a disabled boat. they could not know that the long, brilliant sweep of light was being watched by two boys struggling for their very lives on the surface of the water itself. "we must be halfway there, don't you think?" said jimmy, in a labored breath. "we've come a long distance, for the lights look brighter. can't you see lights moving on the shore?" returned frank. "let's stop and look." the boys stopped, trod water and raised themselves high as they reached the crest of a wave. frank was right. the lights they saw were the lights of many lanterns, for the whole town of seawall had turned out. boats were being manned and people ran hither and thither on the shore peering out to sea. "come on now," shouted frank, who felt heartened by what he had seen, "let's break the record for the rest of the distance," and, putting down his head, he tore ahead, followed by jimmy more slowly, but just as determined. they had been plugging away for perhaps five minutes when frank heard a cry behind him. he stopped instantly and listened. "jimmy," he called shrilly, "jimmy!" there was no answer. frank, with a sweep of his hand, turned face about and dashed back over the course he had come. a dozen strokes brought him to his companion, whose white face on the surface was his only guide. "what is it, jimmy, old fellow?" he cried, as he drew alongside. "cramp," said jimmy feebly. "it came suddenly in my side. i couldn't swim and i couldn't take breath enough to yell out. it just doubled me up." "here," said frank, "rest on me and try to straighten out," for jimmy was still doubled up. jimmy lay back and rubbed his side vigorously, while frank slipped an arm under his head and with the other kept afloat. "it was my fault," he said encouragingly, as jimmy rubbed the kink out of his side. "that rocket made me crazy to get to shore." "no, it wasn't your fault, at all," replied jimmy, in a stronger tone. "it was the cold water. i felt it a while back and thought i could fight it off by working hard, but it got me at last, struck suddenly just like a knife. i'm all right now; come on," and, turning over on his face again, he struck out weakly. frank was at his elbow watching for any weakness, but as jimmy continued going smoothly he lengthened out his own stroke and soon they were back at the old swing. the halt, however, although only for a few minutes, had lost them ground, for during the time that they were not swimming the tide had carried them steadily ahead--but not shoreward. they were still far from safety. now they changed their course a little more to the left so as to cut across the current, and bore steadily for the lights which seemed to increase in size. they wasted no more words except occasionally one would say: "you there?" the answer would come back from the other: "o. k." or "all right." they had no extra breath to spare. the distance was surely lessening, but so was the strength of these two heroic lads. how heavily swung their arms! every few minutes they changed the stroke. sometimes it was one arm over, sometimes the other, and again it was the trudgeon or the breast stroke, whichever offered a little rest. both were nearly exhausted, but with the courage of despair they swam on, neither admitting to the other that he was almost done for. they did not dare to float, for that meant being carried beyond their haven of safety. if they passed the little indentation where seawall lay it was good-by to everything, for they would be carried into the wide waters of the outer bay and must miserably perish. this knowledge spun their failing strength out to the last slim thread. away ahead the lights danced merrily. it seemed to frank as if there were millions of them jumping up and down and swinging sideways. how friendly they looked, but how utterly useless to help! how deadly heavy his arm felt! there was no force left in him. how nice it would be to lie still and rest! he stopped swimming and sank. the cold under-current chilled him and awakened him to the fact that he was giving up. "i won't give up! i won't give up!" he said between his clenched teeth, and he struck out stronger than before. jimmy was splashing feebly behind. "we're nearly there, old fellow," gasped jimmy. "nearly," returned frank. "keep it up. let's shout." they stopped and shouted, but it was scarcely more than a croak and could not have been heard fifty yards. "let's swim," said jimmy, "shouting is no good out here." his voice was scarcely more than a whisper. again they resumed their weary drive ahead. suddenly out of the darkness between them and the shore came a hail: "ha-yo, ha-yo, ha-yo!" instantly the boys stopped swimming and turned their faces in the direction of the sound. "ha-yo, ha-yo, ha-yo!" came the call again, this time nearer. they tried to answer the heartening hail but had not strength enough to send their voices far. they stood in the water close together and with straining eyes tried to pierce the darkness. then in the momentary lull of rushing waters they heard a drumming. "a motor boat!" cried frank joyously. "and i see a light. it's coming this way. oh, it is going to pass us! let's yell!" together the two raised as loud a shout as they could. in a moment the drumming stopped. again the two lads in the water shouted: "here! here! here!" the drumming began and the light at the bow, which showed plainly now, although the boat itself was still hidden, swung and lurched as the motor boat swept around in a curve. with rescue in sight the boys threw their last energy into a fusillade of shouts and soon, "ha-yo, where are you?" came a hail from the boat. "look out, look out, you'll run us down," yelled the boys. a bell rang; the motor stopped and cut silently through the waves only a few yards away. "here, here!" shouted frank. "great cã¦sar!" said a voice from the boat, "it is some one in the water. stop her quick," as the boat was driving past the boys with her momentum. "back her! back her!" yelled the voice now in great excitement. "we've found them. they're in the water." in a less time than it takes to tell it the captain had maneuvered the boat to within reaching distance of the two in the water. strong hands reached over the sides and quickly pulled them to safety. neither could stand. they sank down into the bottom of the boat. frank looked up and saw his father standing over him. "back to flat rock, quick," gasped frank. "quick, there are two boys out there!" "why, flat rock is under water at this time of the tide," said the man at the helm wheel. "not yet. oh, not yet! we left two boys there, and they will be washed off in a few minutes if you do not hurry." instantly the captain ordered full power ahead, and away the boat shot in the direction of the lonely rock. the two lying in the bottom of the boat were made as comfortable as possible, and between them they told the story of what had happened since they put out from turner's point on that eventful night. as the boat neared the rock the men aboard raised a great shout and were surprised to hear a feeble cry from what seemed to be the surface of the water. maneuvering carefully, guided by the calls from the water, the boat crept nearer and nearer to the sounds. no sign of a rock was visible, but the strong light at the bow showed two lads standing, their hands clasped together, knee-deep in water. they were on the very highest point of the rock. quickly they were pulled into the boat, chilled almost to death by the long exposure. like frank and jimmy, however, both peters and bates were soon wrapped in the coats of the men aboard, and made as warm as possible. "now," said frank, "the only thing to be done is to find the _black duck_." "we'll land you boys first," said the captain, and he drove his boat for seawall, while the steady purr of the motor deepened into a roar. the waves shot away from her bows in a shower of foam as she raced ahead. what a yell went up from the seawall people as the boat neared the pier, and the glad news was shouted over the water that the boys were safe and sound! the rescued quartette were quickly put ashore. as they touched the float, queer figures that they were, all bundled up in the coats of the men, shouting was heard from the water. "we've found them!" called a voice. and even as they waited, in spite of the urgings to hasten to the house and dry clothes, a motor boat slipped into the circle of light thrown by the big lamp on the end of the pier, and behind it came the _black duck_ on the end of a tow line! and in the boat sat lewis and codfish quite calm and collected. they had been picked up by one of the searching parties. you can imagine what a reunion took place that night in the armstrong house! even peters, the cause of some of the trouble, was welcome; but that individual was none too comfortable, and was only too glad when his father's automobile drew up at the door to carry him to his own home. it was a night of jubilation, and the whole of seawall joined to make a celebration of the wonderful feat of the two swimmers. chapter x. profits of queen's ferry. for a week after the wreck on flat rock, and the swim and rescue which followed, the queen's transportation company did a rushing business. people came from far and near to take a look at the boys who were the central figures in the adventure, and incidentally they took a trip on the _black duck_ itself. the boat was none the worse for its jaunt with a dead engine up the bay on that eventful night, but thereafter frank carried an extra set of batteries for any similar emergency that might arise. peters and his chum, bates, had the _nautilus_--peters' boat--raised and repaired. the injury done the boat in the storm was not great, as it happened that she had been driven into a bight in the rocks where, after she had sunk, the pounding of the waves did not reach her. both boys disappeared from turner's point. later it was learned that they had gone to another shore resort, and they were seen no more around the point that summer. the whole incident was closed when frank was awarded the medal for the hundred-yard swim, the presentation being made by burton himself. but it was a long time before the memory of that night swim left frank and jimmy. they could laugh about jimmy's experience with the jelly fish now. "but it was no laughing matter when it happened," was jimmy's only comment. about two weeks after the night in question the boys were seated around the big table in the armstrong sitting room and frank was figuring. "and there's the total for our summer's work," he said, pushing a sheet covered with figures over to his father. mr. armstrong laid aside his magazine, took the sheet and ran his eyes over the figures. "pretty good," he said, smiling. "this means that you have about paid for your boat." "that's just about what it does," said frank proudly. "look, there are our earnings--$132.00. gasoline has cost us $17.25, oil $6.20, batteries $4.50, and we gave the old captain $5.00, and that leaves us .95 shy." "figures all right, does it?" said his father. "sure your totals are correct?" "sure as shooting," said jimmy. "we've been over them three times." "nothing outstanding, no rides on the _black duck_ unpaid for?" "you bet they're not," said the codfish. "i saw to it, as manager of this concern, that no one sneaked aboard without first surrendering his cash for our coffers." "good, then," chuckled mr. armstrong. "i was about to give you a dollar for that trip to turner's point, but i'll keep it." the boys looked at each other. "it's a fact," said frank. "dad got past you, codfish," and they all laughed. "pay up, dad, but that was only fifty cents. our fare was twenty-five cents." "well," said mr. armstrong, laughing, "i'll pay you twenty-five cents each for mother and me, and fifty cents for the trip we didn't get. here's your cash," and he laid down a new dollar bill. "hurrah!" cried the codfish, "that balances our account and five cents to the good! this concern stands free of all debts and has five cents in the treasury. captain frank webfoot armstrong, we salute you," and suiting the action to the word the boys all rose to their feet and bowed gravely to the captain, who acknowledged the salute with a joyful wave of the hand. "and to-morrow at about nine," said frank, "we will pay our last installment to mr. simpkins and the boat is ours. what say?" "agreed," said the others. "and," added the codfish, "let's take a vacation. i'm all worked to a frazzle with the responsibility of secretary, treasurer, manager, press agent, artist and general goat of this transportation company." "poor old codfish!" said jimmy. "he speaks well." "he has the wisdom of a solomon," cried frank; "and besides, jimmy, we ought to get in some work on football before we go back to queen's. what would you fellows say if we were to tie the _black duck_ up to the dock to-morrow and try a little drop kicking?" "great," said jimmy, "but where's the ball?" "you don't think i'd come down here without one, do you?" said frank contemptuously. "i brought a nice new one along with me and all we need is a pump to blow it up with." "oh, i've got a bike pump," said lewis. "just the thing," remarked frank. "shoot up and get it and we will put the ball in condition to-night." lewis hurried off as fast as he could go and frank dragged forth the football. the lacings were eased up, and when lewis got back a little later with his pump, the four of them set to work to inflate the interior rubber bag. it was quite a job, as any one knows who has tried it, but after much puffing and much struggling with the lacings, and much sage and useless advice from the codfish, the rubber bag was blown up tight and tied, and the ball was ready for use. and the boys were also about ready for bed. it was with very deep pride that frank, escorted by his three companions, rang the doorbell in the simpkins house the next morning, and laid the last installment, a few minutes later, on the desk of the old gentleman himself, who sat there smiling pleasantly at the boys. "i admire your pluck, boys," he said. "here's a receipt in full. thank you for your promptness. if you do all your work in the world as well as you have begun, you will surely succeed. i am glad to have made your acquaintance and i shall always feel under a great indebtedness to you, master armstrong." when they were outside, jimmy said: "and i thought he was an old skinflint the first day we saw him about the motor boat!" "you can't always tell how sweet an orange is by its skin," remarked the codfish. "now look at me----" "yes, look at you," said frank. "drown him! drown him!" cried the boys, rushing at the codfish. they were in high fettle this morning. with the receipt in full in his pocket, it was with a sense of complete ownership that frank stepped into the _black duck_ and took the wheel. "i want to thank you, fellows, for helping me," he said, turning to the three. "we are part owners in this old craft." "thank nothing," said jimmy, who was as glad as frank that the debt had been lifted. "haven't we had all the good rides? she belongs to you. we are only the able-bodied seamen." "frank's right," said the codfish, "we are part owners. i consider that my services entitle me at least to the paint on her." "and much there is of it," said frank, laughing. "but no matter what you say, she's as much yours as mine. and now for seawall and football practice." "i wasn't much at _this_ game," said lewis, "but football is where i shine." "shine like a bucket of mud," said the codfish. laughing and jollying each other in the highest spirits, they headed the _black duck_ for seawall. she shot ahead through the water like a veritable duck. "guess she knows who owns her this morning," observed jimmy, grinning, as frank laid her alongside the dock with a nicety of calculation as to speed and distance. the _black duck_ was tied up securely and the boys, after getting the ball, made for the little playground which had been established by some of the public-spirited citizens of seawall several years before our story opens. "where are your goal posts, kids?" inquired the codfish, as they hurried along. "you can't kick goals without something to kick at, sonny." this was directed at frank. "tut, tut," said that individual, "i've heard of people kicking goals without a ball. but i'm going to see whether i can kick the ball first or not." "do you know anything about it?" "not a thing. horton showed me something about it one day last fall, and i've watched him coaching a lot. you just take the ball on a long pass from the center----" "and i'm the center," broke in lewis. "yes, you're the center, all right," said frank. "lewis passes the ball. i catch it----" "you mean you catch it if you can," interrupted the codfish. "don't interrupt your superior officer, or i'll fire you," said frank. "as i was saying, i catch the ball, turn it around so that the lacing is up, and then drop it----" "the way lewis used to drop it----" "not quite, but i drop it end first on the ground, and give it a wallop with my toe as it is rising." "sounds very pretty," said the codfish. "and what does jimmy do?" "oh, he lies on his stomach when we kick from placement and holds the ball for me." "no work at all to that. i'd do that much any day," commented the codfish. "but here we are. now i'll take this very comfortable rustic chair here in the shade, and see how you put these theories into practice. if i get warm i'll ask some of you to come over here and fan me," and he strolled over and dropped with a sigh of comfort into a park bench. "now let the fun begin." the fun began at once. on the first pass, lewis threw the ball away over frank's head, and the next time dribbled it along the ground, but after half a dozen tries he finally got it to frank, who made a fair attempt at a drop kick. it wouldn't have filled coach horton with glee, but he managed to boot the ball a little distance. "wonderful kick!" shouted the codfish from his place in the shade of the tree. "keep it up; you'll win the game in a minute. wake me up when you do." frank paid no attention, but continued to work steadily. gradually he began to get the right angle on the ball as he dropped it from his hands. the kicks rose higher and truer as he went on. jimmy watched and criticised his friend, for although jimmy knew very little about kicking the ball he was a natural football player. he kicked clumsily, but still he knew how it should be done, although he could not do it well himself. by the end of the practice the boys were covered with perspiration, for the day, although in the latter part of august, was hot in spite of the sea breeze; and like everything that frank entered into, he had played with a tremendous zeal and concentration. nothing was half-hearted with him, and when other boys were with him in any of his enterprises, they caught his spirit. "all over for to-day, boys," cried the codfish, coming forward, stretching, but assuming the tone of a coach. "that's enough, kids. report at four to-morrow. very rotten practice," he added, "at least, as much as i saw of it, for i'm free to confess that the humming of the bees and the song of the football put me to sleep." together the four ambled back to the armstrong cottage, where the three heated boys exchanged their perspiration-soaked clothes for bathing suits, took a dip in the sea and swam a half dozen impromptu races. they raced back and forth like so many dolphins, diving, swimming under water, splashing and shouting, then ran up the beach, rolled in the sand and dashed back into the water. after an hour of this they were ready to don regular clothes again. the first day of football practice was the index of many others like it. the remaining mornings of vacation were given to the motor boat and the afternoons to drop-kicking practice, swimming and running. as time progressed both jimmy and frank gained perceptibly in physical condition and even fat lewis seemed less flabby. finally came the day of the codfish's departure. he had long overstayed his visit as it had been first planned. "i've got to get back home and lay in a new supply of duds," he said, "but i'll meet you at queen's before another moon has waxed and waned." he got a great send-off at the seawall station as you may well suppose, for in spite of his rather odd ways and sarcastic tongue he was a most likable boy. "he sees the funny side of everything," said frank, as the codfish, waving his handkerchief from the end of the fast-disappearing train, faded from view, "but he is true-blue all the way through." "which is a rhyme, mr. armstrong," said jimmy; "and while we are fond of athletes, we can't stand any more poets. we have one here with us, you know--lewis." lewis swelled up at this. for ten days more the three, now left alone, kept up their daily work. september was ushered in by a few days of quite cold weather, and this gave them the chance to do more rugged football work. frank and jimmy practiced falling on the ball, lewis acting the part of the coach, who rolled the ball in their direction. then they practiced picking the ball up at full gallop, and after that they worked at grabbing it on the bound. "never could see the sense in falling on the ball, anyway," said frank, after he returned from a race down the field, having snatched a bounding ball and tucked it securely under his arm, "particularly if you have a clear field ahead of you." "right-oh," returned jimmy, "but you've got to be sure the field is clear. the old game used to be 'play it safe,' but in the new one it is all right to take a chance. but make it sure when you go after it." "all right, mr. coach," said frank. "i'm not such a shark at this game as you, but i'll do my best. my game is baseball. i don't think i'll ever be heavy enough for the gridiron. do you think i will?" "sure thing," said coach jimmy turner. "i bet you'll make the team before you get through queen's, and all the quicker when they find out that you're a drop kicker." "i'd like to make it," said frank wistfully, "but i think i'd better stick to baseball. i know a little about that game." finally came the last day on the _black duck_, and they made it a long cruise. they went down as far as the point, circled flat rock, measuring the distance with narrowed eyes that they had covered in the long night swim, and finally, the tide being right, even penetrated up the river as far as tub island, and then back through the tumbling water under the railroad bridge. the next day the _black duck_ was laid up for the winter in berry's boat house, and the boys, after a parting swim and run on the beach, said good-by to seawall and turned their faces toward queen's school. chapter xi. the hazers' waterloo. it was the second day after queen's opened for the fall term. the students, separated for the summer months, had met like brothers and clasped hands. everywhere were heard greetings. "glad to see you again, old pard. what were you doing all summer?" that was the favorite form of address, and when a group met they all talked together as fast as their tongues could rattle. the boys had been scattered at mountain, seashore, lake and forest. some had had the great trip across the ocean to foreign countries. others had been at their dull little homes on the farms, but they all had something to tell. some of the faces were missing. a few boys had dropped out. two had been drowned in a boating accident on one of the mountain lakes; but all of our old friends put in their appearance. there was wee willie patterson, as diminutive as ever; tommy brown, long and skinny, but brown as a berry from tramping in the hills; david powers, fresh from the big ocean liner; and last, but by no means least in this story, chip dixon and his own particular crowd. these first days and nights were not prolific of deep study. experiences had to be recounted and books were in the background. our friends changed their headquarters to the more pretentious honeywell hall, but fortune did not bring them all in one entry. jimmy and lewis had rooms in the third entry on the second floor. frank, david and the codfish, were roommates the same as before. it would have been difficult indeed to have separated frank and david, and under no circumstances would the codfish have allowed himself to be detached from this company. bit by bit david got the whole story of the doings at seawall during the summer. "i wish i had been with you instead of at the other side of the world," he said. "i was lonesome a good deal of the time, thinking what a ripping time you fellows were having around the old shore." "and we were lonesome for you, too," said frank. "we missed you. it would have been complete if you had been an officer in the queen's transportation company. but there's another year coming." by degrees the boys slipped back into their school work habits. seawall was forgotten for a time at least. all thought was centered on the great fall sport of football, or at least all thought outside of the classroom and study periods, and i'm afraid some of it even there. our friends trod the paths of queen's with a new sense of ownership. were they not now in their second year and lords of their particular realm--honeywell hall? last year they had been at school only on suffrance of the second class boys--so it had appeared to them--but the year had moved them along to a new and quite wonderful superiority. "have you noticed," said the codfish one night, "what a very small fry this bunch is, that has so recently entered our sacred halls of learning?" the speaker put the question to the full court that sat in frank's room one night after supper. "you mean the freshmen, i suppose," said jimmy. "you're the rightest chap i know," said the flowery codfish. "yes," said frank, "they are a year younger than we uns, but i noticed some pretty husky fellows there in the yard to-day." "most of them look as if they had just come from mamma's lap just the same, and i think it's a sin for these second year guys to be hazing the dear little mites," said the codfish, with a great show of disapprobation. "who's hazing them?" inquired frank. "future tense, webfoot, future tense," cried the codfish. "i guess they've escaped so far." "well, what's all your virtuous indignation about, old chappie?" said jimmy. "the stick is in pickle for them, for i overheard a little conversation to-day that made me think as i think." "you have long ears. where did you hear it?" queried david. "coming around the corner of warren hall to-night i interrupted a little conference. some one said 'cheese it,' and then the bunch began to talk very loud about the prospects for the football team." "was that a suspicious circumstance?" asked jimmy. "something in the cut of their jib, as captain silas might say, made me think they were not so much interested in the football team at that moment as they pretended to be. my instincts as a detective got the better of my natural modesty--ahem, ahem--and after walking along a little ways, i sneaked back like the thug in the play and dodged behind that little jog in the wall." "go on, sherlock." "and what happened then?" "were they planning to kidnap old pop-eye?" these questions were fired at the codfish in rapid succession. "no, gentlemen of the court of inquiry," replied the codfish, planting his gorgeously attired feet on the table end and leaning back against the window seat, "they were planning an attack on two poor, little mamma boys who have our old rooms at no. 18." "the brutes!" "the scoundrels! the worse than kidnappers!" howled jimmy, making a great ado about it. "and what did you do--walk in and clean out the gang?" "do i look like a fellow who would get mixed up in the common bruising business? look at me and answer me that! no, i leave such brutal tactics to you, turner and armstrong, and to such rough fellows as david powers and lewis carroll." "hear, hear!" cried the chorus. "go on, and what happened then?" "well, i came up here and now tell my tale to unsympathetic ears. if you had a spark of human kindness in you, one little chunk of the milk of humanity in you, you'd sally forth and save these children from the ruthless grasp of this marauding bunch of baby destroyers. but as you do not seem to be interested, i'll go and tip these innocent lambs off to the fact that they are going to be seared, and bid them dust out." "who were the gents you heard plotting, sherlock?" inquired frank. "oh, i couldn't make them all out," returned the codfish, "but i'm sure of bronson and whitlock and colson. two or three of the others had their backs to me. it was too dark to recognize them, and they didn't speak loud enough." "three chumps, if ever there were chumps," said jimmy indignantly. "they ought to be in better business. wouldn't it be a joke to give them some of their own medicine?" "there speaks a hero, a real carnegie medal hero!" cried the codfish. "i've an idea," said frank. "hurrah, frank has an idea!" shouted the codfish. "shut the door and bar the windows for fear it escapes," and he ran to close the door and slam down the window. "out with it, master drop kicker. it can't get away now." "sit down, you lunatic," said frank, laughing at the antics of his roommate. "my idea is just this," and they put their heads together and talked in such low whispers that it was impossible to hear just what plan was being laid. it is sufficient to know that about a quarter of an hour before the time that the codfish had said the date for the attempted hazing had been set, jimmy and frank stole quietly up the well-known stairway to no. 18 warren hall. the remainder of the party stayed on the far side of the yard as a kind of reã«nforcement in case of need. the two new boys were in the study and were startled at the knock on the door. but they let our friends in, and stood with inquiring attitudes. apparently they were ignorant of the hazing traditions of queen's. "what's your name?" asked frank, addressing himself to the larger of the two. "mine's hopkins," said the boy addressed. "and mine's hewlett," said the other eagerly. "and where do you both come from?" "milton." "glad to see you," said frank, extending a hand first to one and then the other, while jimmy followed suit. "and that's a reason why we are going to do as we are going to do, eh, jimmy?" inquired frank. "you bet it is. can't let milton be thrown down." "did you boys ever hear of hazing?" said frank. "oh, yes," said one of the boys, "but they don't do any such things as that at queen's, do they?" and there was a note of alarm in his voice. "you are not hazers, are you?" "well, not if we can help it," said jimmy. "but it happens that we are going to have a little party in your room to-night. we used to live here ourselves once and we like to come back." "yes," said frank, "we are to have some callers here in a few minutes and we want to give them a warm reception. if you don't mind, we'd like to occupy your bedroom for about five minutes." the occupants of no. 18 looked puzzled and dazed at the presumption of the intruders, so frank took them into his confidence, and in a few words told them what was about to take place. "oh, oh," gasped the new boys, "thank you so much for telling us!" "no trouble at all," laughed jimmy; "it's a chance of a lifetime. i've been aching to use my muscles for the last three days." "now all you boys have to do is to get into that clothes closet and keep still as mice. don't even peep, or the cat's out of the bag." the boys were only too glad to do as they were told and made for the clothes closet with alacrity. they were not the adventurous kind that enjoy roughing it. a chance to escape a mauling was accepted instantaneously. "hurry up, jimmy, it's nearly eight o'clock. the pirates will be here in a minute if they live up to schedule." he had hardly finished speaking when the chapel clock boomed out the hour of eight. both boys dived for the inner room, stripped off their coats, pulled down the blinds and, jumping into the little cot beds, pulled the coverlets up to their chins. they lay there and shook with laughter. "what if the gang should send up a dozen kidnappers and carry us both out and duck us?" said frank, in a whisper. "'tisn't likely they'll send more than two or three," was jimmy's answer. "they would be afraid of attracting attention. they'll figure that two's enough for these little candy kids. i don't think----" what jimmy didn't think will never be known to history, for he was interrupted by a ringing knock on the study door. "there they are; cover up," whispered frank. "keep the coverlet up to your chin or they'll recognize you." "not a chance of it in here, unless they have a light, and they wouldn't chance that unless they are masked." the knock was repeated, and there still being no answer some one kicked the door. "open up, freshmen," said a gruff voice. "that's bronson, sure," said jimmy. "what's wanted?" shouted frank, in a weak sort of voice. "we're in bed." "oh, you are, are you?" said another voice. "well, we'll come in and sing you a lullaby, eh, boys?" "there's a bunch of them," whispered jimmy, "we're in for it." "let 'em come," whispered frank, in answer. "we'll show 'em a thing or two." the door of the study was pushed violently open now and footsteps sounded outside the bedroom door. "where are you runts?" said the gruff voice, the one that had first been heard. they could hear the owner of the voice bumping around among the furniture. "you ought to have lights for the convenience of your visitors. oh, there you are in your downy little couches for the night," said the voice again, and a hand grabbed the portiã¨res between the study and the bedroom and jammed them back. "what do you want?" said jimmy, in a plaintive voice, into which he tried to put as much fear as possible. "just want to see two cunning little things in their nighties. have you said your prayers?" there was a laugh at this, and both boys on their backs in bed concluded that there were three of their enemies. "yes," said frank, "we always do that. please, sir, what do you want?" "we want you, angel face," said the foremost of the trio, and striding into the room he reached for the bed clothes. just what happened that leader of the hazing gang never quite knew. but as he reached out, something struck him hard right in the stomach. it was jimmy's head. that individual had been curled up in bed waiting for what was about to happen, and as bronson bent over, jimmy uncoiled himself. with his head boring into bronson's big body, he surged forward with all the force of his sturdy frame. reã«nforced by frank, who sprang instantly at jimmy's attack, the two forced bronson backward through the doorway and into the faces of the other two waiting there. into bronson's companions they crashed and the whole crowd went smashing to the floor with frank and jimmy on top. bronson fought and kicked and hit blindly in the dark, all the while making desperate efforts to reach the door; but frank and jimmy, whose eyes had become accustomed to the dark while they lay waiting, could see fairly well, and directed their blows with telling effect. jimmy landed a stinging thump on bronson's nose, and when he took his hand away he felt something warm and sticky on his knuckles. it was blood. bronson, thrashing around on the floor with frank and jimmy on top of him, was begging for mercy. his two companions had gathered themselves up in the dark and beat a hasty retreat down the stairs, with only the thought of getting away with their lives. frank, a straddle of the big bully's neck, and jimmy on his stomach, plugged him right and left; and when they had punished him to their heart's content, and had him almost in tears, they grabbed him by the legs, dragged him to the door and into the entry and then, springing nimbly back into the room, slammed the door and locked it. in spite of his hammering, bronson picked himself up with astonishing alacrity and tore down the steps of warren hall as if the fiend himself were after him, while frank and jimmy rolled around on the floor in a paroxysm of laughter. pale and trembling, the two rightful occupants of no. 18 came from the closet and lit the gas. their eyes met a scene of destruction. scarcely anything was left standing in the corner of the room where the hurricane of fighting had taken place. but the destruction was nothing in comparison with what they had been saved from, and they thanked their rescuers almost with tears in their eyes. frank and jimmy slipped on their coats, helped hopkins and hewlett to straighten up the furniture and departed. "they will let you alone in the future, or i make a mistake," said frank, laughing as he went out. he had lost some skin from his nose in the scuffle, but otherwise he was none the worse. "i'll bet bronson will think you two are worse than a den of wildcats!" said jimmy, and his grin stretched from ear to ear. bronson and his companions did not learn of the trick that had been played upon them till some time afterward, but when they did know they laid plans for vengeance of which you will hear later. chapter xii. class nines. "have any of you fellows seen the football schedule?" inquired jimmy one night after queen's had been open about a week. "our rising young journalist, david powers, ought to know all about it," said the codfish. "only thing i know is that it contains the same old lot, with warwick on the end of it. how about it, david?" "the schedule was published in the _mirror_ last spring after dr. hobart approved it, and it isn't the same old thing by a good deal. dixon took on some pretty strong schools. don't you remember how you sneered at it, saying that it was big enough for the york freshmen, and that queen's would be a second rater long before the big game came on?" "you don't expect me to remember what i said three or four months ago?" retorted the codfish. "it's bad enough to have to remember a week. why don't you publish the old thing again?" "being live editors, we did that very thing, and if you hadn't been asleep you would have seen it. here's the paper," returned david. "oh, very well, boy, you may bring it to me," said the codfish lazily. frank picked up the latest copy of the _mirror_ and launched it at the codfish's head. "thank you very, very much," said that individual; "i always like polite little boys. yes, here she is, third page. some schedule, that----" he announced, as he read; "listen: "october 5th--hillside academy at queen's. "october 12th--burrows at queen's. "october 19th--milton high school at milton. "october 26th--taylor hall at oakland. "november 2d--porter school at queen's. "november 9th--warwick at warwick." "what's going to be left of this queen's school eleven when that's over?" inquired the codfish. "why, i wouldn't give a plugged nickel for queen's chances." "you're a pessimist!" said jimmy. "have you been down to see us work?" "have i been down? oh, master turner, what a question! of course i've been down, and that's the reason i'm pessimistic." "oh, we're not so bad," said jimmy, laying aside his book to argue a little. "we might get away with one or two of them, even if we did lose most of our good players." "_most_ of your good players? why, you lost _all_ of them, didn't you?" "where does jimmy come in?" inquired frank mildly. "and where does frank come in?" questioned jimmy quietly. "mutual admiration societies never affected my judgment," said the codfish. "jimmy can't play all the game behind the line, and frank the drop kicker hasn't grown up yet into the husky giant that you are, turner. anyway, dixon wouldn't have frank on the team if he could help it. you forget that chip owns the school, don't you?" "not a bit of it, and frank might get his chance sooner than you think, mr. critic," said jimmy. "did you notice what a shine horton took to him to-day?" "don't be sarcastic, now," said frank. "horton had some of us kicking down on the field to-day, and he said that my style was all wrong and i'd never be any good until i changed it. but i'm not to be considered at all. i'm going out for the fall baseball." "sensible boy," said the codfish. "you are wasting your glad young days down on that football field, for as long as dixon runs the captain you will have a pretty slim show. maybe when he gets through here and into a wider field for his politics, you may be allowed to do something, unless he hands his curse down to his successor." the talk of the boys uncovered the situation down on the football field. dixon, in spite of his excellent knowledge of the game, was so thoroughly bound up with the society of gamma tau that, even at the risk of weakening the team, he played his favorites. frank and jimmy had come out at the first call for candidates on the eleven. jimmy, with his natural ability to play the game, could not very well be kept off, society or no society, because the back field was weak without him; frank, with less knowledge of the game and with chip's secret grudge still against him, stood little chance. horton had given frank an opportunity once or twice on the second team, but as frank was green, he was soon replaced. "he's too light," dixon said to his coach one night after practice, "and doesn't seem to have much football sense. it's no use in bothering with him." and, although horton was a good coach, such little remarks as these, frequently repeated, had their effect on the older man's judgment. he overlooked frank when substitutions were to be made in the progress of practice, and finally forgot about him--remembering only, perhaps, that he appeared to have a knack of kicking, albeit in very bad form. horton, however, was one of the old school of coaches who had not much use for a kicker. it was his particular hobby that the eleven should be strong enough to carry the ball. and, it might as well be set down now as later, he lost a good many games by having no adequate punter or drop kicker. finally the blow fell, and in the second cut of the candidates, frank read his name among those "who need not report for football practice again." frank was not particularly sorry, because he recognized his shortcomings in the game of football. he secretly longed to be at the game which came most naturally to him--namely, baseball. but his friends up in honeywell hall raised their voices in protest. "i think it's a shame," said the codfish indignantly, "but do you remember i told you so?" "don't you care, boys," said frank. "don't worry about me. i'm going to have a little baseball now and, mr. codfish, i want you to help me with my call for candidates. most of the school nine fellows are playing on the eleven, so we can have the whole place to ourselves." "what would you say to an organization of class baseball," suggested the codfish, "same as they do at the colleges? here's a fine golden fall going to waste. i've been thinking of it for some time, but we had no leader. but now that our thousand-dollar beauty, frank armstrong, has been kicked off the eleven, the gap is filled. with the leader at hand, all we want is a press agent." "hear, hear!" "and we have one right ready to our hand--mr. david powers, journalist! what's the use of having these cards to play if you don't play them? sez i." "what's that you're saying about me?" inquired david, looking up from an essay that he was composing for next day's english literature lesson. "i was saying," said the codfish glibly, "that we had a scoop for you--a red hot story that will make the readers on the _mirror_ sit up and shout hallelujah! they always do that when they see an interesting article in the _mirror_, eh, david?" continued the codfish. "now, as mark anthony said: 'lend me thine ears.' it's like this. can't you cook up, dish up, or write, if you prefer ordinary grammatical terms to culinary ones, an article which will go into the next issue of the _mirror_, suggesting an inter-class baseball series which shall begin now and last as long as the weather holds good, then sleep like the ground-hog through the winter, and continue in the spring? what says our aspiring literary genius?" "good idea," said david. "wonderful!" said jimmy. "i'll resign from the football eleven." "where am i to play?" inquired lewis, "short-stop or second base?" "you'll be the boy who carries the bats and brushes off the homeplate," said the codfish, "and maybe if you're very good we may let you bring the water." "thank you for nothing," retorted lewis. "and as the _mirror_, thanks to our progressive friend and erstwhile rope-climber, david, has changed its shirt and appears nice and clean once a week instead of twice a month, it ought to make its appearance about thursday of this week. there's no time to lose. bring on your pens and paper and let's get that article ready." the boys entered into the spirit of the thing, and before they turned in for the night had produced in brief form a plan for inter-class baseball. each class, including the freshmen, was to organize a nine, and there was to be a series of games between these nines, the two having the highest percentage to meet for a final match. "it's up to you, codfish, to figure out the schedule and the percentages," said frank. "we'll call you the unofficial scorer." "at what salary, please?" "we'll give you a cheer after it's all over." "o. k. then i'll accept. let the cheer be a long one and a strong one." the announcement in the _mirror_ which came out a few days after the talk in honeywell, had a surprisingly quick recognition. leaders in each class got to work and organized, and before the end of the week the diamonds were covered with boys working with might and main to win a place on the nine of their particular class. frank, of course, was quickly chosen as the leader of his class team, and after a day or two gathered together the best of a dozen boys who had put in an appearance for his particular nine. but frank missed the services of his old backstop, jimmy, who, in spite of his statement that he would resign from the football team, still held his place in the back field of the school eleven. his allegiance to the eleven was made the subject of one of the nightly discussions in honeywell hall. "i thought you were going to be with us, half-back turner," said the codfish, one night. "you are throwing your energies away, down there on the gridiron with horton and chip and the rest. come up and have a little fun with the real sports." "i'd like to, i tell you," said jimmy wistfully. "it's no fun getting banged about two hours a day, but i've got to stick to the ship even if there are rats in it. when i said i'd resign i was only joking." "nice way to crawl out of it," growled the codfish. "we need your services. frank has to pitch to that fellow button who lives upstairs, and he can't hold the ball. it needs a real red-head like you to hold our young matthewson." "that's right, jimmy, stick to your guns," said frank. "while it's not the best eleven that ever was, it is still the school eleven and i wish i could help it. i'd chuck this baseball series." "oh, you traitor!" shouted the codfish. "jimmy, we're going to have our first clash of the season, as the newspapers say, next thursday afternoon; can't you come over and see us wallop that bunch of third-year pill tossers?" "if you don't start it too early i might get over," said jimmy, "but as long as the practice is on i've got to stick there. and i kind of like the uphill fight." "don't you let him bother you, jimmy," said frank. "he's an a number one josher. since you are good enough to play for the school, it's your job to stay there and do your best." "what do you call your nine?" said jimmy. "oh," murmured the codfish, "it's a pretty, pretty name--the piratical pippins. i selected it from a hundred names, more or less. it was the worst i could think of." "it sure is bad enough. and what are your opponents called?" "the hilarious hitters--so-called because they can't hit anything--and the rough rowdies of the upper class. these are all alliterative names, you see," explained the codfish, "and each has a significance which would not easily penetrate your cranium." "have the freshmen a nine?" "sure, and a good one, too. we call them the toy toddlers." "and which of these aggregations do you play thursday?" inquired jimmy. "let's see, where's my schedule?" lisped the codfish, as he fumbled in his coat pocket. "here we are--'pippins versus the hilarious hitters, game called at 4 p. m. umpire, snooks'--and he's that fellow with the lopsided eye, but he makes a great umpire." jimmy laughed. "i'll be over to see you if i can. now i've got to go and lay in a deep store of knowledge for to-morrow. i'm away. good night." "good night," echoed the boys, and jimmy trotted downstairs whistling. you can imagine that gamma tau did not view the baseball series with pleasure. the eleven, loaded with favorites as it was, did not at any time hold the attention of the school, and now that there was a rival attraction, still fewer of the fellows went down to watch the practice. dixon and captain wheeler, well knowing the state of mind of the school, still fretted about the matter, and things were not improved when practically the whole school turned out for the first of the class series, in which the pippins crossed bats with the hitters. frank captained the pippins and pitched, and he pitched so well that his nine won, seven runs to two. the hitters, true to their name, got only four hits off his delivery. "this armstrong is getting too popular altogether," said dixon the night after the game, as he and captain wheeler with several others of the gamma boys got together in dixon's room. "well, what are you going to do about it?" grumbled wheeler. "he has a right to do something, hasn't he? since he's no good on the eleven, we can't keep him from playing baseball." "i'm afraid he'll make trouble for us, with that redheaded friend of his, turner. they've got a pretty strong combination there, and not one of them is in the society. there's powers, who is going to be a force on the _mirror_ some of these days. he's the best man on it now, with the exception of the chairman, miller." "well, what are we going to do about it, i'd like to know?" "we can pull his teeth by getting him into gamma," returned chip. "your first attempt wasn't very successful," returned wheeler. "no," said chip, making a wry face. "but we'll try it again. i think if we got him and several of his pals into gamma, we could bring so much influence to bear on them that we could sew them up." "i don't know about that," said wheeler, "he's just the kind of a fellow that's hard to sew up, and he is making himself stronger every day." "what would you say to my asking him again? the second elections come off two weeks from to-night. we might land him, and then we'd be in clover." "well, maybe. we might go over and try some night," ventured wheeler. "we might bust up his baseball work by calling him over to the school football squad again. he looked to me as if he might make a kicker, and horton was saying only this afternoon that we've got to develop some one, since you get worse every day." "thank you for the compliment!" growled wheeler. "and if we can't spoil some of this popularity wave, i've got another scheme. the blamed little fool could have anything he wants if he only came over to us." "unfortunately he doesn't see it that way," said wheeler, "but if you think best we'll send our committee over to see him monday night." "agreed," said chip, and the conference closed. the determination to bring frank and turner over into the camp of gamma tau was strengthened by the disastrous defeat of the queen's school on the following saturday by two touchdowns to nothing. chapter xiii. frank's football education. it is needless to say that the attempt of the society of gamma tau to gather frank and jimmy into its fold in order to put a curb upon their growing popularity, failed, in spite of the fact that it had been advanced with the greatest care. the most persuasive members of the campaign committee, as it was called, had been sent to the two rooms in honeywell hall, and the glib-tongued committee men, after clearing out all but the intended candidates, used every argument. "what possible objection can you have to taking an election to gamma?" said the chief of the gamma expedition to frank. "gamma is the oldest and most powerful society in the school, and runs about everything here," he added. it was an unfortunate slip of the tongue and gave frank his chance. "that's just the trouble with gamma. as you say it runs everything, and as far as i can judge, it doesn't run anything very well." "that's a rather bold thing for a second-year boy to say," suggested one of the trio. "most of your class would be mighty glad to get a chance to come into it." "i can't help it," returned frank. "i mean what i say. i am only a second-year boy as you have told me, but i've been here long enough to know my way around. i can see very plainly that gamma is not helping the school, but hurting it, and i always supposed that the main business of a society was to help the school and not the members of the society." "but all the big fellows are with us," said hastings, a boy who had been elected because his roommate played on the eleven, but who himself was not an important part of the school life. "they may be big on the athletic teams, but i don't see that they are doing much else. why don't you take in some one besides the athletic fellows? there's my roommate, david powers, or gleason, they both have more brains than i have." "no, we want you to come first. they will come later, if you come." "oh, so that's it, is it? well, gentlemen," said frank, with so much determination that the committee men gave him up as a bad job, "i appreciate the honor you offer me, but i think i can do more for the school by staying outside. some day i hope to see the gamma recognize the boys for what they are worth, and not for the distance they can punt a football or throw a baseball. it used to be that way, and if i can help in my little way to putting it back that way, i'll do so." "this is your last chance, you know," said hastings. "if you turn us down this time you can never wear the gamma pin." "well, i guess i can never wear it, then, for i wouldn't agree with gamma about most things. it is better for all of us." "all right, it's settled," said hastings, "but you're going to be a sorry kid some day." "i doubt it," said frank shortly. and that ended the interview. nearly the same thing was repeated in turner's room, for jimmy and frank were one in their determination not to be drawn into the society, as they knew that once in it they would have to be governed by it, and that didn't suit their fancy at all. dixon and wheeler were furious when it was reported to them that both boys had again turned down the invitation. "they'll regret that to the day of their death!" chip stormed. "the impudent little upstarts! the gamma will smash them, see if it don't." wheeler said nothing, but the scowl on his face boded no good for our friends in honeywell hall. two days after the interview in frank's room, and when the class baseball series was in full swing, frank was sent for by boston wheeler and told to report on the football squad the next afternoon. the codfish was wild. "it's as plain as the nose on your face," he said to lewis, "what they're after; they're going to bury him on that football squad, hold him there and finally give him no chance at all." the subject of the discussion appeared at that moment, and the codfish whipped around on him. "are you going down on the gridiron?" "no help for it," said frank gloomily. "wheeler came over himself to-night and told me to come down. i told him i was no good, but he insisted that they needed a punter. horton, also, has suddenly discovered that i'm a kicker." "i'd refuse," snorted the codfish. "and get the school down on me? no, i can't do that. if they really want me i'll be glad to help. and if i can't, i've got to take my medicine and have neither the fun of our baseball series nor the glory of football. i'm going to try hard to develop myself especially for drop kicking. gamma or no gamma, it is the queen's school eleven and not the gamma eleven. i'd be a pig not to do what i can to help, little as it may be." "well, maybe you're right," reluctantly admitted the codfish, "but i haven't your forgiving nature. hey," he called to david, who had just come into the room, "frank's going to shyster the baseball end of it and go down to the gridiron just because wheeler wants him. what do you think about it?" "just one thing. he can't do anything else." "all right, then, down goes the house of baseball, because there's not another pitcher on the staff of the piratical pippins to make a dent in a pound of butter at six feet." it was indeed with great reluctance that the captains of the baseball nines heard of the break that had been made in their ranks. practice fell off materially in the following few days, and before the end of the week the nines had disbanded, at sight of which the leaders of gamma grinned to themselves. so far their plan was working well. frank's opportunity had been smashed, and they promised themselves that he would not have another one if they could help it. frank, although called over to the football squad, was lost in the ruck. he had missed nearly two weeks of practice, which in so short a season as football is a serious matter. once he was sent in at end on the second team but did not distinguish himself. in the punting and drop kicking, which was taken before regular practice, he showed an aptitude. horton began to take more notice of him, and on several occasions took him aside and coached him on the proper step and swing of his leg in meeting the ball. dixon did not relish these attentions to frank, and did all in his power to keep him out of the practice. at night in the room jimmy labored with frank and endeavored to teach him what he knew of the play of a half-back. jimmy was considered the best back on the queen's eleven. thick-set, stocky, short, strong of leg and thick of neck, and with a trick of running low, he was hard to stop. he was fast, too, because he never took any roundabout way for the hole that was opened for him, and when the hole wasn't open for him he often made it himself by sheer strength. on defense he was a regular demon. wherever the ball was, there might be found jimmy's flaming top-knot. never for a moment was he deceived by any tricks that the opponents might play. his eye was glued to that ball, and he was always in front of it. so, with this knowledge, jimmy proved a good and patient teacher, and always after supper the center of the study was cleared of tables and chairs, and frank and jimmy worked for half an hour or so with a ball before taking up the regular lessons. frank learned quickly and, when he had a chance, put his knowledge into operation. in this, what might be called secret practice, frank learned to handle the ball quickly without fumbling it, to shift it rapidly from hand to arm-pit, and to take just the right position on his feet. it was surprising how much skill he was able to acquire in the narrow space of a room. once jimmy, in illustrating how the offensive half-back could help his tackle, pressed lewis and the codfish and david into service. "now, lewis, you are the opposing guard. stand here," commanded jimmy. lewis was dragged into position, protesting, and assumed the attitude of a crouching guard with his hands on his knees. "and you now, coddy, you stand here at his right. you're the defensive tackle." "good!" said the defensive tackle. "it's a pleasant job, how much do i get?" "you'll get all that's coming to you in a minute." "it won't rumple up my hair, will it?" "no, don't stand too far out there. that's it, keep your place and look pleasant. now, frank, you're the right half-back and you've got to carry the ball. here, david, you snap it back; you don't need to get down, just face frank and toss it to him. that's it, right there where you are. now i'll give the signal. remember, frank, you cross over behind me. i'm going to help the offensive tackle to block off his opponent. you see i haven't any offensive tackle or guard here, but it will do to illustrate. now, ready all!" jimmy yelled this last as if he were outside on the football field, so earnest was he in his work. david snapped or tossed the ball to frank, who dashed across behind jimmy. jimmy threw himself against the unresisting opposing "tackle" and "guard." over they went like nine pins, lewis fetching up in the fireplace and the codfish under the window seat! there was a howl of laughter from frank, david and jimmy, but it wasn't echoed by the defensive "tackle" and "guard." instead they picked themselves up very carefully and felt of themselves. "where's the automobile that hit me?" said the codfish, in a rueful tone, feeling his shins tenderly. "some one get a shovel, please," groaned lewis, "and dig these ashes out of my left ear." he was a sight. "all right!" yelled jimmy, "line up quick, and i'll show you how the cross-buck ought to be played!" "oh, no you don't," said the codfish, edging away. "you can't show me a cross-buck or a tame-buck or a golden-buck or any other kind of a buck this evening. i've had all i want of football instructions. if you and frank want to continue your jolly little game, go and borrow a few saw-horses." "why, what's the matter?" inquired jimmy innocently, while frank stood holding the ball and grinning. "i have nothing to say about lewis, but if you imagine i'm a chopping block," grumbled the codfish, whose hair had been seriously rumpled and his immaculate clothes mussed up, which he didn't relish a bit, "you have six more guesses and you'll never get one of them right." "oh, i say," said jimmy, "this is in the interests of science, you know. we've got to teach frank football, somehow." "you can teach him anyhow," said the codfish, "but you can't make a roman holiday out of me again. science is all right, but it can't be allowed to flourish at the expense of my dignity. look at our poor friend, lewis carroll." the sight was so comical that even the codfish got over his grouch and laughed. "that's what we get every day," said jimmy. "i wonder if the school knows how many hard knocks its football players get. you've got to take what's coming to you without a whimper. if a fellow is tender he better keep out of football." "or out of the fireplace, eh, lewis?" cried the codfish. "or from under the window seat," retorted lewis, who by this time had made himself again presentable by a liberal supply of soap and water. there was no more football practice that evening; and thereafter when the floor space was cleared away for jimmy's illustration of the tactics of the back field, the codfish and lewis always found it convenient to be absent on important business. the fall drew on with rapid pace. sometimes the football eleven of queen's seemed to be getting together, but it was only seeming; for, lacking the right spirit, the eleven had no fight in it. captain wheeler often chafed at the interference of his quarter-back, chip dixon, whose bitter feeling toward frank he could not understand. dixon had forgotten frank's generous attitude the night of the supposed drowning of tommy brown in the gamma initiation, and remembered only that frank had beaten him out in several of his ambitions. it seemed to be forever in his mind that frank had beaten warwick with the freshman nine, and he lost no opportunity to hurt him in the eyes of the coach and the rest of the players. but, in spite of his disadvantages and of the scant attention he got on the field, frank continued to improve. under the loving coaching of jimmy at night and much observation and practice on the field, he forged ahead in the knowledge of the game; and once, called in by horton to replace the full-back when the school eleven held the second on its five-yard line, he kicked a neat goal from the field. "good boy!" said horton that night, as the teams trudged off to the gymnasium. "you are getting the knack of it. i'd give good money if you were twenty pounds heavier. but you'll grow. keep at it, and you'll surely get a chance at the eleven next year." this praise from the coach, heard by dixon, rankled in the latter's heart. he set to work planning for an overthrow of frank's hope, the results of which will be seen later on. dixon was so busy working off his grudge or trying to do it, that he played poor ball, much to the exasperation of coach horton. the next day after frank's drop kick, chip was warned for a rough and ugly piece of work in the practice, and after some words with the coach, was sent to the side lines in disgrace. walker, the little quarter on the second team, was pulled over to the position at quarter on the first team, and to the astonishment of every one, the coach, after running his eye over the possible candidates to fill the quarter's position on the second eleven, ordered frank to take his place. "he handles the ball like a flash," said horton, in defense of what he had done, when the captain protested; "he's as fast as lightning and, if my dope isn't wrong, he'll make a dandy quarter. he's too light to play anywhere else. we'll give him a trial." horton's change proved to be a stroke of genius, for frank, although not well acquainted with the signals or accustomed to the place, proved to have a natural aptitude for the position, and it was only a few days till he began to find himself. his punting, although not great in distance, was accurate, and so quick were his movements that he put a life and ginger in the second team which brought about a vastly different condition on the field. dixon was finally recalled to his old position on the school eleven, but frank had improved so much that walker came back to the second as frank's substitute. jimmy was overjoyed at the turn affairs had taken, and every minute that he had to spare from lessons he coached frank on tricks of the back-field play. for hours together the two worked on the handling of the ball from center, jimmy playing center, of course. frank improved with wonderful rapidity. his baseball playing helped him in handling the ball, and as the season advanced he began to rival, except in experience, the resourceful dixon himself. he had even an advantage of the latter, for he could punt and drop kick as well. chapter xiv. the telegraph company. "what's that you have?" said frank, coming in one night after supper and finding the codfish handling a kind of an instrument composed of bright polished brass set on a wooden base. gleason was examining it closely. "that, my inquisitive young sir, is nothing more nor less than a telegraph instrument." "where did you get it? make it, buy it or pinch it?" inquired frank. "i bought it, kind sir. i was down at the queen's station to-night getting off some of my important business by telegraph, and his nibbs down there, the telegraph operator, recognizing in me a man of excellent perceptions, invited me in." "and you got away with some of the tools. does he know it?" "oh, yes, sir, he knows it. i sat there and watched him tapping away. he told me it was new york on the other end of the wire, after he had called up. i didn't believe him, and he told me if i didn't believe, i could prove it for myself by simply touching two little posts that he pointed out." "and you touched?" "yes, if you must know the details, i touched it, and incidentally i jumped about six feet in the air. it gave me a shock, you see." "and then you realized that it really was new york on the other end of the wire?" queried frank, who knew something about telegraphy because he had studied it in a series of articles in the boys' magazine. "sure, i realized at once that it was new york, for i've heard that new york is a shocking city. now, then, will you be good?" "put him out! put him out!" said david, looking up. "electrocute him, i should say," cried jimmy. "he ought to be given two thousand volts in the neck for that." "well, if you will draw down these things on your heads, keep on interrupting my story. i asked the gent if it took much brains to learn it, and he had the nerve to tell me it didn't take much of any, and added that he thought i could just about accomplish it. if i had been a fighter like redhead here, i'd have been insulted, but as it was i kept a dignified silence." "well, when did you make away with the instrument?" "all in good time, kind friends. he showed me how easy it was to wiggle the little key, and i tried it myself. if i had stayed another half hour, i would have been an accomplished operator." "and how about the instrument?" "well, finally, i got so much interested in the little clicker that he said he would sell me something that i could learn on, and he brought forth this attractive affair and agreed to sell it to me for twenty-five dollars." "oh, oh, and you bit, did you?" "i said he agreed to sell it, note my words carefully. i made him a counter offer of three dollars and a half for it, and he said 'it's yours.' and, generous soul that he was, he gave me an instruction book which i also have, if i haven't lost it," and the codfish began to search hastily through his pockets. "there it is," he said, holding it up--"how to learn telegraphy--a complete analysis of the entire system of the morse alphabet--with the complete code for all letters, figures and punctuation marks. there's a bargain at three-fifty. eh, what?" "cheap at half the money," said frank. "hand it over." he turned the pages over thoughtfully. "say, this gives me an idea. why wouldn't it be a good scheme to have a little telegraph line of our own?" "where to--new york? i insist it shall not be connected with new york. i had enough of new york to-night. it's too shocking." "quit your fooling. if you get off that new york joke again i'll punch your head. no, i really mean it. we could have a lot of fun with a telegraph line. we might have an instrument here and one in jimmy's room. we might even connect up with wee willie patterson who seems to have deserted us this fall." "i say," said jimmy, "it would be a great stunt. we could use it as a kind of alarm clock. when i sleep over, the codfish can rattle a little on it and i'll be awake in a jiffy." "thank you," said the codfish. "i vote against it, if i'm to be the alarming fellow." "and," continued frank, "we might run a wire down to queen's station and get the night operator to send to us for practice." "yes, i imagine he'd love to do it," quoth the codfish. "he seems so much like a generous fellow, particularly when you show him money." "well, let's show him money, if he won't do it without it." david agreed with frank that it would be a good scheme to have a telegraph line; and the long and the short of it was that the next night a descent was made on murphy, the night operator at the station who, after much haggling about the price, agreed to run a private wire from the station to queen's school and equip it with two sets--because only two sets were available. murphy also agreed that for this sum he would furnish enough "juice" from the station batteries to make a sending current on the wire, and moreover he would "send" for fifteen minutes every night when the boys desired. the boys went back to queen's and scraped together enough money between them to pay ten dollars down, and murphy, as good as his word, commenced stringing the wire the next day. as the line was to be kept a secret, it took a somewhat crooked path, dodging this way and that way to avoid conspicuous places. it cut across the river from the station, was bracketed on a tree, then took half a dozen leaps among the trees across the roof of an old house long unoccupied, and finally climbed the slope to queen's school, well hidden among the trees. perhaps the most difficult part of the work was getting the wire on honeywell hall itself so as not to attract the attention of the caretakers, who would undoubtedly have made short work of it. the heavier wire was ended on a bracket on a great elm that swayed over the roof of honeywell. from this bracket a very fine copper wire was stretched to the room of jimmy and lewis, which was fortunately on the rear of the hall. from there it was an easy matter to bring it across and down a rain spout to the sill of frank's window. when the whole job was completed, much of it under cover of darkness, so well had it been done that unless you had been looking for such a wire you might have looked over a hundred times and seen nothing unusual. when the circuit was complete, murphy attached the instruments and returned to the station. "i go on duty to-night at seven o'clock," he said, "and i'll cut the wire in and see how she works." the boys were in high spirits about the successful completion of the job, and waited with eagerness to hear the signals murphy was to send them. "wouldn't it be a joke," said the codfish, as the hour for the opening of the great telegraph line came and went, "if it didn't work?" "we'd be out ten dollars," remarked david. "but look at the fun we've had!" "there speaks a true sporting proposition, gents," said the codfish. but the line was not to be a failure. suddenly, while the boys were discussing their probable bad bargain, the little brass-armed sounder jumped into life and began to dance like mad. "how well he talks!" said the codfish, who couldn't read a letter. "i think it's about the most intelligent language i ever listened to. don't sit there, frank, pretending you know all about it," for frank had his ear glued on the sounder and was trying hard to make out what was coming. [illustration: "it's choctaw!" cried the codfish. "who can read choctaw?"--_page 179._] "no, i can't make it out, it's too fast for me; i can read a little if i haven't forgotten. i wish he'd send slower." by degrees the sounder stopped its mad dancing and began to work slowly. "listen," said frank, and he seized a pencil, "it's something he wants us to hear. i'll write it down." frank began scratching as the sounder clicked on. and this is what he got: "_do ntfo rgett hat youow eme fi vedol lars._" "it's choctaw!" cried the codfish, who had been leaning over frank's shoulder as the message came in. "who can read choctaw? david, don't speak up too quick. and frank thinks he's an operator! shades of my grandmother, what a message!" frank had been staring at the page. finally he burst out laughing. "oh, it's a joke, is it? it looks funny enough to be a joke. explain it, please." "the only trouble is, that i didn't get the spaces right between the words. see, when you space it right the choctaw becomes the following: '_don't forget that you owe me five dollars_'." "what an insulting thing to send over our own wire first crack out of the box!" said the codfish. "of course we owe him five dollars, and if he were a gentleman he wouldn't remind us of it, particularly when we haven't got it in our clothes." frank's unexpected display of the ability to read the telegraph by sound, was a great incentive to the others of our quintet of boys, and they worked with might and main. pasted in each room was a large white card ornamented in the codfish's best style with the morse alphabet and figures spread boldly thereon, and this is what they studied morning, noon and night, and sometimes in between: a--dot dash. b--dash and three dots. c--two dots space dot. d--dash two dots. e--one dot. f--dot dash dot. g--two dashes dot. h--four dots. i--two dots. j--dash dot dash dot. k--dash dot dash. l--one long dash. m--two dashes. n--dash dot. o--dot space dot. p--five dots. q--two dots dash dot. r--dot space two dots. s--three dots. t--one short dash. u--two dots dash. w--dot two dashes. x--dot dash two dots. y--two dots space two dots. z--three dots space dot. 1--dot dash dash dot. 2--two dots dash two dots. 3--three dots dash dot. 4--four dots dash. 5--three dashes. 6--six dots. 7--two dashes two dots. 8--dash four dots. 9--dash two dots dash. 0--one long dash (longer than letter l). "and murphy says that's all a fellow needs to know, to do almost any kind of telegraphing. sounds easy, doesn't it?" said frank, one day. "and it is easy to remember the signals themselves, but when they come flying over the wire it's a different story." "how are you getting on with the telegraph?" inquired david, one night of lewis, who was listening to the measured ticking of the instrument. "great," said lewis, "i guess i'll be able to take a job on the railroad pretty soon." "get out," said jimmy scornfully. "lewis makes a great fuss about it because he can tell such little things as _e_ and _i_ and _h_ and things like that. i can do better than that myself. i have a speaking acquaintance with the big, forbidding fellows like _q_ and _x_ and all the high dignitaries." for a time the lessons suffered by the introduction of this new toy, but by and by it began to take its natural place in the day or night. they picked up the reading wonderfully quickly and, as the days went on, murphy was able to take a faster gait. perhaps they didn't understand all of it, but it was a great joy to be able to pick out small words as the instrument rattled along. all of the boys were able to "send" pretty well, which as every one knows is the easy part of telegraphing. it is the receiving that is so difficult. often frank and jimmy held labored conversations over the wire when murphy had cut out and left them to themselves, and it generally happened that they were obliged to stick their heads out of the window to confirm by voice what had been said and to fill in the gaps which were not clear. the codfish frequently used the wire to play tricks. one night jimmy was awakened by a desperate clatter on the instrument. the call of jimmy's room was _jc_, and they were both hard letters for our friend, the codfish. he was rattling away at this _jc_, _jc_, _jc_, as fast as he could go. jimmy sprang up and answered. "_it's very cold down here_," clicked the instrument; "_come on down and put another blanket on me_." jimmy was furious. "_i'll come down_," he wired back, "_and put a club on you_." "_ha, ha, ha, ha!_" laughed the codfish on the wire. but they got a lot of fun out of it and some profit, for they were learning something which they might some day be able to turn to account. little did any of them realize that it would, at no very distant date, play a prominent part in an important incident in their school life. chapter xv. frank taken to warwick. while the advent of the telegraph line occupied the attention of our friends in the evenings, it must not be thought that they were any the less intent on the football doings in the afternoons. the end of the season was drawing rapidly to a close and only one game--that with porter school on the queen's grounds--remained on the schedule to be played, with the exception of the final match with warwick. this latter game was to be played at warwick, which was considered a disadvantage, as the queen's eleven seemed to fight better on home grounds. it will be remembered that the warwick game was played at queen's the previous year. these matches always alternated--one year at warwick and the next at queen's, and so on. after frank had won his place on the second eleven, there was a general brace by the school eleven. dixon, seeing his position in danger of being invaded by frank, put forth his best efforts, and he was so clever a quarter that when he did his best he was hard to beat. horton was delighted with the change and attributed it in a considerable degree to the dashing play of frank armstrong, who had been, as he expressed it, "a regular find." then came the porter game. "this is our test," said jimmy the friday night before it was played. "if we get away with this one, there's a chance that we can pull off the warwick game." "a fighting chance, yes," said the clear-headed codfish. "you may be able to hold them, but i don't see how you can score against their defense. warwick is as good or better than last year. the only way you can beat a strong defense, under these rules that the football fathers have doped out, is to have a drop kicker." "well, we haven't got one, so we'll have to get off a forward pass or something tricky, and catch those big guys napping. it all depends on what we can do to-morrow." the boys turned in early. frank fell asleep with hopes of a chance at to-morrow's game in his head. it was a glorious day, and every one far and near turned out to see the test of the school eleven against the strapping boys from porter. knowing well the erratic course that the queen's eleven had been steering, the invaders, who came gayly decked as for a celebration, freely expressed themselves as to the size of the score. they would not consider for a moment that the score might be against them. nearly all, excepting the most optimistic of the queen's followers, were shaking in their shoes because a defeat to-day meant disaster a week later. a victory would hearten the team so much, that they might even triumph over the proud and confident eleven up the river. from the moment of the first clash of the lines the porter boys showed their superiority. they took the ball and on straight rushes carried it far down the field, only to lose it when they seemed to be sure of scoring. red-headed jimmy was everywhere on defense. half a dozen times the porter runner with the ball was through the line, but was nailed with deadly precision by this half-back. dixon also played magnificently. he was playing to hold his place, and although frank, sitting on the side-lines wrapped up in a blanket, saw his opportunity for a trial disappearing through the brilliant play of chip, he could not but admire it. time after time the porter school eleven carried the ball half the length of the field. stone, their full-back, out-punted wheeler, and their ends covered the long punts with deadly certainty. porter played harder and harder and made ten yards of ground to one for queen's, but they were met down around the 25-yard line with so fierce a resistance that they could go no further. twice they made weak attempts to drop-kick a goal, but each time the trials failed. once a queen's end recovered the ball and carried it 70 yards down the field, where he was felled by the porter tackle, who outran him. this hammering game went on for three quarters, but, in the fourth quarter, queen's seemed to gain strength. twice they stopped the porter rushes at midfield, and with unsuspected power carried the ball inside the 10-yard line, only to be stopped when success seemed certain. quickly the minutes flew by. dixon drove his men with increasing speed in spite of the fact that they were about ready to drop. they responded to the call splendidly. it was the best football they had shown the whole fall, but in spite of their best efforts porter stood a barrier to the goal line, and the whistle blew with the game a tie, without scoring by either side. "i was praying that they'd call you in and give you a trial, frank," said jimmy that night, "when we were down on their goal line. but, after a conference, dixon thought he could take it across and wheeler thought so, too. and they failed. it would have been an easy drop--right in front of the posts. if i had been captain i'd have tried it every time i got inside the 15-yard line, but horton doesn't think that way." "wait till you get to be captain," said the codfish, "and you'll have them kicking goals all over the field, eh, old speed?" "well, i'd be a little freer with them than the captain is. but it's his team and i'm not grouching. as the fellow in the poem says: "'mine not to reason why, mine but to do or die.'" "and you died, i notice, and you'll die some more up at warwick next saturday," prophesied the cold-hearted codfish. very little was done on the gridiron during the week preceding the warwick game. the players were rested after the hard struggle they had gone through with the porter school team. there was some secret practice and several trick plays were run over. the last work-out was on wednesday afternoon. "only light drill to-morrow," announced horton, "and nothing at all on friday." "do you know the signals of the first eleven?" inquired horton of frank when he was coming out of the shower bath that night. "i've picked up most of them, yes, sir," said frank. "i thought so," said horton, grinning, "by the way you played on defense. here's a set of them. get them well in your head. perhaps we may need you to-morrow." frank's heart took a great leap in his breast. "'perhaps we will need you to-morrow,'" he kept repeating to himself. "but after all it is only 'perhaps.' well, that's better than nothing." that night horton's "perhaps" kept him awake half an hour longer than usual, and he went to sleep finally to dream of the clash of battle in which he had a part. thursday was given to signal drill, short, sharp and snappy. the bleachers were well filled with boys who had come down in an organized mass to try out their new songs. as the players rolled and tumbled around on the ground, the sharp cheer rang out, and at its end was the name of a player. "come on, get into this, now," shouted the cheer leaders-"'rah, 'rah, 'rah, 'rah, 'rah, 'rah! queen's!--_wheeler!_" the boys raised their voices with a will. even the second and third substitutes came in for their share, and frank felt a strange thrill run down his spine as he heard his own name, "_armstrong_," snapped out by the bleachers. that it was well down toward the end of the list and not among the important members did not particularly matter. it meant that he was a possible candidate for the team and that was enough to fill him almost to bursting with happiness. and his joy was not lessened on seeing the bulletin near the gymnasium door, pasted there by horton, after the practice. his name was among those who were to take the train for warwick saturday afternoon. it seemed to the boys that saturday would never come, but come it did at last, a glorious day in early november. the exodus for warwick began early. the queen's boys went by train, by automobile, by team, and some of those given to pedestrianism even walked the five miles up the river. every queen's boy bore his banner or badge of blue and gold, the school colors. some carried them modestly while others flaunted their flags to the breeze and made sure that the entire populace would know that they came from queen's, and that they were sure of victory. "isn't it great," said jimmy, as he and frank hurried for the 12:30 train which was to take the team to warwick, "to see this turn-out? it makes me feel as though i could play my head off when the whistle blows." boys who have not attended a preparatory school or college can hardly understand the intense feeling of loyalty which a body of students has for its teams. they may be good or they may be poor, but since they represent the school, if the school has any spirit in it at all, the boys are behind the teams. this intense loyalty often actually makes a team strong that would otherwise be indifferent or distinctly poor. and so it was with the queen's school eleven that saturday with which our story deals. the bad record of the season was forgotten for the time, and every player who wore the blue and gold felt himself nerved to do his best, or more than his best, because his schoolmates were with him heart and soul. "i've a hunch that we are going to win this game," said jimmy as the train neared warwick on its short run. "of course we are," said big wheeler, overhearing the remark. "don't believe anything but that and we'll show them who's who, and don't you forget it." at the little warwick railroad station a hundred boys who had preceded the team and all those on the train gathered around the team as it alighted from the car and, with hats off, gave it a ringing cheer. then, as the players piled headlong into the 'bus that was to carry them to the warwick grounds, the crowd fell into line four deep and followed along, occasionally sending up a cheer to vary the school marching song. and in this martial array queen's invaded their rival's grounds. "let them sing," said a warwicker who sat in a group of boys on the library steps as the queen's phalanx went swinging along, proud and haughty under the banners of blue and gold; "they will be quiet enough after the game is over." the warwick crowd were confident of victory, and the remark of the boy on the steps of the library reflected the feeling of every one in the school. and they had good reason to feel confident. the warwick eleven was a strong one, most of whose members had played together for two years. the team had won all its games by big scores, and what served to make assurance almost certain, was an easy victory over porter two weeks before the day queen's had played the same team to a tie. the warwickers would not even admit that queen's had a chance to get within striking distance of the warwick goal on straight offensive strength. "of course, there's always danger of a fumble or something," said those who liked to consider themselves fair to the other fellow, "but the chances are against that." warwick also made a brave showing with their school colors. flags hung from the dormitory windows, and over the door of the gymnasium was draped an enormous warwick flag. down on the big flagstaff by the track house another flag--maroon with a big white "w"--floated lazily in the breeze. boys gathered in doorways and on the walks and discussed with eagerness the coming struggle. the game was scheduled for two o'clock and long before that hour the crowds were streaming across the playing fields in the direction of the football stands. suddenly was heard the music of a band, and soon it swung into view from behind the library where the warwick procession had been formed; and after it came a long tail of boys, hands on each other's shoulders, skipping and dancing along in the peculiar zig-zag step. the crowds opened to make room for this procession, and some joined in the warwick songs as the band thundered out the melody. but you may be sure that the queen's boys refrained from taking part in the warwick jollification. they did do their best, however, to make their own songs heard above the din. soon the crowds filed into the stands and were seated by the ushers, who were distinguished from their fellows by a big maroon silk badge on their coat lapels. the ushers, in spite of their duties, managed to keep one eye on the field where the members of the two teams were running through the signals. queen's had the west and warwick the east stand, and during the preliminaries hurled defiance at each other across the brown gridiron. warwick, with a greater body of supporters, kept up a steady yell, varied now and then by a song. the queen's followers, gathered compactly into two or three sections of the stand, made their presence known by their snappy school yell. the cheer leaders worked incessantly, and whenever there was any evidence of lagging, heckled the sections through their megaphones: "come on here, this isn't a whispering match! what did you come up here for?" and such like taunts. suddenly a hush fell on the crowds on both sides of the field. wheeler, captain of queen's, and burns of warwick, with the referee, met at midfield. they shook hands and held a little conference. after a minute or two the referee snapped a coin into the air. the crowds could not hear what was said, but as burns turned away and waved his hand to the north end of the field, the warwick cheer leaders interpreted the sign as meaning, and rightly, too, that warwick had won the toss and had taken the north end of the field, which was favored by a little breeze. the information imparted to the warwick stand by the megaphones, a cheer burst out spontaneously. the rattle of yelling went the length of the stand. in another instant warwick's measured yell, beaten by the waving arms of half a dozen cheer leaders working in unison, rolled out on the crisp air as the teams trotted to their places. a moment later the whistle blew and the great game was on. chapter xvi. the warwick game. from the moment the whistle blew the two teams went at each other like tigers, warwick endeavoring to overcome the lighter boys of queen's by sheer force, a thing that was made possible by the superior weight of their team. taking the ball from the kick-off, the warwickers began a slashing attack which resulted in long gains. biglow, the right half-back on warwick, slipped through, time and time again, between the queen's tackle and the end, and when the end drew in he went outside. five minutes after the ball was put in play, warwick was inside the queen's 25-yard line. the latter was fighting desperately, but the forwards did not seem to be able to solve the play which was being sent at them, and the queen's secondary defense had to take the punishment. jimmy was at the bottom of every pile and repeatedly was the only player of queen's who stood between warwick and a touchdown. "touchdown, touchdown, touchdown!" howled the maroon stands. "you've got 'em going! no hope for queen's!" the queen's followers cried valiantly and incessantly: "hold them! hold them!" but even the most enthusiastic and hopeful of the boys who wore the blue and gold could not fail to see the impending disaster. down on the side-line the substitutes crouched, gritting their teeth and thrusting an imaginary shoulder against the warwick invaders as the two lines met. "there they go again!" yelled a queen's boy. "it's a touchdown--no, it isn't--turner has him!" and turner did indeed have him. biglow had sliced in between the tackle and end and was getting up speed, when the fiery jimmy set sail for him. biglow, in his endeavor to elude him, cut across the field. jimmy forced him farther and farther out, until, the side-line being near at hand, biglow endeavored to side-step the tackler. he failed dismally, and the next moment jimmy's arms encircled his legs and jimmy's sturdy shoulder struck his thigh, carrying biglow with the ball clear off his feet and backward toward his own goal. biglow's head struck the ground with a resounding thump. the ball flew from his arms and bounced crazily around. half a dozen forms shot for it, and instantly there was a pile which was quickly dug apart by the referee. big wheeler lay with the ball tucked securely under his body. you might have thought it a queen's touchdown the way the followers of the blue and gold leaped into the air, shouted, danced and hugged each other. "_turner, turner, turner!_" shouted the crowd. "oh, what a tackle!" "good boy, turner! good boy, wheeler!" yelled queen's; and then the leaders got to work and gave a regular cheer for each of the boys who had saved, for a time at least, the queen's goal line. the warwick stand was as still as death. a touchdown had been snatched away from them by the red-head! wheeler immediately kicked out of danger, sending the ball spinning far down the field, from which position warwick again took up the march. the queen's forwards did better this time. they had learned a little more about their opponent's attack and checked the advances a little, but could not stop them. more slowly but just as surely the ball went back. biglow bored through and went around the end, making up the difficult yards that had been lost by his previous fumble. he ran low and hard and scarcely ever failed to make his distance. once with five yards to go on the last down, the warwick quarter worked a pretty forward pass and made the necessary distance. across the center of the field came the warwick football machine, irresistible and deadly. chip shouted from the back field instructions to the line to get low and charge fast and hard. they tried to follow orders, but were bowled over by the fierce onslaught of the bigger line they were facing. jimmy slapped the linemen on the back and encouraged them after each scrimmage, and endeavored with wheeler to work the team up to desperate heights of defense. but all seemed useless. on came the warwick team, and now they were at the 20-yard line. with the necessity for a close guarding of the back field territory diminishing, the queen's backs crept in closer and made the warwick players work even harder for what they earned. but even then the big maroon team made its distance, and, with a first down, the ball lay just inside the 10-yard line. again queen's was fighting hard to stave off a touchdown. the boys in the stand called almost despairingly to "hold them," while pandemonium reigned on the opposite side of the field. the warwick players looked smiling and confident as they settled themselves for a scrimmage, while queen's was tense and anxious. "put it over this time!" yelled warwick. "make it sure!" the warwick quarter stood up straight, looked over the backs of his crouching forwards, sized up the positions of the defensive backs and then gave his signal rapidly. the lines met with a crash! but there was a mistake in signals, and the back that was to take the pass from the quarter wasn't where he should have been. the quarter, borne off his feet by the fierce charge of the queen's line, cried "down!" from the bottom of a squirming mass. it was second down and 12 yards to gain, which somewhat dimmed the jubilation on the warwick side. "they'll try a forward pass now," said frank to one of the other substitutes. together they had been crawling down the side-lines on their hands and knees, watching with intense eagerness the great fight their comrades had been making against heavy odds. "why doesn't jimmy move out a little? there he goes; he's on to it, i guess. no, he's going back again. what are they going to try?"--for the quarter had called his men together after giving part of the signal and was instructing them probably in the play that was to come off. suddenly the team sprang back into position, crouching low with finger-tips on the ground. "sixteen--sixty-two--forty," shrieked the warwick quarter. the ball flew straight back to biglow, who took half a dozen steps to the right to draw the defense in that direction. then he stopped and shot it far out to the left in the direction of the warwick end, who had edged out without apparently attracting any attention. but while the ruse had fooled nearly every one, it had not fooled jimmy or his captain. they had guessed the play and even before biglow had stopped, were already in motion toward the waiting warwick end. the ball flew straight, but just as it was about to settle into the arms of the warwick end, big wheeler made a leap into the air and succeeded in touching the ball with the tips of his fingers. it was enough to deflect it from its course, and jimmy, racing behind, was under it like a flash before it touched the ground. he tucked it under his arm and was off down the field like lightning, while wheeler, his speed unchecked by the leap, tore along at his side! as it happened, the pass had carried the ball well to the left side of the field, and most of the players of both teams were out of the possibility of either helping or hindering the runner. there were two of the warwick players besides biglow, the back who had thrown the ball--the left tackle and the outwitted end--who were within reaching distance, and they went after jimmy full tilt. wheeler turned aside and put the end, the most dangerous man for the moment, out of the play by slowing up suddenly in front of him. then he threw himself headlong in front of biglow, who went sprawling head first on the ground. this left the tackle, a boy named robinson, the only hope of warwick to prevent a touchdown, for jimmy had a clear field to the warwick goal. and what a race it was! jimmy, short and stocky, ran as if his life depended on it. he fairly flew over the ground, but the long-legged robinson gained on him. the stands forgot to cheer in watching that race. despite jimmy's best efforts, the tackle still gained on him. he had crossed the center of the field and was bearing directly for the goal posts, with every energy bent on reaching them. forty-five, forty, thirty-five, thirty--the lines flew by, and still he kept ahead. at the 25-yard line robinson was a stride behind, but a few yards farther jimmy felt robinson's hand touch his shoulder, as the tackle reached for him. the touch was like an electric shock and jimmy fairly leaped away, but the big tackle was not shaken off. in two strides more he had again reached jimmy, and he launched himself with all his might against the queen's half-back, gripping his legs as he fell. jimmy felt those steel-like fingers grappling him and gave a last despairing effort. he twisted out of the other's hold, spun completely around, and, staggering blindly, fell over the goal line with the ball gripped in both hands and with knees curled, drawn up to defend it from any attack! but there was no attack, for the two runners had outdistanced all the rest. queen's had scored! what a shriek split the air over the queen's stands! the cheer leaders forgot their work entirely, and did nothing but jump up and down and toss their megaphones into the air, careless whether they landed on the ground, on their own heads or on the head of some one else. after perhaps two minutes of this din, the leaders suddenly remembered that they were supposed to get organized sounds out of the spectators, and for the space of several minutes, they worked their already tired throats to the limit of endurance in the short cheer--"now hip! hip!"--the long cheer, and a final rousing yell for "_turner, turner, turner!_" the warwick crowd, unable to believe their eyes, sat dumfounded. every one was trying to explain to every one else just how it had happened--burns had failed to have one of his backs on the lookout for just such an emergency; the pass had been too slow; the end had been too far out. these and a dozen other excuses the warwick sympathizers had to offer, but meantime the scoreboard at the end of the field showed the indisputable fact that, explanations or no explanations, the score stood: queen's--5. warwick--0. wheeler made a sorry exhibition of a kick-out and sent the ball over the head of the catcher. it hit the ground, and of course there was no chance for a try at the goal. what should have been an easy point for queen's was thus lost to them. "come on now, fellows!" shouted the warwick captain. "we'll get that touchdown in five minutes!" "we'll get it all back again and half a dozen more, too!" said robinson tauntingly to chip, as the two teams moved to their places for the next kick-off. but before half a dozen plays had been made, the whistle sounded to end the first quarter. excitement reigned in the stands during the intermission and when the teams faced each other for the second quarter, the interest was intense. "go for them, warwick!" yelled a voice in the front row of the warwick stand. "eat 'em alive!" and the warwick team did its best to follow this cannibalistic advice. taking up the former smashing game, warwick quickly carried the ball far down the field, but just when queen's was beginning to settle desperately to work, a fumble in the warwick back field, which was recovered by queen's, relieved the strain and wheeler sent the sphere spinning back down the field. warwick, nothing daunted, with the same old methods, came back as determinedly as ever. queen's seemed unable to stop them anywhere excepting once inside their own 10-yard line at the urgings of the stands, when the line stood up to its work like heroes and threw the warwick runner back on the last down for a loss and took the ball; and once again when an onside kick was partially blocked and the ball recovered by jimmy turner. warwick had played so desperately hard to overcome the queen's lead, that they were tiring perceptibly as the minutes went on. they had carried the ball two or three times the length of the field if all their gains were counted, but just when distance counted most, down by the queen's goal, something would go wrong. not only the warwick bodies but their spirits were lagging, and they were as glad as the players of queen's when the whistle blew to end the half. the score had not been changed and the hopes of the queen's followers, as well as those of the team itself, had risen wonderfully. the two teams trudged off rather slowly to their dressing rooms to be sponged off and talked to and rested during the fifteen minutes of intermission, leaving behind them a babel of talk on both sides of the field, interrupted every now and then by a school song or a series of cheers from one side or the other. it was all most friendly between the halves. queen's boys and warwick boys tumbled down from the stands and hobnobbed with each other. queen's was jubilant, while in every warwick boy's face one could read plainly: "wait and see what we'll do in the second half." the intermission passed rapidly. the appearance of the big maroon players was the signal for a roar from the warwick stands, broken into immediately by a like demonstration from queen's when the blue-stockinged boys trotted onto the field from the opposite end, as spry-looking as if they had not gone through a hard half. little time was lost in preliminaries. the warwick captain, who had the kick-off, slapped his hands together and shouted confidently to his team-mates to "follow the ball hard." down the field the queen's players were scattered in defensive array, grim and defiant. "ready, captain wheeler?" cried the referee. wheeler waved his hand as a signal that he was. "ready, captain burns?" the stands were so quiet that burns' answer--"all ready, sir!"--could be plainly heard. the whistle shrilled sharply, the ball flew in a long curve down the field, settling in turner's arms, who, after covering ten yards, was slammed to the earth. the last half of that memorable battle was on. during the intermission, the codfish, lewis and david had squeezed themselves onto the sacred benches of the substitutes as near as they could get to frank, and the four boys, with muscles stiffening at each crash of the lines, watched the tide of battle swing up and down the gridiron. warwick played furiously at the beginning, and although, as in the first half, they lost valuable territory by fumbles and misplays, gradually burns steadied his team. after a particularly disastrous fumble, taking the ball at their own 35-yard line, burns' maroon-stockinged warriors began a great advance. four and five yards were reeled off at every clip, and once when there was danger of being held burns worked a beautiful forward pass for twenty yards. warwick was now on queen's 23-yard line, and their football machine was working with deadly precision. "now we have them!" yelled burns jubilantly. "squeeze that ball, you backs, and make it go!" the signal was snapped out, there was a crash of meeting bodies and burns himself, with his head down, bored through the line like a drill until he met wheeler and jimmy; but when the pile which followed was pulled apart, the ball was five yards nearer the queen's goal line. "they can't hold them!" said the codfish in a tense whisper, as the lines prepared again for the scrimmage. "oh, if the line would only give our backs a little chance, we might stand them off yet! there they go! oh, thunder, look at that!" this exclamation was brought forth by a pretty double pass worked by the warwick backs. the feint toward the queen's left end threw the defense off their balance, and before they recovered hudson, the fleet full-back of warwick, who had been saved for just such an opportunity as had now arrived, was off like the wind. the queen's end was bowled over neatly by burns, and the way to the goal line was clear excepting for dixon. warwick had used so many straight plays into the line that the clever and quickly worked pass came as a great surprise to every one, and the warwick stands, quiet for a moment, burst into a great yell as they saw a touchdown coming, or thought they saw it, at least. dixon moved up to meet hudson, crouching ready for the tackle. the boy with the ball feinted to the inside of chip. dixon lunged to meet him, but hudson quickly side-stepped and with an extra speed slipped outside of him and was clear. dixon dived after him, but missed and lay sprawling on the ground. the momentary check of hudson gave jimmy a chance at the runner, however. he started across, badly bothered by the warwick tackle, but finally got clear and came over the field like a whirlwind. hudson saw him coming, and, fearing to be intercepted, began to edge off toward the side-line. jimmy pressed him hard in spite of his superior speed, and when hudson was only five yards from the goal line, jimmy made a last effort and threw himself at the runner with all his strength. the blow knocked hudson off his feet. he half turned in the air, struck on his shoulder and actually bounded over the goal line. it was a magnificent attempt on jimmy's part, but it failed, and warwick had crossed the queen's line with points enough resulting to tie the score! it was now warwick's turn to yell, and they did it with an energy which far surpassed their best previous efforts. queen's by rights should have been silent, but they yelled almost as loudly as did their friends in the opposite stand, for turner's wonderful try to get hudson brought every one to his feet cheering. "five feet more," said frank, "and turner would have had him sure." "who'd have thought the old mule could run that way?" cried the codfish. "i'll never call him slow any more." "you can always figure on jimmy doing his best and a little more," returned frank. "good old jimmy! but what's the matter with dixon?" this, as dixon got up and began twisting and turning his right wrist. "the matter is," returned the codfish, "that chip is getting ready to give a good excuse for missing his tackle." the team gathered around chip without paying any attention to the jubilation of the warwick crowd, which extended even to the team itself. horton ran out on the field to the little knot of queen's players and after half a minute's examination of chip's wrist came back to the side-lines, while the warwick team prepared for a kick-out. the ball had crossed the line far over toward the side of the field, and it was not thought possible to kick a goal if the ball were brought straight out, because of the difficult angle. chapter xvii. frank saves the game. "what's the matter with dixon?" inquired the codfish, as horton sat down on the ground just in front of our friends. "he says he hurt his wrist in the first half and again just now," replied the coach gloomily. "if he's hurt as bad as he acts, it's all over with us. there goes the ball," he added, glancing over his shoulder. "good kick! fine catch, too, even if it does beat us!"--for hudson had caught burns' kick-out right in front of the posts. "they can't miss it from there." nor did warwick miss it. burns took most deliberate aim, while the little quarter-back, lying flat on his stomach, tilted the ball this way and that. when it was just right, burns moved forward and swung his foot. every one watched the ball's flight with straining eyes. "goal!" shouted the referee, and the warwick crowd, which had settled back on the stand, again sprang up, yelling like mad. the point just scored meant a victory, even if no more scoring was done. a great white figure 6 appeared in the blank space, which up to this time had decorated warwick's place on the scoreboard. at the sight warwick redoubled its yells. "one, two, three, four, five, six!" chanted the crowd, while the teams trotted back to their places on the field. "five minutes left in this quarter," called burns to his team; "do that over again! come on now, hard!" and hard it was, for with the taste of a well-earned touchdown in their mouths, the warwick team played like demons; and before the whistle blew burns had crossed the line for another touchdown. but no goal was kicked, the angle being a hard one. the queen's colors were drooping like their players, and the boys began to ask each other: "how much more is it going to be?" "looks bad, frank," said the codfish gloomily, "we can't hold 'em. i wish they'd let you get in." "no chance, old fellow," returned frank. "chip seems to be all right, and i think he'd play till he died rather than let me on if he is really hurt." "yes, he's a dog-in-the-manger, for sure." dixon did appear to be all right, and when the queen's team lined up for the last quarter there were no substitutions. "it's all over but the shouting, fellows," cried a big warwick cheer leader. "get into this cheer--hip, hip," and the warwick cheer split the air. "they are pretty confident, frank," ventured david, who, though eager as the others, had taken very little part in the conversation on the side-lines. "yes, they certainly are," said frank. his face was long. "queen's has made a good fight out there, but they are not strong enough in the line. what a wonder jimmy turner is!" this as jimmy piled the warwick interference up so solidly that the runner with the ball could not get past it, and was easily nailed for a loss. but warwick still held the ball, and was driving through the queen's line again and again to a first down. the queen's supporters sat stupefied on the stand and only occasionally raised a half-hearted cheer. wheeler seemed to be played out, and had missed tackle after tackle, and twice jimmy had stood alone as a defensive back to stop everything that came his way. in the few times that queen's was able to get possession of the ball, chip ran the team badly and seemed to have forgotten all he knew about the game of football. when he had a chance, he did not make the best of it, and horton actually tore his hair and dug his heels into the turf over on the side-line. finally, losing all patience, he jumped up from his seat and ran down along the line of substitutes. "armstrong! where's armstrong?" he shouted. "here, sir!" said frank, jumping up, his heart thumping like a trip-hammer. "go out there and take dixon's place, and for pity's sake get that team together. they are playing like the team from an old ladies' home." frank pulled his sweater off with a jerk, tossed it to david--who had hardly time to shout out, "good work!"--and raced onto the gridiron. "who's going in?" was the query that ran through the stands. "why, that's armstrong, the kid who played on the second team a while," said some one better informed than his neighbors. "he's going in at quarter in dixon's place. dixon is all in, i guess." "a long cheer for armstrong!" howled the cheer leaders. but frank never heard it. he dashed over to where dixon was beginning his signal, for queen's had recovered a fumbled ball on her own 30-yard line. frank reported first to the referee and then stepped ever and touched dixon on the shoulder. "i'm to take your place," he said quietly. "get out!" said dixon, and crouched behind the center ready to receive the pass. but the whistle shrilled and the referee ran up among the queen's backs. "queen's has twelve men on the field, mr. wheeler. who is going to play your quarter? decide quickly." "armstrong, sir," returned wheeler. "dixon, go to the side-line." chip stood up and glared hard at wheeler. then he turned, dropped his head and walked slowly off the field, never once looking back. when he was off the playing surface, the whistle spoke again and the battle was on once more, this time with armstrong in charge of the attack. the first play frank gave was stopped without an inch of advance, and warwick spectators howled with derision. "it's all the same to us!" cried one loud-mouthed boy in the front row, just opposite where the teams were lining up at that moment. "no hope for queen's. take the ball away from them! we want another touchdown." before frank gave his signal on the second down, wheeler called his players around him. with heads close together they had a little heart-to-heart talk, while warwick shouted from the stands: "come on, you kids, play ball! don't delay the game." the head-to-head group fell apart, settled to their crouching positions, and frank snapped the signal out sharply. back came the ball to frank and, scarcely checking it a moment in its flight, he tossed it to jimmy, who shot out to the right, which happened at that moment to be the long side of the line. frank fell in behind him. the tackle dived at jimmy as he sliced past, but missed. burns was right there, however, having followed the runner with the ball out toward the center of the field, and now he reached jimmy's waist with powerful arms. the defensive end came in full tilt, also, to help his captain to make sure of the tackle. but just as jimmy felt himself falling from the impact of burns, he squirmed half way around, and even as he pitched headlong to the ground with the deadly clasp of burns on his hips and the none too loving embrace of the end's arms around his neck, he tossed the ball to frank. before either the half-back or the end could recover, frank, continuing at full speed, had swept clear of the defense, turned in like lightning and was off down the field! ahead of frank loomed the quarter, the only player between him and the glory which lay in the form of a touchdown far down the field. full at the quarter he charged, gaining speed with every step. he did not hear the wild cries of encouragement which went up from his schoolmates. there was only one thought in his mind--how to pass that player who stood waiting, eagerly crouching. frank's training on the track stood him in good stead now. he was fresh, too, and he was making the best of both circumstances. directly at the quarter-back he raced, apparently to run him down, but when he was within ten feet of him, he suddenly swerved to the right and ran straight across the field toward the side-line. the quarter-back, fearing frank's speed, followed him out with all the pace his tired limbs could muster. but just when he seemed to have frank cut off there, the latter suddenly stopped, evaded the rushing tackle that was intended to lay him low, and went straight down the field. his stop, although but for an instant, brought the warwick reserves up to him. one by one they tried to reach him, but eel-like he evaded them. it was one of the prettiest pieces of dodging running that had ever been seen on the warwick field. but despite his wonderful luck and pluck he was finally caught from behind, and thrown with a crash to the ground at warwick's 25-yard line. he had covered nearly fifty-five yards, the longest run of the day. and, excepting the help that jimmy had unwittingly given him in tangling up the half and the opposing end, he had accomplished the run unaided, as his tired team-mates had not been able to follow the pace down the field and were outdistanced. with first down at the 25-yard line, queen's took on a great determination, and in three tries--a quarter-back run and two dashes past tackle by jimmy--the ball was finally within striking distance of the warwick goal. but here the advance ended. the next play was thrown back a yard or two by the desperate warwick team, and a short forward pass barely made up the lost ground. then came a conference and frank dropped back to the 27-yard line. "he's going to try for a field goal, by jiminy," cried the codfish, who had nearly had a fit of apoplexy through joy at frank's splendid run. "and he'll do it. watch him!" warwick kept up a steady yell, probably with the intention of disturbing the young quarter-back, but if that was the idea, it had no effect on frank whatsoever. the ball lay on the ground in the center's hand a little to the right of the center of the field, and the angle was not a bad one, although not an over-attractive one. in the storm of cat-calls from warwick, frank measured the distance carefully with his eye. the protection for the kicker formed quickly, and then came the signal. with as little hurry as if he had been practicing down at seawall, frank took the ball from the center's long pass, turned it over quickly but carefully, so that the seam lacing was away from him, dropped it to the ground, and as it rose again, swung his foot against it. the ball swept upward to its greatest height, described a long crescent downward, struck the cross-bar fairly in the middle, bounded into the air and fell--on the other side! the yell that the reawakened queen's stand gave might have been heard as far as queen's school itself, but the cause of it all trotted quietly back with his team to the center of the field without looking to right or left. "what did i tell you!" shouted the codfish, waltzing wildly around lewis. "you can't beat that kid! there, that score looks better," as the scorer changed the queen's figures to 8. "we'll beat them yet. whoop!" the score seemed to put new life into queen's, and after the kick-off, which was made by queen's to warwick, the latter made little headway in the rushing game. in the very first attempt to kick, the queen's right guard, by a great effort, got through the defense and blocked the ball squarely. a desperate scramble ensued, and despite the orders of the referee to "get up" and "let go," the pile which formed like magic where the ball had been had to be dug apart one by one. at the very bottom jimmy was found with the ball under his chin and both arms wrapped around it, as if it were the dearest possession he had ever known. it was queen's ball on the warwick 21-yard line. once, only, did wheeler order a rush. warwick stopped that with deadly determination, throwing back even the redoubtable jimmy. then again frank dropped far behind the line. he stood exactly on the 33-yard line and again measured with the greatest care the distance to the goal posts. "you can't do it, armstrong; you can't do it!" sang out the first rows of the warwick benches in a vain attempt to disturb the poise of the boy on whom all eyes were turned. but they might as well have tried to disturb a statue. one of frank's gifts was concentration, and perhaps he never concentrated his mind on anything in his life more strongly than he did on that occasion. "i must! i must!" kept ringing in his brain. wheeler disposed his protection for the kicker with great care, for on the success of the play hung the issue of the day. three points would tie the score. there were only a few minutes of time now remaining in the last quarter of the match. no wonder the players took their places with minute care. when all was ready frank gave the signal. back came the ball, as straight and true to his hands as a bullet. down it went to the ground, rose and was sent spinning on its long flight from frank's toe. but it rose none too soon, for big robinson had beaten down the queen's defense, leaped high into the air and in his slash for the ball missed it only by the fraction of an inch. but he had missed it, which was the important point, and it swept up as true as a compass needle to the pole. on, on it went, rising higher and higher, and revolving rapidly on its short axis. would it carry? on that thought every mind was concentrated. now the ball turned, dipped downward, fell almost straight--but cleared the far side of the bar by ten feet at least! [illustration: down it went to the ground, rose and was sent spinning on its long flight from frank's toe.--_page 225._] the queen's demonstration which broke loose at this entirely overshadowed anything that had ever been heard on that field, and it was still in progress when the teams lined up for the final minutes of the play. all the fire had gone out of warwick's play. they could do no more than fight off the buoyant queen's team till the whistle blew. and when it did blow, there was a wild flight of boys from the queen's stand, which for a moment completely swallowed the tired but happy little knot of football warriors. and then they were heaved into sight on the shoulders of the admiring crowd and carried around the gridiron protesting. for half an hour queen's assumed complete control of that football field, dancing wildly around in a long snaky dance while their songs and cheers rent the air. they did not forget in their joy, however, to stop in front of the center section of the warwick stand and give a hearty cheer for the rival school. gradually the crowds broke up and streamed off in the direction of the station. "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven!" chanted the joyous queen's school contingent. that night a bonfire at queen's lit the sky with a yellow light which was seen for miles around, and caused the story that the whole of queen's school had burned to the ground. armstrong's name was on every tongue, for through his wonderful drop kicking queen's had gone into history as having, with two field goals, tied a game in which at the outset they seemed not to have the slightest chance. frank bore his honors modestly and said it was nothing but luck. but his particular friends didn't think it was "just luck," and took no pains to conceal their belief that he was the greatest drop kicker ever, past, present or future! chapter xviii. mrs. bowser's cat. "the question before this honorable board," began the codfish, as he stretched himself out one night in frank's morris chair before frank's comfortable blaze, thus displaying his characteristic hosiery of vivid color, "is, what has become of mrs. bowser's cat? don't all speak at once." it was a cold day in the middle of january. football had been laid away on the shelf for two months. the ticklish period of examinations before the christmas holidays was a thing of the past, and all examinations had been passed successfully by our friends, although lewis had had a tight squeeze. frank, jimmy, the codfish, lewis and david were gathered around the blazing fire. books had been tossed aside for the night, when the codfish propounded his question. "the poor thing couldn't stand that hymn in chapel this morning," said frank. "when you raised your voice she skipped to the tall timbers." "i don't blame her, do you, frank?" inquired jimmy. "the codfish has a voice which would drive a biped crazy, to say nothing of a quadruped or even a centipede. he sings on both sides of the note and never hits it." "what happened to the old cat, anyway?" broke in lewis, as the codfish was about to come back at jimmy with hot shot. "ask the codfish," returned frank. "he was on the aisle where the whole thing happened. maybe he was responsible for the presence of tabby, and if he was, he has first-hand information of the greatest importance. out with it, codfish." "not guilty!" said the accused, stretching himself still further till his feet touched the fender. "i got tangled up with the bowser family once, and once is enough. i stand before you guiltless of the dastardly deed." "who brought the cat in, anyway?" "give it up," said the codfish. "some one of those fresh young things on the east aisle. the proctors are looking for him, and if they find him and mrs. bowser gets her hand on him, there will be a funeral at some rural household, i'm thinking." "she certainly did set up a howl this morning," said jimmy, "when----" "who, the cat or mrs. bowser?" inquired frank. "the cat, my smart young drop kicker; and then she--the cat, not mrs. bowser--flew out with her tail the size of a muff." "and like the last lines of the story, she was never seen nor heard of again," added jimmy dolefully. "poor mrs. bowser!" said frank. "poor tabby!" said the codfish. "mrs. bowser still has her nice, warm, comfortable house, while poor pussy is probably out in the cold somewhere. why doesn't the fool cat have sense enough to go home?" he continued. "i would." "probably the fear of hearing your voice is in her heart, and she would have to pass honeywell hall to get back home." the incident that the boys were discussing was the appearance that morning at prayers of a sleek black cat. evidently she had been picked up by some one of a mischievous turn of mind and smuggled into the chapel. prayers were just over. the boys were in the middle of the fine old tune of "america," and had reached the first line of the third verse, "let music swell the breeze," when there was a piercing howl, and a furry bunch of animation, which proved to be a black cat, shot across the open space of the chapel just below the platform and between that and the first row of seats. the volume of tone instantly diminished as heads were turned and necks craned to see what was happening. pussy ran up the steps of the platform, took one wild look at dr. hobart and then tore down the aisle for the door. hands shot out here and there to interrupt the meteor-like passage of the black cat, but she dodged them all and, uttering high-pitched yowls, reached the chapel door and disappeared. from that moment no one had seen her. during the day the news had spread around that mrs. black cat, who bore the euphonious name of "pandora," had been kidnapped. a search was instituted. the chapel building had been searched and the dormitories next to it, but neither hide nor hair of pandora had come to light. mrs. bowser was distracted. the guilty boy or boys who smuggled the cat into the chapel had gone undetected, although there had been much cross-questioning and some little detective work by the proctors. "well, i'd like to find pandora," said frank. "i don't forget that mrs. bowser helped us out of a bad scrape last year, when lewis got the tags mixed up on the ice-cream consignment and sent the poor lady the wrong box." "same here," said the codfish. "i'd take a hand in the rescue myself, if it wasn't so blooming cold to-night." "that's just it, it is so blooming cold that poor pussy is likely to freeze to death. if she's inside, she's all right." "of course she's inside, you blithering idiot," said the codfish, yawning. "any cat that knows enough to sing 'america' isn't likely to be so dumb as to stay out in zero weather, is she? perhaps she wasn't kidnapped at all----" "cat-napped, you mean," corrected jimmy. "well, cat-napped, then. perhaps she's just a good religious cat and came in to prayers like any freshman. whatever her intention was, i can't help it. but there's one thing i do know," and the codfish sat up and wagged his forefinger impressively. "what?" "that i'm going to my downy couch, cat or no cat." he rose to his feet, gave a prodigious stretch and ambled off in the direction of the bed chamber. "well, i must be going, too," said jimmy. "i'll take a turn with you," said frank. "come on, david, a whiff of this sharp air will do you good." "can't," said david. "i've got to work on an editorial for the _mirror_." "all right, i'll go alone. i'll only be a minute." together the three boys, jimmy, lewis and frank, clattered out of the dormitory and stepped rapidly up the walk. "by jove!" said frank, "i'd like to walk about five miles. isn't this air wonderful?" and he drew in a deep breath of the frosty air. "about fifty feet is enough for me," grunted lewis, and as they reached his entry, "i'll drop off this procession right here. ta, ta. if you fellows are found frozen stiff as lot's wife in the morning, i'll say i told you so." "lot's wife wasn't frozen," said jimmy; "she was petrified. your biblical education has been neglected." "you fellows will be both petrified and frozen in about five minutes, if you hang around there correcting your betters on biblical matters," retorted lewis, and he dashed up the stairs. "come on!" shouted frank to jimmy; "i'll race you to the other end of the yard and back--one, two, three, go!" away the two tore at breakneck speed down the walk. the chapel lay at the far end of the walk on which the boys were having their little race, and it was to be the turning point. frank reached the wall of the tower first, touched it and turned a step or two ahead of jimmy. the latter trying to make a quick turn slipped and fell to the ground with a crash. frank stopped and came back. "acknowledge you're licked," he said, helping jimmy to his feet. "i'm licked, all right, and i'm also skinned, all right," grumbled jimmy. "ouch! i've knocked more skin off my hip than i did all through the football season." he limped around rubbing the injured member. "i've got a bottle of arnica at the room; come on back and i'll fix you up," laughed frank. "sorry, old man, but you can't run till you stretch your legs more. they're too short." "i don't want arnica; i want some nice tough skin. if you have any of that down there to spare, i'll go back with you. s-s-s-s-h--what was that?" jimmy's ear had caught a sound like a long-drawn-out cry. "didn't you hear it, frank?" "you have a singing in your ears, jimmy," said frank. "come along, i'll give you my arm." "there it is again," said jimmy in a whisper. "listen!" as they stood with their heads cocked, there came a long wail as of something in distress. it sounded half human, half animal, and was quite terrifying. it seemed to come out of the air above them. "great peter, what is it?" said jimmy, clutching frank by the arm. frank began to laugh. "it does sound bad, certainly. she's trying to get the tune of 'america' just right, i guess. it's the cat, or i miss my guess." "and for pity sake, where is she?" gasped jimmy, turning his face skyward where the stars glittered in the frosty atmosphere. "the mystery is explained," said frank. "mrs. bowser's cat has somehow or other got into the tower. she doesn't like it a bit, and she wants to go home." "i guess that's the explanation," returned jimmy. "but i don't see how she's going to get home to-night, unless we can get up there." "and if we don't get up, she'll probably never go home," said frank. "it must be terribly cold up there. it is all open up in the belfry, and it's dollars to doughnuts she'll be as stiff as lewis said lot's wife was, by morning." to emphasize his words, another wail floated out on the night air. it seemed more pitiful than before and weaker. "poor pandora is getting discouraged," cried jimmy. "we've got to get her somehow." for answer, frank strode to the big front door of the chapel and tried the knob, with jimmy at his heels. "just as i thought," he said; "it is locked." the boys stood and looked at each other. "guess we'd better go and hunt up the janitor," said jimmy. "he can bring her down. i don't want to take any more chances. i've lost all the skin i want to lose to-night." "there's a little door around on the other side," said frank, "which the janitor uses to go in and out of the building, but i suppose that's locked, too. let's try it. if we can't get in, we'll have to report the whereabouts of pandora. but just for the fun of the thing, i'd like to get that tabby cat and take her back to the lady who is worrying about her. it would square us a little for that bad job we did to the travel club last winter." he was already on his way to the little door at the back of the tower, and jimmy tagged along behind, protesting. "no use, frank," he said. "old bonesey"--the nickname applied to the chapel janitor by the boys because he was so lean and bony--"keeps that door locked as tight as a drum. some one stole the clapper of the bell a few years ago and he is particular about that door. we'd better go and report that pussy is in the tower, and then skip for bed. it's getting late." but frank was not listening. just about the time jimmy reached the end of his protest, frank reached the door, which was all in darkness, sunk as it was in the deep wall of the tower, which was at this point perhaps three feet thick. "here we are," he said as he grasped the handle. "and here's luck--it's open. old bonesey slipped a cog to-night. come on." frank stepped over the threshold. jimmy followed cautiously. the hall was as dark as pitch, not even the faintest ray of light penetrating into the place to help them. frank, leading, stumbled along and fell over something in the passageway, startling jimmy half out of his wits. "come back here, you chump," he cried in a subdued voice. "i don't like this." "come on!" whispered frank, who had regained his feet and was advancing. "this passage brings us out into the vestibule of the chapel, and once there we can get into the tower easily. there's a ladder or stairs or something from the back of the gallery." "yes, i know that," returned jimmy in a half whisper, for the gloom of the place chilled him more than the biting air; "but how are we going to climb it in the dark?" "oh, it's easy," said frank. "come on, i'll lead and you can come behind. i'm going to make a try for that cat." "all right," said jimmy almost sulkily, "go on, but if you break your blooming neck you needn't blame me for it," and he shuffled after frank. soon they came out of the passageway and, as frank said, they were in the vestibule leading to the chapel. from that vestibule the doors led into the various aisles of the chapel, and at the farther end of the vestibule rose a circular flight of stairs which led to the gallery and on to the belfry, as the boys well knew. toward this they made their way cautiously. a little light from the stars came in through the windows at the far end of the vestibule. frank led on, feeling along the wall and stepping cautiously. they both felt a little queer to be alone in such a place and in such a manner in the dead of night, but, as frank said afterward, they were on an errand of mercy, and having set out on the mission they would not turn back. soon they struck the wall at the far end of the vestibule from which they had entered, and a little feeling around gave them the lower step of the winding stairway. "here she is!" said frank. "take hold of the rail. our troubles are half over." "i think they are only beginning," grumbled jimmy. "i'd much rather be in bed than here any day." "any night, you mean. come on. this is easy." jimmy didn't think so, but he would have followed frank anywhere that frank would lead. it was plain that he didn't like the errand, judging from sundry grunts that came from him as they edged up the stairs. without mishap, the two rescuers climbed steadily on. at times their passage was lighted by a flicker of outside light which came through the narrow slits of windows, and at times they were in absolute blackness. at last they came to a landing, which frank carefully felt over to make sure there were no holes through which they might tumble. the examination was satisfactory. "now, there ought to be a short ladder from here up into the belfry where pandora is probably freezing to death, for she hasn't howled since we started." he had hardly spoken the words when a wail just above their heads showed them they were on the right track. "all right, pussy, we're on the way; keep a stiff upper lip! here's the ladder, jimmy. i knew it must be here somewhere. be careful, it seems to be about straight up and down." jimmy had just set his hand to the ladder and frank was up in the darkness somewhere above him, when there was a tremendous crash just above their heads and the whole tower seemed to rock with the noise! chapter xix. in the bell tower. "jumping cats!" cried jimmy; "what was that? frank, are you there?" "certainly i'm here. what's the matter with you to-night? you're nervous, i guess. that was nothing but the clock striking the quarter hour. it's a quarter past nine. sounds a bit startling up here in this narrow space." "i thought the whole top of the tower had blown off," said jimmy with a shiver. "it doesn't sound half so loud down in the yard." "and good reason for that, for we are up here about forty feet, and it isn't cold or anything, either! hello, i'm up against the roof! no, it's the trap door." "want any help?" said jimmy just below frank's heels. "no; i'm pushing it up with my head. wow! what was that?" as there came a scratching and clawing from just above him. "oh, my, i do believe it was pandora, herself. she must have been sitting on that trap door. poor thing! she must have thought it was an earthquake. come on, i'm through," said frank in a whisper--although why he whispered he could not have told himself, for there was none to hear him in that high belfry excepting the cat and the bell. jimmy struggled through the small hole in the floor and stood alongside frank at last in the belfry. just in front of them swung the big bell which tolled out the hours of the day and night. through the slender open arches the boys could see, dimly outlined, the school buildings, with here and there a twinkling light in the dormitories, and farther off the lights in the houses of the village. it was bitter cold. "well, here we are," said jimmy, "at last." "and where's our cat?" said frank. "it's a little like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack to find a black cat in a blacker belfry. i hope you are satisfied now that it was a wild goose chase," grumbled jimmy, when they had searched with foot and hand in all possible places of the narrow space. "a wild cat chase, maybe," said frank chuckling. "pussy, pussy, poor old pussy, where are you? there she is, or i'm a flatfish," cried frank. "look--over your head!" jimmy looked, and there, ten feet over his head, in the upper tower and above the beams which supported the bell mechanism, he saw two fiery eyes gleaming. "it's awful to see those two balls of yellow fire and nothing else visible," said jimmy. "it's uncanny. now, what are we going to do?" "why, go for her," said frank, reaching for a beam above his head and pulling himself up to it. "i only wish i had david's arms now. he could beat that old cat climbing any day. come on." "well, i suppose i might as well," said jimmy with a sigh of resignation. "since i started out to hunt a wild cat with a boy who has lost his senses, i might as well go on," and he started to climb after frank. their climb now led them out of the little circle of half light which they had had in the belfry itself. above their heads was the blackness of absolute night. unlike the lower part of the tower, the upper portion was not pierced by either light or air holes. just out of reach burned the yellow eyes of the cat, who had changed her position several times, each time mounting higher as the boys followed. she evidently had suspicions as to their intentions and was going to keep out of what she thought was harm's way. "pussy, pussy, poor pussy!" said frank coaxingly. "we're not going to hurt you, you idiotic cat." this, as the two gleaming spots of light disappeared for a moment and appeared higher up in the tower. "i wonder what they call a cat 'poor pussy' for, anyway," said jimmy wrathfully. "of all the stupid asinine creatures, a cat is the most stupid, or this one is. here we are in danger of breaking our necks and freezing to death to save her from freezing her toes, and she hasn't sense enough to help us." "stop abusing pandora, you unfeeling kid," said frank, "and give me a match if you have it. i'm stuck. nothing more to reach." "i don't think i have any, but if i'd known you were going to do a stunt of this kind, i'd have had three boxes with me." "and spoiled all this exciting climb! go on, feel in your pockets. i have none." jimmy, thus adjured, stood on his beam, leaning against the stones of the tower, and went carefully through his pockets. "here's one; no, that's the wrong end of it--here's about a quarter of a match, and, oh, joy! here's a whole one!" "noble youth, you came well prepared," said frank, laughing. "light the quarter match." "all ready," said jimmy; "here goes!" he struck the match carefully against the beam just over his head and a pale gleam showed in the darkness, lighting the place where they stood faintly. it flickered a moment and went out, leaving them in a gloom that seemed the thicker because of the brief light. "good!" grunted frank. "poor pussy, mrs. bowser's angelic pandora, is within reach, almost. the masons left these little beams here probably for poor pussies to climb up on, and i know where my next step is. stay where you are, and i'll have her in a moment, and keep that last match ready for emergencies." there was a sound in the darkness of frank's feet scratching against the wall, prolonged grunting, and then frank announced that he had pulled himself to the next beam. there followed a frightened protest from pandora, but frank's voice sounded triumphant. "i've got the rascal. there you are," soothingly, "you see we weren't going to kill you. all right, old man, i'm coming. light your other match so i can get my toe on that brace." frank had indeed captured pandora, who, now that the chase was ended and she found only gentle hands upon her, snuggled down on the shoulder of her protector and began to purr. the trip back was even more difficult for frank than the ascent, for he was hampered by the cat and did not have the free use of both arms. he swung from his perch at last with his feet dangling in the air, vainly trying to find with his toes a secure footing. "quick, jimmy, light the match!" there was a scratch from jimmy's direction, and in the light that flared up, frank found his resting place and settled on it. "whew, that was a hard one! now we're all right. the rest is easier. go on down first, and i'll follow, for i can do without you, now; and be careful, for i don't want to have to carry you back as well as the cat." "don't you worry about me. bring your old cat and i'll take care of myself. jiminy, i'm nearly frozen stiff, and if i ever get back to----" before he finished his sentence, a sound came up to their ears from the belfry just below them. the boys listened intently, while the cat purred softly on frank's shoulder. "some one coming into the belfry!" whispered jimmy. there was an unmistakable murmur of voices and in a moment through the trap door in the belfry floor, which frank and jimmy had left open, there appeared an indistinct form. another and still another appeared in the opening, one after the other. "four of them," whispered jimmy, who being a little lower was able to get a better view of the belfry floor; "what on earth can they be doing up here at this time of night?" the two boys, perched on their narrow beams, were not kept long in suspense, for one of the intruders began to speak. his voice was low, hardly more than a whisper, but it carried up clearly to the listeners overhead. "have you got the rope there?" said the voice. "yes, here it is." "all right, we'll tie up its tongue first. gee, but it's cold here!" "will it freeze all right, do you think?" inquired another voice, evidently addressing the first speaker. "freeze, you galoot, of course it will; solid as a rock, and they won't get it out till spring." a low chuckle followed. "what in the name of time are they doing?" said jimmy. "taking the tongue out of something and freezing it! can it be a cat?" "your mind runs to cats to-night," frank whispered back. "those chaps are going to do something to the bell." "drop the cat on them," said jimmy. "they'd think it was the old boy himself." "no," returned frank, who had crouched down till his mouth was about level with jimmy's ear. "let's wait and see what they intend to do. keep still as a mouse." the boys below had already begun work on the big bell. "for the love of mike, don't let that tongue hit. i can't get the thing out. it is held by some kind of a dingus that is riveted in. some one will have to hold it, while the rest of us turn the bell up." from below came the sound of puffing and grunting. "easy," said some one, "for heaven's sake, hold that tongue so it doesn't hit, or we'll have the whole school on our necks. there," continued the same voice, "good work. now, prop this beam under that side of her, and the job is done." "all but the water," said another voice. "fine business," said the first voice. "now shoot it along quick and get a move on you." there were sounds of footsteps going down the ladder below the belfry, and when the last scratching sound had died away jimmy spoke up: "now, what in the great horn spoon are they at?" "it's easy," returned frank. "you heard about the water. that explains the whole business. you know when i fell in the lower corridor? what do you suppose i fell over?" "i don't know; what was it?" "a bucket of water. i slopped some of it over and my trouser leg is wet now and frozen." "i don't see that that explains anything." "well, it does. those chaps have turned the bell upside down and propped it there, and they mean to pour it full of water and let it freeze, as it certainly will in this weather. and, as one of them said, it will stay there till spring, unless old bonesey digs it out with a pick." "what a trick!" ejaculated jimmy. "let's go down and knock the prop out from under the bell!" "yes, and make an awful rumpus! no, let's wait and see. some scheme may offer itself which will be better than that. s-s-s-s-h, here they come again." struggling and puffing with their exertions, two of the four boys appeared with buckets of water and each deposited the contents of the buckets in the overturned bell. "about two more will do the trick," said one of the plotters, and away they went again. in five minutes' time the whole four reappeared, and between them they carried more water. "douse her in!" said the leader, and there was a splashing sound as the bell filled up. "won't old bonesey be savage when he finds this in the morning?" chuckled one of the youngsters. "bonesey won't be a circumstance to dr. hobart. what are you doing there?" this was directed to one of the boys, who appeared to be fussing at the bell. "want to see if this prop is all right. it isn't half caught. give me a lift, and we'll shove the prop farther under. it's a wonder it didn't slip out." the four boys gathered together. there was a shuffling noise as they got themselves set, and the leader said: "now, altogether." just how it happened will never be known. in their endeavor to make the overturned bell more secure in its position, in some manner they disturbed the prop. "look out, she's giving way," yelled one of them, and the next instant the tower was filled with the noise of splashing water and the wild clangor of the bell as it swung on its big beam. pandora trembled and sunk her claws into frank's shoulder hard enough to make him yell out with pain. jimmy uttered a shout and started to scramble down, but in the darkness he missed his footing and fell with a crash to the swimming floor of the belfry. in the midst of the alarm, pandora, with a wild shriek, flew from frank's shoulder, gained the belfry floor and whisked out of sight through the open trap door, through which came the noise of the retreating footsteps of the boys who were responsible for all the trouble. the rumpus in the bell tower awoke the whole school to activity. windows banged up in the dormitory and boys in scanty clothing stuck their heads out into the frosty night. from warren and from honeywell came the howls of "fire! fire! fire!" a high-pitched voice in one of the half-open windows added to the confusion with "murder! police!" footsteps began to patter on the walks and lights flashed here and there below. it seemed hardly a minute before butler, a proctor of the school, followed closely by two or three boys, appeared at the opening in the belfry floor. a strange sight met the gaze of the early arrivals on the scene. they saw frank sitting in a pool of water working over jimmy, who had struck his head a hard blow either on the floor or on a beam in his fall. he was only about half-conscious of what was taking place. "what's going on here?" said butler sternly. "what are you boys doing in this tower and how did you get here?" "we came up here to get mrs. bowser's cat, which we heard crying in this belfry, but the main thing is to get turner to his room. he fell and cut his head." frank's hands were stained with blood which oozed out of the cut on his friend's forehead. "while we were up in the tower," pointing overhead, "some fellows came up and tried to fill the bell with water, so that it might freeze and stop it from ringing, i suppose." "oh, they did, did they?" inquired butler with an icy smile. "did you stop them?" "no, sir, we were planning to jump down and scare them, when something happened. the bell capsized and the fellows ran away. turner jumped or fell trying to get down to see who it was." "it's a pretty likely story," said butler again. "you'll have a chance to tell that to dr. hobart in the morning, sir." frank was indignant at the tone of disbelief, but he said nothing and gave all his attention to jimmy, who, by this time, was coming back to his senses and had staggered to his feet. with a good deal of difficulty they got him down the ladder to the broader stairs beneath. the entrance of frank and jimmy to the former's room threw the codfish and david into consternation, accompanied as they were by an irate proctor and old bonesey, who had been aroused by this time and who had hurried to the chapel to find the wildest excitement reigning. "i'll report this to dr. hobart immediately, and you will have to face a very disagreeable charge, young man," said butler, turning to go. "all right, sir," said frank calmly, "i'll answer all the charges that are made, and satisfactorily, i think." "i advise you to tell the truth about the whole thing," said butler, giving frank a searching glance; "it will be the best course." "i'm not in the habit of telling anything but the truth," said frank, and turned his attention to his roommates, who were impatient to hear what had happened. frank told the story quickly, but admitted, when he looked at it calmly, that it certainly had a very queer appearance. "butler is a regular old kill-joy, anyway," snorted the codfish. "he's the fellow who had potter fired last year for being off the school grounds after ten o'clock. he is a suspicious old spy and every one in the school hates him." "but he stands sky-high with the doctor," said david gravely. "never mind, frank, cheer up; all is not lost that's in danger. your previous reputation is good, even if you did try to freeze up the chapel bell!" the boys discussed the possibility of trouble in the incident long after jimmy left the room. david foresaw difficulty. chapter xx. a heavy penalty. on the way out of chapel the next morning butler, the proctor, handed a note to frank and another to jimmy. frank opened the envelope and read the curt message: "frank armstrong. "sir: you will come to the office of dr. hobart at ten o'clock this morning and show reason why you should not be suspended from queen's school for meddling with the chapel bell last night. "very truly yours, "a. m. cooper, _secretary_." "very pretty note i have," said frank. he pursed up his lips and gave a low whistle, at the same time handing the letter to jimmy. "mine is sharp and to the point," said jimmy, grinning feebly, and he handed the one that he had received to frank as they walked slowly along. the notes were identical, with the exception that the names were different. "how do you suppose that man butler is so stupid as to think we did that little trick last night?" said jimmy scornfully. "i'd like to punch his nose for him." "it does look stupid, that's sure, but when you consider it as i have done, you'll have to admit that we seem to be in the wrong." "oh, get out, we can prove we had nothing to do with it," said jimmy hotly. "how? it looks as if we had been caught with the goods on, unless some one saw the real perpetrators of the alleged joke." jimmy was finally obliged to admit that it didn't look so good as he had thought at first. there was an indignation meeting over in honeywell, in which all our friends participated. all talked at once and butler was threatened with destruction in every key. but in spite of the disgust of every one that frank and jimmy should be under suspicion, every one also recognized that appearances were against them. "the only hope for you," said david, who had been thinking hard over the subject, "is to find the real fellows and make them confess." "they're likely to," snorted the codfish. "they will save their own skins if they can." at ten o'clock frank, with jimmy at his heels, knocked on the door of dr. hobart's room in warren hall, and a moment later they were in the presence of the doctor himself. the latter did not look up for a time, but sat writing at his desk for several minutes while the boys shifted uneasily from foot to foot. finally the doctor laid aside his pen, swung about on his swivel chair and transfixed frank with his piercing eye. the glass eye stared straight ahead stonily. "what were you young men doing in the tower of the chapel last night?" the question was shot suddenly by dr. hobart, so suddenly that both boys almost jumped. "wait, let us have mr. butler here." he turned and pressed a button which connected with a room near his own where mr. butler was waiting. the proctor came in. "sit down, mr. butler," said dr. hobart. "what is the accusation against these young men, mr. armstrong and mr. turner? what did you find in the tower last night?" thus admonished, mr. butler told of his being disturbed in his room at about half-past nine. the bell began to clang wildly. he ran to the front door of the chapel, and finding it locked, remembered that there was a door in the rear. that door he found open. as quickly as possible he got a light and climbed the tower to the floor of the belfry where he found "this young man," indicating turner, lying on the floor in a pool of water, nearly unconscious, with armstrong working over him. "and what did you make of that, mr. butler?" inquired the doctor in a cool and even voice. "they said that they had been chasing a cat and that turner had fallen and hurt himself, and put the blame for meddling with the chapel bell onto some unknown boys who had preceded them," mr. butler finished, smiling sarcastically. "well," said dr. hobart, turning to the boys; "what have you to say to this?" "what mr. butler says is the truth," answered frank, looking the doctor steadily in the eye; "but there were a number of things that happened before he came." "yes, and what were they?" "we went up to find mrs. bowser's cat, which had come into the chapel in the morning----" "or was brought in," interrupted mr. butler. "i do not know how she got in, but she got in somehow, and when the boys tried to catch her she became frightened and hid." "and you came to the conclusion that she liked belfries and had hidden up there." "no, sir," said jimmy. "frank came out to have a walk before going to bed. i had been in his room and as it was cold we raced up to the chapel, where i slipped and fell. while we were standing there, we thought we heard a cat crying up in the tower." "and why didn't you report it?" said the doctor. "it was late," frank returned, "and when we found the small door in the tower open, we thought we might be able to find her ourselves and return her to the lady, who was much worried about the loss of her pet. we were particularly anxious to get it for mrs. bowser." "very generous-minded, indeed," said the doctor, stroking his chin. "and so you went up alone?" "yes, sir, we went up alone, and while we were in the upper part of the tower, the boys who were disturbing the bell came up. we heard them planning to do something, but could not make out what it was at first." "and why didn't you make your presence known?" inquired the doctor. both boys looked at each other. why hadn't they? this was the question that each was asking himself. "we were waiting," said frank, after a noticeable hesitation, "to find out, if we could, who they were. but they spoke so low that we could not recognize their voices, nor could we see who they were because there was so little light." "so, so," said the doctor musingly; "and what then?" "when they had put the water in the bell and were working at the prop which held the bell in the position they wanted it, something gave way and the bell swung back to its natural position. turner, here, started to get down, then slipped and fell. when i saw him fall, i started after him and let go of the cat, which flew down stairs. mr. butler found us, as he says he did, but we were not responsible for what happened to the bell." the doctor heard the recital to the end, while mr. butler smiled sarcastically and knowingly, glancing from the boys to the stern old gentleman who was cross-questioning them. after deliberating a full minute, dr. hobart spoke again: "you said a moment ago that you were particularly anxious to get the cat for mrs. bowser. why were you particularly anxious?" "because," blurted out jimmy, "she helped us out of a scrape once." he could have bitten his tongue off after he had said it, but it was too late to draw back. "so," said the doctor, pricking up his ears. "and what was the scrape?" "oh, just an accident," said frank. "yes, and what kind of an accident?" there was nothing for it but to tell the story of the wrong box which had reached mrs. bowser's house the winter before. frank told it in a straightforward fashion, but he could feel the blood mounting to his face. the doctor stiffened perceptibly as he listened. frank refrained from bringing either the codfish or lewis into the story. "so you are in the habit of practical joking?" he said coldly. "it is a poor business, my young gentlemen, and it must be stopped. we will have no practical jokers around queen's school. this is a place for study and not for pranks. your case has been much weakened by what i have just heard. it seems to me i remember, too, armstrong, that you played a practical joke on some one by pretending to be drowned last year, did you not, and disturbed the whole school? i remember you were before me at that time." "he took the place of a boy who was being hazed," jimmy burst out hotly, "and it served the hazers right." "yes, turner, perhaps it did, but i remember it disturbed the school. in the face of the tendency for practical joking that these incidents seem to prove," turning to frank, "can you expect me to believe you are guiltless in the matter of the bell?" the tone was sharp and the glance which accompanied it keen and penetrating, but frank replied steadily: "we had nothing to do with the bell, sir." "is this your fur glove, armstrong?" said the doctor, opening a drawer of his desk and producing a glove which frank thought he recognized as his own. he stepped forward, looked it over carefully, and finally turned the wristband back, where, plainly inked, were the letters "f. a." "yes, sir, that is my glove." "and this one," continued dr. hobart. "did you ever see this before?" handing him another glove, the counterpart apparently of the first. "yes, sir, that is also my glove. it's the mate of the one you showed me first." "very well, armstrong. one of these gloves was found by mr. butler in the chapel belfry and the other in your room; is that not so, mr. butler?" "yes, dr. hobart. i found that glove," indicating the first one shown, "under the bell this morning, and the other lay on the top of his trunk in his sleeping room, where i went to look for evidence this morning." the boys stared at each other in amazement and from dr. hobart to their accuser. "i do not see how the first glove got up there," said frank at last. "i was in my bare hands when i went out last night, as i only meant to be gone a few minutes." "mr. butler, please bring that young man in here." the proctor walked from the room, was gone a few minutes and returned, followed by none other than chip dixon. dixon nodded curtly to the two boys and faced the doctor jauntily. "you say, dixon, that you saw these two boys entering the rear door of the chapel last night?" inquired the doctor, indicating the supposed culprits by a jerk of his head in the direction of frank and jimmy. "i did not say it was turner and armstrong. i said i saw two boys near the door, and that it looked like these two here. one of them had something in his hand which looked like a bucket." "which one was that?" "armstrong, sir; or at least the one i took to be armstrong." "what time was that?" "i think it was about a quarter past nine or perhaps a little later." "we were just under the belfry at that hour," jimmy snapped out. "the clock striking the quarter startled me. i remember it well." frank nodded in approval. "it may have been earlier," continued dixon. "i didn't think anything much about it till after the racket in the tower. then i remembered that i had seen some boys around the chapel, and recalled that they looked like turner and armstrong." "that will do, dixon, you may go," said the doctor. when dixon had left the room, the doctor turned to our friends again. "you do not look like boys who would do such silly mischief as that of last night, but all these stories fit together with such nicety that i am forced to believe that you were responsible. these little things that look like jokes sometimes have a very serious result. for instance, that water which filled the bell came down and badly damaged the ceiling in the robing room on the ground floor, and, moreover, it ruined a valuable etching, a gift from one of our alumni, which hung there in that room." "but we did not do it," said frank, "nor did we have anything to do with it in any way, shape or manner." his voice was trembling as he spoke. jimmy was too savage to speak, but stood glowering at the doctor. unfortunately the doctor, although a distinguished scholar, was not entirely in sympathy with his pupils. he sometimes forgot that he had been young himself once, and there were not a few in the school who said that "old-pop-eye" had always been as old as he was then. he was too much immersed in the technical side of his school work and school problems to acquaint himself with the units that made up his school. he was apt to judge harshly. and his judgment in this case was harsh. "in view of all the circumstances," said the doctor, after studying the boys for a minute or two, "i should suspend you both from queen's school or dismiss you entirely. we want boys here who come to study and not to play idle tricks and destroy school property. i feel convinced that you were concerned in this work of last night, for the evidence is strongly against you. i can perhaps put no greater punishment upon you than to say to you that for the remainder of the school year you can take part in no athletics as the representatives of queen's school. i understand that you both have played on school teams." the doctor paused. "if i find you concerned in any other escapades of this character, i have no other course than to ask you to withdraw from the school." jimmy was about to burst forth in violent denial, but stopped and held himself in check. frank said very calmly, "dr. hobart, i say it again: i had nothing to do with this affair of last night; neither had turner. i think i can prove it to your satisfaction some day. may we go?" "yes," said the doctor, who had turned to his desk again. the boys almost staggered from the room and down the stairs. it had been an unexpected blow. at the foot of the stairs, lewis, the codfish and david were waiting. they bore them off to honeywell, where the whole scene in the doctor's office was rehearsed. most uncomplimentary things were said about the doctor and almost murderous threats raised against the proctor, butler, who, the codfish protested, had "poisoned doctor hobart's mind against frank and jimmy." "and what's to become of our baseball nine?" cried the codfish. "and the hockey team, and the track contest?" echoed david. "i told you to let that blooming old cat stay where she had got herself," grumbled the codfish. "a black cat is unlucky. don't you remember poe's story about the black cat?" "she was unlucky enough for me," said frank ruefully. "but maybe we'll come out of it all right." "how do you suppose that glove of mine got up into the tower?" said frank. "i certainly didn't have my gloves with me. i wouldn't naturally have one in my pocket and one in my room." "i distinctly remember seeing them both on the trunk yesterday morning," said david. "i've been thinking about it since you told what butler found." "i know positively," cried frank eagerly, "that i didn't have them on yesterday. i didn't have occasion to use them." "then it's a put-up job," said the codfish. "some one who has it in for you sneaked in here and got that glove for a purpose." "who could it be, do you suppose?" questioned jimmy. "dixon wouldn't do such a trick in spite of his general meanness and his disposition toward frank. and who else is there?" "gamma tau!" said the codfish suddenly. "they have members in this dormitory and it would be the easiest thing in the world to get in here, for the door is never locked. the gloves were in plain view on the trunk." "i think you have the answer," said david. "frank has been too popular to suit our friends, the gammas, ever since he won fame as a drop kicker. now this talk of another society has set them going, but i say, it was a dirty way to do it." "well, we'll beat them yet," said jimmy, jumping up and smashing a fist into the palm of the other hand. "and if i ever get a real good chance at dixon, i'll give him a thumping he won't forget for fifty years!" "and i'll help you," said the codfish, throwing out his narrow chest and thumping it valiantly. at which all laughed. chapter xxi. gamma's desperate tactics. queen's school took the disbarment of frank armstrong and jimmy turner from athletics as a serious blow to their chances in baseball and on the track. even the gamma tau boys, who bore no particularly kindly feeling toward these two, missed their strengthening presence--or at least they seemed to. there were some who, whatever they might have said before the school, inwardly rejoiced that "these disturbers of the peace" had been neatly shelved by old pop-eye. chip dixon was among the latter. he could never repress a smile when he met frank or jimmy. and jimmy ached to take him in hand and show him something that might not have been good for dixon. but the opportunity did not come and peace was preserved. hockey came and went, and the school team, captained by dixon and filled up with his followers from gamma, lost miserably to warwick. jimmy and frank watched the game from the side of the improvised rink on the wampaug. "there are better players among the freshmen," said jimmy contemptuously, "but they have no chance. i could pick up a team among the class teams that would beat the school team at hockey to a frazzle." and jimmy spoke the plain truth. chip had followed his usual method of picking out his team from his society, and he had no eyes for their faults. but the school was fretting under the burden of gamma tau and of dixon himself. how much longer he was going to be allowed to boss everything was a matter of speculation in many a room after books were laid aside. "thank goodness, it is his last year!" said lewis one night, when the possibility of the continuance of dixon as a dictator was being discussed. "yes, but there is howard hotchkiss coming along. he is sure to be the next boss." hotchkiss was in the third class. he was not an athlete, but a masterful fellow who could be depended upon to keep the prestige of the school in the hands of gamma and not let it get away for a moment. "the threatening storm against the gamma is growing every day," said david, "and when it comes, there is bound to be fun. two of the editors on the _mirror_, pickering and westover, refused the last elections and they are hot for an opposition society." "will it come, do you think?" inquired frank. "i wouldn't be surprised to see the sentiment of the class blaze out into action at any moment. only to-night pickering suggested a class meeting for a conference on a new society. he has been talking it over with a lot of his friends, and he feels pretty sure we could put something through if we all got behind it. the only trouble is that there are so many toadies to the old society of the gamma who say one thing and do another. most of them grab for a chance to get into gamma like a drowning man grabs at a straw." "i'm for a new society," said frank, "which will have its elections on merit, and which will make no distinctions between athletes, good students, or good fellows who are neither athletes or brilliant at their studies." "oh, ho, i think i have heard you say that the gamma could be reformed!" said the codfish derisively. "that was before i knew much about it. they are so hardened and set in their own notions that the only way to reform them is with a good big club." a few days later the subject of a new society came up again, and on the night of a certain day in may about a dozen of the prominent boys in the class met in frank's room to talk it over together. before the boys separated, it had been agreed to call a meeting of the class in the big room of the library, where the whole matter was to come up. there was to be a general debate on the subject, and armstrong, as befitted his position as an athlete in the class, was to make the principal speech. in the room were, of course, several friends of gamma tau, and it was not long before the information had penetrated to dixon and other leaders of the old society. "going to form a new society, are they? well, we'll see about that! the school isn't big enough for what it has now in the way of societies. we'll pack that meeting full of our own men of the class and block everything they try. we'll see what they can do to old gamma!" meanwhile, the queen's baseball team continued to lose steadily. with frank out of the game, there was no pitcher who could do even passable work. dixon, in desperation, gave up his position behind the bat to the substitute catcher, a fellow named watson, and went into the box himself. but he only lasted for one game, the game with porter school, in which the latter fairly buried queen's under the score of 14 to 3! it was then that resentment began to show itself in even the mildest of the students. the feeling was particularly strong in the second class, of which our friends were members. david powers wrote an article on the situation for the _mirror_, but the article never appeared in that paper, for the chief editor of the paper, under whose eye the article fell, was a gamma boy, and he thought it too outspoken. david powers promptly resigned from the paper, and the reason of his resignation soon became known to the class and the school at large. the incident strengthened the determination of every one to have a fight with gamma to the death, and particularly roused our friends in honeywell. affairs came rapidly to a climax. david and the codfish put their heads together and prepared a poster calling on the class to meet in the library room set aside for meetings of the class by the school authorities. the school woke up one morning in the latter part of may to find the posters boldly displayed on tree trunks and on various conspicuous points about the school. the announcement of the meeting was ripped down by the gamma boys, who well knew what was going on, but the poster had had its effect and every one was on tip-toe. at last the eventful day arrived. the codfish and david, with the help of lewis and jimmy, had spent many hours on the constitution of the society. fifteen boys were to be chosen from the second class and they were to be selected on merit. two members of the teaching staff were to be taken into the society as honorary members and they were to be consulted in the elections. david, who had spent days on the work, had searched the constitutions of all the school societies he could get hold of and had, with his associates, selected the best from them and rejected what seemed not suitable for the new society. the draft of the constitution was to be presented that night before the class meeting in the library, where discussion would be open. frank, who was looked upon as a popular leader, had been chosen, as we have said, to present the whole matter at the meeting. "if i'm going to do this stunt," said frank, after the boys had returned to their room after supper that evening, "you've all got to clear out and let me have a little time to myself. i've got to think what i'm to say." "all right, napoleon," said the codfish, "we'll skip and let you compose yourself. if any big thoughts stick, look us up," and he scampered out of the door, eager to talk the coming great event over with others of his class. frank was left alone, and he set himself to work up a speech that should present the matter to his classmates. he was before his little desk in honeywell thinking hard and chewing the end of a lead pencil as an aid, when there came a rap on the half-open door. frank turned around and saw a small boy standing just outside the door. "hello, son, what is it?" he said, turning again to the matter before him. "please, are you frank armstrong?" "i'm that chap," said frank, scratching away with his pencil. "well, please," said the boy, "there's a man wants to see you." "that's nice; where is he?" "down at the baseball field." "down at the baseball field!" echoed frank. "why doesn't he come up here? i haven't time to go down to the baseball field to see a man. i've got important business on to-night. tell him i'll see him to-morrow. i haven't time to see him to-night, unless he comes up here." "oh," said the boy, "he said this was very important for you; that he had some news to tell you about the trouble in the bell tower." frank gave a long whistle and stood up, interested at once. he looked at the clock over the mantel. it was half past seven and the meeting was set for eight o'clock. "he said he could tell you who did the mischief in the bell tower and prove it to you," continued the boy, "but that he couldn't come up to your room." "i've half a mind to go and see this strange man who knows so much. i can be back in half an hour or less," he said half to himself. then to the boy, "all right, kid, i'll go along with you, for that business of the bell tower is something i'd like to get to the bottom of myself." then aside, "i'll pick up jimmy and the codfish and we'll see what he knows." "the man said you must come alone, for he doesn't want to be seen by any one at the school except yourself." "more mystery. all right, kid, tell him i'll be along in a minute and i'll be alone." the boy waited to hear no more, but darted out of the door and was off like a flash. frank followed more leisurely after folding david's draft of the constitution and putting it in his inside coat pocket, along with some of the scribbled notes of his speech. "i can think of what i'm going to say as i go along," he thought, "and no time is lost. i wonder why this fellow is so secret about the appointment." he picked up his cap from the desk, tripped gayly down the steps and out into the yard. none of his friends happened to be in view, and he hurried on in the gathering twilight across the yard, down past the end of warren hall, and down the pitch of the hill to the playground below. over in the distance the baseball stand loomed darkly. but on the open field there was still plenty of light. he headed directly for the baseball stand, whistling brightly. "what on earth can this man have to tell me?" he said over and over to himself. "well, i'll know presently." he had now come to the outfield of the baseball diamond. peering ahead into the shadow cast by the stand, he thought he saw a figure moving. advancing to the diamond itself he spoke out loudly: "hullo, any one here want to see me?" a figure slouched out of the shadow and approached frank to within a distance of ten or fifteen feet. "you are frank armstrong?" said a voice that frank had never heard before. "yes," answered frank. "what is all this about? if you have anything to tell me, tell it to me quick, for i've got to get back." "it's pretty important news for you, kid," said the man, coming a step or two closer. "i happen to know all about that affair, who did it, and why it was done, and i've got the proofs for you. look at that paper," he added, drawing a folded sheet of white paper from his pocket and handing it to frank. frank reached for the paper, took it, and bent his head in the dim light to read the writing. as he did so, the strange man sprang upon him, threw an arm around his neck and held him as securely as in a vise. the attack had been so sudden that frank was powerless to make the faintest resistance. and even had he had the chance, he would have been helpless in that fierce clasp. "hey, bill," called his captor, "come over here and help me truss him up. we've got him, all right." there was a sound of feet running across the grass, and in an instant two more men appeared from the shadow of the baseball stand. each seized an arm of the captured boy, and the man who had made the first attack released his hold on frank's neck. "what's this all about?" said frank huskily. the stranger had nearly choked the wind out of him in the tight grasp in which he had held him until help arrived. "i have no money." "we don't want your money, kid," said one of the men. "we just want you, and everything will be easy for you if you come along without kicking." "come along where?" "never mind, that's our little secret." frank opened his mouth to yell for help, but a big hand immediately closed over it and shut off his cry. "come, none of that!" "put that towel over his mouth!" said one of his captors. a towel was whipped out by one of them and in a jiffy he was effectually prevented from making any outcry, and it had been so placed that he could not see. "now, come along, young fellow, we're not going to eat you." two of the men linked their arms in his, and, preceded by the third, they set out at a rapid pace toward the path that ran down along the river edge. frank tried to hang back, but he was firmly urged forward, and, seeing the uselessness of resistance in the face of such overwhelming odds, he gave up and went along quietly, waiting a chance to escape by some stratagem. after a walk of a few minutes, frank's captors halted and turned toward the river. frank felt the cold chills race up and down his spine as he stood, held firmly between the two. "what does it all mean?" he thought to himself. the man who had preceded them disappeared for a moment in the alder bushes which fringed the bank. in a moment his voice sounded from below: "the boat's here; hurry it up and let's get it finished." half walking and half sliding, they reached the water's edge. without any ceremony frank was forced into the boat, the others followed, and one of the men, after pushing off, began to row rapidly. two or three hundred yards down stream he beached the boat, sprang out and held her, while the others, still grasping frank, scrambled out awkwardly. the boat was pulled up a little and then, in the same order as the procession had started, it continued on what seemed to be an old road overgrown with grass. five minutes of twisting and turning through trees and tangled shrubbery, during which time frank, by moving his face muscles, had uncovered one eye, brought them to a house, but it was shrouded in the deepest gloom. no lights shone from its windows and no sounds of life came from within. all was dreary and desolate, and a chill struck to frank's heart as he suddenly recognized the place. it was the jackson house on the back road to hamilton, and it was reported to be haunted. some deed of blood had been done there years before and the house since that time had been vacant. after nightfall few ventured that way. queer lights were said to have been seen about the house at night. the road was little traveled by man or beast at any hour. through a broken gate hanging crazily by one hinge the procession passed, and up the overgrown walk to the door. halting here, the leader fumbled in his pocket and produced a key, which he inserted in the lock of the door. there was a grinding sound as the bolt shot back. "here's where you stay for a few hours, young fellow," said one of his captors. "nice comfortable shack. you'll have lots of visitors in there and you needn't be a bit lonesome." frank fought hard against his imprisonment. he struggled and scratched and kicked with all his might, and braced against the door jamb. but he was soon overpowered and pushed within. the door was jerked back quickly and frank was alone in the haunted house. turned by the key on the outside, the lock shot squeaking back into its socket. just then the clock on the queen's school tower boomed the hour of eight! chapter xxii. saved by the wires. finding himself trapped, frank threw himself on the door and wrenched at the knob with all his strength. it held firm. again and again he drove his shoulder against the panels, but the door, though old, was stout, and resisted his savage attacks. soon he gave up in despair the attempt to escape that way. "i'm kidnapped for sure," he said aloud, and his voice sounded strangely hollow in that empty hallway. he shivered, for, although the night outside was mild and warm, inside there was a deadly chill in the air as if the sunlight had never touched it. a half moon was hanging in the sky and lit the countryside faintly, but in here was the deepest gloom. tiny slits of light came through the chinks here and there in the boarded windows and cast long knife-like bars across the floor, but instead of lighting the place they actually made it seem blacker because of the contrast. frank was not a coward, but he would have given a good deal to be safely out of the place. the whole house seemed full of noises. he turned his back to the door and faced the stairway, which, now that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom, he could make out dimly. he could trace it about half way up to the floor above, where it disappeared into utter blackness. as he strained his eyes and ears a board creaked near him, as if a human foot had trod on it. he recoiled as if shot and turned his eyes in the direction of the noise. but there was no repetition of the sound. away down the hall where his vision could not penetrate came a rustle as of silk, and then what appeared to be a few stealthy steps; then silence, broken only by the sighing of the night wind around the corners of the house. it was all frank could do to keep from yelling with fright, for the noises of the old house had gripped his nerve. but by degrees, as he stood there with his back to the door, he gained control of himself. there was nothing to hurt him, he argued with himself; the noises were only natural ones; the rustlings were perhaps made by the wings of birds that had made their nests in the old house, finding entrance through the chimney, maybe, or through a broken upper window. "oh, what a dummy i am," said frank to himself, "to allow myself to be caught this way! i have been spirited off here and locked up for a while so that gamma may have its own way up at the library meeting. but david and jimmy and the codfish can carry it through as well or better than i could. they can present the scheme and read the constitution--the constitution," he gasped aloud; "i have it in my pocket!" his hand flew to his pocket. there it was, sure enough, a bulky bundle of papers. "that settles it. i've got to get out of this hole somehow." there was a determined ring to his voice as it echoed from the bare walls. he left his place by the outer door and turned into the room on the right, the door of which stood partly open. guided by the chinks of light he examined the windows one after the other. two of them were broken, but they were securely boarded up from the outside. the window at the side of the room had not even a sash. raising his foot he drove it here with all his might against the barricading boards, but they did not budge to his repeated blows. he gave up this room as a bad job, and felt his way into the hall once more and across it to the opposite front room. here he had no better luck. the windows were securely shut and boarded like the windows in the other room. at one of them, where there was an opening of several inches between the boards and where the light came through more strongly than at any other of the windows, he smashed the glass with his foot and, getting hold of the edge of the board, tried to wrench it loose with his hands. he might as well have tried to shake down the door post. the nails, driven in years before, had probably rusted, and the boards would have had to be split to fragments before the nails would release them. nothing daunted, frank kept on. he pushed open doors that squeaked on rusty hinges and battered at the barriers across the windows. once in his rounds he caught his toe on some obstruction on the floor and fell headlong. the crash woke the echoes in the old house and set in motion scores of mice and rats that went scurrying, squeaking and chattering across the floors. retracing his steps, frank once more found himself, without further mishap, in the hall where he had started his futile round. "i'll try it upstairs," he said, and advanced boldly toward the upper regions of the house. the stairs creaked and groaned horribly as he ascended, and he heard the patter of the feet of rats as they scurried before him. it was none too pleasant a sound. two of the rooms he tried on the second floor brought no better result, but in the third, at the back of the house, he found a displaced board and a broken sash. "so this is where our friends, the birds, get in," he said. "the question is, can i get out?" he stuck his head through the opening and looked down. below there was nothing but blackness. "i don't dare risk it. i might break my neck in a cellarway if i dropped." he drew in his head, refreshed by the breath of free night air, and continued his search. stumbling through the gloom of the upper hall, his hand came in contact with a ladder. he gave it a jerk, but it was nailed securely to the floor. "the attic!" he exclaimed aloud; "if there's a skylight and i can get out on the roof perhaps i can make some one hear." up the ladder he went. if it was black below, it was still blacker where he was now penetrating, for not even a ray of moonlight entered. the air was close and stifling, and in the attic of the old house, where he found himself in a few moments, he could scarcely breathe. his entrance there disturbed some night birds that had taken possession of the place, and they flew about uttering angry cries and dashing so close to him that he could feel the fanning of air from their wings. with his arm across his face, he felt for a ladder which must lead to the skylight, if indeed there was a skylight in the roof above. after traversing half the length of the house and colliding with the corner of the chimney, his hand touched wood. it was another ladder, and his heart jumped with joy at the touch. the rounds were covered with a thick layer of dust, deposited there through many years of disuse. up its short length frank went cautiously till his head touched the roof. he felt around carefully till his hand touched a hasp. with a sudden jerk he pulled it aside and with his head pressing against the skylight, bored upward. to his great joy the heavy skylight moved and swung up on its rusty hinges, and in another moment he was out on the roof of the house with the stars above his head. what a relief it was to be out of that dismal house! the horrors of it lay below him, but was he any better off? could he make any one hear him, and, if they did hear him, would any one be likely to come to such a place? wasn't he in as bad a fix as before? these questions jumped into his brain in rapid succession. "help! help!" frank raised his voice and shouted. again and again he shouted, but there was no answering hail. off to the left he could plainly see the lights of queen's school. as a bird flies, it was not more than half a mile from his perch to the library where his friends were holding their meeting and no doubt wondering where he was. what were they thinking of him? he began hitching along on the roof toward the front of the house, his intention being to attempt a descent, hand over hand, along the roof's edge to the eaves, where, if he could see the ground, he might risk a drop. hitching along laboriously, frank encountered an obstruction when he was halfway to the end of his journey. he felt of it. it was an insulator, and stretching away from it on both sides was a wire of small diameter. "telephone," said frank to himself. "how i wish i had an instrument." he climbed over it and went on. suddenly he stopped: "by jove, i wonder if that is our wire to queen's station? it certainly comes down this way." he was thinking hard. "it _is_ the wire!" he shouted joyfully. "i remember now murphy said he put an insulator on this old house because there were no trees near to take the span." instantly he turned back to the wire. on one side of the insulator the wire was stretched tightly, but the other side hung sagging. he reached out and pulled on the slack side and found that he could draw it up a foot or more. "just the thing!" he exclaimed joyfully. "now we'll see what happens!" straddling the roof, frank again took hold of the slack loop of the wire and pulled with all his strength. when he had hauled it as tight as possible, he reached down and put a coil around his foot, and was overjoyed to find that he could hold the wire in position that way, although the strain almost pulled him apart. then, taking his knife, he began to saw at the wire. when he had made a little notch in it he worked it back and forth, bending it this way and that, and suddenly it fell apart. "hurrah!" shouted frank. "now we'll see if any one hears me." taking a broken end of wire in each hand he began tapping them together. carefully he called: _f-f-f-f-f-f_; _jc-jc-jc-jc_. these were the calls of his own room and of jimmy's. he was using the ends of the broken wire to send morse signals. after each attempt, with fingers moistened to accentuate their sensitiveness to any return signal, he waited. thus calling and waiting he kept on for several minutes. "they're probably all in the library, but murphy ought to hear me if the wire is cut in at the station." varying the call of _q_, which was the station, with calls of _f_ and _jc_, frank kept on, but with the strain of the wire pulling on his foot and cutting into the flesh he was nearly exhausted. suddenly in response to his call of _f-f-f_ came a shock which made him jump. some one had opened a telegraph key somewhere on the line. the current had been broken and closed. he tapped slowly, making the letters very plain so that no one could misunderstand, "_c-o-m-e q-u-i-c-k h-a-u-n-t-e-d h-o-u-s-e f-r-a-n-k_." over and over he repeated his message. suddenly there came a succession of electric thrills along the wire as if a key had been rattled rapidly, and frank received the signals plainly through his moistened fingers "_o-k._" he had been heard and understood. with a sigh of relief, he let go of the loose end of the wire and shook it free of his foot. the released wire went swishing down the roof and the connection was broken for good. carefully frank made his way back to the skylight and backed down the ladder into the darkness beneath. "i'll be ready for them--if they come," he added dubiously. "and the back room where the board is off is more comfortable in spite of the rats than this sharp roof." down among the startled birds that beat madly around the attic he went again, down the second ladder to the floor, and then made his way to the back room, where he settled himself on the window ledge waiting for his rescue, if rescue it was to be. frank found himself in comfort compared to his position on the roof, but he soon began to wonder whether he had not better, after all, take a chance of a drop in the darkness. he got up, examined the opening, found it too small to squeeze through, and was preparing to make the best of it on his ledge, when his ear caught the sound of a step in the lower part of the house. he stood up with body bent forward listening intently. there was no imagination about it this time. it was a slow step, sometimes shuffling, then again firm and quick. occasionally it stopped, seemingly irresolute. then it began again. whatever or whoever it was, the owner of the step appeared to be going the round of the rooms. now it was on the stairs ascending. frank listened with his heart in his mouth. slowly the step came on, reaching the landing, stopped, began again and came on shufflingly in his direction. frank stepped on the window ledge and reached for the opening between the boards. suddenly a light flared up, and through the open door frank saw a boy standing with a lighted match in his hand. it lit the gloom only for a moment and went out in the draft. frank, startled by the sight, gave a yell. there was an answering groan, the sound of a falling body and then silence. almost at the same moment shouts were heard outside. frank sprang to the opening and answered the hail with all the power of his lungs: "here, here, 'round at the back of the house!" there was the sound of crashing through the tangle of shrubbery and a voice from below--jimmy's voice--calling, "what in thunder are you doing there?" "taking a moonlight meditation," returned frank flippantly; "but hurry up, i've had enough. rip off a board on one of the lower windows if you can. i'm in trouble up here." lights flashed below and the sound of several different voices came to frank's ears. reassured by the presence of his friends, frank groped his way to the door in front of which his visitor had fallen. he found the huddled heap of humanity, touched the face and felt it warm, which relieved him greatly. from below came the sound of ripping wood and breaking glass, and, in another minute, jimmy, with a lantern in his hand, bounded up the stairway, followed by lewis and several other boys. all were astonished to see frank, his face streaked with dust and grime, standing by the side of a prostrate figure. the rays of the lantern were directed to the face of the one on the floor. "bronson!" all exclaimed in a breath. "great scott!" cried jimmy in amazement, "what are you fellows doing here and what's the matter with bronson?" bronson, who had fainted from fright when he heard frank's yell in the darkness, now opened his eyes and sat up, looking around dazedly. suddenly he seemed to remember: "don't leave me! don't leave me!" he cried piteously, grabbing jimmy by the legs. "i'll tell all about it, but don't leave me here. he'll come back." "tell us what? who'll come back?" ejaculated jimmy. and there on the floor bronson poured out his story in broken sentences and with hanging head. he told how the gamma had planned the kidnapping of frank to break up the meeting, with the hope that the attempt to form a new society might be checked and the absent boy discredited. the attempt, as it proved, had been partly successful, for, despite the eloquent words of the codfish and david, who had striven to hold it together until frank could be found, the gamma element in the meeting had broken it up. it was on jimmy's return to the room that he had heard frank's signal and gone in search of him. "was dixon in this scheme?" said frank, when bronson finished. "yes," was the answer. "and was he responsible for the affair in the bell tower?" "no; whitlock, colson and i were the ones in that. but i'll make it right with dr. hobart. i'll confess everything. only don't leave me here, please don't." on the way back to queen's school, bronson freely confessed his part in the affair of the haunted house. he had been detailed by dixon to see that the men who had been hired to spirit frank away, carried out their part of the work, and he was hidden near the path when frank was marched past him. just as he started to leave, there arose alongside of him the gigantic figure of a man, who, muttering something about being on his property, drew him to the back of the house and, entering by the cellarway, left him there, fastening the door on the outside. more dead than alive from fear, bronson had heard frank shuffling around on the floor above him, and then, when the noise ceased, with a few matches he had in his pocket he started to find his way out. during frank's absence on the roof he had gained the first floor, and it was he whom frank heard when he returned to his post by the broken window. the shock of frank's voice when bronson, searching for a means of escape, had penetrated to the second floor, was too much for his shaking nerves, and he collapsed on the floor. the men who had kidnapped and carried off frank were three men from the village, one of whom was a locksmith, which accounted for his possession of a key to the old house. it later came out that the gigantic man who had captured and incarcerated bronson, was none other than a half-witted negro of the village, who was abroad at all times of the night, and who, unknown to any one, had a way of entering and leaving the old house by an open cellarway. it was probably he who, by showing lights in the house at night, had terrified the villagers into the belief that the place was haunted. before bronson was allowed to go that night, he was taken to frank's room, where, under the dictation of the codfish, he wrote and signed a full confession of the part he had played in the bell tower incident, and of his knowledge of the kidnapping of frank. chapter xxiii. end of gamma tau. the next morning the school was startled by the announcement that dixon, bronson and whitlock were not to be found. during the night, either separately or together, they had packed their suit-cases and departed, leaving instructions for the forwarding of the remainder of their goods. murphy, the night operator, reported later that they had been seen boarding the early morning train for milton. dixon, alone, left word behind him. the note was directed to the manager of the queen's baseball association and contained his resignation as captain of the nine. "it was just as well he went," said jimmy, when he heard the news, "or there would have been the biggest scrap on that this school ever saw. after what he did to frank last night, he was going to get the worst licking that a kid ever got," and jimmy flexed his arms and clenched his fists. "i think i'd have taken a hand at him, myself!" said frank. "me, too," said the codfish. "if ever i'd have laid this on him," indicating his right fist, "he would go home in an ambulance." "or you would have, eh, scrappy old codfish?" said lewis. "i don't know but i'd have had a shy at him, myself." dixon's departure cleared the atmosphere of the school at once. you may be sure that no time was lost in carrying bronson's confession to doctor hobart, and that stern old man, quick to repair the wrong he had done to jimmy and frank, called them to his office. "young gentlemen," he said, "i have an apology to make to you. i see i was wrong and i am glad that i was wrong. you are reinstated in all the privileges of the school. i hope you will pardon an old man for leaning too strongly on circumstantial evidence, furthered by untruthful testimony." it was a joyful crowd that met that afternoon on the diamond. by unanimous consent of the school nine, frank armstrong was elected acting-captain to fill out the remainder of the term, and when practice began every boy who could get there was on the bleachers to watch. jimmy took his place behind the bat and caught and threw with his old-time ability. frank pitched wonderful ball and threw the spectators into an enthusiasm of cheering when he struck out batsman after batsman of the second nine as they faced him. after the chapel exercises next morning, dr. hobart announced to the whole school there assembled, that he had visited the punishment for the misdoings in the bell tower upon the wrong boys, and then publicly expressed his sorrow that he had made a mistake. "the real perpetrators, with one exception," he added, "have left school, and that one exception has not yet been dealt with. i have further to say that the society of gamma tau, which has been responsible for this and other disturbances, is from this day forth abolished and any boy in the future, either offering an election to or accepting one from this society, should any attempt be made to carry it on in secret, will be summarily dismissed from queen's school." to the surprise of every one, the abolition of gamma tau was not taken seriously to heart by the school. its domination had for some years become irksome, and even the members of it, with the exception of a few of its leaders, among whom was howard hotchkiss, admitted that it was a good thing for the school to have it done away with. whether the killing of the society by dr. hobart's edict had anything to do with it or not, or whether it was the snap that frank and jimmy put into the team, none could say, but it was certain that for one cause or another the school rallied around the nine like one man. from a disorganized body the nine was brought into playing form in remarkably short time, and in the last of the preliminary games of the season won over the strong butler academy by six runs to one. jimmy and frank worked like trojans, in these last days of the term, to get the team into shape for the warwick game. and the school was back of them. by presence and by voice every one helped at the practice. finally, at the end of examinations, the day of the great contest came around. warwick, with a nine strong and experienced, came down to queen's confident of wiping out the stain of defeat of the previous june. robinson, the left tackle of the warwick eleven, was captain of the nine and played first base. he had heard, as had every one in warwick, of the resignation of dixon as captain and the incident helped to further their belief that queen's would be, as he said, "easy picking." down with the warwick team came a great crowd of heelers to see the "funeral," as one of them expressed it. the "funeral" did not come to pass in just the way that warwick had expected. for three innings it was nip and tuck between the two nines without a run being scored on either side. frank was in great form, and, while he used few curves, he was able to put the ball exactly where jimmy wanted it; and between the two of them they had the warwick batters swinging wildly at balls which they could not hit. in the fifth inning, through a hit and an error by the queen's right fielder, warwick scored a run, and in the sixth added two more. this was the signal for great yelling in the warwick sections of the stand, but queen's came back with two earned runs in the seventh. jimmy's two-base hit started the trouble. frank's great pitching, when the bases were full with only one out, cut warwick out of what looked like a certain score in the eighth inning, but the queen's batters could do nothing against warwick in this inning. the game came to the ninth without further runs, and queen's still one behind. warwick tried desperately to get a runner across, and with their fastest man on third, when hits were not forthcoming, tried to work the squeeze play. frank and jimmy nipped the runner neatly at the plate. opinions were freely expressed that queen's would not score, but when taylor, the queen's first baseman, came up and singled, the queen's heelers let loose a howl of joy. their glee was cut short when taylor, in trying to steal second, was thrown out. with one gone, frank came to the bat. "you are due for a hit," said jimmy, as he left the bench. "get on and i'll bring you in." frank clenched his bat and faced the warwick pitcher with determination in his eye. up to the present time he had done nothing in the way of hitting, and the warwick pitcher held him rather cheaply. twice he sent the ball across the plate for strikes, and twice the ball went wide. "give him a good one," howled a warwick boy; "let him hit it if he can. he couldn't hit a barn!" straight over the plate came the next ball, and frank met it with a short powerful swing. away flew the ball over the third baseman's head, struck the ground in short left field, and, with a spin on it, rolled on and on over the close-cropped grass. the left fielder chased it desperately, but before he got his hands on it, frank had turned second. the left fielder slammed it straight and hard, and frank dived for the last fifteen feet, beating the ball to third only by inches. as he stood on the bag and dusted himself with his cap, jimmy sauntered easily to the plate. "come on," said jimmy to the warwick pitcher, when the yelling had died down; "come on, and i'll do it again just like that," and he grinned at the worried boy in the box. the ball flew wide. "don't lose your nerve," taunted jimmy; "put it over." again the warwickian tied himself up into a knot and again flew the ball. it was to jimmy's liking. he swung a full swing with all the force of his sturdy young body behind it, and, in the language of the diamond, hit it "right on the nose." just what happened to that ball no one knows to this day. it rose on its long flight between third and short stop, carried over the head of the left fielder like a golf ball cleanly hit, struck far beyond him and rolled down among the alder bushes which fringed the river. the fielder tore after it, disappeared from view, and, after a minute or two, came back holding up both hands. they were empty. but it would have made no difference whether he had had the ball at that time or not, for jimmy had completed the circuit of the bases, and the bat boy was picking up the scattered bats and mitts by queen's bench. queen's had won the game! it was a glorious finish to a season that had begun in anything but glory, and then and there, before the queen's team left the bench, after a rousing cheer had been given for the defeated warwicks, frank armstrong was elected captain for the following year, while the queen's stands yelled their approval. "it was worth all our trouble for that last inning, wasn't it?" said jimmy. and frank, grinning happily, admitted that it was. the further doings of frank armstrong and his friends at queen's school will be told in the next volume of this series, entitled "frank armstrong, captain of the nine." the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. pg. 231, "euphoneous" changed to "euphonious" (the euphonious name) pg. 261, "preceptibly" changed to "perceptibly" (stiffened perceptibly) the half-back a story of school, football, and golf by ralph henry barbour illustrated by b. west clinedinst [illustration] to every american boy who loves honest, manly sport, this story is dedicated. contents. chapter i.--the boy in the straw hat. ii.--station road and river path. iii.--outfield west. iv.--the head coach. v.--a rainy afternoon. vi.--the practice game. vii.--a letter home. viii.--the golf tournament. ix.--an evening call. x.--the broken bell rope. xi.--two heroes. xii.--the probation of blair. xiii.--the game with st. eustace. xiv.--the goodwin scholarship. xv.--the boat race. xvi.--good-by to hillton. xvii.--the sacred order of hullabalooloo. xviii.--visitors from marchdale. xix.--a varsity sub. xx.--an old friend. xxi.--the departure. xxii.--before the battle. xxiii.--harwell _vs_. yates--the first half. xxiv.--harwell _vs_. yates--a fault and a requital. xxv.--the return. list of illustrations. a leap in the nick of time. joel's arrival at school. his next drive took him cleanly over rocky bunker. "stay where you are; the fellows are bringing a boat". the left-guard bore down straight upon joel. instantly the crimson crew seemed to lift their boat from the water. diagrams. plan of hillton academy golf links. diagram of second play. diagram of third play. positions, harwell _vs_. yates. chapter i. the boy in the straw hat. "how's craps, country?" "shut up, bart! he may hear you." "what if he does, ninny? i want him to. say, spinach!" "do you suppose he's going to try and play football, bart?" "not he. he's looking for a rake. thinks this is a hayfield, wall." the speakers were lying on the turf back of the north goal on the campus at hillton academy. the elder and larger of the two was a rather coarse-looking youth of seventeen. his name was bartlett cloud, shortened by his acquaintances to "bart" for the sake of that brevity beloved of the schoolboy. his companion, wallace clausen, was a handsome though rather frail-looking boy, a year his junior. the two were roommates and friends. "he'd better rake his hair," responded the latter youth jeeringly. "i'll bet there's lots of hayseed in it!" the subject of their derisive remarks, although standing but a scant distance away, apparently heard none of them. "hi, west!" shouted bartlett cloud as a youth, attired in a finely fitting golf costume, and swinging a brassie, approached. the newcomer hesitated, then joined the two friends. "hello! you fellows. what's up? thought it was golf, from the crowd over here." he stretched himself beside them on the grass. "golf!" answered bartlett cloud contemptuously. "i don't believe you ever think of anything except golf, out! do you ever wake up in the middle of the night trying to drive the pillow out of the window with a bed-slat?" "oh, sometimes," answered outfield west smilingly. "there's a heap more sense in being daft over a decent game like golf than in going crazy about football. it's just a kid's game." "oh, is it?" growled bartlett cloud. "i'd just like to have you opposite me in a good stiff game for about five minutes. i'd show you something about the 'kid's game!'" "well, i don't say you couldn't knock me down a few times and walk over me, but who wants to play such games--except a lot of bullies like yourself?" "plenty of fellows, apparently," answered the third member of the group, wallace clausen, hastening to avert the threatening quarrel. "just look around you. i've never seen more fellows turn out at the beginning of the season than are here to-day. there must be sixty here." "more like a hundred," grunted "bart" cloud, not yet won over to good temper. "every little freshman thinks he can buy a pair of moleskins and be a football man. look at that fellow over yonder, the one with the baggy trousers and straw hat. the idea of that fellow coming down here just out of the hayfield and having the cheek to report for football practice! what do you suppose he would do if some one threw a ball at him?" "catch it in his hat," suggested wallace clausen. "he _does_ look a bit--er--rural," said outfield west, eying the youth in question. "i fear he doesn't know a bulger from a baffy," he added sorrowfully. "what's more to the subject," said wallace clausen, "is that he probably doesn't know a touch-down from a referee. there's where the fun will come in." "well, i'm no judge of football, thank goodness!" answered west, "but from the length of that chap i'll bet he's a bully kicker." "nonsense. that's what a fellow always thinks who doesn't know anything about the game. it takes something more than long legs to make a good punter." "perhaps; but there's one thing sure, bart: that hayseed will be a better player than you at the end of two months--that is, if he gets taken on." "i'll bet you he won't be able to catch a punt," growled cloud. "a fool like him can no more learn football than--than--" "than you could learn golf," continued west sweetly. "oh, shut up! i know a mule that plays golf better than you do." "well, i sha'n't attempt to compete with your friends, bart." "there you both go, quarreling again," cried clausen. "if you don't shut up, i'll have to whip the pair of you." wallace clausen was about two thirds the size of cloud, and lacked both the height and breadth of shoulder that made west's popular nickname of "out" west seem so appropriate. clausen's threat was so absurd that cloud came back to good humor with a laugh, and even west grinned. "come on, wall--there's blair," said cloud. "you'd better come too, out, and learn something about a decent game." west shook his head, and the other two arose and hurried away to where the captain of the school eleven was standing beneath the west goal, surrounded by a crowd of variously attired football aspirants. west, left to himself, sighed lazily and fell to digging holes in the turf with his brassie. tiring of this amusement in a trice, he arose and sauntered over to the side-line and watched the operations. some sixty boys, varying in age from fifteen to nineteen, some clothed in full football rig, some wearing the ordinary dress in which they had stepped from the school rooms an hour before, all laughing or talking with the high spirits produced upon healthy youth by the tonic breezes of late september, were standing about the gridiron. i have said that all were laughing or talking. this is not true; one among them was silent. for standing near by was the youth who had aroused the merriment of cloud and clausen, and who west had shortly before dubbed "rural." and rural he looked. his gray and rather wrinkled trousers and his black coat and vest of cheap goods were in the cut of two seasons gone, and his discolored straw hat looked sadly out of place among so many warm caps. but as he watched the scene with intent and earnest face there was that about him that held west's attention. he looked to be about seventeen. his height was above the ordinary, and in the broad shoulders and hips lay promise of great strength and vigor. but it was the face that attracted west most. so earnest, honest, and fearless was it that west unconsciously wished to know it better, and found himself drawing nearer to the straw hat and baggy gray trousers. but their owner appeared to be unconscious of his presence and west paused. "i don't believe that chap knows golf from puss-in-the-corner," mused west, "but i'll bet a dozen silvertowns that he could learn; and that's more than most chaps here can. i almost believe that i'd loan him my new dogwood driver!" wesley blair, captain of the eleven, was bringing order out of chaos. blair was one of the leaders in school life at hillton, a strongly built, manly fellow, beloved of the higher class boys, adored from a distance by the youngsters. blair was serving his second term as football captain, having been elected to succeed himself the previous fall. at this moment, attired in the crimson sweater, moleskin trousers, and black and crimson stockings that made up the school uniform, he looked every inch the commander of the motley array that surrounded him. "warren, you take a dozen or so of these fellows over there out of the way and pass the ball awhile. get their names first.--christie, you take another dozen farther down the field." the crowd began to melt away, squad after squad moving off down the field to take position and learn the rudiments of the game. blair assembled the experienced players about him and, dividing them into two groups, put them to work at passing and falling. the youth with the straw hat still stood unnoticed on the side-line. when the last of the squads had moved away he stepped forward and addressed the captain: "where do you want me?" blair, suppressing a smile of amusement as he looked the applicant over, asked: "ever played any?" "some; i was right end on the felton grammar school team last year." "where's felton grammar school, please?" "maine, near auburn." "oh! what's your name?" "joel march." "can you kick?" "pretty fair." "well, show me what you consider pretty fair." he turned to the nearest squad. "toss me the ball a minute, ned. here's a chap who wants to try a kick." ned post threw the ball, and his squad of veterans turned to observe the odd-looking country boy toe the pigskin. several audible remarks were made, none of them at all flattering to the subject of them; but if the latter heard them he made no sign, but accepted the ball from blair without fumbling it, much to the surprise of the onlookers. among these were clausen and cloud, their mouths prepared for the burst of ironical laughter that was expected to follow the country boy's effort. "drop or punt?" asked the latter, as he settled the oval in a rather ample hand. "which can you kick best?" questioned blair. the youth considered a moment. "i guess i can punt best." he stepped back, balancing the ball in his right hand, took a long stride forward, swung his right leg in a wide arc, dropped the ball, and sent it sailing down the field toward the distant goal. a murmur of applause took the place of the derisive laugh, and blair glanced curiously at the former right end-rush of the felton grammar school. "yes, that's pretty fair. some day with hard practice you may make a kicker." several of the older fellows smiled knowingly. it was blair's way of nipping conceit in the bud. "what class are you in?" "upper middle," replied the youth under the straw hat, displaying no disappointment at the scant praise. "well, march, kindly go down the field to that last squad and tell tom warren that i sent you. and say," he continued, as the candidate started off, and he was struck anew with the oddity of the straw hat and wrinkled trousers, "you had better tell him that you are the man that punted that ball." "that chap has got to learn golf," said outfield west to himself as he turned away after witnessing the incident, "even if i have to hog-tie him and teach it to him. what did he say his name was? february? march? that was it. it's kind of a chilly name. i'll make it a point to scrape acquaintance with him. he's a born golfer. his calm indifference when blair tried to 'take him down' was beautiful to see. he's the sort of fellow that would smile if he made a foozle in a medal play." west drew a golf ball from his pocket and, throwing it on the turf, gave it a half-shot off toward the river, following leisurely after it and pondering on the possibility of making a crack golfer out of a country lad in a straw hat. over on the gridiron, meanwhile, the candidates for football honors were limbering up in a way that greatly surprised not a few of the inexperienced. it is one thing to watch the game from the grand stand or side-lines and another to have an awkward, wobbly, elusive spheroid tossed to the ground a few feet from you and be required to straightway throw yourself upon it in such manner that when it stops rolling it will be snugly stowed between you and the ground. if the reader has played football he will know what this means. if he has not--well, there is no use trying to explain it to him. he must get a ball and try it for himself. but even this exercise may lose its terrors after a while, and when at the end of an hour or more the lads were dismissed, there were many among them, who limped back to their rooms sore and bruised, but proudly elated over their first day with the pigskin. even to the youth in the straw hat it was tiresome work, although not new to him, and after practice was over, instead of joining in the little stream that eddied back to the academy grounds, he struck off to where a long straggling row of cedars and firs marked the course of the river. once there he found himself standing on a bluff with the broad, placid stream stretching away to the north and south at his feet. the bank was some twenty feet high and covered sparsely with grass and weeds; and a few feet below him a granite bowlder stuck its lichened head outward from the cliff, forming an inviting seat from which to view the sunset across the lowland opposite. the boy half scrambled, half fell the short distance, and, settling himself in comfort on the ledge, became at once absorbed in his thoughts. perhaps he was thinking a trifle sadly of the home which he had left back there among the maine hills, and which must have seemed a very long way off; or perhaps he was dwelling in awe upon the erudition of that excellent greek gentleman, mr. xenophon, whose acquaintance, by means of the anabasis, he was just making; or perhaps he was thinking of no more serious a subject than football and the intricate art of punting. but, whatever his thoughts may have been, they were doomed to speedy interruption, as will be seen. outfield west left the campus behind and, with the little white ball soaring ahead, took his way leisurely to the woods that bordered the tiny lake. here he spent a quarter of an hour amid the tall grass and bushes, fighting his way patiently out of awkward lies, and finally driving off by the river bank, where a stretch of close, hard sod offered excellent chances for long shots. again and again the ball flew singing on its way, till at last the campus was at hand again, and stony bunker intervened between west and home. stony bunker lay close to the river bluff and was the terror of all hillton golfers, for, while a too short stroke was likely to leave you in the sand pit, a too vigorous one was just as likely to land you in the river. west knew stony bunker well by reason of former meetings, and he knew equally well what amount of swing was necessary to land just over the hazard, but well short of the bluff. perhaps it was the brassie that was to blame--for a full-length, supple-shafted, wooden driver would have been what you or i would have chosen for that stroke--or perhaps west himself was to blame. that as it may be, the fact remains that that provoking ball flew clear over the bunker as though possessed of wings and disappeared over the bluff! with an exclamation of disgust west hurried after, for when they cost thirty-five cents apiece golf balls are not willingly lost even by lads who, like outfield west, possess allowances far in excess of their needs. but the first glance down the bank reassured him, for there was the runaway ball snugly ensconced on the tiny strip of sandy beach that intervened between the bank and the water. west grasped an overhanging fir branch and swung himself over the ledge. now, that particular branch was no longer youthful and strong, and consequently when it felt the full weight of west's one hundred and thirty-five pounds it simply broke in his hand, and the boy started down the steep slope with a rapidity that rather unnerved him and brought an involuntary cry of alarm to his lips. it was the cry that was the means of saving him from painful results, since at the bottom of the bank lay a bed of good-sized rocks that would have caused many an ugly bruise had he fallen among them. but suddenly, as he went falling, slipping, clutching wildly at the elusive weeds, he was brought up with a suddenness that drove the breath from his body. weak and panting, he struggled up to the top of the jutting ledge, assisted by two strong arms, and throwing himself upon it looked wonderingly around for his rescuer. above him towered the boy in the straw hat. chapter ii. station road and river path. traveling north by rail up the hudson valley you will come, when some two hours from new york, to a little stone depot nestling at the shoulder of a high wooded hill. to reach it the train suddenly leaves the river a mile back, scurries across a level meadow, shrills a long blast on the whistle, and pauses for an instant at hillton. if your seat chances to be on the left side of the car, and if you look quickly just as the whistle sounds, you will see in the foreground a broad field running away to the river, and in it an oval track, a gayly colored grand stand, and just beyond, at some distance from each other, what appear to the uninitiated to be two gallows. farther on rises a gentle hill, crowned with massive elms, from among which tower the tops of a number of picturesque red-brick buildings. then the train hurries on again, under the shadow of mount adam, where in the deep maple woods the squirrels leap all day among the tree tops and where the sunlight strives year after year to find its way through the thick shade, and once more the river is beside you, the train is speeding due north again, and you have, perhaps without knowing it, caught a glimpse of hillton academy. from the little stone station a queer old coach rumbles away down a wide country road. it carries the mail and the village supplies and, less often, a traveler; and the driver, "old joe" pike, has grown gray between the station and the eagle tavern. if, instead of going on to the north, you had descended from the train, and had mounted to the seat beside "old joe," you would have made the acquaintance of a very worthy member of hillton society, and, besides, have received a deal of information as the two stout grays trotted along. "yes, that's the 'cademy up there among them trees, that buildin' with the tower's the 'cademy buildin', and the squatty one that you can just see is one of the halls--masters they call it, after the man that founded the school. the big, new buildin' is another of 'em, warren; and turner's beyond it; and if you look right sharp you can see bradley hall to the left there. "here's where we turn. just keep your foot on that mail-bag, if you please, sir. there's the village, over yonder to the right. kind of high up, ain't it? ev'ry time any one builds he goes higher up the hill. that last house is old man snyder's. snyder says he can't help lookin' down on the rest of us. he, he! "that road to the left we're comin' to 's academy road. this? well, they used to call it elm street, but it's generally just 'the station road' nowadays. now you can see the school pretty well, sir. that squatty place's the gymnasium; and them two littler houses of brick's the laboratories. then the house with the wide piazza, that's professor wheeler's house; he's the principal, you know. and the one next it, the yellow wooden house, i mean, that's what they call hampton house. it's a dormatory, same as the others, but it's smaller and more select, as you might say. "hold tight, sir, around this corner. most of them, the lads, sir, live in the village, however. you see, there ain't rooms enough in the 'cademy grounds. i heard the other day that there's nigh on to two hundred and twenty boys in the school this year; i can remember when they was'nt but sixty, and it was the biggest boardin' school for boys in new york state. and that wa'n't many years ago, neither. the boys? oh, they're a fine lot, sir; a bit mischievous at times, of course, but we're used to 'em in the village. and, bless you, sir, what can you expect from a boy anyhow? there ain't none of 'em perfect by a long shot; and i guess i ought to know--i've raised eight on 'em. there's the town hall and courthouse, and the methodist church beyond. and here we are, sir, at the eagle, and an hour before supper. thank you, sir. get ap!" * * * * * hillton academy claims the distinction of being well over a century old. founded in 1782 by one peter masters, ll.d., a very good and learned pedagogue, it has for more than a hundred years maintained its high estate among boys' schools. the original charter provides "that there be, and hereby is, established ... an academy for promoting piety and virtue, and for the education of youth in the english, latin, and greek languages, in writing, arithmetic, music, and the art of speaking, practical geometry, logic, and geography, and such other of the liberal arts and sciences or languages as opportunity may hereafter permit, and as the trustees, hereinafter provided, shall direct." in the catalogue of hillton academy you may find a proud list of graduates that includes ministers plenipotentiary, members of cabinets, governors, senators, representatives, supreme court judges, college presidents, authors, and many, many other equally creditable to their alma mater. the founder and first principal of the academy passed away in 1835, as an old record says, "full of honor, and commanding the respect and love of all who knew him." he was succeeded by that best-beloved of american schoolmasters, dr. hosea bradley, whose portrait, showing a tall, dignified, and hale old gentleman, with white hair, and dressed in ceremonious broadcloth, still hangs behind the chancel of the school chapel. dr. bradley resigned a few years before his death, in 1876, and the present principal, john ross wheeler, a.m., professor of latin, took the chair. as professor wheeler is a man of inordinate modesty, and as he is quite likely to read these words, i can say but little about him. perhaps the statement of a member of the upper middle class upon his return from a visit to the "office" will serve to throw some light on his character, said the boy: "i tell _you_ i don't want to go through with that again! i'll take a licking first! he says things that count! you see, 'wheels' has been a boy himself, and he hasn't forgotten it; and that--that makes a difference somehow!" yes, that disrespectful lad said "wheels!" i have no excuse to offer for him; i only relate the incident as it occurred. the buildings, many of them a hundred years old, are with one exception of warm-hued red brick. the gymnasium is built of red sandstone. ivy has almost entirely hidden the walls of the academy building and of masters hall. the grounds are given over to well-kept sod, and the massive elms throw a tapestry of grateful shade in summer, and in winter hold the snow upon their great limbs and transform the green into a fairyland of white. from the cluster of buildings the land slopes away southward, and along the river bluff a footpath winds past the society house, past the boathouse steps, down to the campus. the path is bordered by firs, and here and there a stunted maple bends and nods to the passing skiffs. opposite the boat house, a modest bit of architecture, lies long isle, just where the river seemingly pauses for a deep breath after its bold sweep around the promontory crowned by the academy buildings. here and there along the path are little wooden benches to tempt the passer to rest and view from their hospitable seats the grand panorama of gently flowing river, of broad marsh and meadow beyond, of tiny villages dotting the distances, and of the purple wall of haze marking the line of the distant mountains. opposite long isle, a wonderful fairyland inaccessible to the scholars save on rare occasions, the river path meets the angle of the station road, where the coach makes its first turn. then the path grows indistinct, merges into a broad ten-acre plot whereon are the track, gridiron, baseball ground, and the beginning of the golf links. this is the campus. and here is stony bunker, and beyond it is the bluff and the granite ledge; and lo! here we are back again at the point from which we started on our journey of discovery; back to outfield west and to the boy in the ridiculous straw hat. chapter iii. outfield west. it was several moments before west recovered his breath enough to speak, during which time he sat and gazed at his rescuer in amazement not unmixed with curiosity. and the rescuer looked down at west in simple amusement. "thanks," gasped west at length. "i suppose i'd have broke my silly neck if you hadn't given me a hand just when you did." the other nodded. "you're welcome, of course; but i don't believe you'd have been very much hurt. what's that thing?" nodding toward the brassie, still tightly clutched in west's hand. "a bras--a golf club. i was knocking a ball around a bit, and it went over the cliff here." "i should think golf was a rather funny sort of a game." "it isn't funny at all, if you know anything about it," replied west a trifle sharply. the rescuer was on dangerous ground, had he but known it. "isn't it? well, i guess it is all in getting used to it. i don't believe i'd care much for tumbling over cliffs that way; i should think it would use a fellow up after a while." "look here," exclaimed west, "you saved me an ugly fall, and i'm very much obliged, and all that; but--but you don't know the first thing about golf, and so you had better not talk about it." he made an effort to gain his feet, but sat down again with a groan. "you sit still a while," said the boy in the straw hat, "and i'll drop down and get that ball for you." suiting the action to the word, he lowered himself over the ledge, and slid down the bank to the beach. he dropped the golf ball in his pocket, after examining it with deep curiosity, and started back. but the return was less easy than the descent had been. the bank was gravelly, and his feet could gain no hold. several times he struggled up a yard or so, only to slip back again to the bottom. "i tell you what you do," called west, leaning over. "you get a bit of a run and get up as high as you can, and try and catch hold of this stick; then i'll pull you up." the other obeyed, and succeeded in getting a firm hold of the brassie, but the rest was none so easy. west pulled and the other boy struggled, and then, at last, when both were out of breath, the straw hat rose above the ledge and its wearer scrambled up. sitting down beside west he drew the ball from his pocket and handed it over. "what do they make those of?" he asked. "gutta percha," answered west. "then they're molded and painted this way. you've never played golf, have you?" "no, we don't know much about it down our way. i've played baseball and football some. do you play football?" "no, i should say not," answered west scornfully. "you see," more graciously, "golf takes up about all my time when i haven't got some lesson on; and this is the worst place for lessons you ever saw. a chap doesn't get time for anything else." the other boy looked puzzled. "well, don't you want to study?" west stared in amazement. "study! want to? of course i don't! do you?" "very much. that's what i came to school for." "oh!" west studied the strange youth dubiously. plainly, he was not at all the sort of boy one could teach golf to. "then why were you trying for the football team awhile ago?" "because next to studying i want to play football more than anything else. don't you think i'll have time for it?" "you bet! and say, you ought to learn golf. it's the finest sport going." west's hopes revived. a fellow that wanted sport, if only football, could not be a bad sort. besides, he would get over wanting to study; that, to west, was a most unnatural desire. "there isn't half a dozen really first-class players in school. you get some clubs and i'll teach you the game." "that's very good of you," answered the boy in the straw hat, "and i'm very much obliged, but i don't think i'll have time. you see i'm in the upper middle, and they say that it's awfully hard to keep up with. still, i should really like to try my hand at it, and if i have time i'll ask you to show me a little about it. i expect you're the best player here, aren't you?" west, extremely gratified, tried to conceal his pleasure. "oh, i don't know. there's wesley blair--he's captain of the school eleven, you know--he plays a very good game, only he has a way of missing short puts. and then there's louis whipple. the only thing about whipple is that he tries to play with too few clubs. he says a fellow can play just as well with a driver and a putter and a niblick as he can with a dozen clubs. of course, that's nonsense. if whipple would use some brains about his clubs he'd make a rather fair player. there are one or two other fellows in school who are not so bad. but i believe," magnanimously, "that if blair had more time for practicing he could beat _me_." west allowed his hearer a moment in which to digest this. the straw hat was tilted down over the eyes of its wearer, who was gazing thoughtfully over the river. "i suppose he's kept pretty busy with football." "yes, he's daft about it. otherwise he's a fine chap. by the way, where'd you learn to kick a ball that way?" "on the farm. i used to practice when i didn't have much to do, which wasn't very often. jerry green and i--jerry's our hired man--we used to get out in the cow pasture and kick. then i played a year with our grammar-school eleven." "well, that was great work. if you could only drive a golf ball like that! say, what's your name?" "joel march." "mine's outfield west. the fellows call me 'out' west. my home's in pleasant city, iowa. you come from maine, don't you?" "yes; marchdale. it's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a few houses. we've lived there--our family, i mean--for over a hundred years." "phew!" whistled west. "dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's been there only forty years. great gobble! we'd better be scooting back to school. come on. i'm all right now, though i _was_ a bit lame after that tumble." the two boys scrambled up the bank and set out along the river path. the sun had gone down behind the mountains, and purple shadows were creeping up from the river. the tower of the academy building still glowed crimson where the sun-rays shone on the windows. "where's your room?" asked west. "thirty-four masters hall," answered joel march; for now that we have twice been introduced to him there is no excuse for us to longer ignore his name. "mine's in hampton house," said west. "number 2. i have it all to myself. who's in with you?" "a fellow named sproule." "'dickey' sproule? he's an awful cad. why didn't you get a room in the village? you have lots more fun there; and you can get a better room too; although some of the rooms in warren are not half bad." "they cost too much," replied march. "you see, father's not very well off, and can't help me much. he pays my tuition, and i've enough money of my own that i've earned working out to make up the rest. so, of course, i've got to be careful." "well, you're a queer chap!" exclaimed west. "why?" asked joel march. "oh, i don't know. wanting to study, and earning your own schooling, and that sort of thing." "oh, i suppose your father has plenty of money, hasn't he?" "gobs! i have twenty dollars a month allowance for pocket money." "i wish i had," answered march. "you must have a good deal saved up by the end of the year." west stared. "saved? why, i'm dead broke this minute. and i owe three bills in town. don't tell any one, because it's against the rules to have bills, you know. anyhow, what's the good of saving? there's lots more." it was march's turn to stare. "what do you spend it for?" he asked. "oh, golf clubs and balls, and cakes and pies and things," answered west carelessly. "then a fellow has to dress a little, or the other fellows look down on you." "do they?" march cast a glance over his own worn apparel. "then i guess i must try their eyes a good deal." "well, i wouldn't care--much," answered west halfheartedly. "though of course that hat--" "yes, i suppose it is a little late for straws." west nodded heartily. "i was going to get a felt in boston, but--well, i saw something else i wanted worse; and it was my own money." "what was it?" asked west curiously. "a book." west whistled. "well, you can get a pretty fair one in the village at grove's. and--and a pair of trousers if you want them." march nodded, noncommittingly. they had reached the gymnasium. "i'm going in for a shower," said west. "you'd better come along." march shook his head. "i guess not to-night. it's most supper time, and i want to read a little first. good-night." "good-night," answered west. "i'm awfully much obliged for what you did, you know. come and see me to-morrow if you can; number 2 hampton. good-night." joel march turned and retraced his steps to his dormitory. he found his roommate reading at the table when he entered number 34. sproule looked up and observed: "i saw you with outfield west a moment ago. it looks rather funny for a 'grind,' as you profess to be, hobnobbing with a hampton house swell." "i haven't professed to be a 'grind,'" answered joel quietly, as he opened his greek. "well, your actions profess it. and west will drop you quicker than a hot cake when he finds it out. why, he never studies a lick! none of those hampton house fellows do." march made no answer, but presently asked, in an effort to be sociable: "what are you reading?" "the three cutters; ever read it?" "no; what's it about?" "oh, pirates and smuggling and such." "i should think it would be first rate." "it is. i'd let you take it after i'm through, only it isn't mine; i borrowed it from billy cozzens." "thanks," answered joel, "but i don't believe i'd have time for it." "humph!" grunted sproule. "there you are again, putting on airs. just wait until you've been here two or three months; i guess i won't hear so much about study then." joel received this taunt in silence, and, burying his head in his hands, tackled the story of cyrus the younger. joel had already come to a decision regarding richard sproule, a decision far from flattering to that youth. but in view of the fact that the two were destined to spend much of their time together, joel recognized the necessity of making the best of his roommate, and of what appeared to be an unsatisfactory condition. during the two days that joel had been in school sproule had nagged him incessantly upon one subject or another, and so far joel had borne the persecution in silence. "but some day," mused joel, "i'll just _have_ to punch his head!" richard sproule was a member of the senior class, and monitor for the floor upon which he had his room. he had, perhaps, no positive meanness in him. most of his unpleasantness was traceable to envy. just at present he was cultivating a dislike for joel because of the latter's enviable success at lessons and because a resident of hampton house had taken him up. sproule cared nothing for out-of-door amusements and hated lessons. his whole time, except when study was absolutely compulsory, was taken up with the reading of books of adventure; and captain marryat and fenimore cooper were far closer acquaintances than either cicero or caesar. richard sproule was popularly disliked and shunned. in the dining hall that evening joel ate and relished his first hearty meal since he had arrived at hillton. the exercise had brought back a naturally good appetite, which had been playing truant. the dining hall takes up most of the ground floor of warren hall. eight long, roomy tables are arranged at intervals, with broad aisles between, through which the white-aproned waiters hurry noiselessly about. to-night there was a cheerful clatter of spoons and forks and a loud babel of voices, and joel found himself hugely enjoying the novelty of eating in the presence of more than a hundred and fifty other lads. outfield west and his neighbors in hampton house occupied a far table, and there the noise was loudest. west was dressed like a young prince, and his associates were equally as splendid. as joel observed them, west glanced across and saw him, and waved a hilarious greeting with a soup spoon. joel nodded laughingly back, and then settled in his chair with an agreeable sensation of being among friends. this feeling grew when, toward the end of his meal, wesley blair, in leaving the hall, saw him and stopped beside his chair. "how did you get on this afternoon?" blair asked pleasantly. "very well, thanks," joel replied. "that's good. by the way, go and see mr. beck to-morrow and get examined. tell him i sent you. you'll find him at the gym at about eleven. and don't forget to show up to-morrow at practice." the elder youth passed on, leaving joel the center of interest for several moments. his left-hand neighbor, a boy who affected very red neckties, and who had hitherto displayed no interest in his presence, now turned and asked if he knew blair. "no," replied joel. "i met him only to-day on the football field." "are you on the 'leven?" "no, but i'm trying for it." "well, i guess you'll make it; blair doesn't often go out of his way to encourage any one." "i hope i shall," answered joel. "who is mr. beck, please?" "he's director of the gym. you have to be examined, you know; if you don't come up to requirements you can't go in for football." "oh, thank you." and joel applied himself to his pudding, and wondered if there was any possibility of his not passing. apparently there was not; for when, on the following day, he presented himself at the gymnasium, he came through the ordeal of measurement and test with flying colors, and with the command to pay special attention to the chest-weights, was released, at liberty to "go in" for any sport he liked. despite his forebodings, the studies proved not formidable, and at four o'clock joel reported for football practice with a comforting knowledge of duties performed. an hour and a half of steady practice, consisting of passing, falling, and catching punts, left the inexperienced candidates in a state of breathless collapse when blair dismissed the field. west did not turn up at the gridiron, but a tiny scarlet speck far off on the golf links proclaimed his whereabouts. on the way back to the grounds a number of youthful juniors, bravely arrayed in their first suits of football togs, loudly denounced the vigor of the practice, and pantingly made known to each other their intentions to let the school get along as best it might without their assistance on its eleven. they would be no great loss, thought joel, as he trudged along in the rear of the procession, and their resignation would probably save blair the necessity of incurring their dislikes when the process of "weeding-out" began. although no special attention had been given to joel during practice, yet he had been constantly aware of blair's observation, and had known that several of the older fellows were watching his work with interest. his feat of the previous day had already secured to him a reputation throughout the school, and as the little groups of boys passed him he heard himself alluded to as "the country fellow that punted fifty yards yesterday," or "the chap that made that kick." and when the three long, steep flights of masters confronted him he took them two steps at a time, and arrived before the door of number 34 breathless, but as happy as a schoolboy can be. chapter iv. the head coach. "upper middle class: members will meet at the gym at 2.15, to march to depot and meet mr. remsen." "louis whipple, _pres't_." this was the notice pasted on the board in academy building the morning of joel's fifth day at school. beside it were similar announcements to members of the other classes. as he stood in front of the board joel felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turned to find outfield west by his side. "are you going along?" asked that youth. "i don't believe so," answered joel. "i have a latin recitation at two." "well, chuck it! everybody is going--and the band, worse luck!" "is there a band?" west threw up his hands in mock despair. "is there a _band? is_ there a band! mr. march, your ignorance surprises and pains me. it is quite evident that you have never heard the hillton academy band; no one who has ever heard it forgets. yes, my boy, there _is_ a band, and it plays washington post, and hail columbia, and hilltonians; and then it plays them all over again." "but i thought mr. remsen was not coming until saturday?" "that," replied west, confidentially, "was his intention, but he heard of a youngster up here who is such an astonishingly fine punter that he decided to come at once and see for himself; and so he telegraphed to blair this morning. and you and i, my lad, will march--see?--with the procession, and sing--" "'hilltonians, hilltonians, your crimson banner fling unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing! hilltonians! hilltonians! we stand to do or die, beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!'" and, seizing joel by the arm, west dragged him out of the corridor and down the steps into the warm sunlight of a september noon, chanting the school song at the top of his voice. a group of boys on the green shouted lustily back, and the occupant of a neighboring window threw a cushion with unerring precision at west's head. stopping to deposit this safely amid the branches halfway up an elm tree, the two youths sped across the yard toward warren hall and the dinner table. "you sit at our table, march," announced west. "digbee's away, and you can have his seat. come on." joel followed, and found himself in the coveted precincts of the hampton house table, and was introduced to five youths, who received him very graciously, and invited him to partake of such luxuries as pickled walnuts and peach marmalade. joel was fast making the discovery that to be vouched for by outfield west invariably secured the highest consideration. "i've been telling march here that it is his bounden duty to go to the station," announced west to the table at large. "of course it is," answered cooke and cartwright and somers, and two others whose names joel did not catch. "the wealth, beauty, and fashion will attend in a body," continued cooke, a stout, good-natured-looking boy of about nineteen, who, as joel afterward learned, was universally acknowledged to be the dullest scholar in school. "patriotism and--er--school spirit, you know, march, demand it." and cooke helped himself bountifully to west's cherished bottle of catsup. "this is remsen's last year as coach, you see," explained west, as he rescued the catsup. "i believe every fellow feels that we ought to show our appreciation of his work by turning out in force. it's the least we can do, i think. mind you, i don't fancy football a little bit, but remsen taught us to win from st. eustace last year, and any one that helps down eustace is all right and deserves the gratitude of the school and all honest folk." "hear! hear!" cried somers. "i'd like very well to go," said joel, "but i've got a recitation at two." cooke looked across at him sorrowfully. "are you going in for study?" he asked. "i'm afraid so," answered joel laughingly. "my boy, don't do it. there's nothing gained. i've tried it, and i speak from sad experience." "but how do you get through?" questioned joel. "i will tell you." the stout youth leaned over and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "i belong to the same society as 'wheels,' and he doesn't dare expel me." "i wish," said joel in the laugh that followed, "that i could join that society." "easy enough," answered cooke earnestly. "i will put your name up at our next meeting. all you have to do is to forget all the greek and latin and higher mathematics you ever knew, give your oath never to study again, and appear at chapel two consecutive mornings in thigh boots and a plaid ulster." despite west's pleas joel refused to "cut" his recitation, promising, however, to follow to the station as soon as he might. "it's only a long mile," west asserted. "if you cut across turner's meadow you'll make it in no time. and the train isn't due until three. you'll see me standing on the truck." and so joel had promised, and later, from the seclusion of the schoolroom, which to-day was well-nigh empty, had heard the procession take its way down the road, headed by the school band, which woke the echoes with the brave strains of the washington post march. to-day the aeneid lost much of its interest, and when the recitation was over joel clapped his new brown felt hat on his head--for west had conducted him to the village outfitter the preceding day--and hurried up to his room to leave his book and pad. "dickey" sproule was stretched out upon the lounge--a piece of personal property of which he was very proud--reading kenilworth. "hello!" cried joel, "why aren't you over at the lab? isn't this your day for exploding things?" sproule looked up and yawned. "oh, i cut it. what's the good of knowing a lot of silly chemistry stuff when you're going to be an author?" "i should say it might be very useful to you; but i've never been an author, and perhaps i'm mistaken. want to go to the station?" "what, to meet that stuck-up remsen? i guess not. catch me walking a mile and a half to see him!" "well, i'm going," answered joel. an inarticulate growl was the only response, and joel took the stairs at leaps and bounds, and nearly upset mrs. cowles in the lower hall. "dear me, mr. march!" she exclaimed, as together they gathered up a load of towels, "is it only you, then? i thought surely it was a dozen boys at least." "i'm very sorry," laughed joel. "i'm going to the station. mr. remsen is coming, you know. have i spoiled these?" "no, indeed. so mr. remsen's coming. well, run along. i'd go myself if i wasn't an old woman. i knew mr. remsen ten years ago, and a more bothersome lad we never had. he had number 15, and we never knew what to expect next. one week he'd set the building on fire with his experiments, and the next he'd break all the panes in the window with his football. but then he was such a nice boy!" and with this seemingly contradictory statement the matron trudged away with her armful of towels, and joel took up his flight again, across the yard to academy road, and thence over the fence into turner's meadows, where the hill starts on its rise to the village. skirting the hill, he trudged on until presently the station could be seen in the distance. and as he went he reviewed the five days of his school existence. he remembered the strange feeling of loneliness that had oppressed him on his arrival, when, just as the sun was setting over the river, he had dropped down from the old stage coach in front of academy hall, a queer-looking, shabbily dressed country boy with a dilapidated leather valise and a brown paper parcel almost as big. he remembered the looks of scorn and derision that had met him as he had taken his way to the office, and, with a glow at his heart, the few simple, kindly words of welcome and the firm grasp of the hand from the principal. then came the first day at school, with the dread examinations, which after all turned out to be fairly easy, thanks to joel's faculty for remembering what he had once learned. he remembered, too, the disparaging remarks of "dickey" sproule, who had predicted joel's failure at the "exams.". "who ever heard," sproule had asked scornfully, "of a fellow making the upper middle class straight out of a country grammar school, without any coaching?" but when the lists were posted, joel's name was down, and sproule had taken deep offense thereat. "the school's going to the dogs," he had complained. "examinations aren't nearly as hard as they were when _i_ entered." the third day, when he had kicked that football down the field, and, later, had made the acquaintance of outfield west, seemed now to have been the turning point from gloom to sunshine. since then joel had changed from the unknown, derided youth in the straw hat to some one of importance; a some one to whom the captain of the school eleven spoke whenever they met, a chum of the most envied boy in the academy, and a candidate for the football team for whom every fellow predicted success. but, best of all, in those few days he had gained the liking of well-nigh all of the teachers by the hearty way in which he pursued knowledge; for he went at caesar as though he were trying for a touch-down, and tackled the foundations of rhetoric as though that study was an opponent on the gridiron. even professor durkee, known familiarly among the disrespectful as "turkey," lowered his tones and spoke with something approaching to mildness when addressing joel march. altogether, the world looked very bright to joel to-day, and when, as presently, he drew near to the little stone depot, the sounds of singing and cheering that greeted his ears chimed in well with his mood. truly "all hillton" had turned out! the station platform and the trim graveled road surrounding it were dark with hilltonian humanity and gay with crimson bunting. afar down the road a shrill long whistle announced the approach of the train, and a comparative hush fell on the crowd. joel descried outfield west at once, and pushed his way to him through the throng just as the train came into sight down the track. west was surrounded on the narrow baggage truck by some half dozen of the choice spirits from hampton house, and joel's advent was made the occasion for much sport. "ah, he comes! the professor comes!" shouted west. "he tears himself from his studies and joins us in our frivolity," declaimed cooke. "that's something you'll never have a chance of doing, tom," answered cartwright, as joel was hauled on to the truck. "you'll never get near enough to a study to have to be torn away." "study, my respected young friend," answered cooke gravely, "is the bane of the present unenlightened age. in the good old days when everybody was either a greek or a roman or a barbarian, and so didn't have to study languages, and--" "shut up! here's the train," cried west. "now every fellow cheer, or he'll have me to fight." "hooray! hooray! hooray!" yelled cooke. "somebody punch him, please," begged west, and somers and another obliging youth thrust the offender off the truck and sat on his head. the train slowed down, stopped, and a porter appeared laden with a huge valise. this was the signal for a rush, and the darkey was instantly relieved of his burden and hustled back grinning to the platform. then joel caught sight of a gentleman in a neat suit of gray tweed descending the steps, and saw the pupils heave and push their ways toward him; and for a sight the arrival was hidden from view. then the cheers for "coach!" burst enthusiastically forth, the train was speeding from sight up the track, the band was playing hilltonians, and the procession took up its march back to the academy. when he at last caught a fair sight of stephen remsen, joel saw a man of about twenty-eight years, gayly trudging at the head of the line, his handsome face smiling brightly as he replied to the questions and sallies of the more elderly youths who surrounded him. joel's heart went out to stephen remsen at once. and neither then nor at any future time did he wonder at it. "that," thought joel, "is the kind of fellow i'd like for a big brother. although i never _could_ grow big enough to lick him." chapter v. a rainy afternoon. the following day joel arrived on the football field to discover the head coach in full charge. he was talking earnestly to wesley blair. his dress was less immaculate than upon the preceding afternoon, although not a whit less attractive to joel. a pair of faded and much-darned red-and-black striped stockings were surmounted by a pair of soiled and patched moleskin trousers. his crimson jersey had faded at the shoulders to a pathetic shade of pink, and one sleeve was missing, having long since "gone over to the enemy." in contrast to these articles of apparel was his new immaculate canvas jacket, laced for the first time but a moment before. but he looked the football man that he was from head to toe, and joel admired him immensely and was extremely proud when, as he was passing, blair called him over and introduced him to remsen. the latter shook hands cordially, and allowed his gaze to travel appreciatingly over joel's five feet eight inches of bone and muscle. "i'm glad to know you, march," he said, "and glad that you are going to help us win." the greeting was so simple and sincere that joel ran down the field a moment later, feeling that football honors were even more desirable than before. to-day the throng of candidates had dwindled down to some forty, of whom perhaps twenty were new men. the first and second elevens were lined up for the first time, and joel was placed at left half in the latter. an hour of slow practice followed. the ball was given to the first eleven on almost every play, and as the second eleven were kept entirely on the defensive, joel had no chance to show his ability at either rushing or kicking. remsen was everywhere at once, scolding, warning, and encouraging in a breath, and the play took on a snap and vim which wesley blair, unassisted, had not been able to introduce. after it was over, joel trotted back with the others to the gymnasium and took his first shower bath. on the steps outside was west, and the two boys took their way together to the academy building. "did you hear remsen getting after bart cloud?" asked west. "no. who is cloud?" "he plays right half or left half, i forget which, on the first eleven," answered west, "and he's about the biggest cad in the school. his father's an alderman in new york, they say, and has lots of money; but he doesn't let bart handle much of it for him. he played on the team last year and did good work. but this season he's got a swelled head and thinks he doesn't have to play to keep his place; thinks it's mortgaged to him, you see. remsen opened his eyes to-day, i guess! whipple says remsen called him down twice, and then told him if he didn't take a big brace he'd lose his position. cloud got mad and told clausen--clausen's his chum--that if he went off the team he'd leave school. i guess few of us would be sorry. bartlett cloud's a coward from the toes up, march, and if he tries to make it unpleasant for you, why, just offer to knock him down and he'll change his tune." "thank you for telling me," responded joel, "but i don't expect to have much to do with him; i don't like his looks. i know the boy you mean, now. he's the fellow that called me names--'country,' you know, and such--the first day we had practice. i heard him, but didn't let on. i didn't mind much, but it didn't win my love." west laughed uproariously and slapped joel on the back. "oh, you're a queer sort, march. i'd have had a fight on the spot. but you--say, you're going to be an awful grind, march, if you keep on in your present terrible course. you won't have time for any fun at all. and i was going to teach you golf, you know. it's not nice of you, it really isn't." "i'll play golf with you the first afternoon we don't have practice, west, honestly. i'm awfully sorry i'm such a crank about lessons, but you see i've made up my mind to try for the--the--what scholarship is that?" "carmichael?" suggested west. joel shook his head. "no, the big one." west stared. "do you mean the goodwin scholarship?" "yes, that's the one," answered joel. west whistled. "well, you're not modest to hurt, march. why, man, that's a terror! you have to have the greek alphabet backward, and never miss chapel all term to get a show at that. the goodwin brings two hundred and forty dollars!" "that's why i want it," answered joel. "if i win it it will pay my expenses for this year and part of next." "well, of course i hope you'll make it," answered west, "but i don't believe you have much show. there's knox, and reeves, and--and two or three others all trying for it. knox won the schall scholarship last year. that carries two hundred even." "well, anyhow, i'll try hard," answered joel resolutely. "of course. you ought to have it; you need it. did i tell you that i won a masters scholarship in my junior year? yes, i did really. it was forty dollars. i remember that i bought two new putters and a jolly fine caddie bag." "you could do better than that if you'd try, west. you're awfully smart." "who? me?" laughed west. "pshaw! i can't do any more than pass my exams. of course i'm smart enough when it comes to lofting out of a bad lie or choosing a good club; but--" he shook his head doubtfully, but nevertheless seemed pleased at the idea. "no, i mean in other ways," continued joel earnestly. "you could do better than half the fellows if you tried. and i wish you would try, west. you rich fellows in hampton house could set such a good example for the youngsters if you only would. as it is, they admire you and envy you and think that it's smart to give all their time to play. i know, because i heard some of them talking about it the other day. 'you don't have to study,' said one; 'look at those swells in hampton. they just go in for football and golf and tennis and all that, and they never have any trouble about passing exams.'" west whistled in puzzled amazement. "why, march, you're setting out as a reformer; and you're talking just like one of those good boys in the story books. what's up?" joel smiled at the other boy's look of wonderment. "nothing's up, except that i want you to promise to study more. of course, i know it sounds cheeky, west, but i don't mean to meddle in your business. only--only--" joel hesitated. "only what? out with it!" said west. they had reached the academy building and had paused on the steps. "well, only--that you've been very kind to me, west, and i hate to see you wasting your time and know that you will wish you hadn't later, when you've left school, you know. that's all. it isn't that i want to meddle--" there was a moment of silence. then: "the idea of your caring!" answered west. "you're a good chap, march, and--i tell you what i'll do. i _will_ go in more for lessons, after next week. you see there's the golf tournament next saturday week, and i've got to put in a lot of hard practice between now and then. but after that i'll try and buckle down. you're right about it, march, i ought to do more studying, and i will _try_; although i don't believe i'll make much of a success as a 'grind.' and as to the--the--the rest that you said, why, i haven't been extraordinarily kind; i just sort of took to you that day on the campus because you looked to be such a plucky, go-ahead, long-legged chap, you know. i thought i'd rescue you from the ranks of the lowly and teach you golf and make a man of you generally. instead of that"--west gave one of his expressive whistles--"instead of that, why, here you are turning me into a regular 'masters hall grind.' thus do our brightest dreams fade. well, i'm oil. don't forget the upper middle class meeting to-night. they're going to vote on the class crew question, and we want all the votes we can get to down the fellows that don't want to pay the assessment. good-night." and outfield west took himself off toward his room, his broad shoulders well back, and his clear, merry voice singing the school song as he strode along. joel turned into the library, feeling well satisfied with the result of his meddling, to pore over a reference book until supper time. the following morning joel awoke to find a cold rain falling from a dull sky. the elms in the yard were dripping from every leaf and branch, and the walks held little gray pools that made the trip to breakfast a series of splashes. in the afternoon joel got into his oldest clothes and tramped over to hampton house. the window of west's room looked bright and cheerful, for a big wood fire was blazing on the hearth within. joel kicked the mud from his shoes, and passing through the great white door with its old-fashioned fanlight above, tapped at west's room. a faint response from beyond the portal summoned him in. the owner of the room was sandpapering a golf shaft before the fire, and a deep expression of discontent was on his face. but his countenance lighted up at sight of his visitor, and he leaped to his feet and drew a second armchair before the hearth. "you're a brick, march! i was just wishing you roomed near enough so that i could ask you to come over and talk a bit. isn't it a horrible day?" "it's awfully wet; but then it has to rain sometimes, i suppose," answered joel as he took off his overcoat. "yes, but it doesn't have to rain just when a fellow has fixed to practice golf, does it?" west growled. joel laughed. "i thought the real, simon-pure golfer didn't mind the weather." "he doesn't as long as he can get over the ground, but the links here is like a quagmire when it rains. but never mind, we'll have a good chummy afternoon. and i've got some bully gingersnaps. do you like gingersnaps?" joel replied in the affirmative, and west produced a box of them from under the bed. "i have to keep these kinds of things hid, you know, because blair and cooke and the rest of the fellows would eat them all up. by the way, i made up a list of the things you'll have to get if you're going in for golf. here it is. of course, i only put down one of each, and only a dozen balls. i'll get the catalogue and we'll reckon up and see how much they come to." "but i don't think i can afford to buy anything like this, west," answered joel doubtfully. "nonsense! you've got to! a fellow has to have _necessities_! what's the first thing on the list? read 'em off, will you?" "driving cleek," read joel. "yes, but never mind the clubs. there are seven of them on the list and you can get pretty fair ones for a dollar and a half each. what's next?" "but that makes ten dollars and a half," cried joel. "of course it does. and cheap enough, too. why, some of mine cost three dollars apiece! what's next?" "one dozen silvertowns." "correct; four dollars. mark it down. next?" "caddie bag," responded joel faintly. "a dollar and a half. next." "but, west, i can't afford these things." "nonsense, march! still--well, you can call the bag a dollar even; though the dollar ones aren't worth much. mine cost five." "but you have coat and trousers down. and shoes, and--" "well, you can leave the shoes out, and get some hobnails and put them on the soles of any good heavy shoes. then there's gloves. they cost about a dollar and a half. as for trousers, you _can_ do with ordinary ones, but--you've got to have a coat, march. a chap can't swing a club in a tight-fitting jacket like the one you've got on. now let's reckon up." "there's no use in doing that, west," laughed joel. "i can't buy one of these things, to say nothing of the whole list. i'm saving up for my football togs, and after i have those i sha'n't be able to buy anything else for months." west settled his chin in his hand and scowled at the flames. "it's too bad, march; and i put your name up for the golf club, too. you will join that, won't you? you must, now that i've put you up. it's only a dollar initiation fee and fifty cents dues." "very well, then, i'll join the club," answered joel. "though i don't see what use there is in it, since i haven't anything to play with and wouldn't know how to play if i had." "well, i'm going to teach you, you know. and as for clubs and things, why, i've got some oldish ones that will do fairly well; a beginner doesn't need extra good ones, you see. and then, for clothes--well, i guess fellows _have_ played in ordinary trousers and coat; and i've played myself in tennis shoes. and if you don't mind cold hands, why, you needn't have gloves. so, after all, we'll get on all right." west was quite cheerful again and, with a wealth of clubs--divers, spoons, bulgers, putters, baps, niblicks, and many other sorts--on the rug before him, chattered on about past deeds of prowess on the links until the room grew dark and the lamps in the yard shone fitfully through the rain, by which time a dozen clubs in various states of repair had been laid aside, the gingersnaps had been totally demolished, and west had forgotten all about the meanness of the weather and his lost practice. then cooke and somers demanded admission, to the annoyance of both west and joel, and the lamps were lighted, and joel said good-night and hurried back to his room in order to secure a half hour's study ere supper time. chapter vi. the practice game. "first and second eleven rushes and quarters down the field and practice formations. backs remain here to kick!" shouted wesley blair. it was a dull and cold afternoon. the last recitation was over and half the school stood shivering about the gridiron or played leapfrog to keep warm. stephen remsen, in the grimiest of moleskins, stood talking to the captain, and, in obedience to the command of the latter, some fifteen youths, clad for the coming fray, were trotting down the field, while eight others, backs and substitute backs on the two teams, passed and dropped on the pigskin in an endeavor to keep warm. the first and second elevens were to play their first real game of the season at four o'clock, and meanwhile the players were down for a stiff thirty minutes of practice. joel march shivered with the rest of the backs and waited for the coach and the captain to finish their consultation. presently blair trotted off down the field and remsen turned to the backs. "browne, meach, and turner, go down to about the middle of the field and return the balls. cloud, take a ball over nearer the side-line and try some drop-kicks. post, you do the same, please. and let me see, what is your name?" addressing a good-looking and rather slight youth. "ah, yes, clausen. well, clausen, you and wills try some punts over there, and do try and get the leg swing right. march, take that ball and let me see you punt." then began a time of sore tribulation for joel; for not until ten minutes had passed did the ball touch his toe. his handling was wrong, his stepping out was wrong, and his leg-swing was very, very wrong! but he heard never a cross word from his instructor, and so shut his lips tight and bore the lecture in good-humored silence. "there," announced remsen finally, "that's a lot better. now kick." joel caught the ball nicely, and sent it sailing far down the field. "that's a good kick, but it would have been better had you landed higher up on your foot. try and catch the ball just in front of the arch of the foot. you take it about on the toe-cap. remember that the broader the surface that propels the ball the greater will be the accuracy--that is, the ball has less chance of sliding off to one side when the striking surface is large. here's your ball coming. now try again, and remember what i have said about the swing at the hip. forget that you have any joints at all, and just let the right side of you swing round as it will." then remsen passed on to the next man and joel pegged away, doing better and better, as he soon discovered, every try, until a whistle blew from the middle of the field and the players gathered about the captains on the fifty-five-yard line. joel was down to play left half on the second eleven, and beside him, at right, was wills, a promising lower middle boy, who was an excellent runner, but who, so far, had failed to develop any aptitude for kicking. cloud and clausen occupied similar positions on the first eleven, and behind them stood wesley blair, the best full-back that hillton academy had possessed for many years. the full-back on the second eleven was ned post, a veteran player, but "as erratic as a mule," to use the words of stephen remsen. the first eleven was about six pounds heavier in the line than the team captained by louis whipple, who played at quarter, and about the same weight behind the line. it was a foregone conclusion that the first would win, but whether the second would score was a mooted point. joel felt a bit nervous, now that he was in his first game of consequence, but forgot all about it a moment later when the whistle blew and greer, the big first eleven center, tore through their line for six yards, followed by wallace clausen with the ball. then there was a delay, for the right half when he tried to arise found that his ankle was strained, and so had to limp off the ground supported by greer and barnard, the one-hundred-and-sixty-pound right tackle. turner, a new player, went on, and the ball was put in play again, this time for a try through left tackle. but the second's line held like a stone wall, and the runner was forced back with the loss of a yard. then the first eleven guards fell back, and when the formation hit the second's line the latter broke like paper, and the first streamed through for a dozen yards. and so it went until the second found itself only a few yards from its goal line. there, with the backs pressed close against the forwards, the second held and secured the ball on downs, only to lose it again by a fumble on the part of post. then a delayed pass gained two yards for the first and a mass at left tackle found another. but the next play resulted disastrously, for when the ball was passed back there was no one to take it, and the quarter was borne back several yards before his own astounded players could come to his assistance. "that about settles cloud," whispered post to joel, as they hurried up to take the new position. "that was his signal to take the leather through right end, and he was fast asleep. remsen's laying for him." but the advantage to the second was of short duration, for back went the first's guards again, and down came the ball to their goal line with short, remorseless gains, and presently, when their quarter knelt on the last white line, the dreaded happened, and blair lay between the posts with half the second eleven on top of him, but with the ball a yard over the line. an easy goal resulted, and just as the teams trotted back to mid-field the whistle sounded, and the first twenty-minute half was done. the players wrapped themselves warmly in blankets and squatted in the protection of the fence, and were immediately surrounded by the spectators. remsen and blair talked with this player and that, explaining his faults or saying a good word for his work. in the second half many of the second eleven went into the first, the deposed boys retiring to the side-lines, and several substitutes were put into the second. joel went back to full, ned post taking clausen's place at right half on the first eleven and turner becoming once more a spectator. it was the second eleven's ball, and joel raced down the field after the kick-off as far as their twenty-yard line, and there caught blair's return punt very neatly, ran three yards under poor interference, and was then seized by the mighty greer and hurled to earth with a shock that completely took the breath out of him for a moment. but he was soon on his feet again, and whipple gave him an encouraging slap as he trotted back to his place. the next play was an ordinary formation with the ends back, and the ball passed to left end for a run back of quarter and through the line outside of guard. it worked like a charm, and left end sped through with joel bracing him at the turn and the left half going ahead. four yards were netted, meach, the substitute left half, being tackled by post. in the mix-up that followed joel found himself sprawling over the runner, with cloud sitting astride the small of his back, a very uncomfortable part of the body with which to support a weighty opponent. but he would not have minded that alone; but when cloud arose his foot came into violent contact with joel's head, which caused that youth to see stars, and left a small cut back of his ear. "that wasn't an accident," muttered joel, as he picked himself up and eyed cloud. but the latter was unconcernedly moving to his position, and joel gave his head a shake or two and resolved to forgive and forget. a play similar to the last was next tried with an outlet on the other side, outside tackle. but it resulted in a loss of a yard, and at the next down the ball was thrown back to joel, who made a poor catch and followed it with a short high punt to the opponent's forty yards. "your head's cut, march," said wills, as they took up the new position. joel nodded. "cloud," he answered briefly. "punch him," answered wills. "he's mad because he made such a bull of his play in the other half. if he tries tricks with me--" "if he does, let him alone, if you want to stay on the team," said joel. "that sort of thing doesn't help. watch your chance and spoil a play of his. that's the best way to get even." the next ten minutes were spent in desperate attack on the part of the first and an equally desperate defense by the second eleven. twenty yards of gain for the former was the result, and the half was nearly up. on a first down blair ran back and joel, whispering "kick!" to himself, turned and raced farther back from the line. then the ball was snapped, there was a crossing of backs, and suddenly, far out around the right end came cloud with the pigskin tightly clutched, guarded by post and the left end. it was an unexpected play, and the second's halfs saw it too late. meach and wills were shouldered out of the way, and cloud ran free from his interference and bore down on joel, looking very big and ugly. it was cloud's opportunity to redeem himself, and with only a green full-back between him and the goal line his chances looked bright indeed. but he was reckoning without his host. joel started gingerly up to meet him. the field was streaming down on cloud's heels, but too far away to be in the running. ten yards distant from joel, cloud's right arm stretched out to ward off a tackle, and his face grew ugly. "keep off!" he hissed as joel prepared for a tackle. but joel had no mind for keeping off; that cut in his head was aching like everything, and his own advice to wills occurred to him and made him grin. cloud swerved sharply, but he was too heavy to be a good dodger, and with a leap joel was on him, tackling hard and true about the runner's hips. cloud struggled, made a yard, another, then came to earth with joel's head snugly pillowed on his shoulder. a shout arose from the crowd. the field came up and joel scrambled to his feet. cloud, his face red with chagrin and anger, leaped to his feet, and stepping toward joel aimed a vicious blow at his face. the latter ducked and involuntarily raised his fist; then, ere greer and some of the others stepped between, turned and walked away. "that will do, cloud," said remsen in sharp, incisive tones. "you may leave." and with a muttered word of anger cloud strode from the field, passing through the silent and unsympathetic throng with pale face and black looks. "first's ball down here," cried greer, and play went on; but joel had lost his taste for it, and when, a few minutes later, neither side having scored again, time was called, he trotted back to the gymnasium in a depressed mood. "you did great work," exclaimed outfield west, as he joined joel on the river path. "that settles cloud's chances. remsen was laying for him anyhow, you know, and then that 'slugging!' remsen hates dirty playing worse than anything, they say." "i'm sorry it happened, though," returned joel. "pshaw! don't you be afraid of cloud. he's all bluster." "i'm not afraid of him. but i'm sorry he lost the team through me. of course i couldn't have let him go by, and i don't suppose it could have been helped, but i wish some one else had tackled him." "of course, it couldn't have been helped," responded west cheerfully. "and i'm glad it couldn't. my! isn't cloud mad! i passed him a minute or two ago. 'you ought to try golf, bart,' said i. you should have seen the look he gave me. i guess it was rather like 'rubbing it in.'" and west grinned hugely at the recollection. "how about the tournament, west?" asked joel. "fine! there are twelve entries, and we're going to begin at nine in the morning. i did the fourth hole this afternoon in two, and the eighth in three. no one has ever done the fourth in two before; it's the bogey score. don't forget that you have promised to go around with me. they say whipple is practicing every morning over in turner's meadow. what with that and football he's a pretty busy lad, i dare say. don't forget, nine o'clock day after to-morrow." and outfield west waved his hand gayly and swung off toward hampton house, while joel entered the gymnasium and was soon enjoying the luxury of a shower bath and listening to the conversation of the others. "there'll be a shake-up to-morrow," observed warren as he rubbed himself dry with a big, crimson-bordered towel. "mr. remsen wasn't any too well pleased to-day. he's going to put greer on the scrub to-morrow." "that's where you might as well be," answered the big center good-naturedly. "the idea of playing a criss-cross with your right end on the side-line!" "we took two yards just the same," replied warren. "we gave it to you, my lad, because we knew that if you lost on such a fool play your name would be--well, anything but thomas 'stumpy' warren." the reply to this sally was a boot launched at the center rush, for tom warren's middle name was in reality saalfield, and "stumpy" was a cognomen rather too descriptive to be relished by the quarter-back. greer returned the missile with interest, and the fight grew warm, and boots and footballs and shin-guards filled the air. in the dining hall that evening interest was divided between the golf match to be played on the following saturday morning and the football game with the westvale grammar school in the afternoon. golf had fewer admirers than had the other sport, but what there were were fully as enthusiastic, and the coming tournament was discussed until joel's head whirled with such apparently outlandish terms as "bogey," "baffy," "put," "green," "foozle," and "tee." whipple, blair, and west all had their supporters, and joel learned a number of marvelous facts, as, for instance, that whipple had "driven from purgatory to the hill in five," that blair was "putting better than grimes did last year," and that "west had taken four to get out of sandy." all of which was undoubtedly intensely interesting, but was as so much sanskrit to joel; and he walked back to his room after supper with a greatly increased respect for the game of golf. chapter vii. a letter home. one of joel's letters written to his mother at about this time contains much that will prove of interest to the reader who has followed the fortunes of that youth thus far. it supplied a certain amount of information appreciated only by its author and its recipient: facts regarding woolen stockings; items about the manner in which the boy's washing was done; a short statement of his financial condition; a weak, but very natural, expression of home-longing. but such i will omit, as being too private in character for these pages. "... i don't think you need worry. outfield west is rather idle about study, but he doesn't give satan much of a show, for he's about the busiest fellow i know in school. he's usually up a good hour before breakfast, which we have at eight o'clock, and puts in a half hour practicing golf before chapel. then in the afternoon he's at it again when the weather will let him, and he generally spends his evenings, when not studying, in mending his clubs or painting balls. then he's one of the canvassers for the class crew; and belongs to the senior debating club, which draws its members from the two upper classes; and he's president of the golf club. so you can see that he's anything but idle, even if he doesn't bother much about lessons. "he's naturally a very bright fellow; otherwise he couldn't get along with his classes. i grow to like him better every day; he's such a manly, kind-hearted fellow, and one of the most popular in school. he's rather big, with fine, broad shoulders, and awfully good-looking. he has light-brown hair, about the color of cousin george's, and bright blue eyes; and he always looks as though he had just got out of the bath-tub--only stopped, of course, to put his clothes on. i guess we must be pretty old-fashioned in our notions, we maine country folks, because so many of my pet ideas and beliefs have been changed since i came here. you know with us it has always gone without dispute that rich boys are mean and worthless, if not really immoral. but here they're not that way. i guess we never had much chance to study rich people up our way, mother. at the grammar school all the fellows looked down on wealthy boys; but we never had any of them around. the richest chap was gilbert, whose father was a lumberman, and gilbert used to wear shoes that you wouldn't give to a tramp. "i suppose west's father could buy mr. gilbert out twenty times and not miss the money. outfield--isn't it a queer name?--spends a lot of money, but not foolishly; i mean he has no bad habits, like a few of the fellows. i hope you will meet him some time. perhaps i could have him up to stay a few days with me next summer. he'd be glad to come. "no, my roommate, sproule, doesn't improve any on acquaintance. but i've got so i don't mind him much. i don't think he's really as mean as he makes you believe. he's having hard work with his studies nowadays, and has less time to find fault with things. "you ask how i spend my time. dear little mother, you don't know what life in a big boarding school like hillton is. why, i haven't an idle moment from one day's end to the next. here's a sample. this morning i got up just in time for chapel--i'm getting to be a terrible chap for sleeping late--and then had breakfast. by that time it was quarter to nine. at nine i went to my mathematics. then came latin, then english. at twelve i reported on the green and practiced signals with the second squad until half past. then came lunch. after lunch i scurried up to my room and dug up on chemistry, which was at one-thirty. then came greek at half past two. then i had an hour of loafing--that is, i should have had it, but i was afraid of my to-morrow's history, so put in part of the time studying that. at a little before four i hurried over to the gymnasium, got into football togs, and reached the campus 'just in time to be in time.' we had a stiff hour's practice with the ball and learned two new formations. when i got back to the 'gym' it was a quarter past five. i had my bath, rubbed down, did two miles on the track, exercised with the weights, and got to supper ten minutes late. west came over to the room with me and stayed until i put him out, which was hard work because he's heavier than i am, and i got my books out and studied until half an hour ago. it is now just ten o'clock, and as soon as i finish this i shall tumble into bed and sleep like a top. "i can't answer your question about mr. remsen, because i do not know him well enough to ask about his home or relatives. but his first name is stephen. perhaps he is a relative of the remsens you mention. some day i'll find out. anyhow, he's the grandest kind of a fellow. i suppose he's about thirty. he has plenty of money, west says, and is a lawyer by profession. he has coached hillton for three years, and the school has won two out of three of its big games during those years. the big game, as they call it, is the game on thanksgiving day with st. eustace academy, of marshall. this fall it is played here.... "please tell father that i am getting on well with my studies, but not to hope too much for the goodwin scholarship. there are so many, many smart fellows here! sometimes i think i haven't a ghost of a show. but--well, i'm doing my best, and, after all, there are some other scholarships that are worth getting, though i don't believe i shall be satisfied with any other. west says i'm cheeky to even expect a show at the goodwin.... all the professors are very nice; even 'turkey.' his real name is durkee, and he is professor of english. he is not popular among the fellows, but is an awfully good instructor. the principal, professor wheeler, is called 'wheels,' but it sounds worse than it is. every one likes him. he is not at all old, and talks to the fellows about football and golf; and west says he can play a fine game of the latter when he tries. "i have been elected to the golf club and have joined. it costs a dollar and a half for this year, but west wanted me to join so much that i did. there are a lot of nice fellows in it--the sort that it is well to know. and i am going to try for the senior debating club after the holidays.... tell father that he wouldn't be so down on football if he could see the fellows that play it here at hillton. mr. remsen is head coach, as i have told you. then there is an advisory committee of one pupil, one graduate, and one professor. these are wesley blair, mr. remsen, and professor macarthur. then there is a manager, who looks after the business affairs; and a trainer, who is professor beck; and, of course, a captain. wesley blair is the captain. the second eleven is captained by tom warren, who is a fine player, and who is substitute quarter-back on the first or school eleven. in a couple of weeks both the first and second go to training tables: the first at one of the boarding houses in the village and the second in the school dining hall. when that happens we go into training for sure, and have to be in bed every night at ten sharp and get up every morning at seven. i'm pretty sure now of a place on the second, and may possibly make the first before the season's done.... "of course, i want the overcoat. but you had better send it as it is, and i will have the tailor here in the village cut it over. he is very moderate in charges and does good work, so west tells me, and in this way it will be sure to fit right. thank father for me, please.... good-night.... "your loving son, "joel." the opportunity to inquire regarding stephen remsen's family connections presented itself to joel on the day preceding the golf tournament and the football game with westvale. on account of the latter there had been only a half hour of light practice for the two squads, and joel at half past four had gone to his room to study. but when it came time to puzzle out some problems in geometry joel found that his paper was used up, and, rather than borrow of his neighbors, he pulled on his cap and started for the village store. october had brought warm weather, and this afternoon, as he went along the maple-bordered road that leads to the post office he found himself dawdling over the dusty grasses and bushes, recognizing old friends and making new ones, as right-minded folks will when the sun is warm and the birds sing beside the way. he watched a tiny chipmunk scamper along the top of the stone wall and disappear in the branches of a maple, looked upward and saw a mass of fluffy white clouds going northward, and thought wistfully of spring and the delights it promised here in the hudson valley. the golden-rod had passed its prime, though here and there a yellow torch yet lighted the shadowed tangles of shrub and vine beneath the wall, but the asters still bloomed on, and it was while bending over a clump of them that joel heard the whir of wheels on the smooth road and turned to see a bicyclist speeding toward him from the direction of the academy. when the rider drew near, joel recognized stephen remsen, and he withdrew toward the wall, that the coach might have the benefit of the level footpath and avoid the ruts. but instead of speeding by, remsen slowed down a few feet distant and jumped from his wheel. "hello, march!" was his greeting as he came up to that youth. "are you studying botany?" joel explained that he had been only trying to identify the aster, a spray of which he had broken off and still held in his hand. "perhaps i can tell you what it is," answered remsen as he took it. "yes, it's the purple-stemmed, _aster puniceus_. isn't it common where you live?" "i've never noticed it," answered joel. "we have lots of the _novoe-anglioe_ and _spectabilis_ in maine, and some of the white asters. it must be very lovely about here in spring." "yes, it is. spring is beautiful here, as it is everywhere. the valley of the hudson is especially rich in flora, i believe. i used to be very fond of the woods on mount adam when i was a boy here at hillton, and knew every tree in it." they were walking on toward the village, remsen rolling his bicycle beside him. "it's a long while since then, i suppose, sir?" queried joel. "i graduated from hillton ten years ago this coming june. i rowed stroke in the boat that spring, and we won from eustace by an eighth of a mile. and we nearly burned old masters down to the ground with our roman candles and sky rockets. you room there, don't you, march?" "yes, sir; number 34." "that was billy mathews's room that year. some time if you look under the carpet you'll find a depression in the middle of the floor. that's where billy made a bonfire one night and offered up in sacrifice all his text-books. it took half an hour to put that fire out." remsen was smiling reminiscently. "but what did he burn his books for, sir? was it the end of the year?" "no, but billy had been expelled that day, and was celebrating the fact. he was a nice old chap, was billy mathews. he's president of a western railroad now." joel laughed. "that bonfire must have made as much commotion as some of the explosions in number 15, mr. remsen." "hello! are my efforts in pursuit of science still remembered here? who told you about that, march?" "mrs. cowles. she said you were forever doing something terrible, but that you were such a _nice_ boy." remsen laughed heartily as he replied: "well, don't pattern your conduct on mine or mathews's, march. we weren't a very well-behaved lot, i fear. but i don't believe our pranks did much harm. in those days football wasn't as popular as it is to-day, at hillton, and fellows couldn't work off their surplus animal spirits thumping a pigskin as they can now. football is a great benefactor in that way, march. it has done away with hazing and street brawls and gate stealing and lots of other deviltry. by the way, how are you getting on with the game?" "i think i'm getting the hang of it, sir. i'm having a hard time with drop kicking, but i guess i'll learn after a while." "i'm sure you will. i'm going to have blair give you a bit of coaching in it next week. he'll have more time then, after he has finished with this golf business. don't get discouraged. peg away. it's worth the work, march, and you have the making of a good back as soon as you learn how to kick a goal and run a little faster. and whenever you're puzzled about anything come to me and we'll work it out together. will you?" "yes, sir, thank you." "that's right. well, here's where i turn off. have you time to come and pay me a visit?" "not to-day, i'm afraid, mr. remsen. i'm just going to the post office for some paper, and--" "well, come and see me some time. i'm pretty nearly always at home in the evenings and will be very glad to see you. and bring your friend west with you. that's my headquarters down there, the yellow house; mrs. hutchins's. if you cut across the field here it will save you quite a distance. good-by; and get to bed early to-night, march, if you can. there's nothing like a good sleep before a game." "good-by," answered joel. then, "mr. remsen, one minute, please, sir," he called. "are you any relation to the remsens that live near clairmont, in maine, sir?" "why, i shouldn't wonder," answered remsen, with a smile. "i think i've heard my father speak of relatives in maine, but i don't recollect where. why do you ask?" "my mother wrote me to find out. she's very much interested in people's relatives, mr. remsen, and so i thought i'd ask and let her know. you didn't mind my asking you, did you?" "certainly not. tell your mother, march, that i hope those remsens are some of my folks, because i should like to be related to her friends. and say, march, when you're writing to your mother about me you needn't say anything about those explosions, need you?" "i don't think it will be necessary, sir," laughed joel. "very well; then just mention me as a dignified and reverend attorney-at-law, and we'll keep the rest a secret between us." chapter viii. the golf tournament. it was saturday afternoon. the day was bright and sunny, and in the shelter of the grand stand on the campus, where the little east wind could not rustle, it was comfortably warm. the grass still held much of its summer verdancy, and the sky overhead was as deeply blue as on the mildest spring day. after a week of dull or stormy weather yesterday and to-day, with their fair skies, were as welcome as flowers in may, and gladness and light-heartedness were in the very air. on the gridiron westvale grammar school and hillton academy were trying conclusions. on the grand stand all hillton, academy and village, was assembled, and here and there a bright dress or wrap indicated the presence of a mother or sister in the throng. the westvale team had arrived, accompanied by a coterie of enthusiastic supporters, armed with tin horns, maroon-colored banners, and mighty voices, which, with small hopes of winning on the field, were resolved to accomplish a notable victory of sound. on the side-line, with a dozen other substitutes whose greatest desire was to be taken on the first eleven, sat joel. outfield west was sprawled beside him with his caddie bag clutched to his breast, and the two boys were discussing the game. west had arrived upon the scene but a moment before. "we'll beat them by about a dozen points, i guess," joel was prophesying. "they say the score was twenty to nothing last year, but remsen declares the first isn't nearly as far advanced as it was this time last season. just hear the racket those fellows are making! you ought to have seen blair kick down the field a while ago. i thought the ball never would come down, and i guess westvale thought so too. their full-back nearly killed himself running backward, and finally caught it on their five-yard line, and had it down there. then greer walked through, lugging andrews for a touch-down, after westvale had tried three times to move the ball. there's the whistle; half's up. how is the golf getting along?" "somers and whipple were at look off when i came away. i asked billy jones to come over and call me when they got to the hill. i think whipple will win by a couple of strokes. somers is too nervous. i wish they'd hurry up. we'll not get through the last round before dark if they don't finish soon. you'll go round with me, won't you?" "if the game's over. they're playing twenty-minute halves, you know; so i guess it will be. i hope blair will let me on this half. have you seen cloud?" "yes; he's over on the seats. who has his place?" "ned post; and clausen's playing at right. i'm glad that blair is doing such good work to-day. i think he was rather cut up about getting beaten this morning." "yes; wasn't that hard luck? to think of his being downed by a cub of a junior! though that same junior is going to be a fine player some day. he drives just grand. he had too much handicap, he did. remsen didn't know anything about him, and allowed him ten. here they come again." the two elevens were trotting out on the field once more, and joel stood up in the hope that blair might see him and decide to take him on. but joel was doomed to disappointment, for the second half of the game began with practically the same line-up. the score stood six to nothing in favor of hillton. the playing had been decidedly ragged on both sides; and remsen, as he left the team after administering a severe lecture, walked past with a slight frown on his face. "well, i guess i'll go over and see if i can hurry those chumps up some." west swung his bag over his shoulder and turned away. "when the game's done, hurry over, march. you'll find us somewhere on the course." joel nodded, and west sauntered away toward the links. the second half of the game was similar to the first, save in that remsen's scolding had accomplished an awakening, and the first put more snap into its playing. six more points were scored from a touch-down by the hillton right end, after a thirty-yard run, followed by a difficult goal by blair. but the westvale rooters kept up their cheering bravely to the end, and took defeat with smiling faces and upraised voices; and long after the coach containing them had passed from sight their cheers could still be heard in the distance toward the station. the bulk of the spectators turned at the conclusion of the match toward the links, and joel followed in his football togs. at home hole he found whipple and west preparing for the deciding round of the tournament, and the latter greeted him with a shout, and put his clubs into his keeping. then whipple went to the tee and led off with a long drive for the first hole, and the round began. west followed with a shorter shot and the march was taken up. the links at hilton consists of nine holes, five out and four in. the entire length of the course is a trifle over one and a half mile, and although the land is upland meadow and given to growing long grass, yet the course is generally conceded to be excellent. the holes are short, allowing the round to be accomplished by a capable player in thirty-two strokes. the course has thirteen bunkers of varying sizes, besides two water hazards at the inlet and outlet of the lake. the lake itself is spoiled as a hazard by the thick grove of trees on the side nearest the academy. sometimes a poor drive lands a ball in that same grove, and there is much trial and tribulation ere the player has succeeded in dislodging it from the underbrush. while generally level, the course is diversified by slight elevations, upon which are the putting greens, their red and white flags visible from all parts of the links. as has been said, the holes are short, the longest, lake hole, being four hundred and ninety-six yards, and the shortest, the first, but one hundred and thirty-three. outfield west once spent the better part of two weeks, at great cost to his class standing, in making a plan of the links, and, while it is not warranted accurate as to distances, it is reproduced here with his permission as giving a clearer idea of the ground than any verbal description. play had begun this morning at nine o'clock, and by noon only somers, whipple, and west had been left in the match. blair had encountered defeat most unexpectedly at the hands of greene, a junior, of whose prowess but little had been known by the handicapper; for, although blair had done the round in three strokes less than his adversary's gross score, the latter's allowance of six strokes had placed him an easy winner. but blair had been avenged later by west, who had defeated the youngster by three strokes in the net. in the afternoon somers and whipple had met, and, as west had predicted, the latter won by two strokes. and now west and whipple, both excellent players, and sworn enemies of the links, were fighting it out, and on this round depended the possession of the title of champion and the ownership for one year of the handicap cup, a modest but highly prized pewter tankard. medal play rules governed to-day, and the scoring was by strokes. [illustration: plan of hilton academy golf links] whipple reached the first green in one stroke, but used two more to hole-out. west took two short drives to reach a lie, from which he dropped his ball into the hole in one try. and the honors were even. the next hole was forty yards longer, and was played either in two short drives or one long drive and an approach shot. it contained two hazards, track bunker and high bunker, the latter alone being formidable. whipple led off with a long shot that went soaring up against the blue and then settled down as gently as a bird just a few yards in front of high bunker. he had reversed his play of the last hole, and was now relying on his approach shot for position. west played a rather short drive off an iron which left his ball midway between the two bunkers. whipple's next stroke took him neatly out of danger and on to the putting green, but west had fared not so well. there was a great deal of noise from the younger boys who were looking on, much discussion of the methods of play, and much loud boasting of what some one else would have done under existing circumstances. west glanced up once and glared at one offending junior, and an admonitory "_hush!_" was heard. but he was plainly disturbed, and when the little white sphere made its flight it went sadly aglee and dropped to earth far to the right of the green, and where rough and cuppy ground made exact putting well-nigh impossible. professor beck promptly laid down a command of absolute silence during shots, and some of the smaller youths left the course in favor of another portion of the campus, where a boy's right to make all the noise he likes could not be disputed. but the harm was done, and when play for the third hole began the score was: whipple 7, west 8. even to one of such intense ignorance of the science of golf as joel march, there was a perceptible difference in the style of the two competitors. outfield west was a great stickler for form, and imitated the full st. andrews swing to the best of his ability. in addressing the ball he stood as squarely to it as was possible, without the use of a measuring tape, and drove off the right leg, as the expression is. despite an almost exaggerated adherence to nicety of style, west's play had an ease and grace much envied by other golf disciples in the school, and his shots were nearly always successful. whipple's manner of driving was very different from his opponent's. his swing was short and often stopped too soon. his stance was rather awkward, after west's, and even his hold on the club was not according to established precedent. yet, notwithstanding all this, it must be acknowledged that whipple's drives had a way of carrying straight and far and landing well. joel followed the play with much interest if small appreciation of its intricacies, and carried west's bag, and hoped all the time that that youth would win, knowing how greatly he had set his heart upon so doing. there is no bunker between second and third holes, but the brook which supplies the lake runs across the course and is about six yards wide from bank to bank. but it has no terrors for a long drive, and both the players went safely over and won academy hole in three strokes. west still held the odd. two long strokes carried whipple a scant distance from railroad bunker, which fronts ditch hole, a dangerous lie, since railroad bunker is high and the putting green is on an elevation, almost meriting the title of hill, directly back of it. but if whipple erred in judgment or skill, west found himself in even a sorrier plight when two more strokes had been laid to his score. his first drive with a brassie had fallen rather short, and for the second he had chosen an iron. the ball sailed off on a long flight that brought words of delight from the spectators, but which caused joel to look glum and west to grind the turf under his heel in anger. for, like a thing possessed, that ball fell straight into the very middle of the bunker, and when it was found lay up to its middle in gravel. west groaned as he lifted the ball, replaced it loosely in its cup, and carefully selected a club. whipple meanwhile cleared the bunker in the best of style, and landed on the green in a good position to hole out in two shots. "great gobble!" muttered west as he swung his club, and fixed his eye on a point an inch and a half back of the imbedded ball, "if i don't get this out of here on this shot, i'm a gone goose!" march grinned sympathetically but anxiously, and the onlookers held their breath. then back went the club--there was a scattering of sand and gravel, and the ball dropped dead on the green, four yards from the hole. "excellent!" shouted professor beck, and joel jumped in the air from sheer delight. "good for you, out!" yelled dave somers; and the rest of the watchers echoed the sentiment in various ways, even those who desired to see whipple triumphant yielding their meed of praise for the performance. and, "i guess, out," said whipple ruefully, "you might as well take the cup." but outfield west only smiled silently in response, and followed his ball with businesslike attention to the game. whipple was weak on putting, and his first stroke with an iron failed to carry his ball to the hole. west, on the contrary, was a sure player on the green, and now with his ball but four yards from the hole he had just the opportunity he desired to better his score. the green was level and clean, and west selected a small iron putter, and addressed the ball with all the attention to form that the oldest st. andrews veteran might desire. playing on the principle that it is better to go too far than not far enough, since the hole is larger than the ball, west gave a long stroke, and the gutta-percha disappeared from view. whipple holed out on his next try, adopting a wooden putter this time, and the score stood fifteen strokes each. the honor was west's, and he led off for end hole with a beautiful brassie drive that cleared the first two bunkers with room to spare. whipple, for the first time in the round, drove poorly, toeing his ball badly, and dropping it almost off of the course and just short of the second bunker. west's second drive was a loft over halfway bunker that fell fairly on the green and rolled within ten feet of the hole. from there, on the next shot, he holed out very neatly in eighteen. whipple meanwhile had redeemed himself with a high lofting stroke that carried past the threatening dangers of masters bunker and back on to the course within a few yards of west's lie. but again skill on the putting green was wanting, and he required two strokes to make the hole. once more the honor was west's, and that youth turned toward home with a short and high stroke. the subsequent hole left the score "the like" at 22, and the seventh gave whipple, 25, west 26. "but here's where mr. west takes the lead," confided that young gentleman to joel as they walked to the teeing ground. "from here to lake hole is four hundred and ninety-six yards, and i'm going to do it in three shots on to the green. you watch!" four hundred and ninety-odd yards is nothing out of the ordinary for an older player, but to a lad of seventeen it is a creditable distance to do in three drives. yet that is what west did it in; and strange to relate, and greatly to that young gentleman's surprise, whipple duplicated the performance, and amid the excited whispers of the onlookers the two youths holed out on their next strokes; and the score still gave the odd to west--29 to 30. "i didn't think he could do it," whispered west to joel, "and that makes it look bad for your uncle out. but never mind, my lad, there's still rocky bunker ahead of us, and--" west did not complete his remark, but his face took on a very determined look as he teed his ball. the last hole was in sight, and victory hovered overhead. now, the distance from lake hole to the home hole is but a few yards over three hundred, and it can be accomplished comfortably in two long brassie drives. midway lies the hill, a small elevation rising from about the middle of the course to the river bluff, and there falling off sheer to the beach below. it is perhaps thirty yards across, and if the ball reaches it safely it forms an excellent place from which to make the second drive. so both boys tried for the hill. whipple landed at the foot of it, while west came plump upon the side some five yards from the summit, and his next drive took him cleanly over rocky bunker and to the right of the home green. but whipple summoned discretion to his aid, and instead of trying to make the green on the next drive, played short, and landed far to the right of the bunker. this necessitated a short approach, and by the time he had gained the green and was "made" within holing distance of the flag, the score was once more even, and the end was in sight. and now the watchers moved about restlessly, and joel found his heart in his throat. but west gripped his wooden putter firmly and studied the situation. it was quite possible for a skillful player to hole out on the next stroke from whipple's lie. west, on the contrary, was too far distant to possess more than one chance in ten of winning the hole in one play. whether to take that one chance or to use his next play in bettering his lie was the question. whipple, west knew, was weak on putting, but it is ever risky to rely on your opponent's weakness. while west pondered, whipple studied the lay of the green with eyes that strove to show no triumph, and the little throng kept silence save for an occasional nervous whisper. then west leaned down and cleared a pebble from before his ball. it was the veriest atom of a pebble that ever showed on a putting green, but west was willing to take no chances beyond those that already confronted him. his mind was made up. gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on the shaft and bending far over, west slowly, cautiously swung the club above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant goal. then there was a pause. whipple no longer studied his own play; his eyes were on that other sphere that nestled there so innocently against the grass. joel leaned breathlessly forward. professor beck muttered under his breath, and then cried "s--sh!" to himself in an angry whisper. and then west's club swung back gently, easily, paused an instant--and-forward sped the ball--on and on--slower--slower--but straight as an arrow--and then--presto! it was gone from sight! a moment of silence followed ere the applause broke out, and in that moment professor beck announced: "the odd to whipple. thirty-two to thirty-three." then the group became silent again. whipple addressed his ball. it was yet possible to tie the score. his face was pale, and for the first time during the tournament he felt nervous. a better player could scarce have missed the hole from whipple's lie, but for once that youth's nerve forsook him and he hit too short; the ball stopped a foot from the hole. the game was decided. professor beck again announced the score: "the two more to whipple. thirty-two to thirty-four." again whipple addressed his ball, and this time, but too late to win the victory, the tiny sphere dropped neatly into the hole, and the throng broke silence. and as west and whipple, victor and vanquished, shook hands over the home hole, professor beck announced: "thirty-two to thirty-five. west wins the cup!" chapter ix. an evening call. the last week of october brought chilling winds and flying clouds. life at hillton academy had gone on serenely since west's victory on the links. the little pewter tankard reposed proudly upon his mantel beside a bottle of chow-chow, and bore his name as the third winner of the trophy. but west had laid aside his clubs, save for an occasional hour at noon, and, abiding by his promise to joel, he had taken up his books again with much resolution, if little ardor. hillton had met and defeated two more football teams, and the first eleven was growing gradually stronger. remsen was seen to smile now quite frequently during practice, and there was a general air of prosperity about the gridiron. the first had gone to its training table at "mother" burke's, in the village, and the second ate its meals in the center of the school dining hall with an illy concealed sense of self-importance. and the grinds sneered at its appetites, and the obscure juniors admired reverently from afar. joel had attended both recitations and practice with exemplary and impartial regularity, and as a result his class standing was growing better and better on one hand, and on the other his muscles were becoming stronger, his flesh firmer, and his brain clearer. the friendship between him and outfield west had ripened steadily, until now they were scarcely separable. and that they might be more together west had lately made a proposition. "that fellow sproule is a regular cad, joel, and i tell you what we'll do. after christmas you move over to hampton and room with me. you have to make an application before recess, you know. what do you say?" "i should like to first rate, but i can't pay the rent there," joel had objected. "then pay the same as you're paying for your den in masters," replied west. "you see, joel, i have to pay the rent for number 2 hampton anyhow, and it won't make any difference whether i have another fellow in with me or not. only, if you pay as much of my rent as you're paying now, why, that will make it so much cheaper for me. don't you see?" "yes, but if i use half the room i ought to pay half, the rent." and to this joel stood firm until west's constant entreaties led to a compromise. west was to put the matter before his father, and joel before his. if their parents sanctioned it, joel was to apply for the change of abode. as yet the matter was still in abeyance. richard sproule, as west had suggested rather more forcibly than politely, was becoming more and more objectionable, and joel was not a bit grieved at the prospect of leaving him. of late, intercourse between the roommates had become reduced to rare monosyllables. this was the outcome of a refusal on joel's part to give a portion of his precious study time to helping sproule with his lessons. once or twice joel had consented to assist his roommate, and had done so to the detriment of his own affairs; but the result to both had proved so unsatisfactory that joel had stoutly refused the next request. thereupon sproule had considered himself deeply aggrieved, and usually spent the time when joel was present in sulking. bartlett cloud, since his encounter with joel on the field the afternoon that he was put off the team, had had nothing to say to him, though his looks when they met were always dark and threatening. but in a school as large as hillton there is plenty of room to avoid an objectionable acquaintance, so long as you are not under the same roof with him, and consequently cloud and joel seldom met. the latter constantly regretted having made an enemy of the other, but beyond this regret his consideration of cloud seldom went. so far joel had not found an opportunity to accept the invitation that remsen had extended to him, though that invitation had since been once or twice repeated. but to-night west and he had made arrangement to visit remsen at his room, and had obtained permission from professor wheeler to do so. the two boys met at the gymnasium after supper was over and took their way toward the village. west had armed himself with a formidable stick, in the hope, loudly expressed at intervals, that they would be set upon by tramps. but remsen's lodgings were reached without adventure, and the lads were straightway admitted to a cosey study, wherein, before an open fire, sat remsen and a guest. after a cordial welcome from remsen the guest was introduced as albert digbee. "yes, we know each other," said west, as he shook hands. "we both room in hampton, but digbee's a grind, you know, and doesn't care to waste his time on us idlers." digbee smiled. "it isn't inclination, west; i don't have the time, and so don't attempt to keep up with you fellows." he shook joel's hand. "i'm glad to meet you. i've heard of you before." then the quartet drew chairs up to the blaze, and, as remsen talked, joel examined his new acquaintance. digbee was a year older than west and joel. he was in the senior class, and was spoken of as one of the smartest boys in the school. although a hampton house resident, he seldom was seen with the others save at the table, and was usually referred to among themselves as "dig," both because that suggested his christian name and because, as they said, he was forever digging at his books. in appearance albert digbee was a tall, slender, but scarcely frail youth, with a cleanly cut face that looked, in the firelight, far too pale. his eyes were strikingly bright, and though his smiles were infrequent, his habitual expression was one of eager and kindly interest. joel had often come across him in class, and had long wanted to know him. "you see, boys," remsen was saying, "digbee here is of the opinion that athletics in general and football in particular are harmful to schools and colleges as tending to draw the attention of pupils from their studies, and i maintain the opposite. now, what's your opinion, west? digbee and i have gone over it so often that we would like to hear some one else on the subject." "oh, i don't know," replied west. "if fellows would give up football and go in for golf, there wouldn't be any talk about athletics being hurtful. golf's a game that a chap can play and get through with and have some time for study. you don't have to train a month to play for an hour; it's a sport that hasn't become a business." "i can testify," said joel gravely, "that out is a case in point. he plays golf, and has time left to study--how to play more golf." "well, anyhow, you know i _do_ study some lately, joel," laughed west. joel nodded with serious mien. "i think you've made a very excellent point in favor of golf, west," said digbee. "it hasn't been made a business, at least in this school. but won't it eventually become quite as much of a pursuit as football now is?" "oh, it may become as popular, but, don't you see, it will never become as--er--exacting on the fellows that play it. you can play golf without having to go into training for it." "nevertheless, west," replied the head coach, "if a fellow can play golf without being in training, doesn't it stand to reason that the same fellow can play a better game if he is in training? that is, won't he play a better game if he is in better trim?" "yes, i guess so, but he will play a first-class game if he doesn't train." "but not as good a game as he will if he does train?" "i suppose not," admitted west. "well, now, a fellow can play a very good game of football if he isn't in training," continued remsen, "but that same fellow, if he goes to bed and gets up at regular hours, and eats decent food at decent times, and takes care of himself in such a way as to improve his mental, moral, and physical person, will play a still better game and derive more benefit from it. when golf gets a firmer hold on this side of the atlantic, schools and colleges will have their golf teams of, say, from two to a dozen players. of course, the team will not play as a team, but the members of it will play singly or in couples against representatives of other schools. and when that happens it is sure to follow that the players will go into almost as strict training as the football men do now." "well, that sounds funny," exclaimed west. "digbee thinks one of the most objectionable features of football is the fact that the players go into it so thoroughly--that they train for it, and study it, and spend a good deal of valuable time thinking about it. but to me that is one of its most admirable features. when a boy or a man goes in for athletics, whether football or rowing or hockey, he desires, if he is a real flesh-and-blood being, to excel in it. to do that it is necessary that he put himself in the condition that will allow of his doing his very best. and to that end he trains. he gives up pastry, and takes to cereals; he abandons his cigarettes and takes to fresh air; he gives up late hours at night, and substitutes early hours in the morning. and he is better for doing so. he feels better, looks better, works better, plays better." "but," responded digbee, "can a boy who has come to school to study, and who has to study to make his schooling pay for itself, can such a boy afford the time that all that training and practicing requires?" "usually, yes," answered remsen. "of course, there are boys, and men too, for that matter, who are incapable of occupying their minds with two distinct interests. that kind should leave athletics alone. and there are others who are naturally--i guess i mean-unnaturally--stupid, and who, should they attempt to sandwich football or baseball into their school life, would simply make a mess of both study and recreation. but they need not enter into the question of the harm or benefit of athletics, since at every well-conducted school or college those boys are not allowed to take up with athletics. yes, generally speaking, the boy who comes to school to study can afford to play football, train for football, and think football, because instead of interfering with his studies it really helps him with them. it makes him healthy, strong, wide-awake, self-reliant, and clearheaded. some time i shall be glad to show you a whole stack of careful statistics which prove that football men, at least, rather than being backward with studies, are nearly always above the average in class standing. march, you're a hard-worked football enthusiast, and i understand that you're keeping well up with your lessons. do you have trouble to attend to both? do you have to skimp your studies? i know you give full attention to the pigskin." "i'm hard put some days to find time for everything," answered joel, "but i always manage to make it somehow, and i have all the sleep i want or need. perhaps if i gave up football i might get higher marks in recitations, but i'd not feel so well, and it's possible that i'd only get lower marks. i agree with you, mr. remsen, that athletics, or at least football, is far more likely to benefit a chap than to hurt him, because a fellow can't study well unless he is in good health and spirits." "are you convinced, digbee?" asked remsen. digbee shook his head smilingly. "i don't believe i am, quite. but you know more about such things than i do. in fact, it's cheeky for me to argue about them. why, i've never played anything but tennis, and never did even that well." "you know the ground you argue from, and because i have overwhelmed you with talk it does not necessarily follow that i am right," responded his host courteously. "but enough of such dull themes. there's west most asleep.--march, have you heard from your mother lately?" "yes, i received a letter from her yesterday morning. she writes that she's glad the relationship is settled finally; says she's certain that any kin of the maine remsens is a person of good, strong moral character." when the laugh had subsided, remsen turned to west. "have you ever heard of tommy collingwood?" "wasn't he baseball captain a good many years ago?" "yes, and used to row in the boat. well, tommy was a good deal better at spinning top on academy steps than doing lessons, and a deal fonder of playing shinney than writing letters. but tommy's mother always insisted that tommy should write home once a week, and tommy's father wrote and explained what would happen to tommy if he didn't obey his mother; and as tommy's folks lived just over in albany it was a small thing for tommy's father to run over some day with a strap; so tommy obeyed his parents and every week wrote home. his letters weren't long, nor were they filled with a wealth of detail, but they answered the purpose in lieu of better. each one ran: 'hillton academy, hillton, n.y.,' with the date. 'dear father and mother, i am well and studying hard. your loving son, thomas collingwood.' "well, when christmas recess came, tommy went home. and one day his mother complimented tommy on the regularity of his correspondence. tommy looked sheepish. 'to tell the truth, mother, i didn't write one of those letters each week,' explained tommy. 'but just after school opened i was sick for a week, and didn't have anything to do; so i wrote 'i am well' twelve times, and dated each ahead.'" digbee accompanied the other two lads back to the yard, and he and march discussed studies, while west mooned along, whistling half aloud and thrashing the weeds and rocks with his cudgel, for the tramps refused to appear on the scene. he and digbee went out of their way to see joel safely to his dormitory, and then joel accompanied them on their homeward way as far as academy building. there good-nights were said, and joel, feeling but little inclined for sleep, drew his collar up and strolled to the front of the building, where, from the high steps, the river was visible for several miles in either direction. the moon was struggling out from a mass of somber clouds overhead, and the sound of the waters as they swirled around the rocky point was plainly heard. joel sat there on the steps, under the shadow of the dark building, thinking of many things, and feeling very happy and peaceful, until a long, shrill sound from the north told of the coming of the 9.48 train; then he made his way back to masters, up the dim stairs, and into his room, where dickey sproule lay huddled in bed reading the three guardsmen by the screened light of a guttering candle. chapter x. the broken bell rope. joel arrived at chapel the following morning just as the doors were being closed. duffy, the wooden-legged doorkeeper, was not on duty, and the youth upon whom his duties had devolved allowed joel to pass without giving his name for report as tardy. during prayers there was an evident atmosphere of suppressed excitement among the pupils, but not until chapel was over did joel discover the cause. "were you here when it happened?" asked west. "when what happened?" responded joel. "haven't you heard? why, some one cut the bell rope, and when 'peg-leg' went to ring chapel bell the rope broke up in the tower and came down on his head and laid him out there on the floor, and some of the fellows found him knocked senseless. and they've taken him to the infirmary. you know the rope's as big as your wrist, and it hit him on top of the head. i guess he isn't much hurt, but 'wheels' is as mad as never was, and whoever did it will have a hard time, i'll bet!" "poor old duffy!" said joel. "let's go over and find out if he's much hurt. it was a dirty sort of a joke to play, though i suppose whoever did it didn't think it would hurt any one." at the infirmary they found professor gibbs in the office. "no, boys, he isn't damaged much. he'll be all right in a few hours. i hope that the ones who did it will be severely punished. it was a most contemptible trick to put up on duffy." "i hope so too," answered west indignantly. "you may depend that no upper middle boy did it, sir." the professor smiled. "i hope you are right, west." at noon hour joel was summoned to the principal's office. professor wheeler, the secretary, and professor durkee were present, and as joel entered he scented an air of hostility. the secretary closed the door behind him. "march, i have sent for you to ask whether you can give us any information which will lead to the apprehension of the perpetrators of the trick which has resulted in injury to mr. duffy. can you?" "no, sir," responded joel. "you know absolutely nothing about it?" "nothing, sir, except what i have been told." "by whom?" "outfield west, sir, after chapel. we went to the infirmary to inquire about 'peg'--about mr. duffy, sir." the secretary repressed a smile. the principal was observing joel very closely, and professor durkee moved impatiently in his seat. "i can not suppose," continued the principal, "that the thing was done simply as a school joke. the boy who cut the rope must have known when he did so that the result would be harmful to whoever rang the chapel bell this morning. i wish it understood that i have no intention of dealing leniently with the culprit, but, at the same time, a confession, if made now, will have the effect of mitigating his punishment." he paused. joel turned an astonished look from him to professor durkee, who, meeting it, frowned and turned impatiently away. "you have nothing more to tell me, march?" "why, no, sir," answered joel in a troubled voice. "i don't understand. am i suspected--of--of this--thing, sir?" "dear me, sir," exclaimed professor durkee, explosively, turning to the principal, "it's quite evident that--" "one moment, please," answered the latter firmly. the other subsided.--"you had town leave last night, march?" "yes, sir." "you went with outfield west?" "yes, sir." "what time did you return to your room?" "at about a quarter to ten, sir." "you are certain as to the time?" "i only know that i heard the down train whistle as i left academy building. i went right to my room, sir." "was the door of academy building unlocked last night?" "i don't know. i didn't try it, sir." "what time did you leave mr. remsen's house?" "a few minutes after nine." "you came right back here?" "yes, sir. we came as far as academy building, and west and digbee went home. i sat on the front steps here until i heard the whistle blow. then i went to my room." "why did you sit on the steps, march?" "i wasn't sleepy; and the moon was coming out--and--i wanted to think." "do you hear from home very often?" "once or twice a week, sir." "when did you get a letter last, and from whom was it?" "from my mother, about three days ago." "have you that letter?" "yes, sir. it is in my room." "you sometimes carry your letters in your pocket?" "why, yes, but not often. if i receive them on the way out of the building i put them in my pocket, and then put them away when i get back." "where do you keep them?" "in my bureau drawer." "it is kept locked?" "no, sir. i never lock it." "do you remember what was in that last letter?" "yes, sir." "was any one mentioned in it?" "yes, sir. mr. remsen was mentioned. and outfield west, and my brother, and father." "is this your letter?" professor wheeler extended it across the desk, and joel took it wonderingly. "why, yes, sir. but where--i don't understand--!" again he looked toward professor durkee in bewilderment. "nor do i," answered that gentleman dryly. "march," continued the principal, as he took the letter again, "this was found this morning, after the accident, on the floor of the bell tower. do you know how it came there?" joel's cheeks reddened and then grew white as the full meaning of the words reached him. his voice suddenly grew husky. "no, sir, i do not." the words were spoken very stoutly and rang with sincerity. a silence fell on the room. professor wheeler glanced inquiringly at professor durkee, and the latter made a grimace of impatience that snarled his homely face into a mass of wrinkles. "look here, boy," he snapped, "who do you think dropped that letter there?" "i can't think, sir. i can't understand it at all. i've never been in the tower since i've been in school." "do you know of any one who might like to get you into trouble in such a way as this?" "no, sir," answered joel promptly. then a sudden recollection of bartlett cloud came to him, and he hesitated. professor durkee observed it. "well?" he said sharply. "i know of no one, sir." "humph!" grunted the professor, "you do, but you won't say." "if you suspect any one it will be best to tell us, march," said professor wheeler, more kindly. "you must see that the evidence is much against you, and, while i myself can not believe that you are guilty, i shall be obliged to consider you so until proof of your innocence is forthcoming. have you any enemy in school?" "i think not, sir." the door opened and remsen appeared. "good-morning," he said. "you wished to see me, professor?" "yes, in a moment. sit down, please, remsen." remsen nodded to joel and the secretary, shook hands with professor durkee, and took a chair. the principal turned again to joel. "you wish me to understand, then, that you have no explanation to offer as to how the letter came to be in the bell tower? recollect that shielding a friend or any other pupil will do neither you nor him any service." joel was hesitating. was it right to throw suspicion on bartlett cloud by mentioning the small occurrence on the football field so long before? it was inconceivable that cloud would go to such a length in mere spite. and yet--remsen interrupted his thoughts. "professor, if you will dismiss march for a while, perhaps i can throw some light on the matter. let him return in half an hour or so." professor wheeler nodded. "come back at one o'clock, march," he said. outside joel hesitated where to go. he must tell some one his trouble, and there was only one who would really care. he turned toward hampton house, then remembered that it was dinner hour and that outfield would be at table. he had forgotten his own dinner until that moment. in the dining hall west was still lingering over his dessert. joel took his seat at the training table, explaining his absence by saying that he had been called to the office, and hurried through a dinner of beef and rice and milk. when west arose joel overtook him at the door. and as the friends took their way toward joel's room, he told everything to west in words that tumbled over each other. outfield west heard him in silence after one exclamation of surprise, and when joel had finished, cried: "why didn't you tell about cloud? don't you see that this is his doing? that he is getting even with you for his losing the football team?" "i thought of that, out, but it seemed too silly to suppose that he would do such a thing just for--for that, you know." "well, you may be certain that he did do it; or, at least, if he didn't cut the rope himself, found some one to do it for him. it's just the kind of a revenge that a fellow of his meanness would think of. he won't stand up and fight like a man. here, let's go and find him!" "no, wait. i'll tell professor wheeler about him when i go back; then if he thinks--if he did do it, out, i'll lick him good for it!" "hooray! and when you get through i'll take a hand, too. but what do you suppose remsen was going to tell?" joel shook his head. they found sproule in the room, and to him west spoke as follows: "hello, dickey! you're not studying? it's not good for you; these sudden changes should be avoided." sproule laughed, but looked annoyed at the banter. "joel and i have come up for a chat, dickey," continued west. "now, you take your robinson crusoe and read somewhere else for a while, like a nice boy." sproule grew red-faced, and turned to west angrily. "don't you see i'm studying? if you and march want to talk, why, either go somewhere else, or talk here." "but our talk is private, dickey, and not intended for little boys' ears. you know the saying about little pitchers, dickey?" "well, i'm not going out, so you can talk or not as you like." "oh, yes, you are going out, dickey. politeness requires it, and i shall see that you maintain that delightful courteousness for which you are noted. now, dickey!" west indicated the door with a nod and a smile. sproule bent his head over his book and growled a response that sounded anything but polite. then west, still smiling, seized the unobliging youth by the shoulders, pinioning his arms to his sides, and pushed him away from the table and toward the door. joel rescued the lamp at a critical moment, the chairs went over on to the floor, and a minute later sproule was on the farther side of the bolted door, and west was adjusting his rumpled attire. "i'll report you for this, outfield west!" howled sproule through the door, in a passion of resentment. "report away," answered west mockingly. "and if i miss my latin i'll tell why, too!" "well, you'll miss it all right enough, unless you've changed mightily. but, here, i'll shy your book through the transom." this was done, and the sound of ascending feet on the stairway reaching sproule's ears at that moment, he grabbed his book and took himself off, muttering vengeance. "have you looked?" asked west. "yes; it's not there. but there are no others missing. who could have taken it?" "any one, my boy; bartlett cloud, for preference. your door is unlocked, he comes in when he knows you are out, looks on the table, sees nothing there that will serve, goes to the bureau, opens the top drawer, and finds a pile of letters. he takes the first one, which is, of course, the last received, and sneaks out. then he climbs into the bell tower at night, cuts the rope through all but one small strand, and puts your letter on the floor where it will be found in the morning. isn't that plain enough?" joel nodded forlornly. "but cheer up, joel. your uncle out will see your innocence established, firmly and beyond all question. and now come on. it's one o'clock, and you've got to go back to the office, while i've got a class. come over to my room at four, joel, and tell me what happens." remsen and the secretary were no longer in the office when joel returned. professor durkee was standing with his hat in his hand, apparently about to leave. "march," began the principal, "mr. remsen tells us that you were struck at by bartlett cloud on the football field one day at practice. is that so?" joel replied affirmatively. "does he speak to you, or you to him?" "no, sir; but then i've never been acquainted with him." "do you believe that he could have stolen that letter from your room?" "i know that he could have done so, sir, but i don't like to think--" "that he did? well, possibly he did and possibly he didn't. i shall endeavor to find out. meanwhile i must ask you to let this go no further. you will go on as though this conversation had never occurred. if i find that you are unjustly suspected i will summon you and ask your pardon, and the guilty one will be punished. professor durkee here has pointed out to me that such conduct is totally foreign to his conception of your character, and has reminded me that your standing in class has been of the best since the beginning of the term. i agree with him in all this, but duty in the affair is very plain and i have been performing it, unpleasant as it is. you may go now, march; and kindly remember that this affair must be kept quiet," joel turned with a surprised but grateful look toward professor durkee, but was met with a wrathful scowl. joel hurried to his recitation, and later, before west's fireplace, the friends discussed the unfortunate affair in all its phases, and resolved, with vehemence, to know the truth sooner or later. but joel's cup was not yet filled. when he returned to the dormitory after supper, he found two missives awaiting him. the first was from wesley blair: "dear march" (it read): "please show up in the morning at burke's for breakfast with the first eleven. you are to take the place of post at l.h.b. it will be necessary for you to report at the gym at eleven each day for noon signals; please arrange your recitations to this end. i am writing this because i couldn't see you this afternoon; hope you are all right. yours, "wesley blair." joel read this with a loudly beating heart and flushing cheeks. it was as unexpected as it was welcome, that news; he _had_ hoped for an occasional chance to substitute post or blair or clausen on the first team in some minor game, but to be taken on as a member was more than he had even thought of since he had found how very far from perfect was his playing. he seized his cap with the intention of racing across to hampton and informing west of his luck; then he remembered the other note. it was from the office, and it was with a sinking heart that he tore it open and read: "you are placed upon probation until further notice from the faculty. the rules and regulations require that pupils on probation abstain from all sports and keep their rooms in the evenings except upon permission from the principal. respectfully, "curtis gordon, secretary." chapter xi. two heroes. one afternoon a week later outfield west and joel march were seated on the ledge where, nearly two months before, they had begun their friendship. the sun beat warmly down and the hill at their backs kept off the east wind. below them the river was brightly blue, and a skiff dipping its way up stream caught the sunlight on sail and hull until, as it danced from sight around the headland, it looked like a white gull hovering over the water. above, on the campus, the football field was noisy with voices and the pipe of the referee's whistle; and farther up the river at the boathouse moving figures showed that some of the boys were about to take advantage of the pleasant afternoon. "some one's going rowing," observed outfield. "can you row, joel?" "i guess so; i never tried." west laughed. "then i guess you can't. i've tried. it's like trying to write with both hands. while you're looking after one the other has fits and runs all over the paper. if you pull with the left oar the right oar goes up in the air or tries to throw you out of the boat by getting caught in the water. paddling suits me better. say, you'll see a bully race next spring when we meet eustace. last spring they walked away from us. but the crew is to have a new boat next year. look! those two fellows row well, don't they? remsen says a chap can never learn to row unless he has been born near the water. that lets me out. in iowa we haven't any water nearer than the mississippi--except the red cedar, and that doesn't count. by the way, joel, what did remsen say to you last night about playing again?" "he said to keep in condition, so that in case i got off probation i could go right back to work. he says he'll do all he can to help me, and i know he will. but it won't do any good. 'wheels' won't let me play until he's found out who did that trick. it's bad enough, out, to be blamed for the thing when i didn't do it, but to lose the football team like this is a hundred times worse. i almost wish i _had_ cut that old rope!" continued joel savagely; "then i'd at least have the satisfaction of knowing that i was only getting what i deserved." west looked properly sympathetic. "it's a beastly shame, that's what i think. what's the good of 'believing you innocent,' as 'wheels' says, if he goes ahead and punishes you for the affair? what? why, there isn't any, of course! if it was me i'd cut the pesky rope every chance i got until they let up on me!" joel smiled despite his ill humor. "and i've lost half my interest in lessons, out. i try not to, but i can't help it. i guess my chance at the scholarship is gone higher than a kite." "oh, hang the scholarship!" exclaimed west. "but there's the st. eustace game in three weeks. if you don't play in that, joel, i'll go to 'wheels' and tell him what i think about it!" "it's awfully rough on a fellow, out, but professor wheeler is only doing what is right, i suppose. he can't let the thing go unnoticed, you see, and as long as i can't prove my innocence i guess he's right to hold me to blame for it." "tommyrot!" answered west explosively. "the faculty's just trying to have us beaten! why--say, don't tell a soul, joel, but blair's worried half crazy. they had him up yesterday, and 'wheels' told him that if he didn't get better marks from now on he couldn't play. what do you think of that? they're not _decent_ about it. they're trying to put us _all_ on probation. why, how do i know but what they'll put _me_ on?" outfield hit his shoe violently with the driver he held until it hurt him. for although joel was debarred from playing golf there was nothing to keep him from watching west play, and this afternoon the two had been half over the course together, west explaining the game, and joel listening intently, and all the while longing to take a club in hand and have a whack at the ball himself. "that's bad," answered joel thoughtfully. "it would be all up with us if blair shouldn't play." "and that's just what's going to happen if 'wheels' keeps up his present game," responded outfield. "who are those chaps in that shell, joel? one looks like cloud, the fellow in front." joel watched the approaching craft for a moment. "it is cloud," he answered. "and that looks like clausen with him. why isn't he practicing, i wonder?" "haven't you heard? he was dropped from the team yesterday. wills has his place. post says, by the way, that he's sorry you're in such a fix, but he's mighty glad to get back on the first. he's an awfully decent chap, is post. did you see that thing he has in this month's hilltonian about cooke? says the fac's going to establish a class in bakery and put cooke in as teacher because he's such a fine _loafer_! say, what's the matter down there?" the shell containing cloud and clausen had reached a point almost opposite to where west and joel were perched, and as the latter looked toward it at west's exclamation he saw cloud throw aside his oars and stand upright in the boat. clausen had turned and was looking at his friend, but still held his oars. "by jove, joel, she's sinking!" cried outfield. "look! why doesn't clausen get out? there goes cloud over. i wonder if clausen can swim? swim? come on!" and half tumbling, half climbing, west sped down the bank on to the tiny strip of rocks and gravel that lay along the water. joel followed. cloud now was in the water at a little distance from the shell, which had settled to the gunwales. clausen, plainly in a state of terror, was kneeling in the sinking boat and crying to the other lad for help. the next moment he was in the water, and his shouts reached the two lads on the beach. cloud swam toward him, but before he could reach him clausen had gone from sight. "what shall we do?" cried west. "he's drowning! can you swim?" for joel had already divested himself of his coat and vest, and was cutting the lacings of his shoes. west hesitated an instant only, then followed suit. "yes." off went the last shoe, and joel ran into the water. west, pale of face, but with a determined look in his blue eyes, followed a moment later, a yard or two behind, and the two set out with desperate strokes to reach the scene of the disaster. as he had taken the water joel had cast a hurried glance toward the spot where clausen had sunk, and had seen nothing of that youth; only cloud was in sight, and he seemed to be swimming hurriedly toward shore. joel went at the task hand over hand and heard behind him west, laboring greatly at his swimming. presently joel heard his name cried in an exhausted voice. "i--can't make--it--joel!" shouted west. "i'll--have to--turn--back." "all right," joel called. "go up to the field and send some one for help." then he turned his attention again to his strokes, and raising his head once, saw an open river before him with nothing in sight between him and the opposite bank save, farther down stream, a floating oar. he had made some allowance for the current, and when in another moment he had reached what seemed to him to be near the scene of the catastrophe, yet a little farther down stream, he trod water and looked about. under the bluff to the right cloud was crawling from the river. west was gone from sight. about him ran the stream, and save for its noise no sound came to him, and nothing rewarded his eager, searching gaze save a branch that floated slowly by. with despair at his heart, he threw up his arms and sank with wide-open eyes, peering about him in the hazy depths. above him the surface water bubbled and eddied; below him was darkness; around him was only green twilight. for a moment he tarried there, and then arose to the surface and dashed the water from his eyes and face. and suddenly, some thirty feet away, an arm clad in a white sweater sleeve came slowly into sight. with a frantic leap through the water joel sped toward it. a bare head followed the upstretched arm; two wild, terror-stricken eyes opened and looked despairingly at the peaceful blue heavens; the white lips moved, but no sound came from them. and then, just as the eyes closed and just as the body began to sink, as slowly as it had arisen, and for the last time, joel reached it. there was no time left in which to pause and select a hold of the drowning boy, and joel caught savagely at his arm and struck toward the bank, and the inert body came to the surface like a water-logged plank. "clausen!" shouted joel. "clausen! can you hear? brace up! strike out with your right hand, and don't grab me! do you hear?" but there was no answer. clausen was like stone in the water. joel cast a despairing glance toward the bluff. then his eyes brightened, for there sliding down the bank he saw a crowd of boys, and as he looked another on the bluff threw down a coil of new rope that shone in the afternoon sunlight as it fell and was seized by some one in the throng below. nerved afresh, joel took a firm grasp on clausen's elbow and struck out manfully for shore. it was hard going, and when a bare dozen long strokes had been made his burden so dragged him down that he was obliged to stop, and, floundering desperately to keep the white face above water, take a fresh store of breath into his aching lungs. then drawing the other boy to him so that his weight fell on his back, he brought one limp arm about his shoulder, and holding it there with his left hand started swimming once more. a dozen more strokes were accomplished slowly, painfully, and then, as encouraging shouts came from shore, he felt the body above him stir into life, heard a low cry of terror in his ear, and then--they were sinking together, clausen and he, struggling there beneath the surface! clausen had his arm about joel's neck and was pulling him down--down! and just as his lungs seemed upon the point of bursting the grasp relaxed around his neck, the body began to sink and joel to rise! with a deafening noise as of rushing water in his ears, joel reached, caught a handful of cloth, and struggled, half drowned himself, to the surface. and then some one caught him by the chin--and he knew no more until he awoke as from a bad dream to find himself lying in the sun on the narrow beach, while several faces looked down into his. "did you get him?" he asked weakly. "yep," answered outfield west, with something that sounded like a sob in his voice. "he's over there. he's all right. don't get up," he continued, as joel tried to move. "stay where you are. the fellows are bringing a boat, and we'll take you both back in it." "all right," answered joel. "but i guess i'll just look around a bit." and he sat up. at a little distance a group among which joel recognized the broad back of professor gibbs were still working over clausen. but even as he looked joel was delighted to see clausen's legs move and hear his weak voice speaking to the professor. then the boat was rowed in, the occupants panting with their hurried pull from the boathouse, and joel clambered aboard, disdaining the proffered help of west and others, and clausen was lifted to a seat in the bow. on the way up river joel told how it happened, west throwing in an eager word here and there, and clausen in a low whisper explaining that the shell had struck on a sunken rock or snag when passing the island, and had begun to sink almost immediately. "and cloud?" asked professor gibbs. there was no reply from either joel or clausen or-west. only one of the rowers answered coldly: "he's safe. i saw him on the path near the society building. he was running toward warren." a silence followed. then-"you've never learned to swim, clausen?" "no, sir." "but it is the rule that no boy is allowed on the river who can not swim. how is that?" "i--i said i could, sir." "humph! your lie came near to costing you dear, clausen." then no more was said in the boat until the float was reached, although each occupant was busy with his thoughts. clausen was helped, pale and shaking, to his room, and west and joel, accompanied by several of their schoolmates, trotted away to the gymnasium, where joel was put through an invigorating bath and a subsequent rubbing that left him none the worse for his adventure. the story had to be told over and over to each new group that came in after practice, and finally the two friends escaped to west's room, where they discussed the affair from the view-point of participants. "when i got back to the bluff with the other fellows you weren't to be seen, joel," west was saying, "and i thought it was all up with poor old joel march." "that's just what i thought a bit later," responded joel, "when that fellow had me round the neck and was trying to show me the bottom of the river." "and then, when they brought you in, whipple and christie, and you were all white and--and ghastly like, you know"--outfield west whistled long and expressively--"then i thought you _were_ a goner." joel nodded. "and cloud?" he asked presently. "cloud has settled himself," responded west. "when he thought clausen was drowning he just cut and ran--i mean swam--to shore. the fellows are madder than hornets. as whipple said, you can't insist on a fellow saving another fellow from drowning, but you can insist on his not running away. they're planning to show cloud what they think of him, somehow. they wouldn't talk about it while i was around. i wonder why?" outfield stopped suddenly and frowned perplexedly. "why, a month or six weeks ago i would have been one of the first they would have asked to help! i'm afraid it's associating with you, joel. you're corrupting me! say, didn't i make a mess of it this afternoon? i got about ten yards off the beach and just had to give up and pull back--and pull hard. blessed if i didn't begin to wonder once if i'd make it! the fact is, joel, i'm an awful dab at swimming. and i ought to be punched for letting you go out there all alone." "nonsense, out! you couldn't help getting tired, especially if you aren't much of a swimmer. and now you speak of it i remember you saying once that you couldn't--" joel stopped short and looked at west in wondering amazement. and west grew red and his eyes sought the floor, and for almost a minute there was silence in the room. then joel arose and stood over the other lad with shining eyes. "out," he muttered huskily, "you're a brick!" west made no reply, but his feet shuffled nervously on the hearth. "to think of you starting out there after me! why, you're the--the hero, out; not me at all!" "oh, shut up!" muttered west. "i'll not! i'll tell every one in school!" cried joel. "i'll--" "if you do, joel march, i'll thrash you!" cried west. "you can't!--you can't, out!" then he paused and laid a hand affectionately on the other's shoulder as he asked softly: "and it's really so, out? you can't--" west shook his head. "i'm afraid it's so, joel," he answered apologetically. "you see out in iowa there isn't much chance for a chap to learn, and--and so before this afternoon, joel, i never swam a stroke in my life." chapter xii. the probation of blair. wallace clausen's narrow escape from death and joel's heroic rescue were nine-day wonders in the little world of the academy and village. in every room that night the incident was discussed from a to z: clausen's foolhardiness, march's grit and courage, west's coolness, cloud's cowardice. and next morning at chapel when joel, fearing to be late, hurried in and down the side aisle to his seat, his appearance was the signal for such an enthusiastic outburst of cheers and acclamations that he stopped, looked about in bewilderment, and then slipped with crimson cheeks into his seat, the very uncomfortable cynosure of all eyes. older boys, who were supposed to know, stoutly averred that such a desecration of the sacred solitude of chapel had never before been heard of, and "peg-leg," long since recovered from his contact with the bell rope, shook his gray head doubtfully, and joined his feeble tones with the cheers of the others. and then professor wheeler made his voice heard, and commanded silence very sternly, yet with a lurking smile, and silence was almost secured when, just as the door was being closed, outfield west slipped through, smiling, his handsome face flushed from his tear across the yard. and again the applause burst forth, scarcely less great in volume or enthusiasm, and west literally bolted back to the door, found it closed, was met with a grinning shake of the head from duffy, looked wildly about for an avenue of escape, and finding none, slunk to his seat at joel's side, while the boys joined laughter at his plight to their cheers for his courage. "you promised not to tell!" hissed west with blazing cheek. "i didn't, out; not a word," whispered joel. many eyes were still turned toward the door, but their owners were doomed to disappointment, for bartlett cloud failed to appear at chapel that morning, preferring to accept the penalty of absence rather than face his fellow-pupils assembled there in a body. but he did not escape public degradation; for, although he waited until the last moment to go to breakfast, he found the hall filled, and so passed to his seat amid a storm of hisses that plainly told the contempt in which his schoolmates held him. and then, as though scorning to remain in his presence, the place emptied as though by magic, and he was left with burning cheeks to eat his breakfast in solitude. joel and outfield were publicly thanked and commended by the principal, and every master had a handshake and a kind and earnest word for them. the boys learned that clausen had taken a severe cold from his immersion in the icy water, and had gone to the infirmary. thither they went and made inquiry. he would be up in a day or two, said mrs. creelman; but they could not see him, since professor gibbs had charged that the patient was not to be disturbed. and so, leaving word for him when he should awake, joel and west took themselves away, relieved at not having to receive any more thanks just then. but three days later clausen left the infirmary fully recovered, and joel came face to face with him on the steps of academy building. a number of fellows on their way to recitations stopped and watched the meeting. clausen colored painfully, appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then went to joel and held out his hand, which was taken and gripped warmly. "march, it's hard work thanking a fellow for saving your life, and--i don't know how to do it very well. but i guess you'll understand that--that--oh, hang it, march! you know what i'd like to say. i'm more grateful than i could tell you--ever. we haven't been friends, but it was my fault, i know, and if you'll let me, i'd like to be--to know you better." "you're more than welcome, clausen, for what i did. i'm awfully glad west and i happened to be on hand. but there wasn't anything that you or any fellow couldn't have done just as well, or better, because i came plaguey near making a mess of it. anyhow, it's well through with. as for being friends, i'll be very glad to be, clausen. and if you don't mind climbing stairs, and have a chance, come up and see me this evening. will you?" "yes, thanks. er--well, to-night, then." and clausen strode off. after supper west and clausen came up to joel's room, and the four boys sat and discussed all the topics known to school. richard sproule was at his best, and strove to do his share of the entertaining, succeeding quite beyond joel's expectations. when the conversation drew around to the subject of the upsetting on the river, clausen seemed willing enough to tell his own experiences, but became silent when cloud's name was mentioned. "i've changed my room, and haven't seen cloud since to speak to," he said. and so cloud's name was omitted from discussion. "i'm sorry," said clausen, "that i made such a dunce of myself when you were trying to get me out. i don't believe i knew what i was doing. i don't remember it at all." "i'm sure you didn't," answered joel. "i guess a fellow just naturally wouldn't, you know. but i was glad when you let go!" "yes, you must have been. the fellows all say you were terribly plucky to keep at it the way you did. when they got you it was all they could do to make you let go of me, they say." "the queerest thing," said west, with a laugh, "was to see post standing on shore and trying to throw a line to you all. it never came within twenty yards of you, but he kept on shouting: 'catch hold--catch hold, can't you? why don't you catch hold, you stupid apes?'" "and some one told me," said sproule, "that whipple took his shoes, sweater, and breeches off, and swam out there with his nose-guard on." "used it for a life-preserver," suggested west.--"did you get lectured, clausen?" "yes, he gave it to me hard; but he's a nice old duffer, after all. said i had had pretty near punishment enough. but i've got to keep in bounds all term, and can't go on the river again until i learn how to swim." "shouldn't think you'd want to," answered sproule. "are you still on probation, march?" asked clausen. "yes, and it doesn't look as though i'd ever get off. if i could find out who cut that rope i'd--i'd--" "well, i must be going back," exclaimed clausen hurriedly. "i wish, march, you'd come and see me some time. my room's 16 warren. i'm in with a junior by the name of bowler. know him?" joel didn't know the junior, but promised to call, and west and clausen said good-night and stumbled down the stairway together. the next morning joel dashed out from his history recitation plump into stephen remsen, who was on his way to the office. "well, march, congratulations! i'm just back from a trip home and was going to look you up this afternoon and shake hands with you. i'll do it now. you're a modest-enough-looking hero, march." "i don't feel like a hero, either," laughed joel in an endeavor to change the subject. "i'm just out from greek history, and if i could tell mr. oman what i think--" "yes? but tell me, how did you manage--but we'll talk about that some other time. you're feeling all right after the wetting, are you?" and as joel answered yes, he continued: "do you think you could go to work again on the team if i could manage to get you off probation?" "try me!" cried joel. "do you think they'll let up on me?" "i'm almost certain of it. i'm on my way now to see professor wheeler, and i'll ask him about you. i have scarcely any doubt but that, after your conduct the other day, he will consent to reinstate you, march, if i ask him. and i shall be mighty glad to do so. to tell the truth, i'm worried pretty badly about--well, never mind. never cross a river until you come to it." "but, mr. remsen, sir," said joel, "do you mean that he will let me play just because--just on account of what happened the other day?" "on account of that and because your general conduct has been of the best; and also, because they have all along believed you innocent of the charge, march. you know i told you that when cloud and clausen were examined each swore that the other had not left the room that evening, and accounted for each other's every moment all that day. but, nevertheless, i am positive that professor wheeler took little stock in their testimony. and as for professor durkee, why, he pooh-pooed the whole thing. you seem to have made a conquest of professor durkee, march." "he was very kind," answered joel thoughtfully. "i don't believe, mr. remsen, that i want to be let off that way," he went on. "i'm no less guilty of cutting the bell rope than i was before the accident on the river. and until i can prove that i am not guilty, or until they let me off of their own free wills, i'd rather stay on probation. but i'm very much obliged to you, mr. remsen." and to this resolve joel adhered, despite all remsen's powers of persuasion. and finally that gentleman continued on his way to the office, looking very worried. the cause of his worry was known to the whole school two days later when the news was circulated that wesley blair was on probation. and great was the consternation. the football game with st. eustace academy was fast approaching, and there was no time to train a satisfactory substitute for blair's position at full-back, even had one been in reach. and whipple as temporary captain was well enough, but whipple as captain during the big game was not to be thought of with equanimity. the backs had already been weakened by the loss of cloud, who, despite his poor showing the first of the season, had it in him to put up a rattling game. and now to lose blair! what did the faculty mean? did it want hillton to lose? but presently hope took the place of despair among the pupils. he was going to coach up and pass a special exam the day before the game. professor ludlow was to help him with his modern languages and remsen with his mathematics, while digbee, that confirmed old grind, had offered to coach him on greek. and so it would be all right, said the school; you couldn't down blair; he'd pass when the time came! but remsen--and blair himself, had the truth been known--were not so hopeful. and remsen went to west and besought him to induce joel to allow him (remsen) to ask for his reinstatement. and this west very readily did, bringing to bear a whole host of arguments which slid off from joel like water from a duck's back. and remsen groaned and shook his head, but always presented a smiling, cheerful countenance in public. those were hard days for the first eleven. despair and discouragement threatened on all sides, and, as every thoughtful one expected, there was such a slump in the practice as kept remsen and whipple and poor blair awake o' nights during the next week. but whipple toiled like a trojan, and remsen beamed contentment and scattered tongue-lashings alternately; and blair, ever armed with a text-book, watched from the side-line whenever the chance offered. joel seldom went to the field those days. the sight of a canvas-clad player made him ready to weep, and a soaring pigskin sent him wandering away by himself along the river bluff in no enviable state of mind. but one day he did find his way to the gridiron during practice, and he and blair sat side by side, or raced down the field, even with a runner, and received much consolation in the sort of company that misery loves, and, deep in discussion of the faults and virtues of the players, forgot their troubles. "why, it wouldn't have mattered if you were playing, march," said blair. "for there's no harm in telling you now that we were depending on you for half the punting. remsen thinks you are fine and so do i. 'with march to take half the punting off your hands,' said he one day, 'you'll have plenty of time to run the team to the queen's taste.' why, we had you running on the track there, so you would get your lungs filled out and be able to run with the ball as well as kick it. if you were playing we'd be all right. but as it is, there isn't a player there that can be depended on to punt twenty yards if pushed. some of 'em can't even catch the ball if they happen to see the line breaking! st. eustace is eight pounds heavier in the line than we are, and three or four pounds heavier back of it. so what will happen? why, they'll get the ball and push us right down the field with a lot of measly mass plays, and we won't be able to kick and we won't be able to go through their line. and it's dollars to doughnuts that we won't often get round their ends. it's a hard outlook! of course, if i can pass--" but there blair stopped and sighed dolefully. and joel echoed the sigh. the last few days before the event of the term came, and found the first eleven in something approaching their old form. blair continued to burn the midnight oil and consume page after page of greek and mathematics and german, which, as he confided despondently to digbee, he promptly forgot the next moment. remsen made up a certain amount of lost sleep, and whipple gained the confidence of the team. joel studied hard, and refound his old interest in lessons, and dreamed nightly of the goodwin scholarship. west, too, "put in some hard licks," as he phrased it, and found himself climbing slowly up in the class scale. and so the day of the game came round. the night preceding it two things of interest happened: the eleven and substitutes assembled in the gymnasium and listened to a talk by remsen, which was designed less for instruction than to take the boys' mind off the morrow's game; and wesley blair took his examination in the four neglected studies, and made very hard work of it, and finally crawled off to a sleepless night, leaving the professors to make their decision alone. and as the chapel bell began to ring on thanksgiving day morning, digbee entered blair's room, and finding that youth in a deep slumber, sighed, wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, placed this in plain sight upon the table, and tiptoed noiselessly out. and the message read: "we failed on the greek. i'm sorrier than i can tell you.--digbee." chapter xiii the game with st. eustace. there is a tradition at hillton, almost as firmly inwrought as that which credits professor durkee with wearing a wig, to the effect that thanksgiving day is always rainy. to-day proved an exception to the rule. the sun shone quite warmly and scarce a cloud was to be seen. at two o'clock the grand stand was filled, and late arrivals had perforce to find accommodations on the grass along the side-lines. some fifty lads had accompanied their team from st. eustace, and the portion of the stand where they sat was blue from top to bottom. but the crimson of hillton fluttered and waved on either side and dotted the field with little spots of vivid color wherever a hilltonian youth or ally sat, strolled, or lay. yard and village were alike well-nigh deserted; here was the staid professor, the corpulent grocer, the irrepressible small boy, the important-looking senior, the shouting, careless junior, the giggling sister, the smiling mother, the patronizing papa, the crimson-bedecked waitress from the boarding house, the--the--band! yes, by all means, the band! there was no chance of overlooking the band. it stood at the upper end of the field and played and played and played. the band never did things by halves. when it played it played; and, as outfield west affirmed, "it played till the cows came home!" there were plenty of familiar faces here to-day; professor gibbs's, old "peg-leg" duffy's, professor durkee's, the village postmaster's, "old joe" pike's, and many, many others. on the ground just outside the rope sat west and a throng of boys from hampton house. there were cooke and cartwright and somers and digbee--and yes, wesley blair, looking very glum and unhappy. he had donned his football clothes, perhaps from force of habit, and sat there taking little part in the conversation, but studying attentively the blue-clad youths who were warming-up on the gridiron. a very stalwart lot of youngsters, those same youths looked to be, and handled the ball as though to the manner born, and passed and fell and kicked short high punts with discouraging ease and vim. but one acquaintance at least was missing. not bartlett cloud, for he sat with his sister and mother on the seats; not clausen, for he sat among the substitutes; not sproule, since he was present but a moment since. but joel march was missing. in his room at masters hall joel sat by the table with a greek history open before him. i fear he was doing but little studying, for now and then he arose from his chair, walked impatiently to the window, from which he could see in the distance the thronged field, bright with life and color, turned impatiently away, sighed, and so returned again to his book. but surely we can not tarry there with joel when hillton and st. eustace are about to meet in gallant if bloodless combat on the campus. let us leave him to sigh and sulk, and return to the gridiron. a murmur that rapidly grows to a shout arises from the grand stand, and suddenly every eye is turned up the river path toward the school. they are coming! a little band of canvas-armored knights are trotting toward the campus. the shouting grows in volume, and the band changes its tune to "hilltonians." nearer and nearer they come, and then are swinging on to the field, leaping the rope, and throwing aside sweaters and coats. big greer is in the lead, good-natured and smiling. then comes whipple, then warren, and the others are in a bunch--post, christie, fenton, littlefield, barnard, turner, cote, wills. the st. eustace contingent gives them a royal welcome, and west and cooke and somers and others take their places in front of the seats and lead the cheering. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, hillton!" the mighty chorus sweeps across the campus and causes more than one player's heart to swell within him. "s-e-a, s-e-a, s-e-a, saint eustace!" what the cheer lacks in volume is atoned for by good will, and a clapping of hands from the hostile seats attests admiration. hillton is warming for the fray. greer and whipple are practicing snapping-back, the latter passing the ball to warren, who seizes it and runs a few steps to a new position, where the play is repeated. the guards and tackles are throwing themselves on to the ground and clutching rolling footballs in a way that draws a shudder of alarm from the feminine observer. stephen remsen is talking with the ends very earnestly under the goal posts, and post and wills are aiming balls at the goal with, it must be acknowledged, small success. then a whistle blows, the two teams congregate in the center of the field, the opposing captains flip a coin, the referee, a yates college man, utters a few words of warning, and the teams separate, st. eustace taking the ball and the home team choosing the northern goal. then the cheering lessens. st. eustace spreads out; cantrell, their center, places the ball; the referee's whistle sounds, the pigskin soars aloft, and the game is on. in charity toward hillton let us pass over the first half as soon as may be. suffice to tell that the wearers of the crimson fought their best; that whipple ran the team as well as even remsen could desire; that post made a startling run of forty yards, had only the st. eustace full-back between him and the goal--and then ran plump into that full-back's arms; that greer and barnard and littlefield stood like a stone wall--and went down like one; that wills kicked, and post kicked, and warren kicked, and none of them accomplished aught save to wring groans from the souls of all who looked on. in short, it was st. eustace's half from kick-off to call of time, and all because hillton had never a youth behind the line to kick out of danger or gain them a yard. for st. eustace was heavier in the line than hillton and heavier back of it, and with the ball once in her possession st. eustace had only to hammer away at center, guard, or tackle with "guards back" or "tandem," to score eventually. and that is what she did. and yet four times did hillton hold st. eustace literally on her goal-line and take the ball. and each time by hook or crook, by a short, weak punt or a clever, dashing run around end, did hillton win back a portion of her lost territory, only to lose it again at the second or third attempt to advance the ball. the halves were twenty-five minutes long, and in that first twenty-five minutes st. eustace scored but once, though near it thrice that many times. allen, st. eustace's right half-back, had plunged over the line for a touch-down at the end of fifteen minutes of play and terrill had missed an easy goal. then the grand stand was silent save for one small patch, whereon blue flags went crazy and swirled and leaped and danced up and down as though possessed of life. and over the field sped, sharp and triumphant, the st. eustace cheer. and the score stood: st. eustace 5, hillton o. the first half ended with the leather but ten yards from the north goal, and a great murmuring sigh of relief went up from the seats and from along the side-lines when the whistle sounded. then the hillton players, pale, dirty, half defeated, trotted lamely off the field and around the corner of the stand to the little weather-beaten shed which served for dressing room. and the blue-clad team trotted joyfully down to their stage, and there, behind the canvas protections were rubbed down and plastered up, and slapped on the back by their delighted coach and trainer. in the hillton quarters life was less cheerful during the ten minutes of intermission. after the fellows had rubbed and redressed, remsen talked for a minute or two. there was no scolding, and no signs of either disappointment or discouragement. but he cautioned the team against carelessness, predicted a tied score at the end of fifteen minutes, and called for three-times-three for hillton, which was given with reviving enthusiasm. a moment later the team trotted back to the field. "touch her down, touch her down, touch her down again! h-i-double-l-t-o-n!" chanted the wearers of the crimson; and--"st. eustace! st. eustace! st. eustace!" shouted the visitors as they waved their bright blue banners in air. the whistle piped merrily, the ball took its flight, and it was now or never for old hillton! stephen remsen joined the string of substitutes and found a seat on the big gray blanket which held browne and clausen. from there he followed the progress of the game. outwardly he was as happy and contented, as cool and disinterested, as one of the goal posts. inwardly he was railing against the fate that had deprived hillton of both the players who, had they been in the team, could have saved the crimson from defeat. wesley blair joined him, and with scarce a word they watched st. eustace revert to her previous tactics, and tear great gaping holes in the hillton line, holes often large enough to admit of a coach and four, and more than large enough to allow allen or jansen to go tearing, galloping through, with the ball safe clutched, for three, five? or even a dozen yards! no line can long stand such treatment, and, while the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound greer still held out, barnard, the big right-guard, was already showing signs of distress. st. eustace's next play was a small wedge on tackle, and although barnard threw himself with all his remaining strength into the breach he was tossed aside like a bag of feathers and through went the right and left half-backs, followed by full with the ball, and pushed onward by left-end and quarter. when down was called the ball was eight yards nearer hillton's goal, and barnard lay still on the ground. whipple held up his hand. thistelweight--a youth of some one hundred and forty pounds--struggled agitatedly with his sweater and bounded into the field, and barnard, white and weak, was helped limping off. for awhile st. eustace fought shy of right-guard, and then again the weight of all the backs was suddenly massed at that point, and, though a yard resulted, the crimson wearers found cause for joy, and a ringing cheer swept over the field. but littlefield at left-guard was also weakening, and the tackle beside him was in scarce better plight. and so, with tandem on tackle, wedge, or guard back, st. eustace plowed along toward the hillton goal, and a deep silence held the field save for the squad of blue-decked cheerers on the seats. remsen looked at his watch. "eighteen minutes to play," he announced quietly. blair nodded. he made no attempt to disguise his dejection. clausen heard, and suddenly turned toward the coach. he was pale, and remsen wondered at his excitement. "can't we tie them, sir?" he asked breathlessly. "i'm afraid not. and even if we could they'd break loose." clausen paid no heed to the sorry joke. "but they'll win, sir! isn't there anything to do?" remsen stared. then he smiled. "failing an extraordinary piece of luck, my lad, we're already beaten. our line can't hold them; we have no one to kick, even should we get a chance, and--" "but if blair was there, sir, or march?" "it might make a difference. hello! there they go through tackle-guard hole again. lord, six yards if an inch!" blair groaned and rolled over in despair. the whistle sounded, and as the pile of writhing youths dissolved it was seen that tom warren was hurt. out trotted the rubber. the players sank exhausted to the ground and lay stretched upon the sward, puffing and panting. two minutes went by. then whipple called for clausen. "clausen," cried remsen turning, "go in and--" but clausen was not to be seen. "clausen!" cried a dozen voices. there was no response, and browne was taken on instead, and warren, with an ankle that failed him at every step, struggled off the field. "what's become of clausen?" asked remsen. but no one could answer. the play went on. with the ball on hillton's twenty-yard line a fumble gave it to the home team, and on the first down browne gathered it in his arms and tried to skirt st. eustace's left end, but was thrown with a loss of a yard. a similar play with wills as the runner was tried around the other end and netted a yard and a half. it was the third down and four and a half yards to gain. back went the ball to post and he kicked. but it was a poor performance, that kick, and only drove the pigskin down the side-line to the forty-yard line, where it bounded in touch. but it delayed the evil moment of another score for st. eustace, and the seats cheered. "twelve minutes left," announced remsen. relentless as fate the st. eustace forwards surged on toward the opposing goal. two yards, three yards, one yard, five yards, half a yard, always a gain, never a check, until once more the leather reposed just in front of the hillton goal and midway between the ten and fifteen-yard line. then a plunge through the tackle-guard hole, followed by a tandem on guard, and another five yards was passed. the cheering from the wearers of the blue was now frantic and continuous. there was two years of defeat to make up for, and victory was hovering over the azure banner! "eight minutes to play," said remsen. "if we can only keep them from scoring again!" suddenly there was a murmur from the seats, then a cry of surprise from remsen's side, then a shout of exultation that gathered and grew as it traveled along the line. and around the corner of the stand came a youth who strove to lace his torn and tattered canvas jacket as he ran. remsen leaped to his feet, dropping his pipe unnoticed, and hastened toward him. they met and for a moment conversed in whispers. "it's joel march!" cried blair. "he's going to play!" exclaimed a dozen voices. "but he can't," cried a dozen others. "he's on probation." "he is! he is! he's going on! he's going to play!" and so he was. whipple had already seen him, and had sunk to the ground nursing an ankle which had suddenly gone lame. "time!" he cried, and obedient to his demand the referee's whistle piped. "give your place to post, wills!" he commanded, and then, limping to joel, he led that youth apart. "can you play?" he asked hoarsely. "yes." "then get in there at full-back, and, o march, kick us out of this bloody place! i'll give you the ball on the next down. kick it for all you're worth." he gave joel a shove. "all right, mr. referee!" the whistle sounded. forward charged st. eustace. but, gathering encouragement from the knowledge that back of them stood a full who would put them out of danger if the opportunity were given him, hillton stood fast. "second down, five yards to gain!" cried the umpire. again the wearers of bedraggled blue stockings surged and broke against the line. and again there was no gain. back of hillton, less than eight yards away, lay the goal-line. desperation lends strength. huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, the backs bracing from behind, the crimson-clad youths awaited the next charge. it was "the thin red line" again. then back went the ball, there was a moment of grinding canvas, of muttered words and smothered gasps, of swaying, clutching, falling, and "down!" was heard. "hillton's ball; first down," announced the umpire. what a cheer went up from the grand stand! what joy was in remsen's heart as the st. eustace full-back went trotting up the field and greer stooped over the ball! then came a pause, a silence. every one knew what to look for. squarely between the posts and directly under the cross-bar stood joel march, his left foot on the goal-line. back came the ball, straight and low into joel's outstretched hands. the line blocked long and hard. one step forward, an easy, long swing of his right leg, and joel sent the ball sailing a yard over the upstretched hands of the opposing line and far and high down the field. there it was gathered into the arms of the st. eustace full-back, but ere that player had put his foot twice to ground he was thrown, and the teams lined up on st. eustace's forty-five-yard line. then it was that the god of battle befriended hillton; for on the next play st. eustace made her first disastrous fumble, and christie, hillton's right end, darted through, seized the rolling spheroid, and started down the field. five, ten, fifteen, twenty yards he sped, the st. eustace backs trailing after him. "a touch-down!" cried remsen. "no, the half's gaining! he's got him! no, missed him, by jove! a-ah!" the run was over, and christie lay panting on the ground, with the triumphant st. eustace half-back sitting serenely on his head; for, although the latter had missed his tackle, christie had slipped in avoiding him. but cheers for christie and hillton filled the afternoon air, and the two elevens lined up near st. eustace's twenty-five-yard line, yet well over toward the side of the field. "if it was only in the middle of the field," groaned blair, "a place-kick would tie the score. how much time is there, mr. remsen?" "about two and a half minutes," answered remsen. "but i've an idea that, middle or no middle, whipple's going to signal a kick." "it can't be done," answered blair with conviction, "drop or placement! march is only fair at goals, and at that angle--" "what's the matter with the man?" cried remsen; "what's he up to?" for the hillton backs were clustered well up behind the line as though for a wedge attack. and as remsen wondered, the ball was put in play, the line blocked sharply, and christie left his place at right end, and skirting behind the backs received the ball by a double pass _via_ right half-back and ran for the middle of the field, the backs helping the end and tackle to hold the st. eustace right line. christie gained the center of the gridiron and advanced a yard toward the opponent's goal ere the st. eustace right half-back reached him. then there was a quick line-up, and joel took up his position for a kick. "well done, whipple!" cried remsen and blair in a breath. "but the time!" muttered remsen, "does he know--" "one minute to play!" came the ominous announcement. then, while a snap of the fingers could have been heard the length of the field, whipple glanced deliberately around at the backs, slapped the broad back of the center sharply, seized the snapped ball, and made a swift, straight pass to joel. then through the hillton line went the st. eustace players, breaking down with vigor born of desperation the blocking of their opponents. with a leap into the air the st. eustace left-guard bore down straight upon joel; there was a concussion, and the latter went violently to earth, but not before his toe had met the rebounding ball; and the latter, describing a high arc, sailed safely, cleanly over the bar and between the posts! and then, almost before the ball had touched the ground, the whistle blew shrilly, and apparent defeat had been turned into what was as good as victory to the triumphant wearers of the hillton crimson! hillton and st. eustace had played a tie. and over the ropes, rushing, leaping, shouting, broke the tide of humanity, crimson flags swirled over a sea of heads, and pandemonium ruled the campus! and on the ground where he had fallen lay joel march. chapter xiv. the goodwin scholarship. "but how did it all happen?" asked outfield west breathlessly. he had just entered and was seated on the edge of the bed whereon joel lay propped up eating his thanksgiving dinner from a tray. it was seven o'clock in the evening, and dickey sproule was not yet back. the yard was noisy with the shouts of lads returning from the dining hall, and an occasional cheer floated up, an echo of the afternoon's event. joel moved a dish of pudding away from outfield's elbow as he answered between mouthfuls of turkey: "i was up here studying at the table there when i heard some one coming up stairs two steps at a time. it was clausen. he threw open the door and cried: 'they're winning, march, they're winning! come quick! remsen says we can tie them if you play. it's all right, march. we'll go to the office and i'll tell everything. only come, hurry!' well, of course i thought first he was crazy. then i guessed what was up, because i knew that eustace had scored--" "you couldn't have known; you were studying." "well, i--i wasn't studying all the time, out. so up i jumped, and we raced over to the office and found professor wheeler there asleep on the leather couch under the window. 'it was cloud and i, sir, that cut the rope!' said clausen. 'i'm very sorry, sir, and i'll take the punishment and glad to. but march hadn't anything to do with it, sir; he didn't even know anything about it, sir!' professor wheeler was about half awake, and he thought something terrible was the matter, and it took the longest time to explain what clausen was talking about. then he said he was glad to learn that i was innocent, and i thanked him, and he started to ask clausen a lot of questions. 'but st. eustace is winning, sir!' i cried. he looked at me in astonishment. 'indeed, i'm very sorry to hear it,' he said. 'but it isn't too late now, sir,' said clausen. 'for what?' asked 'wheels.' 'for me to go on the team,' said i. 'you know, sir, you put me on probation and i can't play.' 'oh,' said he, 'but you were put on probation by the faculty, and the faculty must take you off.' 'but meanwhile hillton will be beaten!' said clausen. 'can't he play, sir? he can save the day!' wheels thought a bit. 'what's the score?' he asked. clausen told him. 'yes,' he said at last, 'run and get to work. i'll explain to the faculty. and by the way, march, remember that a kick into touch is always the safest.'" "isn't he a rummy old guy?" exclaimed west. "and then?" "then i struck out for the gym, got into my canvas togs somehow or other, and reached the field just about in time. luckily i knew the signals. and then after i'd kicked that goal that big eustace chap struck me like a locomotive, and i went down on the back of my head; and that's all except that they brought me up here and professor gibbs plastered me up and gave me a lot of nasty sweet water to take." "and clausen?" "from the little i heard i think cloud cut the rope and made clausen promise not to tell. and he kept his promise until he saw hillton getting beaten yesterday, and then he couldn't stand it, and just up and told everything, and saved us a licking." "didn't i tell you cloud did it? didn't i--" there came a knock on the door and in response to joel's invitation professor wheeler and stephen remsen entered. west leaped off the bed--there is a rule at hillton forbidding occupying beds save for sleep--and upset joel's tea. professor wheeler smiled as he said: "west, you're rather an uneasy fellow to have in a sick-room. get something and dry that off the floor there, please.--well, march, i understand you got there in the nick of time to-day. mr. remsen says you saved us from defeat." "indeed he did, professor; no one else save blair could have done it to-day. that goal from the twenty-five-yard line was as pretty a performance as i've ever seen.--how are you feeling, lad?" "all right," answered joel. "i've got a bit of a headache, but i'll be better in the morning." "your appetite doesn't seem to have failed you," said the principal. "no, sir, i was terribly hungry." "that's a good sign, they say.--west, you may take your seat again." the professor and stephen remsen occupied the two chairs, and west without hesitation sat down again on the bed. "march, i have learned the truth of that affair. bartlett cloud, it appears, cut the bell rope simply in order to throw suspicion on you. he managed to secure a letter of yours through--hem!--through your roommate, who, it seems, also bears you a grudge for some real or fancied slight. clausen, while a party to the affair, appears to have taken no active part in it, and only remained silent because threatened with bodily punishment by cloud. these boys will be dealt with as they deserve. "but i wish to say to you that all along it has been the belief of the faculty, the entire faculty, that you had no hand in the matter, and we are all glad to have our judgments vindicated. an announcement will be made to-morrow which will set you right again before the school. and now, in regard to richard sproule; do you know of any reason why he should wish you harm?" "no, sir. we don't get along very well, but--" "i see. now, it will be best for you to change either your room or your roommate. have you any preference which you do?" "i should like to change my room, sir. i should like to go in with west. he has a room to himself in hampton, and wants to have me join him." "but do you realize that the rent will be very much greater, march?" "yes, sir, but west wants me to pay only what i have paid for this room, sir. he says he'd have to pay for the whole room if i didn't go in with him, and so it's fair that way. do you think it is, sir?" "what would your father say, west?" "i've asked him, sir. he says to go ahead and do as i please." the principal smiled as he replied: "well, march, then move over to west's room to-morrow. it will be all fair enough. and i shall be rather glad to have you in hampton house. digbee is an example of splendid isolation there; it will be well to have some one help him maintain the dignity of study amid such a number of--er--well, say lilies of the field, west; they toil not, if you remember, and neither do they spin. don't get up in the morning if your head still hurts, march; we don't want you to get sick.--keep a watch on him, west; and, by the way, if he wants more tea, run over to the dining hall and tell the steward i said he was to have it. good-night, boys." "good-night, sir." remsen shook hands with joel. "march, i hope i shall be able to repay you some day for what you did this afternoon. it meant more to me, i believe, than it did to even you fellows. i'm going thursday next. come and see me before then if you can. good-night." when the door had closed outfield shouted, "hurrah!" in three different keys and pirouetted about the room. "it's all fixed, joel. welcome to hampton, my lad! welcome to the classic shades of donothing hall! we will live on pickles and comb-honey, and feast like the romans of old! we--" he paused. "say, joel, i guess cloud will be expelled, eh?" joel considered thoughtfully with a spoonful of rice pudding midway between saucer and mouth. then he swallowed the delicacy. "yes," he replied, "and i'm awful glad of it." but joel was mistaken; for cloud was not to be found the next morning, and the condition of his room pointed to hasty flight. he had taken alarm and saved himself from the degradation of public dismissal. and so he passed from hillton life and was known there no more. clausen escaped with a light punishment, for which both joel and west were heartily glad. "because when you get him away from cloud," said west, "clausen's not a bad sort, you know." richard sproule was suspended for the balance of the fall term, and was no longer monitor of his floor. perhaps the heaviest punishment was the amount of study he was required to do in order to return after christmas recess, entailing as it did a total relinquishment of mayne reid, scott, and cooper. and when he did return his ways led far from joel's. very naturally that youth had now risen to the position of popular hero, and unapproachable seniors slapped him warmly on the shoulder--a bit of familiarity joel was too good-natured to resent--and wide-eyed little juniors admired him open-mouthed as he passed them. but joel bore himself modestly withal, and was in no danger of being spoiled by a state of things that might well have turned the head of a more experienced lad than he. it is a question if outfield did not derive more real pleasure and pride out of joel's popularity than did joel himself. every new evidence of the liking and admiration in which the latter was held filled outfield's heart with joy. at last joel found time to begin his course in golf, and almost any day the two lads might have been seen on the links, formidably armed with a confusing assortment of clubs, outfield quite happy to be exhibiting the science of his favorite sport, and joel plowing up the sod in a way to cause a green-tender, had there been such a person on hand, the most excruciating pain. but joel went at golf as he went at everything else, bending all his energies thereto, and driving thought of all else from his mind, and so soon became, if not an expert, at least a very acceptable player who won commendation from even west--and where golf was concerned outfield was a most unbiased and unsympathetic judge. one afternoon whipple and blair, the latter once more free from probation, played a match with joel and west, and were fairly beaten by three holes--a fact due less, it is true, to joel's execution with the driver than west's all-around playing. but joel, nevertheless, derived not a little encouragement from that result, and bade fair to become almost if not quite as enthusiastic a golfer as west. at first, in the earlier stages of his initiation, joel was often discouraged, whereupon west was wont to repeat the famous reply of the old st. andrews player to the college professor, who did not understand why, when he could teach latin and greek, he failed so dismally at golf. "ay, i ken well ye can teach the latin and greek," said the veteran, "but it takes _brains_, mon, to play the gowf!" and joel more than half agreed with him. remsen departed a week after thanksgiving, being accompanied to the train by almost as enthusiastic a throng as had welcomed him upon his arrival. he had consented to return to hillton the following year and coach the eleven once more. "i had expected to make this the last year," he said, "but now i shall coach, if you will have me, until we win a decisive victory from st. eustace. i can't break off my coaching career with a tie game, you see." and christie occasioned laughter and applause by replying, "i'm afraid you're putting a premium on defeat, sir, because if we win next year's game you won't come back." he shook hands cordially with joel, and said: "when the election of next year's captain comes off, my boy, it's a pretty sure thing that you'll have a chance at it. but if you'll take my advice you'll let it alone. i tell you this because i'm your friend all through. next fall will be time enough for the honors; this year should go to hard work without any of the trouble that falls to the lot of captain." "thank you, mr. remsen," joel answered. "i hadn't thought of their doing such a thing. i don't see why they should want me. but if it's offered you may be sure i'll decline. i'd be totally unfitted for it; and, besides, i haven't got the time!" and so, when two weeks later the election was held in the gymnasium one evening, joel did decline, to the evident regret of all the team, and the honor went to christie, since both blair and whipple were seniors and would not be in school the next autumn. and christie made a very manly, earnest speech, and subsequently called for three times three for blair, and three times three for remsen, and nine times three for hillton, all of which were given with a will. as the christmas recess approached, joel spent a great deal of valuable time in unnecessary conjecture as to his chance of winning the goodwin scholarship, and undoubtedly lessened his chance of success by worrying. the winners were each year announced in school hall on the last day of the term. the morning of that day found outfield west very busy packing a heap of unnecessary golf clubs and wearing apparel into his trunk and bags, and found joel seated rather despondently on the lounge looking on. for west was to spend his vacation with an uncle in boston, and joel, although outfield had begged him to go along, asserting positively that his uncle would be proud and happy to see him (joel), was to spend the recess at school, since he felt he could not afford the expense of the trip home. west hesitated long over a blue-checked waistcoat and at length sighed and left it out. "isn't it most time to go over?" asked joel. "no; don't you be in a hurry. there's a half hour yet. and if you're going to get the goodwin you'll get it, and there isn't any use stewing over it," replied west severely. "as for me, i'm glad i'm not a grind and don't have to bother my head about such tommyrot. just sit on the lid of this pesky thing, joel, will you? i'm afraid that last coat was almost too much for it." but even suspense comes to an end, and presently joel found himself seated by west in the crowded hall, and felt his face going red and pale by turns, and knew that his heart was beating with unaccustomed violence beneath his shabby vest. professor wheeler made his speech--and what a long one it seemed to many a lad!--and then the fateful list was lifted from the table. "senior class scholarships have been awarded as follows," announced the principal. "the calvin scholarship to albert park digbee, waltham, massachusetts." joel forgot his unpleasant emotions while he clapped and applauded. but they soon returned as the list went on. every announcement met with uproarous commendation, and boy after boy arose from his seat and more or less awkwardly bowed his recognition. the principal had almost completed the senior list. "ripley scholarships to george simms lennox, new york city; john fiske, brookville, mississippi; carleton sharp eaton, milton, massachusetts; william george woodruff, portland, maine. masters scholarships to howard mcdonnell, indianapolis, indiana; thomas grey, yonkers, new york; stephen lutger williams, connellsville, rhode island; barton hobbs, farmington, maine; walter haskens browne, denver, colorado; and justin thorp smith, chicago, illinois." joel's hands were cold and his feet just wouldn't keep still. the principal leaned down and took up the upper middle class list. west nudged joel smartly in the ribs, and whispered excitedly: "now! keep cool, my boy, keep cool!" then joel heard professor wheeler's voice reading from the list, and for a moment it seemed to come from a great distance. "upper middle class scholarships have been awarded as follows:" there was a pause while he found his place. "goodwin scholarship to harold burke reeves, saginaw, michigan." west subsided in his seat with a dismal groan. joel did not hear it. it is doubtful if he heard anything until several minutes later, when the pronouncement of his name awoke him from the lethargy into which he had fallen. "masters scholarships to joel march, marchdale, maine--" "it's better than nothing, joel," whispered outfield. "it's fifty dollars, you know." but joel made no reply. what was a masters to him who had set his heart on the first prize of all? presently, when the lists were over, he stole quietly out unnoticed by his chum, and when west returned to the room he found joel at the table, head in hands, an open book before him. west closed the door and walked noiselessly forward in the manner of one in a sick-room, at length he asked in a voice which strove to be natural and unconcerned: "what are you doing, joel?" the head over the book only bent closer as its owner answered doggedly: "studying greek!" chapter xv. the boat race. the balance of that school year was a season of hard study for joel. it was not in his nature to remain long despondent over the loss of the goodwin scholarship, and a week after the winter term commenced he was as cheerful and light-hearted as ever. but his failure served to spur him on to renewed endeavors, and as a result he soon found himself at the head of the upper middle. rightly or wrongly--and there is much to be said on both sides--he gave up sports almost entirely. now and then west persuaded him to an afternoon on the links, but this was infrequent. the hockey season opened with the first hard ice on the river, and west joined the team that met and defeated st. eustace in january. there was one result of his application to study that joel had not looked for. outfield west, perhaps from a mere desire to be companionable, took to lessons, and, much to his own pretended dismay, began to earn the reputation of a diligent student. "you won't talk," growled west, "you won't play chess, you won't eat things. you just drive a chap to study!" as spring came in the school talk turned to baseball and rowing. for the former joel had little desire, but rowing attracted him, and he began to allow himself the unusual pleasure of an hour away from lessons in the afternoon that he might go down to the boathouse with west, and there, in a sunny angle of the building, watch the crews at work upon the stream. hillton was trying very hard to turn out a winning crew, and whipple, who was captain of the first eight, toiled as no captain had toiled before in the history of hillton aquatics. the baseball season ended disastrously with a severe drubbing for the hillton nine at the hands of st. eustace on the latter's home ground. the fellows said little, but promised to atone for it when the boat race came off. this occurred two days before class day, which this year came on june 22d, and very nearly every pupil traveled down the river to marshall to witness it. the day away from school came as a welcome relief after the worry and brain-aching of the spring examination, and joel, although he knew for a certainty that he had passed with the highest marks, was glad to obey outfield's stern decree and accompany that youth to the scene of the race. they went by train and arrived at the little town at noon. after a regal repast of soup and sandwiches, ice cream and chocolate ã©clairs, the two set out for the river side. the hillton crew had come down the day before with their new shell, and had spent the night at the only hotel in the village. the race was to be started at three, and west and joel spent the intervening time in exploring the river banks for a mile in each direction from the bridge, and in getting their feet wet and their trousers muddy. by the hour set for the start the river sides were thronged with spectators, and rival cheers floated across the sparkling stream from bank to bank. that side of the river whereon st. eustace academy lies hidden behind a hill held the st. eustace supporters, while upon the other bank the hillton lads and their friends congregated. but the long bridge, something more than a mile below, was common ground, and here the foes mingled and strove to outshout each other. the river is broad here below marshall, and forms what is almost a basin, hemmed in on either side by low wooded bluffs. from where joel and west, with a crowd of hillton fellows, stood midway upon the bridge, the starting point, nearly a mile and a half up stream was plainly visible, and the finish line was a few rods above them. west was acquainted with several of the st. eustace boys, and to these joel was introduced and was welcomed by them with much cordiality and examined with some curiosity. he had accomplished the defeat of their eleven, and they would know what sort of youth he was. while they were talking, leaning against the railing of the bridge, joel suddenly caught west's arm and drew his attention to a boy some distance away who was looking toward the starting point through a pair of field glasses. west indulged in a long whistle, plainly indicative of amazement. "who's that fellow over there?" he asked. one of the st. eustace boys followed the direction of his gaze. "well, you ought to know him. he knows you. that's bartlett cloud. he was at hillton last term, and left because he was put off the eleven; or so he says." "humph!" ejaculated outfield west. "he left to keep from being expelled, he did. he left because he was mixed up in some mighty dirty work, and knew that, even if they let him stay in school, no decent fellow would associate with him. and you can tell him from me that if he says i know him he's a liar. i don't know him from--from mud! i should think you'd be proud of him at eustace." "we didn't know that," answered the st. eustace boy in perplexity. "we thought--" "what?" demanded west as the other paused. "well, he said that the coach was down on him, and gave his place to your friend here, and--" "no," answered joel quietly. "i didn't take his place. he tried to strike me one day at practice, and remsen, our coach, put him off. that was all. afterward he--he--but it isn't worth talking about." "but i didn't know that st. eustace made a practice of taking in cast-off scamps from other schools," said west. the other lad flushed as he answered apologetically: "we didn't know, west. he said he was a friend of yours and so--but the other fellows shall know about him." then there was a stir on the bridge and a voice cried, "there they go to the float!" up the stream at the starting point two shells were seen leisurely paddling toward a float anchored a few yards off the right bank. the colors were easily distinguishable, and especially did the crimson of hillton show up to the eager watchers on the bridge. every eye was turned toward the two boats, and a silence held the throng, a silence which lasted until sixteen oar-blades caught the water almost together, and the two boats began to leave the float behind. then cries of "they're off!" were raised, and there was a general shoving and pushing for places of observation on the up-stream side of the structure, while along the banks the crowds began to move about again. it was joel's first sight of a boat race, and he found himself becoming very excited, while west, veteran though he was, breathed a deal faster, and talked in disjointed monosyllables. "side by side!... no, hillton's ahead!... isn't she?... eh ... you can't... see from here ... which is ... leading.... get another hold on my ... arm, ... joel; that one's black ... and blue! ... hillton's ahead! hillton's ahead by a half length!" but she wasn't. side by side the two shells swept on toward the first half-mile mark. they were both rowing steadily, with no endeavor to draw away, hillton at thirty strokes, st. eustace at thirty-two. the course was two miles, almost straight away down the river. the half-mile buoy was not distinguishable from where joel stood, but the mile was plainly in sight. some one who held a stop-watch behind joel uttered an impatient growl at the slow time the crews were making. "there'll be no record broken to-day," he said. "they're eight seconds behind already for the first quarter." but joel didn't care about that. if only those eight swaying forms might pass first beyond the finish line he cared but little what the time might be. the cheering, which had ceased as the boats left the start, now began again as they approached the finish of the first quarter of the course. "rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah, hillton!" rang out from the right bank. "s, e, a; s, e, a; s, e, a; saint eustace!" replied the left bank with a defiant roar of sound that was caught by the hills and flung back in echoes across the water. "saint eustace! saint eustace! saint eustace!" "hillton! hillton! hillton!" then the cheering grew louder and more frenzied as, boat to boat, the rival eights passed the half-mile buoy, swinging along with no perceptible effort over the blue, dancing water. "anybody's race," said outfield west, as he lowered his glasses. "but hillton's got the outside course on the turn." the turn was no more than a slight divergence from the straight line at the one-mile mark, but it might mean from a half to three quarters of a length to the outside boat should they maintain their present relative positions. for the next half mile the same moderate strokes were used until the half-course buoy was almost reached, when hillton struck up to thirty-two and then to thirty-four, and st. eustace increased her stroke to the latter number. it was a race for the position nearest the buoy, and st. eustace won it, hillton falling back a half length as the course was changed. then the strokes in both boats went back to thirty-two, hillton seemingly willing to keep in the rear. on and on they came, the oars taking the water in unison, and shining like silver when the sun caught the wet blades. and back, the wakes seemed like two ruled marks, so straight they were. there was no let up of the cheering now. back and forth went challenge and reply across the stream, while the watchers on the bridge fairly shook that iron-trussed structure with the fury of their slogans. as the boats neared the three-quarter buoy it was plain to all who looked that the real race was yet to come. hillton suddenly hit up her stroke to thirty-four, to thirty-six, to thirty-eight, and, a bit ragged perhaps, but nevertheless at a beautiful speed, drew up to st. eustace, shoved her nose a quarter length past, and hung there, despite st. eustace's best efforts to shake her off. both boats were now straining their uttermost, and from now on to the finish it was to be the stiffest rowing of which each was capable. hillton _was_ ragged on the port side, and bow was plainly tuckered. but st. eustace also showed signs of wear, and there was an evident disposition the length of the boat to hurry through the stroke. joel was straining his eyes on the crimson backs, and west was vainly and unconsciously endeavoring to see through the glasses from the wrong end. the three-quarter mark swept past the boats, and hillton still maintained her lead. the judges' boat, a tiny, saucy naphtha launch, had steamed down to the finish, and now quivered there as though from impatience and excitement, and awaited the victor. suddenly there was a groan of dismay from the st. eustace supporters. and no wonder. their boat had suddenly dropped behind until its nose was barely lapping the rival shell. number four was rowing "out of time and tune," as joel shouted triumphantly, and although he soon steadied down, the damage was hard to repair, for hillton, encouraged by the added lead, was rowing magnificently. but with strokes that brought cries of admiration even from her foes st. eustace struggled gloriously to recover her lost water. little by little the nose of her boat crept up and up, until it was almost abreast with number three's oar, while cries of encouragement from bridge and shore urged her on. but now green, the hillton coxswain, turned his head slightly, studied the position of the rival eight, glanced ahead at the judges' boat, and spoke a short, sharp command. and instantly, ragged port oars notwithstanding, the crimson crew seemed to lift their boat from the water at every stroke, and st. eustace, struggling gamely, heroically, to the last moment, fell farther and farther behind. a half length of clear water showed between them, then a length, then--and now the line was but a stone-throw away--two fair lengths separated the contestants. and amid the deafening, frenzied shrieks of their schoolmates, their crimson-clad backs rising and falling like clock-work, all signs of raggedness gone, the eight heroes swept over the line winners by two and a half lengths from the st. eustace crew, and disappeared under the bridge to emerge on the other side with trailing oars and wearied limbs. and as they went from sight, joel, stooping, yelling, over the railing, saw, with the piercing shriek of the launch's whistle in his ears, the upraised face of green, the coxswain, smiling placidly up at him. chapter xvi. good-by to hillton. joel took the preliminary examination for harwell university in june, and left class day morning for home. he had the satisfaction of seeing his name in the list of honor men for the year, having attained a or b in all studies for the three terms. the parting with outfield west was shorn of much of its melancholy by reason of the latter's promise to visit joel in august. the suggestion had been made by outfield, and joel had at once warmly pressed him to come. "only, you know, out," joel had said, "we don't live in much style. and i have to work a good deal, so there won't be much time for fun." "what do you have to do?" asked west. "well, milk, and go to mill, and perhaps there will be threshing to do before i leave. and then there's lots of other little things around the farm that i generally do when i'm home." "that's all right," answered west cheerfully. "i'll help. i milked a cow once. only--say, what do you hit a cow with when you milk her?" "i don't hit her at all," laughed joel. "do you?" "i _did_. i hit her with a plank and she up and kicked me eight times before i could move off. perhaps i riled her. i thought you should always hit them before you begin." joel had not seen his parents since he had left home in the preceding fall, and naturally a warm welcome awaited him. mr. march, to joel's relief, did not appear to regret the loss of the goodwin scholarship nearly as much as joel himself had done, and seemed rather proud than otherwise of the lad's first year at the academy. in august outfield west descended at the little station accompanied by two trunks, a golf-bag, a photograph camera, and a dress-suit case; and farmer march regarded the pile of luggage apprehensively, and undoubtedly thought many unflattering thoughts of west. but as no one could withstand that youth for long, at the end of three days both joel's father and mother had accepted him unreservedly into their hearts. as for joel's brother ezra, and his twelve-year-old sister, they had never hesitated for a single instant. mr. march absolutely forbade joel from doing any of the chores after west arrived at the farm, and sent the boys off on a week's hunting and fishing excursion with black betty and the democrat wagon. west took his camera along, but was prevailed on to leave his golf clubs at the farm; and the two had eight days of ideal fun in the maine woods, and returned home with marvelous stories of adventure and a goodly store of game and fish. west was somewhat disappointed in the golfing facilities afforded by the country about marchdale, but politely refrained from allowing the fact to be known by joel. outside of the "pasture" and the "hill-field" the ground was too rocky and broken to make driving a pleasure, and after losing half a dozen balls outfield restricted himself to the pasture, where he created intense interest on the part of the cows. he found that he got along much more peaceably with them when he appeared without his red coat. in september, happy, healthy, and well browned, the two boys returned to hillton with all the dignity becoming the reverend senior. west had abandoned his original intention of entering yates college, and had taken with joel the preliminary examination for harwell; and they were full of great plans for the future, and spent whole hours telling each other what marvelous things awaited them at the university. joel's senior year at hillton was crowded with hard work and filled with incident. but, as it was more or less a repetition of the preceding year, it must needs be told of briefly. if space permitted i should like to tell of joel's first debate in the senior debating society, in which he proved conclusively and to the satisfaction of all present that the political privileges of a citizen of athens under the constitution of cleisthenes were far superior to those of a citizen of rome at the time of the second punic war. and i should like to tell of the arduous training on the football field and in the gymnasium, by means of which joel increased his sphere of usefulness on the eleven, and learned to run with the ball as well as kick it, so proving the truth of an assertion made by stephen remsen, who had said, "with such long legs as those, march, you should be as fine a runner as you are a kicker." and i should like to go into tiresome detail over the game with st. eustace, in which joel made no star plays, but worked well and steadily at the position of left half-back, and thereby aided in the decisive victory for hillton that remsen had spoken of; for the score at the end of the first half was, hillton 5, st. eustace 0; and at the end of the game, hillton 11, st. eustace 0. joel and remsen became fast and familiar friends during that term, and when, a few days after the st. eustace game, remsen took his departure from the academy, no more to coach the teams to glorious victory or honorable defeat, joel of all the school was perhaps the sorriest to have him go. but remsen spoke hopefully of future meetings at harwell, and joel and west waved him farewell from the station platform and walked back to the yard in the manner of chief mourners at a funeral. outfield west again emerged triumphant from the golf tournament, and the little pewter mug remained securely upon his mantel, a receptacle for damaged balls. for some time the two missed the familiar faces of digbee and blair and whipple and some few others. somers and cooke still remained, the latter with radiant hopes of graduation the coming june, the former to take advanced courses in several studies. clausen was a frequent visitor to number four hampton, and both west and joel had conceived a liking for him which, as the year went by, grew into sincere friendship. those who had been intimate with wallace clausen when he was under the influence of bartlett cloud saw a great difference in the lad at this period. he had grown manlier, more earnest in tone and attainments, and had apparently shaken off his old habit of weak carelessness as some insects shed their skins. he, too, was to enter harwell the coming fall, a fact which strengthened the bond between the three youths. one resolve was uppermost in joel's heart when he began his last year at hillton, and that was to gain the goodwin scholarship. his failure the year before had only strengthened his determination to win this time; and win he did, and was a very proud and happy lad when the lists were read and the name of "joel march, marchdale, maine," led all the rest. and it is to be supposed that there was much happiness in the great rambling snow-covered farmhouse up north when joel's telegram was received; for joel could not wait for the mail to carry the good news, but must needs run at once to the village and spend a bit of his prospective fortune on a "night message." despite this fortune of two hundred and forty dollars, joel elected to spend his christmas holidays again at hillton, and outfield, when he learned of the intention, declined his uncle's invitation and remained also. the days passed quickly and merrily. there was excellent skating on the river, and joel showed west the methods of ice-fishing, though with but small results of a finny nature. cicero's orations gave place to de senectute, the greek testament to herodotus, and plane geometry to solid; and spring found joel with two honor terms behind him, and as sure as might be of passing his final examination for college. again in june st. eustace and hillton met on the river, and, as though to atone for her defeat on the gridiron, fate gave the victory to st. eustace, the wearers of the blue crossing the finish a full length ahead of the hillton eight. the baseball team journeyed down to marshall and won by an overwhelming majority of runs, and journeyed home again in the still of a june evening, bringing another soiled and battered ball to place in the trophy case of the gymnasium. and finally, one bright day in early summer, joel put on his best clothes and, accompanied by west and clausen, took his way to the chapel, where, amid an eloquent silence, professor wheeler made his farewell address, and old, gray-haired dr. temple preached the valedictory sermon. then the diplomas were presented, and, save for the senior class exercises in the school hall in the afternoon, class day was over, and joel march's school days were past. joel was graduated at the head of the class, an honor man once more; and outfield west, greatly to every one's amazement, not excepting his own, was also on the honor list. cooke passed at last, and later confided to west that he didn't know what he'd do now that they wouldn't let him stay longer at hillton; he was certain he would feel terribly homesick at harwell. west playfully suggested that he stay at hillton and take an advanced course, and cooke seemed quite in the notion until he found that he would be obliged to make the acquaintance of both livy and horace. a lad can not stay two years at a school without becoming deeply attached to it, and both joel and west took their departures from hillton feeling very melancholy as the wooded hill, crowned by the sun-lit tower, faded from sight. west went directly to his home, although joel had tried to persuade him to visit at marchdale for a few weeks. in july joel received a letter from outfield asking him to visit him in iowa, and, at the solicitation of his parents, he decided to accept the invitation. the west was terra incognita to joel, and he found much to interest and puzzle him. the methods of farming were so different from those to which he had been accustomed that he spent the first week of his stay in trying to revolutionize them, much to the amusement of both outfield and his father. he at length learned that eastern ways are not western ways, and so became content to see wheat harvested by machinery and corn cultivated with strange, new implements. he received one day a letter forwarded from marchdale which bore the signature of the captain of the harwell varsity football eleven. it asked him to keep in practice during the summer, and, if convenient, to report on the field two days before the commencement of the term. remsen's name was mentioned and joel knew that he had him to thank for the letter. the friends had decided to take a room together, and had applied for one in the spring. much to their gratification they were given a third floor room in mayer, one of the best of the older college dormitories. when the time came for going east both west and joel were impatient to be on the way. mrs. west accompanied the boys, and the little party reached the old, elm-embowered college town four days before the opening of the term. agreeably to the request of the football captain, joel reported on the field in football togs the day after reaching town, and was given a cordial welcome. captain button was not there, but returned with the varsity squad from a week's practice at a neighboring village two days later. mrs. west meanwhile toiled ceaselessly at furnishing the boys' room, and the result was a revelation to joel, to whom luxurious lounges and chairs, and attractive engravings, were things hitherto admired and longed for from a distance. and then, bidding a farewell to the lads, outfield's mother took her departure for home, and they were left practically rulers of all they surveyed, and, if the truth were told, a trifle sobered by the suddenness of their plunge into independence. and one warm september day the college bell rang for chapel and the two lads had begun a new, important, and to them exciting chapter of their lives. chapter xvii. the sacred order of hullabalooloo. picture a mild, golden afternoon in early october, the yellowing green of sailors' field mellow and warm in the sunlight, the river winding its sluggish way through the broad level marshes like a ribbon of molten gold, and the few great fleecy bundles of white clouds sailing across the deep blue of the sky like froth upon some placid stream. imagine a sound of fresh voices, mellowed by a little distance, from where, to and fro, walking, trotting, darting, but ever moving like the particles in a kaleidoscope, many squads of players were practicing on the football field. such, then, is the picture that would have rewarded your gaze had you passed through the gate and stood near the simple granite shaft which rises under the shade of the trees to commemorate the little handful of names it bears. had you gone on across the intervening turf until the lengthened shadow of the nearest goal post was reached you would have seen first a squad--a veritable awkward squad--arranged in a ragged circle and passing a football with much mishandling and many fumbles. further along you would have seen a long line of youths standing. their general expression was one of alertness bordering on alarm. the casual observer would have thought each and every one insane, as, suddenly darting from the line, one after another, they flung themselves upon the ground, rolled frantically about as though in spasms, and then arose and went back into the rank. but had you observed carefully you would have noticed that each spasm was caused by a rolling ball, wobbling its erratic way across the turf before them. around about, in and out, forms darted after descending spheroids, or seized a ball from outstretched hands, started desperately into motion, charged a few yards, and then, as though reconsidering, turned and trotted back, only to repeat the performance the next moment. and footballs banged against broad backs with hollow sounds, or rolled about between stoutly clad feet, or ascended into the air in great arching flights. and a babel of voices was on all sides, cries of warning, sharp commands, scathing denouncements. "straighten your arm, man; that's not a baseball!" "faster, faster! put some ginger into it!" "get on your toes, smith. start when you see the ball coming. this isn't a funeral!" "don't stoop for the ball; fall on it! the ground will catch you!" "jones, what _are_ you doing? wake up." "no, _no_, no! great scott, the ball won't _bite_ you!" the period was that exasperating one known as "the first two weeks," when coaches are continually upon the border of insanity and players wonder dumbly if the game is worth the candle. to-day joel, one of a squad of unfortunates, was relearning the art of tackling. it was joel's first experience with that marvelous contrivance, "the dummy." one after another the squad was sent at a sharp spurt to grapple the inanimate canvas-covered bag hanging inoffensively there, like a body from a gallows, between the uprights. there are supposed to be two ways to tackle, but the coach who was conducting the operations to-day undoubtedly believed in the existence of at least thrice that number; for each candidate for varsity honors tackled the dummy in a totally different style. the lift tackle is performed by seizing the opponent around the legs below the hips, bringing his knees together so that further locomotion is an impossibility to him, and lifting him upward off the ground and depositing him as far backward toward his own goal as circumstances and ability will permit. the lift tackle is the easiest to make. the dive tackle pertains to swimming and suicide. running toward the opponent, the tackler leaves the ground when at a distance of a length and a half and dives at the runner, aiming to tackle a few inches below the hips. a dive tackle well done always accomplishes a well-defined pause in the runner's progress. joel was having hard work of it. time and again he launched himself at the swaying legs, bringing the canvas man to earth, but always picking himself up to find the coach observing him very, very coldly, and to hear that exasperating gentleman ask sarcastically if he (joel) thinks he is playing "squat tag." and then the dummy would swing back into place, harboring no malice or resentment for the rough handling, and joel would take his place once more and watch the next man's attempt, finding, i fear, some consolation in the "roast" accorded to the latter. it was toward the latter part of the second week of college. joel had practiced every day except sundays, and had just arrived at the conclusion that football as played at harwell was no relation, not even a distant cousin to the game of a similar name played at hillton. of course he was wrong, since intercollegiate football, whether played by schoolboys or college students, is still intercollegiate football. the difference lies only in the state of development. at hillton the game, very properly, was restricted to its more primary methods; at harwell it is developed to its uttermost limits. it is the difference between whist over the library table and whist at the whist club. but all things come to an end, and at length the coach rather ungraciously declared he could stand no more and bade them join the rest of the candidates for the run. that run was two miles, and joel finally stumbled into the gymnasium tuckered out and in no very good temper just as the five o'clock whistle on the great printing house sounded. after dinner in the dining hall that evening joel confided his doubts and vexations to outfield as they walked back to their room. "i wouldn't care if i thought i was making any progress," he wailed, "but each day it gets worse. to-day i couldn't seem to do a start right, and as for tackling that old dummy, why--" "well, you did as well as the other chaps, didn't you?" asked outfield. "i suppose so. he gave it to us all impartially." "well, there you are. he can't tell you you're the finest young tacklers that ever happened, because you'd all get swelled craniums and not do another lick of work. i know the sort of fellow he is. he'll never tell you that you are doing well; only when he's satisfied with you he'll pass you on. you see. and don't you care what he says. just go on and do the best you know how. blair told me to-day that if you tried you could make the varsity before the season is over. what do you think of that? he says the coaches are puzzling their brains to find a man that's fit to take the place of dangfield, who was left-half last year." "i dare say," answered joel despondently, "but durston will never let me stop tackling that dummy arrangement. i'll be taking falls out of it all by myself when the yates game is going on. who invented that thing, anyhow?" but, nevertheless, joel's spirits were very much better when the two lads reached the room and west had turned on the soft light of the argand. and taking their books in hand, and settling comfortably back in the two great cozy armchairs, they were soon busily reading. hazing has "gone out" at harwell, and so, when at about nine the two boys beard many footfalls outside their door, and when in response to west's loud "come" five mysterious and muffled figures in black masks entered they were somewhat puzzled what to think. "march?" asked a deep voice. "yes," answered joel with a wondering frown. "west?" "yep. what in thunder do you want? and who in thunder are you?" "freshies, aren't you?" continued the inexorable voice. the maskers had closed and locked the door behind them, and now stood in rigid inquisitorial postures between it and the table. "none of your business," answered west crossly. "get out, will you?" "not until our duties are done," answered the mask. "you are freshies, nice, new, tender little freshies. we are here to initiate you into the mysteries of the sacred order of hullabalooloo. stand up!" neither moved; they were already standing, west puzzled and angry, joel wondering and amused. "well, sit down, then," commanded the voice. joel looked meaningly at outfield, and as the latter nodded the two rushed at the members of the sacred order of hullabalooloo. but the latter were prepared. over went the nearest armchair, down from the wall with a clatter came a rack of books, and this way and that swayed the forms of the maskers and the two roommates. the battle was short but decisive, and when it was done, joel lay gasping on the floor and outfield sprawled breathless on the couch. "will you give up?" asked the first mask. "yes," growled west, and joel echoed him. "then you may get up," responded the mask. "but, mind you, no tricks!" joel thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter from one of the masks as he arose and arranged his damaged attire. "freshman march will favor us with a song," announced the mask. "i can't sing a word," answered joel. "you must. hullabalooloo decrees it." "then hullabalooloo can come and make me," retorted joel stubbornly. "what," asked the mask in a deep, grewsome voice, "what is the penalty for disobedience?" "tossed in the blanket," answered the other four in unison. "you hear, freshman march?" asked the mask. "choose." "i'll sing, i guess," answered joel, with a grin. but west jumped up. "don't you do it, joel! they can't make you sing! and they can't make me sing; and the first one that comes in reach will get knocked down!" "oh, well, i don't mind singing," answered joel. "that is, i don't mind trying. if they can stand it, i can. what shall i sing?" "what do you know?" "i only know one song. i'll sing that, but on one condition." "name it?" answered the mask. "that you'll join in and sing the chorus." there was a moment of hesitation; then the masks nodded, and joel mounted to a chair and with a comical grimace of despair at west, who sat scowling on the couch, he began: "there is a flag of crimson hue, the fairest flag that flieth, whose folds wave over hearts full true, as nobody denieth. here's to the school, the school so dear; here's to the soil it's built on! here's to the heart, or far or near, that loves the flag of hillton.'" joel was not much of a singer, but his voice was good and he sang as though he meant it. outfield sat unresponsive until the verse was nearly done; then he moved restlessly and waited for the chorus, and when it came joined in with the rest; and the strains of hilltonians rang triumphantly through the building. "hilltonians, hilltonians, your crimson banner fling unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing! hilltonians, hilltonians, our loyalty we'll prove beneath the flag, the crimson flag, the bonny flag we love!" the knights of the sacred order of hullabalooloo signified their approval and demanded the next verse. and joel sang it. and when the chorus came the maskers lost much of their dignity and waved their arms about and shouted the refrain so loud that doors up and down the hall opened and wondering voices shouted "shut up!" or "more! m-o-r-e!" for two minutes after. as the last word was reached joel leaned quickly forward toward an unsuspicious singer, and, snatching the mask from his face, revealed the countenance of louis whipple. and then, amid much laughter, the other masks were slipped off, and the remaining members of the sacred order of hullabalooloo stood revealed as blair, cartwright, somers, and cooke. and outfield, joining in the laugh at his own expense, was seized by cooke and waltzed madly around the table, while the rest once more raised the strains of hilltonians: "hilltonians, hilltonians, your crimson banner fling unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing! hilltonians, hilltonians, we stand to do or die, beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!" chapter xviii. visitors from marchdale. despite joel's dark forebodings, he was at last released from tackling practice. and with that moment he began to take hope for better things. under the charge of kent, one of the coaches and an old harwell half, joel was instructed in catching punts till his arms ached and his eyes watered, and in kicking until he seemed to be one-sided. starting with the ball he no longer dreaded, since he had mastered that science and could now delight the coach by leaping from a stand as though shot from the mouth of a cannon. signals he had no trouble with. his memory was excellent, and he possessed the faculty of rapid computation; though as yet his brain had been but little taxed, since the practice code was still in use. at the end of the third week both varsity and scrub teams were at length selected, and joel, to his delight, found himself playing left-half on the latter. two match games a week was now the rule for the varsity, and joel each wednesday and saturday might have been found seated under the fence dividing the gridiron from the grand stand wrapped nearly from sight, if the afternoon was chilly, in a great gray blanket, and watching the play with all the excited ardor of the veriest schoolboy on the stand behind. one saturday prince, the varsity left-half, twisted his ankle, and joel was taken on in his place. they were playing amherst, and joel has ever since held that college in high esteem, for that it was against its eleven he made his _dã©but_ into harwell football life. and how he played! the captain smiled as he watched him prance down the field after a punt, never content to be there in time, but always striving to get there first, and not seldom succeeding. once he succeeded too well. it was in the second half. blair--it was his first year on the team--was playing full-back. on a first down he punted the ball a long and rather low kick into amherst's territory. joel bowled over an amherst end who was foolish enough to get in the way and started down the field like an indian warrior on the war path. the harwell ends were a little in advance but off to the sides, and joel sprinted hard and easily passed them both. kingdon, the right half, gave him a good run, but he too was passed, and joel reached the amherst full-back just as that gentleman turned for the ball, which had passed unexpectedly over his head. the goal line was but thirty yards distant. joel saw only the full-back, the ball, and the goal line. he forgot everything else. a small cyclone struck the full, and when he picked himself up it was to see a crimson-legged player depositing the pigskin back of goal and to hear a roar of laughter from the seats! then he yelled "off side!" at the top of his lungs and tore down on joel, and, much to that young gentleman's surprise, strove to wrest the ball from him. it was quite uncalled for, and joel naturally resented it to the extent of pushing violently, palms open, against the amherst man's jacket, with the result that the amherst gentleman sat down backward forcibly upon the turf at some distance. and again the stands laughed. but joel gravely lifted the ball and walked back to the thirty-yard line with it. the center took it with a grin, and, as the five yards of penalty for off side was paced, joel was rewarded for his play with the muttered query from the captain: "what were you doing, you idiot?" but too great zeal is far more excusable than too small, and joel was quickly forgiven, and all the more readily, perhaps, since amherst was held for downs, and the ball went over on the second next play. but joel called himself a great many unpleasant names during the rest of the game, and for a long while after could not think of his first touch-down without feeling his cheeks redden. nevertheless, his manner of getting down the field under kicks undoubtedly impressed the coaches favorably, for when the scrub was further pruned to allow it to go to training table joel was retained. one bright october day joel and outfield went into town to meet the former's parents at the station; for mr. and mrs. march had long before made up their minds to the visit, and the two boys had been looking forward to it for some time. it was worth going a long way to see the pleasure with which the old farmer and his wife greeted the great long-legged youth who towered so far above them there on the station platform. joel kissed his mother fondly, patted his father patronizingly but affectionately on the back, and asked fifty questions in as many minutes. and all his mother could do was to gaze at him in reverent admiration and sigh, over and over: "land sakes, joel march, how you do grow!" it must not be thought that west was neglected. farmer march, in especial, showed the greatest pleasure at meeting him again, and shook hands with him four times before the street was reached and the car that was to carry them to the college town gained. the boys conducted the visitors to their room, and made lunch for them on a gas stove, outfield drawing generously on his private larder, situated under the foot of his bed. then the four hunted up a pleasant room in one of the student boarding houses, and afterward showed the old people through the college. there was a good deal to see and many questions to answer, since joel's father was not a man to leave an object of interest until he had learned all there was to be told about it. the elms in the yard were fast losing their yellow leaves, but the grass yet retained much of its verdancy, and as for the sky, it was as sweetly blue as on the fairest day in spring. up one side of the yard and down the other went the sightseers, poking into dark hallways, reading tablets and inscriptions, the latter translated by west into the most startling english, pausing before the bulletins to have the numerous announcements of society and club meetings explained, drinking from the old pump in the corner, and so completing the circuit and storming the gymnasium, where at last joel's powers of reply were exhausted and outfield promptly sprang into the breech, explaining gravely that the mattresses on the floor were used by doctor major, the director of the gymnasium, who invariably took a cat-nap during the afternoon, that the suspended rings were used to elevate sophomores while corporeal punishment was administered by freshmen, and that the queer little weights in the boxes around the walls were reserve paper weights. then the line of march was taken up toward sailors' field, where they arrived just in time to see the beginning of the practice game between the varsity and the scrub. joel had been excused from attendance that day, and so he took his seat beside the others on the grand stand and strove to elucidate the philosophy of football. "you see the scrubs have the ball. they must get it past the varsity down to the end of the field, where they can either put it down over the line or kick it over that cross-piece there. that's center, that fellow that's arranging the ball. he kicks off. there it goes, and a good kick, too. sometimes the center-rush isn't a good kicker; then some one else kicks off. blair has the ball. look, see him dodge with it. he gained ten yards that time." "oh!" it was joel's mother who exclaimed. "why, joel, that other man threw him down." "that's part of the game, mother. he did that to keep blair from getting the ball any nearer the scrub's goal. he isn't hurt, you see." "and do you mean that they do that all the time?" "pretty often." "and do _you_ get thrown around that way, joel?" "sometimes, mother; when i'm lucky enough to get the ball." "well, i never." "football's not a bad game, mr. march," west was saying. "but it doesn't come up to golf, you know. it's too rough." "it does look a little rough," answered mr. march. "do they often get hurt? seems as though when a boy had another fellow on his head, and another on his stomach, and another on his feet, and the whole lot of them banging away at once, seems like that boy would be a little uncomfortable." west laughed. "sometimes a fellow has his ankle sprained or a knee twisted, or a shoulder-bone bust, or something like that. but it isn't often anything worse occurs." "well, i suppose it's all right then. only when i was a boy we never went round trying to get our ankles sprained or our collar-bones broke; you young fellows are tougher than we were, i guess." "i shouldn't wonder, sir. i believe joel has been feeling pretty bad for a long time because he's got nothing worse than a broken finger." "what? broke his finger, did he? eh? he didn't write anything about it; what's he mean, getting broken to pieces and not telling his parents about it?" west glanced apprehensively at joel, but the latter had missed the conversation, being busy following the progress of barton, of the scrub, who was doing a long run along the side line. "well, it wasn't much of a break, sir. it's all right now, and i think he thought you'd be worried, you know. i'm sure if it had been anything important he would have written at once." "humph," grunted joel's father. "if he's going to break himself in pieces he'd better stop football. i won't have him taking risks. i'll tell him so!" the fifteen-minute half had come to an end, and the players were either resting on the ground or going through some pass or start under the tuition of a coach. suddenly joel looked down to see briscom, the scrub captain, climbing the seats. he ducked his bare head to the others and sank into the seat at joel's side. "look here, march, can you help us out the next half? they've taken webster on the varsity, and"--he lowered his voice to a confidential roar--"we want to make a good showing to-day." "of course," answered joel, "i'll come at once. can i get some togs from some fellow?" "yes. i'll ask whitman to find some. i'm sorry to take you away from your folks, but it's only fifteen minutes, you know." so when the whistle blew joel was at left half-back on the scrub, attired in borrowed plumage that came far from fitting him. and mrs. march was in a tremor of dismay lest some one should throw joel down as she had seen blair thrown. mr. march had not quite recovered from his resentment over his son's failure to apprise him of the broken finger, which, after all, was only broken in west's imagination, and viewed his advent on the field with disfavor. outfield began to wonder if his pleasant fiction regarding joel's finger was to lead to unpleasant results, when mr. march relieved his mind somewhat by suddenly taking interest in the career of his son, who was trying to make an end run inside dutton with half the scrub hauling, pushing, pulling, shoving him along. "er--isn't that likely to be bad for that finger of his?" "oh, no, sir," answered west. "he looks out for his finger all right enough. there, he made the distance. bully work. good old joel." "did he do well then, mr. west?" asked joel's mother. "of course he did, mother," answered mr. march disdainfully. "didn't you see him lugging all those fellows along with him? how much does that count, west?" "well, that doesn't score anything, but it helps. the scrub has to pass that line down there before it can score. what they're trying to do now is to get down there, and joel's helping. you watch him now. i think they're going to give him the ball again for another try around end." west was right in his surmise. kicks were barred to-day save as a last resort, and the game was favoring the scrub as a consequence. the ball was passed to the right half-back; joel darted forward like an arrow, took the ball from right, made a quick swerve as he neared the end of the line, and ran outside of the varsity right end, captain dutton, who had been playing pretty well in, in the expectation of another try through tackle-end hole. as joel got safely by it is more than likely that he found added satisfaction in the feat as he recalled that remark of dutton's the week before: "what were you doing, you idiot?" joel got safely by dutton, and fooled the sprightly prince, but very nearly ran into the arms of kingdon, who missed his tackle by a bare six inches. then the race began. joel's path lay straight down by the side line. the field followed him at a distance, and the most he could hope for was a touch-down near the corner of the field, which would require a punt-out. "ain't that joel?" cried mr. march, forgetting his grammar and his dignity at one and the same moment, and jumping excitedly to his feet. "ain't that joel there running? hey? they can't catch him. i'll lay joel to outrun the whole blame pack of 'em. every day, sir. hey? what?" "i think he's all right, sir, for a touch-down," answered west gayly. "hello, there's blair leaving the bunch. tally-ho!" "i don't care if it's a steam-engine," shouted mr. march, "he can't--i don't know but as he's gaining a little, that fellow. eh?" "looks like it," answered west, while mrs. march, with her hand on her husband's arm, begged him to sit down and "stop acting so silly." "geewhillikins!" cried mr. march, "joel's caught! no, he's not--yet--eh?--too bad, too bad. run, joel, he's got ye!" suddenly mr. march, who had almost subsided on his seat, jumped again to his feet. "here! stop that, you fellow! hi!" he turned angrily to outfield, his eyes blazing. "what'd he knock him down for? eh? what's he sitting on my boy for? is that fair? eh?" west and mrs. march calmed him down and explained that tackling was quite within the law, and that he only sat on him to prevent him from going on again; for blair had cut short joel's triumph fifteen yards from the goal line, and the spectators of the soul-stirring dash down the field were slowly settling again in their seats. mr. march was presently relieved to see joel arise, shake himself like a dog coming out of water, and trot back to his position. another five minutes, during which the scrub tried desperately to force the ball over the varsity's goal line, but without success, and the match was over, and briscom was happy; for the varsity had scored but once, and that on a fumble by the scrub quarter-back. joel trotted off with the teams for a shower and a rub-down, and west conducted his parents back to the gate, where they awaited him. on the way mr. march confided to west that "football wasn't what he'd call a parlor game, but on the whole it appeared to be rather interesting." in the evening the quartet went into town to the theater and joel's mother cried happily over the homely pathos of the old homestead, and outfield laughed uproariously upon the slightest provocation, and every one was extremely happy. and afterward they "electriced" back to college, as west put it, and the two boys stayed awake very, very late, laughing and giggling over the humors of the play and joel's broken finger. mr. and mrs. march left the next day at noon, and joel accompanied them to the depot, west having a golf engagement which he could not break. and when good-by had been said, and the long train had disappeared from sight, joel returned to college on foot, over the long bridge spanning the river, busy with craft, past the factories noisy with the buzz of wheels and the clang of iron, and on along the far-stretching avenue until the tower of the dining hall loomed above the tops of the autumn branches, entering the yard just as the two o'clock bell was ringing. chapter xix. a varsity sub. give a boy the name of being a hero and it will stick. joel was still pointed out by admiring hillton graduates to their friends at harwell as "march, the fellow who kicked the winning goal-from-field in the st. eustace game two years ago." and while joel had performed of late no doughty deed to sustain his reputation for valor, the freshman class accepted him in all faith as a sort of class hero, off duty for the moment, perchance, but ever ready to shed glory upon the class by some soul-stirring act. consequently when it was told through college that joel march had been taken on to the varsity eleven as substitute left half-back no one was surprised, unless it was joel himself. the freshman class wagged its head knowingly and said: "i told you they couldn't get on without march," and held its head higher for that one of its members was a varsity player. it is not a frequent thing to find a freshman on the varsity team, even as substitute, and joel's fame grew apace and many congratulations were extended to him, in classroom and out. blair was one of the first to climb the stairs of mayer and express pleasure at the event. he found joel seated in the window, propped up with half a dozen crimson pillows, attempting to sketch the view across the yard to send home to his sister. west was splicing a golf shaft and whistling blithely over the task. "hello, sophy," cried that youth, "have you come to initiate us into the sacred order of hullabalooloo? dump those books off the chair and be seated. march is such a beastly untidy chap," he sighed; "he _will_ leave his books around that way despite all i can say!" "these books, out," replied blair, "bear the name of one west on their title pages, and, in fact, on a good many other pages, too. what say you?" a look of intense surprise overspread the face of outfield. "how passing strange," he muttered. "and is there a chemistry note-book among them?" "i think so. here is one that contains mention of c2h6o, h2so4, and other mystic emblems which appear very tiresome; it also contains several pages filled with diagrams of the yard and plans of pompeii before the devastation." "yes," answered west, "that's my chem. note-book. it's been missing ever since tuesday. but those are not diagrams of the yard, my sophomoric friend; they're plans of the golf course." "well, just as you say. catch! say, march, i've just heard that you've made the varsity. i'm most splendidly glad, my young friend. you make three hillton fellows on the team. there's selkirk, and you, and yours tenderly; and we'll show them what's what when yates faces us. and i'll tell you a little fact that may interest you. prince won't last until the yates game, my lad. he's going silly in his ankle. but don't say i told you, for of course it's a dead secret. and if he gives out you'll get the posish. and then if you can make another one of those touch-downs in the yates game--" "shut up, please, blair!" groaned joel. "nonsense, you're all right. i heard button saying last week that nothing short of a ten-story house could have stopped you that day." "he must think me an awful fool," responded joel. "the idea of not remembering that i was off-side!" "pshaw; why, the first time i played against eustace at hillton i tackled the referee in mistake for the man with the ball! and threw him, too! and sat on his head!" west grinned. "and they _did_ say, blair, that you were feeling aggrieved against that referee because he had called you down for holding. and i _have_ heard that you weren't such a fool as you looked." "nothing in it, my boy," answered wesley blair airily. "mere calumny. am i one to entertain feelings of anger and resentment against my fellow men? verily, very much not. but he put me off, did that referee chap. he was incapable of accepting the joke. what is more depressing than a fellow who can't see a joke, march?" "two fellows who can't see--et cetera," answered joel promptly. "wrong, very wrong. i don't know what the answer is, but i'm quite certain it isn't that. well, i must be going. _i_ have studies. _i_ don't waste the golden moments in idleness. i grind, my young and thoughtless friends, i grind. well, i only came up to congratulate you, mr. march, of maine. i have done so. i now depart. farewell! never allow the mere fact of being off-side interfere with--" blair slammed the door just in front of a whizzing golf ball and clattered downstairs. presently he appeared on the walk beneath the window and wiggled his fingers derisively with the thumb against a prominent feature of his face. but at the first squeak of the window being pushed up he disappeared around the corner. joel's days were now become very busy ones. every morning he was awakened at seven, and at eight was required to be on hand at the training table for breakfast. the quarters were at old's, a boarding house opposite the college yard, and here in a big, sunny front room the two long tables were laid with numerous great dishes of oatmeal or hominy, platters of smoking steak, chops or crisp bacon, plates of toast, while potatoes, usually baked, flanked the meat. the beverage was always milk, and tall pitchers of it were constantly filled and emptied during this as well as the other meals. and then there were eggs--eggs hard boiled, eggs soft boiled, eggs medium, eggs poached--until, at the end of the season, the mere mention of eggs caused joel's stomach to writhe in disgust. during breakfast disabilities were inquired after, men who were known to have nerves were questioned as to their night's rest, and orders for the day were given out. this man was instructed to see the doctor, another to interview the trainer, a third to report to the head coach. the meal over, save for a half hour of practice for the backs behind the gymnasium the men were free to give all their energies to lessons, and so hurried away to recitation hall or room. at one o'clock the team assembled again for lunch, with books in hand, and at break-neck speed devoured the somewhat elaborate repast, each man rushing in, eating, and rushing out, with no attempt at sociability or heed to the laws of digestion. afternoon practice was at four o'clock. individual practice was followed by team practice against an imaginary foe, and this in turn gave place to a line-up against the second eleven. two stiff twenty-minute halves were played. then again individuals were seized on by captain and coaches and put through paces to remedy some fault or other. and then the last player trots off the field, and the coaches, conversing earnestly among themselves, follow, and the day's work is done. there are still the bath and the rub-down and the weighing; but these are gone through with leisurely while the day's work is discussed and the coaches, circulating among the fellows, inflict an epilogue of criticism and instruction. there remained usually the better part of an hour before dinner, and this period joel spent in his room, where with the lamp throwing its glow over his shoulder, he strove to take his mind from the subject of tackling and starting, of punting and passing, and fix it upon his studies for the morrow. for life was far from being all play that fall--if hard practice and strict training can be called play!--and joel found it necessary to occupy every moment not taken up by eating, sleeping, and practicing on the gridiron with hard study. it can scarcely be truthfully asserted that joel's lessons suffered by reason of his adherence to athletics, though a lecture now and then was slighted that he might use the time in pursuing some study that lack of leisure had necessitated his neglecting. but a clear head, a good digestion, and racing blood render studying a pleasure rather than a task, and joel found that, while giving less time than before to lessons, he learned them fully as well. one thing is certain: his standing in class did not suffer, even when the coaches were more than usually severe. joel's experience that fall, and many a time later, led him to conclude that the amount of outdoor athletics indulged in and the capability for study are in direct ratio. west, too, was a most studious young gentleman that term, and began to pride himself on his recently discovered ability to learn. to be sure, golf was a hard taskmaster, but with commendable self-denial he did not allow it to interfere with his progress in class. both he and joel had earned the name of being studious ere the end of the fall term, and neither of them resented it. unlike the preceding meal, dinner at the training table was a sociable and cheerful affair, when every man at the board tried his best to be entertaining, and when "shop," either study or football, was usually tabooed. the menu was elaborate. there were soup, two or three kinds of meat, a half dozen vegetables, sauces, the ever-present toast, pudding or cream, and plenty of fruit; and for drinkables, why, there was the milk, and sometimes light ale in lesser quantities. at one end of the table--whether head or foot is yet undecided--sat the captain, at the other end the head coach. other coaches were present as well, and the trainer sat at the captain's left. there was always lots of noise, for weighty things were seldom touched upon in the conversation, and jokes were given and taken in good part. when all other means of amusement failed there were still the potatoes to throw; and a butter chip, well laden, can be tossed upward in such a manner that it will remain stuck more or less securely to the ceiling. this is a trick that comes only with long practice, but any one may try it; and the ceiling above the training table that year was always well studded with suspended disks of crockery. bread fights--so named because the ammunition is more likely to be potatoes--were extremely popular, and the dinner often came to an end with a pitched battle, in which coats were decorated from collar to hem with particles of that clinging vegetable. his evenings usually belonged to joel to spend as he wished, though not unfrequently a blackboard talk by the head coach or a lecture by some visiting authority curtailed them considerably. he had always to be in bed by ten o'clock. but sleep sometimes, especially after a day of hard practice, did not readily come, and he often laid awake until midnight had sounded out on the deep-toned bell in the old church tower thinking over the events of the day, and wondering what fate, in the person of the head coach, held in view for him. and one night he awoke to find outfield shaking him violently by the shoulder. "wh-what's the row?" he asked sleepily. "you," answered outfield. "you've been yelling '4, 9; 5, 7; 8, 6' for half an hour. what's the matter with you, anyhow?" "the signals," muttered joel, turning sleepily over, "that's a run around left end by left half-back. and don't forget to start when the ball's snapped. and jump high if you're blocked. and--don't--forget--to--" snore--snore! "well," muttered west as he stumbled against an armchair and climbed into bed, "of all crazy games--" but west was not in training and so possessed the faculty of going to sleep when his head struck the pillow. as a consequence the rest of his remark was never heard. chapter xx. an old friend. "march! joel march!" joel was striding along under the shadow of the chapel on his way from a recitation to mayer and his room. the familiar tones came from the direction of the library, and turning he saw stephen remsen trotting toward him with no regard for the grass. joel hurdled the knee-high wire barrier and strode to meet him. the two shook hands warmly, almost affectionately, in the manner of those who are glad to meet. "march, i'm delighted to see you again! i was just going to look you up. which way were you going?" "up to the room. can't you come up for a while? when'd you arrive? are you going to stay now?" "third down!" laughed remsen. "no gain! what a fellow you are for questions, march! i got in this morning, and i'm going to stay until after the yates game. they telegraphed me to come and coach the tackles. instead of going to your room let's go to mine. i've taken a suite of one room and a closet at dixon's on the avenue. i haven't unpacked my toothbrush yet. come over with me and take lunch, and we'll talk it all over." so joel stuck his books under his arm and the two crossed the yard, traversing the quadrangle in front of university and debouching on to the avenue near where the tall shaft of the soldiers' monument gleams in the sunlight. but they did not wait until remsen's room was gained to "talk it all over." joel had lots to tell about the hillton fellows whom he had not lost sight of: of how clausen was captain of the freshman eleven and was displaying a wonderful faculty for generalship; how west was still golfing and had at last met foemen worthy of his steel; how dicky sproule was in college taking a special course, and struggling along under popular dislike; how whipple and cooke were rooming together in peck, the former playing on the sophomore class team and going in for rowing, and the latter still the same idle, good-natured ignoramus, and liked by every fellow who knew him; how digbee was grinding in lanter with somers; how cartwright had joined the glee club; and how christie had left college and gone into business with his father. "and cloud?" asked remsen. "have you seen him?" "yes, once or twice. i've heard that he was very well liked when he left st. eustace last year. i dare say he has turned over a new leaf since his father died." "indeed? i hadn't heard of that." "west heard it. he died last spring, and left cloud pretty near penniless, they say. i have an idea that he has taken a brace and is studying more than he used to." "the chap has plenty of good qualities, i suppose. we all have our bad ones, you know. perhaps it only needed some misfortune to wake up the lad's better nature. they say virtue thrives best on homely fare, and, like lots of other proverbs, i guess it's sometimes true." then remsen told of his visit to hillton a few weeks previous. the eleven this year was in pretty good shape, he thought; greene, an upper middle man, was captain; they expected to have an easy time with st. eustace, who was popularly supposed to be in a bad way for veteran players. that same greene was winning the golf tournament when he was there, remsen continued, and the golf club was in better shape than ever before, thanks to the hard work of west, whipple, blair, and a few others in building it up. the two friends reached the house, and remsen led the way into his room, and set about unpacking his things. joel took up a position on the bed and gave excellent advice as to the disposal of everything from a pair of stockings to a typewriter. "it's a strange fact," said remsen as he thrust a suit of pajamas under the pillow, "that outfield west is missed at hillton more than any fellow who has graduated from there for several years past. perhaps i don't mean exactly strange, either, for of course he's a fellow that every one naturally likes. what i do mean is that one would naturally suppose fellows like blair or whipple would leave the most regrets behind them, for blair was generally conceded to be the most popular fellow in school the last two years of his stay, and whipple was surely running him a close second. and certainly their memories are still green. but everywhere i went it was: 'have you heard from outfield west?' 'how's west getting on at college?' and strange to say, such inquiries were not confined to the fellows alone. professor wheeler asked after west particularly, and so did briggs, and several others of the faculty; and mrs. cowles as well. "but you are still the hero there, march. the classic history of hillton still recounts the prowess of one joel the first, who kicked a goal from field and defeated thereby the hosts of st. eustace. and professor durkee shakes his head and says he will never have another so attentive and appreciative member of his class. and now tell me, how are you getting on with dutton?" so joel recited his football adventures in full, not omitting the ludicrous touch-down, which received laughing applause from his listener, and recounting his promotion to the position of varsity substitute. "yes, i saw in the paper last week that you had been placed on the sub list of the varsity. i hope you'll have a chance to play against yates, although i don't wish prince any harm. he's a good fellow and a hard worker. hello, it's one-fifteen. let's get some lunch." a half hour later they parted, joel hurrying off to recitation and remsen remaining behind to keep an appointment with a friend. after this they met almost every day, and remsen was a frequent caller at joel's room, where he with joel and outfield held long, cosy chats about every subject from enameling golf balls to the philosophy of kant and the original protoplasm. meanwhile the season hurried along. harwell met and defeated the usual string of minor opponents by varying scores, and ran up against the red and blue of keystone college with disastrous results. but one important contest intervened between the present time and the game with yates, and the hardest sort of hard work went on daily inside the inclosed field. a small army of graduates had returned to coach the different players, and the daily papers were filled, according to their wont, with columns of sensational speculation and misinformation regarding the merits of the team and the work they were performing. out of the mass of clashing "facts" contained in the daily journals but one thing was absolutely apparent: to wit, the work of the harwell eleven was known only to the men and the coaches, and neither would tell about it. at last, when chill november had been for a few days in the land, the game with the red and white clad warriors from ithaca took place on a wet and muddy field, and joel played the game through from start to finish, prince being engaged in nursing his treacherous ankle, which had developed alarming symptoms with the advent of wet weather. the game resulted in a score of twenty-four to five, the ithacans scoring a neat, but inexcusable, goal from field in the first half. joel played like a trojan, and went around the left end of the opposing line time and again for good gains, until the mere placing of the ball in his hands was accepted by the spectators as equal to an accomplished gain. wesley blair made a dashing charge through a crowded field for twelve yards and scored a touch-down that brought the onlookers to their feet cheering. dutton, the captain, played a steady brilliant interfering game, and kingdon, at right half-back, plunged through the guard-tackle holes time and again with the ball hugged to his stomach, and kept his feet in a manner truly marvelous until the last inch had been gained. but critics nevertheless said unkind things of the team work as they wended their way back over the sodden turf, and shook their heads dubiously over the field-goal scored by the opponents. there would be a general shaking up on the morrow, they predicted, and we should see what we should see. and the coaches, too, although they dissembled their feelings under cheerful countenances, found much to condemn, and the operations of bathing, dressing, and weighing that afternoon were less enjoyable to the breathless, tattered men. the next day the team "went into executive session," as joel called it, and the predicted shake-up took place. murdoch, the left guard, was deemed too slight for the place, and was sent to the side line, from where he presently crawled to a seat on the great empty stand, and hiding his blanketed head wept like a child. and there were other changes made. joel kept his place at left half, pending the bettering of prince's ankle, and blair was secure at full. but when the practice game began, many of the old forms were either missing or to be seen in the second eleven's line, and the coaches hovered over the field of battle with dark, forbidding looks, and said mean things whenever the opportunity presented itself, and were icily polite to each other, as men will be when they know themselves to be in the right and every one else in the wrong. and so practice that thursday was an unpleasant affair, and had the desired effect; for the men played the game for all that was in them and attended strictly to the matter in hand, forgetting for the time the intricacies of latin compositions and the terrors of coming examinations. when it was over joel crawled off of the scale with the emotions of a weary draught horse and took his way slowly toward home. in the square he ran against outfield, who, armed with a monstrous bag of golf requisites, had just leaped off a car. "hello, joel," he cried. "what's happened? another off-sider? have you broken that finger again? honest injun, what's up?" "nothing, out; i'm just kind of half dead. we had two thirty-minute halves, with forty-'leven coaches yelling at us every second, and a field like a turnip patch just before seeding. oh, no, there's nothing the matter; only if you know of any quiet corner where i can die in peace, lead me there, out. i won't keep you long; it will soon be over." "no, i don't, my flippant young friend, but i know something a heap better." "nothing can be better any more, out. still--well, what is it?" "a couple of hot lemonades and a pair of fat sandwiches at noster's. come along." "you're not so bad, out," said joel as they hurried up the street. "you have _moments_ of almost human intelligence!" chapter xxi. the departure. the backs and substitute backs, together with story, the quarter, captain dutton, and one or two assistant coaches, including stephen remsen, were assembled in bancroft 6. the head coach was also present, and with a long pointer in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other was going through a sequence for the benefit of the backs, who had been called a half hour ahead of the rest of the eleven. the time was a half hour after dinner. on the blackboard strange squares and lines and circles confronted the men in the seats. the head coach placed the tip of the pointer on a diagram marked "no. 2. criss-cross." "this is the second of the sequence, and is an ordinary criss-cross from left half-back to right half-back. if you don't understand it readily, say so. i want you to ask all the questions you can think of. the halves take positions, as in the preceding play, back of the line behind the tackle-guard holes. the ball goes to left half, who runs just back of quarter. right half starts a moment after the ball is put in play, also going back of quarter and outside of left half and receiving the ball at a hand pass from the latter, and continuing on through the hole between left end and tackle. right end starts simultaneously with left half, taking the course indicated, in front of quarter and close to the line, and interfering through the line for the runner." [illustration: 2nd play] "left end blocks opposing end outward. quarter clears the hole out for the runner. full-back does not start until the pass from quarter to left half is made. he must then time himself so as to protect the second pass. in case of a fumble the ball is his to do the best he can with through the end-tackle hole. if the pass is safe he follows left half through, blocking opposing left end long enough to keep him out of the play. "you will go through this play to-morrow and you will get your slips to-morrow evening here. now is there anything not clear to you?" apparently there was a great deal, for the questions came fast and furious, the coaches all taking a hand in the discussion, and the diagram being explained all over again very patiently by the head. then another diagram was tackled. [illustration: 3rd play] "the third of this sequence is from an ordinary formation," began the head coach. "it is intended to give the idea of a kick, or, failing that, of a run around left end. it will very probably be used as a separate play in the last few minutes of a half, especially where the line-up is near the side line, right being the short side of the field. you will be given the signal calling this as a separate play to-morrow evening. "full-back stands as for a kick, and when the signal is given moves in a step or two toward quarter as unnoticeably as possible; position 2 in the diagram. he must be careful to come to a full stop before the ball is snapped back, and should time himself so that he will not have to stay there more than a second. the instant the ball is snapped full-back runs forward to the position indicated here by 3, and receives the ball on a short pass from quarter. left half starts at the same instant, and receives the ball from full as he passes just behind him, continuing on and around the line outside of right end. it is right half's play to make the diversion by starting with the ball and going through the line between left tackle and guard; he is expected to get through and into the play on the other side. left end starts when the ball is snapped, and passing across back of the forwards clears out the hole for the runner. quarter interferes, assisted by full-back, and should at all costs down opposing half. right end helps right tackle throw in opposing end. much of the success of this play depends on the second pass, from full-back to left half, and it must be practiced until there is no possibility of failure. questions, fellows." after the discussion of the last play a half hour's talk on interference was given to the rest of the eleven and substitutes, who had arrived meanwhile. remsen and joel left bancroft together and crossed the yard toward the latter's room. the sky was bright with myriads of stars and the buildings seemed magnified by the wan radiance to giant castles. under the shadow of university remsen paused to light his pipe, and, without considering, the two found themselves a moment later seated on the steps. from the avenue the clang-clang of car gongs sounded sharp and clear, and red and white and purple lights flitted like strange will-o'-wisps through the half light, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the common. the lights in the stores beamed dimly. a green shade in pray's threw a sickly shaft athwart the pavement. but even as they looked a tall figure, weariness emanating from every movement, stepped between window and light, book in hand, and drew close the blinds. "poor devil!" sighed remsen. "three hours more of work, i dare say, before he stumbles, half blind, into bed. and all for what, joel? that or--that?" he pointed with his pipe-stem to where jupiter shone with steady radiance high in the blue-black depths; then indicated a faint yellow glow that flared for an instant in the darkness across the yard where a passer had paused to light his pipe. "we can't all be jupiters, remsen," answered joel calmly. "some of us have to be little sticks of wood with brimstone tips. but they're very useful little things, matches. and, after all, does it matter as long as we do what we have to do as well as we can? old jupiter up there is a very fine chap undoubtedly, and if he shirked a minute or two something unpleasant would probably occur; but he isn't performing his task any better than the little match performed his. 'scratch--pouf' and the match's work's done. but it has lighted a fire. can you do better, mr. jupiter?" remsen made no reply for a moment, but joel knew that he was smiling there beside him. a little throng of students passed by, humming softly a song in time with their echoing footsteps, and glanced curiously at the forms on the steps. then remsen struck a match on the stone. "'scratch--pouf!'" he said musingly, relighting his pipe. in the act of tossing the charred splinter away he stopped; then he laid it beside him on the step. "good little match," he muttered. joel laughed softly. "march," asked remsen presently, "have you changed your mind yet about studying law?" "no; but sometimes i get discouraged when i think of what a time it will take to arrive anywhere. and sometimes, too, i begin to think that a fellow who can't talk more readily than i ought to go into the hardware business or raise chickens for a living instead of trying to make a lawyer out of himself." "it isn't altogether talk, march," answered remsen, "that makes a good lawyer. brains count some. if you get where you can conduct a case to a successful result you will never miss the 'gift o' the gab.' talking's the little end of the horn in my profession, despite tradition. "i asked for a reason, march," he went on. "what do you say to our forming a partnership? when you get through the law school you come to me, if you wish, and tell me that you are ready to enter my office, and i'll answer 'i'm very glad to have you, mr. march.' of course we could arrange for a regular partnership a year or so later. meanwhile the usual arrangement would be made. it may be that you know of some very much better office which you would prefer to go to. if you do, all right. if you don't, come to me. what do you say?" "but--but what good would i do you?" joel asked, puzzled at the offer. "i'd like it very much, of course, but i can't see--" "i'll tell you, march. i have a good deal of faith in your future, my boy. you have a great deal of a most valuable thing called application, which i have not, worse luck. you are also sharp-witted and level-headed to a remarkable degree. and some day, twenty or thirty years from now, you'll likely be _hard_-headed, but i'll risk that. by the time you're out of college i shall be wanting a younger man to take hold with me. there will be plenty of them, but i shall want a good one. and that is why i make this offer. it is entirely selfish, and you need not go searching for any philanthropy in it. i'm only looking a bit ahead and buttering my toast while it's hot, march. what do you say? or, no, you needn't say anything to-night. think it over for a while, and let me know later." "but i don't want to think it over," answered joel eagerly. "i'm ready to sign such a partnership agreement now. if you really believe that i would--could be of use to you, i'd like it mightily. and i know all about your 'selfishness,' and i'm very grateful to you for--for buttering your toast." later, when they arose and went on, remsen consented to accompany joel to his room, bribed thereto with a promise of hot chocolate. they found outfield diligently poring over a greek history. but he immediately discarded it in favor of a new book on the royal game which lay in his lap hidden under a note book. "you see," he explained, "old pratt has taken a shine to me, and i expected him to call this evening. and i thought at first that you were he--or him--which is it? and of course i didn't want to disappoint the old gentleman; he has such a fine opinion of me, you know." while outfield boiled the water and laid bare the contents of the larder, joel told him of remsen's offer. a box of biscuits went down with a crash, and outfield turned indignantly. "that's all very fine," he exclaimed. "but where do i come in? how about mr. west? where does he get his show in this arrangement? you promised that if i studied law, too, joel, you'd go into partnership with _me_. now, didn't you?" "but it was all in fun," protested joel, distressedly. "i didn't suppose you meant it, you know." "meant it!" answered outfield indignantly. "of course i meant it. don't you expect i appreciate level-headedness and sharp-wittedness and applicationousness just as much as remsen? why, i had it all fixed. we were to have an office fitted with cherry railings and revolving bookcases near--near--" "a good links?" suggested remsen smilingly. "well, yes," admitted outfield, "that wouldn't be a half bad idea. but now you two have gone and spoiled it all." "well, i tell you, west," suggested remsen, "you come in with us and supply the picturesque element of the business. you might look after the golf cases, you know; injuries to bald-headed gentlemen by gutties; trespassing by players; forfeiting of leases, and so forth. what do you say?" "all right," answered outfield cheerfully. "but it must be understood that the afternoons belong to the links and not to the law." so stephen remsen and joel march sealed their agreement by shaking hands, and outfield grinned approval. one afternoon a few days later outfield pranced into the room just as dusk was falling brandishing aloft a silver-plated mug, and uttering a series of loud cheers for "me." joel, who had returned but a moment before from a hard afternoon's practice, and was now studying in the window seat by the waning light, looked languidly curious. "a trophy, joel, a trophy from the links!" cried west. "won by the great me by two holes from jenkins, jenkins the previously great, jenkins the defeated and devastated!" he tossed the mug into joel's lap. "i'm very glad, out," said the latter. "won't it help you with the team?" "it will, my discerning friend. it will send me to new york next month to represent harwell. and lapham says i must go to lakewood for the open tournament. oh, little outie is some pumpkins, my lad! it was quite the most wonderful young match to-day. jenkins led all the way to the fifteenth hole. then he foozled like a schoolboy, and i holed out in one and went on to the cheese box in two." "i'm awfully glad," repeated joel, smiling up into the flushed and triumphant face of his chum. "if you go to new york it will be after the big game, and, if you like, i'll go with you and shout." outfield west executed a war-dance and whooped ecstatically. "will you, joel? honest injun? cross your heart and hope to die? then shake hands, my lad; it's a bargain! now, where's my chemistry?" the days flew by and the date of the yates game rapidly approached. the practice was secret every afternoon, and the coaches lost weight eluding the newspaper reporters. prince disappointed joel by returning to the varsity with his ankle apparently as well as ever, although he was generally "played easy," and joel often took his place in the second half of the practice games. and at last the thursday preceding the big game arrived, and the team and substitutes, together with the trainer and the manager and the head coach and two canine mascots, assembled in the early morning in the square and were hustled into coaches and driven into town to their train. and half the college heroically arose phenomenally early and stood in the first snow storm of the year and cheered and cheered for the team individually and collectively, for the head coach and the trainer, for the rubbers and the mascots, and, between times, for the college. the players went to a little country town a few miles distant from the seat of yates university, and spent the afternoon in practicing signals on the hotel grounds. the next day, friday, was a day of rest, save for running through a few formations and trick plays after lunch and taking a long walk at dusk. the yates glee club journeyed over in the evening and gave an impromptu entertainment in the parlor, a courtesy well appreciated by the harwell team, whose nerves were now beginning to make themselves felt. and the next morning the journey was continued and the college town was reached at half past eleven. the men were welcomed at the station by a crowd of harwell fellows who had already arrived, and the harwell band did its best until the team was driven off to the hotel. there for the first time the men were allowed to see the line-up for the game. it was a long list, containing the names, ages, heights, and weights of thirty-six players and substitutes, and was immediately the center of interest to all. "thunder!" growled joel ruefully, as he finished reading the list over blair's shoulder, "it's a thumpin' long ways down to _me!_" chapter xxii. before the battle. "harwell, harwell, harwell! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell!" the lobby grew empty on the instant, and outside on the steps and on the sidewalk the crowd spread itself. the procession had just turned the corner, the college band leading. "the freshmen won!" cried a voice on the edge of the throng, and the news was passed along from man to man until it swept up the steps, through the lobby and to the dining room upstairs where the football men of the varsity team were impatiently awaiting lunch. "a good omen," said the head coach. below in the street admonitory thumps upon the great drum, with its college coat-of-arms on the head, were heard, and a moment later the shouts of the exuberant freshmen and their allies were drowned in the first strains of the college song. off came the silk hats of the frock-coated graduates and the plaided golf caps of the students, and side by side there in the sun-swept street they lifted their voices in the sweet, measured strains of the dear familiar hymn. and stout, placid-faced men of fifty, with comfortable bank accounts and incipient twinges of gout, felt the unaccustomed dimming of the sight that presages tears, and boyish, carefree students, to whom the song was as much an everyday affair as d marks and unpaid bills, felt strange stirrings in their breasts, and with voices that stumbled strangely over the top notes sang louder and louder. and upstairs in the dining room many a throat grew hard and "lumpy" as the refrain came in at the open windows. but, as the trainer muttered presently, it was only the freshmen who had won, and the real battle of the day was yet to come. and soon the band and the shouting parade wheeled away from beneath the windows and swung off up the street to make known far and wide the greatness of harwell, her freshmen, and the grandeur of their victory over the youngsters of yates. and, as the last cheer floated up from the procession as it disappeared around a far corner, lunch was served, and player and coach, trainer and rubber, substitute and mascot, drew up to the last meal before--what? victory or defeat? it was not a merry repast, that lunch before the fray. some men could not bring themselves to eat at all until the coaches commanded with dire threats. others, as though nothing out of the ordinary was about to take place, ate heartily, hungrily, of everything set before them. at the far end of the room joel march played with his steak and tried to delude himself into thinking he was eating. he felt rather upset, and weak in the joints, and as for the lad's stomach it had revolted at sight of the very first egg. but luckily the last meal before a game has little effect one way or the other upon the partaker, since he is already keyed up, mentally and physically, to a certain pitch, and nothing short of cold poison can alter it. in the streets below, for blocks in all directions, the crowds surged up and down, and shouts for harwell and yells for yates arose like challenges in the afternoon air. friends met who had not done so for years, enemies accorded enemies bows of recognition ere they remembered their enmity. the deep blue and the deeper crimson passed and counterpassed, brushed and fluttered side by side, and lighted up the little college city till it looked like a garden of roses and violets. and everywhere, over all, was the tensity that ever reigns before a battle. the voices of the ticket speculator and of the merchant of "offish'l score cards" were heard upon every side. the street cars poked their blunt noses through the crowd which closed in again behind them like water about the stern of a ship. violets blossomed or crimson chrysanthemums bloomed upon every coat and wrap, or hung pendant from the handle of cane and umbrella. the flags of harwell and yates, the white h and white y, were everywhere. shop windows were partisan to the blue, but held dashes of crimson as a sop to the demands of hospitality and welcome. at one o'clock the exodus from town began. along the road that leads to the football field hurried the sellers of rush cushions and badges, of score cards and pencils, of blue and crimson flags and cheap canes, of peanuts and sandwiches, of soda water and sarsaparilla, bent upon securing advantageous stands about the entrance. a quarter of an hour later the spectators were on the way. the cars, filled in and out with shouting humanity, crept slowly along, a bare half block separating them. roystering students swung arm in arm in eccentric dance from side to side across the street. ladies with their escorts hurried along the sidewalks. carriages, bright with fluttering flags, rolled by. bicycles darted in and out, their riders throwing words of salutation over their shoulders to friends by the way. in the windows along the route was displayed the bravery of blue banners. a window in a college hall was piled high with great comfortable-looking pillows, each bearing a great challenging y in white ribbon or embroidery. and overhead the sky arched a broad blue expanse from horizon to horizon. in this manner on some fair morning, centuries ago, did all greece wend its way to the stadium and the games of olympia. in the hotel the lunch was over and that terrible age between it and the arrival of the coaches was dragging its weary length along. joel and blair were standing by the window talking in voices that tried to be calm, cool and indifferent, but which were neither. "they're offering bets of ten to nine downstairs that yates wins," remarked blair with elaborate composure. "are they?" responded joel absent-mindedly, thinking the while of the signal for the second sequence. "i thought the odds were even." "they were until the news about chesney's shoulder got about." "but there isn't really anything the matter with his shoulder, is there?" "no. no one knows how the story got out. whipple was taking all he could get a while ago." "some one wants to see you at the door, march," called the trainer, and joel found outfield west, smiling and happy, waiting there. "how are you?" he whispered. "all right? how are the rest? great gobble, joel, but these yates johnnies are so sure of winning that they can't keep still! there's a rumor here in the lobby that yates's center is sick. know anything about it?" joel shook his head. "well, i'll see you out at the field. we're going out now; cooke, and caldwell, and some of the others. so long, my valiant lad. keep a stiff upper lip and never say die, and all that, you know. adios!" there was a cheer below, and blair, at the window, announced the arrival of the conveyances. instantly the lethargy of a minute before was turned to excited bustle and confusion. pads and nose-guards, jerseys and coats, balls and satchels were seized and laid aside and grabbed up again. cries for missing apparel and paraphernalia were heard on every side, and only a loud, peremptory command to "shut up!" from the head coach restored order and quietude. then the door was thrown open and down the narrow stairs they trooped, through the crowded lobby where friends hemmed them about, patting the broad backs, shouting words of cheer into their ears, and delaying them in their passage. into the coaches they hurried, and as the crowd about the hotel burst into loud, ringing cheers, the whips were cracked and the journey to the field began. the route lay along quiet, unfrequented streets where only an occasional cheer from a college window met their advent. restraint had worn off now, and the fellows were chatting fast and furiously. joel looked out at the handsome homes and sunny street, and was aware only of a longing to be in the fray, an impatient desire to be doing. briscom, the substitute centre, a youth of twenty-one summers and one hundred and ninety-eight pounds, sat beside him. "i was here two years ago with the freshman team," he was saying. "we didn't do a thing to them, we youngsters, although the varsity was licked badly. and all during the afternoon game we sat together and cheered, until at five o'clock i couldn't speak above a whisper. that was a great game, that freshman contest! it took three hours and a half to settle it. at the beginning of the second half there were only three men on our team who had played in the first. i was one of them. i was playing left guard. story there was another. he gave up before the game was through, though. i held out and when the whistle sounded, down i went on the grass and didn't stir for ten minutes. we had two referees that day. the first chap got hurt in a rush, and it took us half an hour to find a fellow brave enough to take his place. that _was_ a game. football's tame nowadays." across the coach rutland, the right guard, a big bronze-haired chap of one hundred and ninety-six, was deep in a discussion with "judge" chase, right end, on an obscure point of ruling. "if you're making a fair catch and a player on the other side runs against you intentionally or otherwise, you're interfered with, and the rules give your side fifteen yards," declared rutland. "not if the interference is accidental and doesn't hurt your catch," replied chase. "if the other fellow is running and can't stop in time--" "shut up, you fellows," growled captain button. "you play the game, and the referee will look after the rules for you." "if you go on," said briscom, "you must be careful about holding. de farge (the referee) is awfully down on holding and off-side plays. last year he penalized us eight times during the game. but he's all right, just the same. he's the finest little ref that ever tossed a coin." "i fear i won't get a show," mourned joel. "you can't tell," answered briscom knowingly. "last year there were two fellows ahead of me and i got on for twenty minutes of the last half. trueland bent his ankle, chesney hurt his knee, and condon got whacked on the head. watch the game every minute of the time, march, and learn how the yates halves play the game. then if you do go on you won't be in the dark." the coaches rolled up to the players' entrance to the field, and the fellows hopped out and disappeared into the quarters. the time was two o'clock. the gates were still thronged, although to the people already on the stands it was a puzzle where the newcomers were going to find seats. on the east side of the field yates held open house. from end to end, and overflowing half way around both north and south stands, the blue of yates fluttered in the little afternoon breeze till that portion of the field looked like a bank of violets. on the west stand tier after tier of crimson arose until it waved against the limitless blue of the sky. countless flags dipped and circled, crimson bonnets gleamed everywhere, and great bunches of swaying chrysanthemums nodded and becked to each other. all collegedom with its friends and relations was here; all collegedom, that is, within traveling distance; beyond that, eager eyes were watching the bulletin boards from maine to mojave. the cheering had begun. starting at one end of the west stand the slogan sped, section by section, growing in volume as it went, and causing the crimson flags and banners to dance and leap in the sunlight. across the field answering cheers thundered out and the bank of violets trembled as though a wind ruffled it. in front of the north stand the yates college band added the martial strains of the stars and stripes forever to the general pandemonium of enthusiasm. then along the west stand a ripple of laughter which grew into a loud cheer traveled, as a bent and decrepit figure attired in a long black frock coat and high silk hat, the latter banded with crimson ribbon, came into sight down the field. it was the old fruit seller of harwell, whose years are beyond reckoning, and who is remembered by the oldest graduates. on he came, his old, wrinkled face grimacing in toothless smiles, his ribboned cane waving in his trembling hand, and his well-nigh bald head bowing a welcome to the watchers. for it was not he who was the guest, for from time almost immemorial the old fruit seller has presided at the contests of harwell, rejoicing in her victories, lamenting over her defeats. down the line he limped, while gray-haired graduates and downy-lipped undergrads cheered him loyally, calling his name over and over, and so back to a seat in the middle of the stand, from where all through the battle his crimson-bedecked cane waved unceasingly. he was not the only one welcomed by the throng. a great jurist, chrysanthemumed from collar to waist, bowed jovial acknowledgment of the applause his appearance summoned. the governor of a state came too to see once more the crimson of his alma mater clashing with the blue of her old enemy. professors, who had put aside their books, beamed benevolently through their glasses as they walked somewhat embarrassedly past the grinning faces of their pupils. old football players, former captains, bygone masters of rowing, commanders of olden baseball teams, all these and many more were there and were welcomed heartily, tumultuously, by the wearers of the red. and through it all the cheers went on, the college songs were sung, and the hearts of youth and age were happy and glad together. then the cry of "here they come!" traveled along the field, and the blue-clad warriors leaped into the arena at the far end, and the east stand went delirious, and flags waved, and a tempest shook the bank of violets. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, yates!" and almost simultaneously the west stand arose and its voice arose to the sky in wild, frenzied shouts of: "har-well, har-well, har-well, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, har-well! har-well! har-well!" for over the fence came the head coach, and big chesney, and captain dutton, story, the little quarter-back, and all the others, a long line of crimson-stockinged warriors, with joel march, briscom, bedford, and the other substitutes flocking along in the tag end of the procession. over the field the two elevens spread, while cheer after cheer met in mid-field, clashed, and rolled upward to the blue. then came a bare five minutes of punting, dropping, passing, snapping, ere the officials appeared from somewhere and gathered the opposing captains to them. a coin flashed in the sunlight, spun aloft, descended, and was caught in the referee's palm. "heads!" cried ferguson, the yates captain. "heads it is!" announced the referee. the substitutes retreated unwillingly to the side lines, the harwell men spread themselves over the north end of the gridiron, elton, the yates full-back, ground his heel into the turf and pointed the ball, the cheering ceased, the whistle piped merrily, the bright new ball soared aloft on its arching flight, and the game of the year was on. chapter xxiii. harwell _vs_. yates--the first half. that game will live in history. it was a battle royal between giant foes. on one hand was the confidence begat of fifteen years of almost continuous victory over the crimson; on the other the desperation that such defeat brings. yates had a proud record to sustain, harwell a decade of worsting to atone for. and twenty-five thousand persons watched and hoped and feared as the battle raged. down settled the soaring ball into the arms of kingdon, who tucked it under his arm and started with it toward the distant goal. but eight yards was all he found ere a yates forward crashed down upon him. then came a quick line-up on harwell's forty yards, and first prince, then kingdon, then blair was put through the line, each for a small gain, and the harwell benches shouted their triumph. again the pigskin was given to prince for a try through the hole between tackle and guard, but this time he was hurled back for a loss. the next try was kingdon's, and he made a yard around the yates left end. it was the third down and five yards were lacking. back went the ball for a kick, and a moment later it was yates's on her thirty-five yards, and again the teams were lining up. it was now the turn of the east stand to cheer, and mightily the shout rolled across the field. through came the yates full, the ball safely stowed in the crook of his elbow, the whole force of the backs shoving him on. three yards was his. another line-up. again the yates full-back was given the ball, and again he gained. and it was the first down on yates's forty-five-yard line. then began a rout in which harwell retreated and yates pursued until the leather had crossed the middle of the field. the gains were made anywhere, everywhere, it seemed. allardyce yielded time and again, and selkirk beside him, lacking the other's support, was thrust aside almost at will. the yates shouters were wild with joy, and the cheers of harwell were drowned beneath the greater outbursts from the supporters of the blue. harwell appeared to be outclassed, so far as her rush line was concerned. past the fifty-yard line went the ball, and between it and the next white streak, harwell at last made a desperate stand, and secured the ball. at the first play it was sent speeding away from blair's toe to the yates mid-field, a long, clean, high kick, that led the forwards down under it in time to throw the waiting back ere he had taken a step, and that brought shouts of almost tearful delight from the harwell sympathizers. back to her line-bucking returned yates, and slowly, but very surely, the contest moved over the lost ground, back toward the harwell goal. the fifty-five-yard line was passed again, the fifty, the forty-five, and here or there holes were being torn in the harwell line, and the crimson was going down before the blue. at her forty-yard line harwell stayed again for a while the onslaught of the enemy, and tried thrice to make ground through the yates line. then back to the hands of wilkes went the oval and again the heart-breaking rout began. yates. full-back elton, 184 right left half-back half-back thompson, 153 cushing, 157 birch, 140 quarter-back right right right left left left end tackle guard center guard tackle end o'callaghan, ferguson, morris, wilkes, allison, galt, fraser, 163 203 197 204 194 189 150 left left left center right right right end tackle guard guard tackle end dutton, selkirk, allardyce, chesney, rutland, burbridge, chase, 150 186 189 229 196 179 156 quarter-back story, 144 prince, 157 kingdon, 182 left right half-back half-back blair, 179 full-back harwell. harwell made her last desperate rally on her twenty-five yards. the ball was thrown to blair, who kicked, but not soon enough to get it out of the way of the opposing forwards, who broke through as the ball rose. it struck against the upstretched hand of the yates right guard and bounded toward the crimson's goal. the yates left half fell upon it. from there, without forfeiting the ball, yates crashed down to the goal line, and hurled elton, her crack full-back, through at last for a touch-down. for five minutes chaos reigned upon the east stand. all previous efforts paled into nothingness beside the outbursts of cheers that followed each other like claps of thunder up and down the long bank of fluttering color. upon the other side of the field no rival shouts were heard. it was useless to try and drown that niagara of sound. but here and there crimson flags waved defiantly at the triumphant blue. the goal was an easy one, though it is probable that it would have been made had it been five times more difficult; for elton was the acknowledged goal kicker par excellence of the year. then back trotted the teams, and as the harwell eleven lined up for the kick-off allardyce at left guard gave place to murdoch. the big fellow had given out and had limped white-faced and choking from the field. the whistle sounded and the ball rose into air, corkscrewing toward the yates goal. down the field under it went the harwell runners like bolts from a bow, and the yates half who secured the pigskin was downed where he caught. the two teams lined up quickly. then back, foot by foot, yard by yard, went the struggling harwell men. yet the retreat was less like a rout than before, and yates was having harder work. her players were twice piled up against the harwell center, and she was at last forced to send a blue-clad youth around the left end, an experiment which netted her twelve yards and which brought the east stand to its feet, yelling like mad. but here the crimson line at length braced and the ball went to its center on three downs, and the tide turned for a while. the backs and the right end were hurled, one after another, at the opposing line, and shouts of joy arose from the crimson seats as gain after gain resulted. thrice in quick succession captain dutton shot through the left end of the blue's line, the second time for a gain of five yards. the cheering along the west side of the great field was now continuous, and the leaders, their crimson badges fluttering agitatedly, were waving their arms like tireless semaphores and exciting the supporters of harwell to greater and greater efforts. nearer and nearer to the coveted touch-down crept the crimson line. with clock-work precision the ball was snapped, the quarter passed, the half leaped forward, the rush line plunged and strove, and then from somewhere a faint "down!" was cried; and the panting players staggered to their feet, leaving the ball yet nearer to the threatened goal line. on the blue's twenty-three yards the whistle shrilled, and a murmur of dismay crept over the yates seats as it was seen that captain ferguson lay motionless on the ground. but a moment's rubbing brought him to his feet again. "he's not much hurt," explained the knowing ones. "he wants to rest a bit." a minute later, while the ball still hovered about the twenty-yard line, yates secured it on a fumbled pass, and the tide ebbed away from the beleagured posts. back as before were borne the crimson warriors, while the yates forwards opened holes in the opposing line and the yates halves dashed and wormed through for small gains. then fate again aided the crimson, and on the blue's forty-seven-yard line a fake kick went sadly aglee and the runner was borne struggling back toward his own goal before he could cry "down!" and big chesney grinned gleefully as he received the leather and bent his broad back above it. canes, crysanthemums, umbrellas, flags, carnations, hats, all these and many other things waved frantically above the great bank of crimson as the little knot of gallant knights in moleskin crept back over their recent path of retreat and took the war again into the enemy's country. every inch of the way was stubbornly contested by the defenders, but slowly they were pushed back, staggering under the shocks of the crimson's attack. chesney, rutland, and murdoch worked together, side by side, like one man--or forty!--and when time was called for an instant on the yates twenty-five yards it was to bring galt, the blue's left tackle, back to consciousness and send him limping off the gridiron. his place in the line was taken by an old hilltonian, one dunsmore, and the game went on. and now it was the blue that was in full retreat and the crimson that pursued. nearer and nearer to the yates goal line went the resisting besieged and the conquering besiegers, and the great black score-board announced but eight more minutes of the first half remaining. but even eight were three more than were needed. for harwell crossed the twenty yards by tandem on tackle, gained the fifteen in two downs by wedges between tackle and guard, and from there on until the much-desired goal line was reached never paused in her breathless, resistless onslaught. it was wesley blair who at last put the ball over for a touch-down, going through between center and left guard with all the weight of the harwell eleven behind him. his smothered "down!" was never heard, for the west stand was a swaying, tumultuous unit of thunderous acclaim. up went the flags and banners of crimson hues, loud sounded the paean of praise and thanksgiving from thousands of straining throats, while below on the side lines the coaches leaped for joy and strained each other to their breasts in unspeakable delight. and while the shouting went on as though never would the frenzied shouters cease, the grim, panting yates players lined up back of their goal line, on tiptoe, ready at the first touch of the ball to the earth to spring forward and, leaping upward, strive to arrest the speeding oval. prone upon the ground, the ball in his hands, lay story. a yard or two distant blair directed the pointing of it. the goal was a most difficult one, from an angle, and long the full-back studied and directed, until faint groans of derision arose from the impatient east stand and the men behind the goal line moved restively. "lacing to you," said blair quietly. story shifted the ball imperceptibly. "more." the quarter-back obeyed. "cock it." higher went the end toward the goal. "not so much." it was lowered carefully, slowly. "steady." blair stepped back, glanced once swiftly at the cross-bar, and stepped forward again. "down!" story's left hand touched the grass, the yates men surged forward, there was a thud, and-upward sped the ball, rising, rising, until it topped the bar, then slowly turning over, over in its quickening descent. but the nearly silent west stand had broke again into loud cries of triumph, and upon the face of the scoreboard appeared the momentous word, "goal!" again the ball was put in play, but the half was soon over and the players, snatching their blankets, trotted to the dressing rooms. and the score-board announced: "opponents, 6. yates, 6." as the little swinging door closed behind him joel found himself in a seething mass of players, rubbers, and coaches, while a babel of voices, greetings, commands, laughter, and lament, confused him. it was a busy scene. the trainer and his assistants were working like mad. the doctor and the head coach were talking twenty to the second. everybody was explaining everything, and the indefatigable coaches were hurrying from man to man, instructing, reminding, and scolding. joel had only to look on, save when he lent a hand at removing some torn and stubborn jersey, or at finding lost shin-guards and nose masks, and so he found a seat out of the way, and, searching the room with his gaze, at length found prince. that gentleman was having a nice, new pink elastic bandage put about his ankle. he was grinning sturdily, but at every clutch of the web his lips twitched and his brow puckered. joel watching him wondered how much more he would stand, and whether his (joel's) chance would come ere the fatal whistle piped the end of the match. "time's up!" cried the head coach suddenly, and the confusion redoubled until he mounted to a bench and clapped his hands loudly above the din. comparative silence ensued. "fellows," he began, "here's the list for the next half. answer to your names, please. and go over to the door. fellows, you'll have to make less noise. dutton, selkirk, murdoch--murdoch?" "right!" the voice emerged from the folds of a woolen sweater which had stubbornly refused to go on or off. with a smile the head coach continued the list, each man responding as his name was announced and crowding to the doorway. "chesney, rutland, burbridge, barton--" a murmur arose from the listening throng, and chase, a tall, pale-faced youth, his cheek exhibiting the marks of a contact with some one's shoe cleats, groaned loudly and flung himself on to a bench, where he sat looking blindly before him until the list was finished. "story, prince--" "here!" called the latter, jumping from his seat. then a sharp, agonized cry followed, and prince toppled over, clutching vainly at the air. the head coach paused. the doctor and the trainer pushed toward the fallen man, and a moment later the former announced quietly: "he's fainted, sir." "can he go on?" asked the head coach. "he is out of the question. ankle's too painful. i couldn't allow it." "very well," answered the other as he amended the list. "kingdon, blair, march." joel's heart leaped as he heard his name pronounced, and he tried to answer. "march?" demanded the head coach impatiently; and "here, sir!" gulped joel, rushing to the door. "all right," continued the head coach. "there isn't time for any fine phrases, fellows, and if there was i couldn't say them so that they'd do any good. you know what you've got to do. go ahead and do it. you have the chance of wiping out a good many defeats, more than it's pleasant to think about. the college expects a great deal from you. don't disappoint it. play hard and play together. don't give an inch; die first. tackle low, run high, _and keep your eyes on the ball!_ and now, fellows, _three times three for harwell!_" and what a cheer that was! the little building shook, the men stood on their toes; the head coach cheered himself off the bench; and joel yelled so desperately that his breath gave out at the last "rah!" and didn't come back until the little door was burst open and he found himself leaping the fence into the gridiron. and what a burst of sound greeted their reappearance! the west stand shook from end to end. crimson banners broke out on the breeze, every one was on his feet, hats waved, umbrellas clashed, canes swirled. a youth in a plaid ulster went purple in the face at the small end of a five-foot horn; and for all the sound it seemed to make it might as well have been a penny whistle. the ushers waved their arms, but to no purpose, since the seats heeded them not at all, but shouted as their hearts dictated and as their throats and lungs allowed. joel, gazing about him from the field, felt a shiver of emotion pass through him. they were cheering _him_! he was one of the little band in honor of which the flags waved, the voices shouted, and the songs were sung! he felt a lump growing in his throat, and to keep down the tears that for some reason were creeping into his eyes, he let drive at a ball that came bumping toward him and kicked it so hard that selkirk had to chase it half down the field. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell! harwell! harwell! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell!" the leaders of the cheering had again gotten control of their sections, and the long, deliberate cheer, majestic in its intensity of sound, crashed across the space, rebounded from the opposite stand, and went echoing upward into the clear afternoon air. "harwell!" muttered joel. "_you bet_!" then he gathered with the others about dutton to listen to that leader's last instructions. and at the same moment the east stand broke into cheers as the gallant sons of yates bounded on to the grass. back and forth rolled the mighty torrents of sound, meeting in midair, breaking and crashing back in fainter reverberations. they were singing the college songs now, and the merits and virtues of both colleges were being chanted defiantly to the tunes of popular airs. thousands of feet "tramp-tramped," keeping time against the stands. the yates band and the harwell band were striving, from opposite ends of the field, to drown each other's strains. and the blue and crimson fluttered and waved, the sun sank lower toward the western horizon, and the shadows crept along the ground. "there will be just one more score," predicted the knowing ones as they buttoned their ulsters and overcoats up at the throat and crouched along the side lines, like so many toads. "but who will make it i'm blessed if i know!" then harwell lined up along the fifty-five-yard line, with the ball in their possession, and the south goal behind them. and yates scattered down the field in front. and the linesmen placed their canes in the turf, the referee and the umpire walked into the field, and the stands grew silent save for the shrill voice of a little freshman on the west stand who had fallen two bars behind in "this is harwell's day," and needs must finish out while his breath lasted. "are you all ready?" asked the referee. there was no reply. only here and there a foot moved uneasily as weights were thrown forward, and there was a general, almost imperceptible, tightening of nerves and muscles. and then the whistle blew. chapter xxiv. harwell _vs_. yates--a fault and a requital. the kick-off came into blair's ready arms, the interference formed quickly, and the full-back sped down the field. one white line passed under foot--another; joel felt blair's hand laid lightly upon his shoulder, and ran as though life itself depended upon getting that precious ball past the third mark. but the yates ends were upon them. joel gave the shoulder to one, but the second dived through kingdon, and the runner came to earth on the twenty-three-yard line, with joel tugging at him in the hope of advancing the pigskin another foot. "line up quickly, fellows!" called story. the players jumped to their places. "_1--9--9!_" joel crept back a bare yard. "_1--9--9!_" kingdon leaped forward, snugged the ball under his arm, and followed by joel tried to find a hole inside left end. but the hole was not there, and the ball was instantly in the center of a pushing, grinding mass. "down!" no gain. story, worming his way through the jumble, clapped his hands. chesney was already stooping over the ball. joel ran to his position, and the quarter threw a rapid glance behind him. "_2--8--9_!" he placed his hand on the center's broad back. "_2--8_--!" the ball was snapped. joel darted toward the center, took the leather at a hand pass, crushed it against the pit of his stomach, and followed the left end through a breach in the living wall. strong hands pushed him on. then he came bang! against a huge shoulder, was seized by the yates right half, and thrown. he hugged the ball as the players crashed down upon him. "third down," called the referee. "three yards to gain." "line up, fellows, line up!" called the impatient story, and joel jumped to his feet, upsetting the last man in the pile-up, and scurried back. "_2--9--9_!" "_2--9_--!" back sped blair. up ran joel and kingdon. the line blocked desperately. a streak of brown flew by, and a moment later joel heard the thud as the full-back's shoe struck the ball. then down the field he sped, through the great gap made by the yates forwards. the harwell ends were well under the kick and stood waiting grimly beside the yates full-back as the ball settled to earth. as it thudded against his canvas jacket and as he started to run three pairs of arms closed about him, and he went down in his tracks. the ball lay on yates's fifty-three-yard line. the field streamed up. the big yates center took the ball. joel crept up behind the line, his hands on the broad canvas-covered forms in front, dodging back and forth behind murdoch and selkirk. "_26--57--38--19--_!" the, opposing left half started across, took the ball, and then--why, then joel was at the very bottom of some seven hundred pounds of writhing humanity, trying his best to get his breath, and wondering where the ball was! "second down. three and a half yards to gain." again the lines faced. joel was crouched close to quarter, obeying that player's gesture. they were going to try murdoch again. joel heard the breathless tones of the yates quarter as he stooped behind the opposing line. "a tandem on guard," whispered joel to himself. the next moment there was a crash, the man in front of him gave; then joel and story, gripping the turf with their toes, braced hard; there was a moment of heaving, panting suspense; then a smothered voice cried "down!" "third down," cried the referee. "three and a half yards to gain." "look out for a fake kick," muttered story, as joel fell back. the opposing line was quickly formed, and again the signal was given. the rush line heaved, joel sprang into the air, settling with a crash against the shoulders of chesney and murdoch, who went forward, carrying the defense before them. but the ball was passed, and even as the yates line broke the thud of leather against leather was heard. joel scrambled to his feet, assisted by chesney, and streaked up the field. the ball was overhead, describing a high, short arch. blair was awaiting it, and kingdon was behind and to the right of him. down it came, out shot blair's hands, and catching it like a baseball he was off at a jump, kingdon beside him. joel swung about, gave a shoulder to an oncoming blue-clad rusher, ran slowly until the two backs were hard behind him, and then dashed on. surely there was no way through that crowded field. yet even as he studied his path a pair of blue stockings went into the air, and a threatening obstacle was out of the way, bowled over by a harwell forward. the ends were now scouting ahead of the runners, engaging the enemy. the fifty-five-yard line was traversed at an angle near the east side of the field, and joel saw the touch line growing instantly more imminent. but a waiting yates man, crouchingly running up the line, was successfully passed, and the trio bore farther infield, putting ten more precious yards behind them. the west stand was wild with exultant excitement, and joel found himself speeding onward in time with the rhythmic sway of the deep "rah-rah-rah!" that boomed across from the farther side. but the enemy was fast closing in about them. the yates right half was plunging down from the long side, a pertinacious forward was almost at their heels. and now the yates full was charging obliquely at them with his eyes staring, his jaw set, and determination in every feature and line. the hand on joel's shoulder dropped, blair eased his pace by ever so little, and joel shot forward in the track of the full, his head down, and the next moment was sprawling on the turf with the enemy above him. but he saw and heard blair and kingdon hurdling over, felt a sharp pain that was instantly forgotten, and knew that the ball was safely by. but the run was over at the next line. kingdon made a heroic effort to down the half, and would have succeeded had it not been for the persevering forward, who reached him with his long arms and pulled him to earth. and blair, the ball safe beneath him, lay at the yates thirty-five yards, the half-back holding his head to earth. joel arose, and as he trotted to his position he looked curiously at the first finger of his left hand. it bore the imprint of a shoe-cleat, and pained dully. he tried to stretch it, but could not. then he shook his hand. the finger wobbled crazily. joel grinned. "bust!" he whispered laconically. his first impulse was to ask for time to have it bound. then he recollected that some one had said the doctor was very strict about injuries. perhaps the latter would consider the break sufficient cause for joel's leaving the field. that wouldn't do; better to play with a broken arm than not to play at all. so he tried to stick the offending hand in his pocket, found there was no pocket there, and put the finger in his mouth instead. then he forgot all about it, for harwell was hammering the blue's line desperately and joel had all he could do to remember the signals and play his position. for the next quarter of an hour the ball hovered about yates's danger territory. twice, by the hardest kind of line bucking, it was placed within the ten-yard line, and twice, by the grimmest, most desperate resistance, it was lost on downs and sent hurtling back to near mid-field. but yates was on the defensive, even when the oval was in her possession, and harwell experienced the pleasurable--and, in truth, unaccustomed--exultation that comes with the assurance of superiority. harwell's greatest ground-gaining plays now were the two sequences from ordinary formation and full-back forward. these were used over and over, ever securing territory, and ever puzzling the opponents. joel was hard worked. he was used not only to wriggle around the line inside of ends and to squirm through difficult outlets, but to charge the line as well, a feat of which his height and strong legs rendered him well capable. he proved a consistant ground-gainer, and with blair, who worked like a hero, and kingdon, who won laurels for himself that remained fresh many years, gained the distance time and again. but although the spectacular performances belonged here to the backs, the line it was that made such work possible. chesney, with his six feet four and a half inches of muscle, and his two hundred and twenty-nine pounds of weight, stood like a veritable gibraltar of strength. beside him rutland was scarcely less invulnerable, and murdoch, on the other side, played like a veteran, which he was not, being only a nineteen-year-old sophomore, with but one hundred and sixty-seven pounds to keep him from blowing away. selkirk gave way to lee when the half was two thirds over, but burbridge played it out, and then owned up to a broken shoulder bone, and was severely lectured by the trainer, the head coach, and the doctor in turn; and worshiped by the whole college. captain dutton played a dashing, brilliant game at left end, and secured for himself a re-election that held no dissenting vote. and barton, at the other end of the red line, tried his best to fill the place of the deposed chase, and if he did not fully succeed, at least failed not from want of trying. but it was little story, the quarter-back, who won unfading glory. a mass of nerves, from his head down, his brain was as clear and cool as the farthest goal post, and he ran the team in a manner that made the coaches, hopping and scrambling along on the side lines, hug themselves and each other in glee. so much for the harwell men. as for yates, what words are eloquent enough to do justice to the heroic, determined defense she made there under the shadow of her own goal, when defeat seemed every moment waiting to overwhelm her? every man in that blue-clad line and back of it was a hero, the kind that history loves to tell of. the right guard, morris, was a pitiable sight as, with white, drawn face, he stood up under the terrific assault, staggering, with half-closed eyes, to hold the line. joel was heartily glad when, presently, he fell up against the big yates center after a fierce attack at his position, and was supported, half fainting, from the field. the substitute was a lighter man, as the next try at his position showed, and the gains through the guard-tackle hole still went on. yates's team now held four substitutes, although with the exception of douglas, the substitute right-guard, none of them was perceptibly inferior to the men whose places they took. the cheering from the harwell seats was now continuous, and the refrain of "glory, glory for the crimson!" was repeated over and over. on the east stand the yates supporters were neither hopeless nor silent. their cheers were given with a will and encouraged their gallant warriors to renewed and ever more desperate defense. the score-board proclaimed the game almost done. with six minutes left it only remained, as it seemed, for yates to hold the plunging crimson once more at the last ditch to keep the game a tie, and so win what would, under the circumstances, have been as good as a victory. down came the harwell line once more to the twenty yards, but here they stopped. for on a pass from quarter to left half, the latter, one joel march of our acquaintance, fumbled the ball, dived quickly after it, and landed on the yates left guard, who had plunged through and now lay with the pigskin safe beneath him! it is difficult to either describe or appreciate the full depth of joel's agony as he picked himself up and limped back to his place. it was a heart-tearing, blinding sensation that left him weak and limp. but there was nothing for it save to go on and try to retrieve his fatal error. the white face of story turned toward him, and joel read in the brief glance no anger, only an almost tearful grief. he swung upon his heel with a muttered word that sounded ill from his lips. but he was only a boy and the provocation was great; let us not remember it against him. the yates center threw back the ball for a kick, and joel went down the field after it. as he ran he wondered if story would try him again. it seemed doubtful, but if he did--joel ground his teeth--he would take it through the line! they would see! just give him one chance to retrieve that fumble! a year later and he had learned that a misplay, even though it lose the game for your side, may in time be lived down. but now that knowledge was not his, and a heart-rending picture of disgrace before the whole college presented itself to him. then blair had the ball, was off, was tackled near the side line under the yates stand, and the two teams were quickly lined up again. the cheers from the friends of the blue were so loud that the quarter's voice giving the signal was scarcely to be heard. joel crept nearer. then his heart leaped up into his throat and stood still. "_7--1--2!_" there was no mistake! it was left half's ball on a double pass for a run around right end! the line-up was within eight yards of the east side line. the play was the third of the second sequence, in which joel with the other backs had been well instructed, and its chance of success lay in the fact that it had the appearance of a full-back punt or a run around the long side of the field. joel leaned forward, facing the left end. blair crept a few feet in. "_7--1--!_" began the quarter. the ball was snapped, blair ran three strides nearer, the quarter turned, and the pigskin flew back. joel started like a shot, seized the ball from the full-back's outstretched hands, and sped toward the right end of the line. the right half crossed in front of him, the right end and tackle thrust back their opponents, the left tackle and guard blocked hard and long. blair helped the right half in his diversion at the left end, and joel, with dutton interfering and blair a stride behind, swept around the end. the only danger was in being forced over the touch line, but the play worked well, and the opposing tackle seemed anchored. the yates end, from his place back of the line, leaped at them, but was upset by dutton, and the two went down together. the opposing left half bore down upon joel and blair, the latter speeding along at the runner's side, and came at them with outstretched arms. another moment and joel was alone. story and the half were just a mass of waving legs and arms many yards behind. joy was the supreme sensation in joel's breast. only the yates full-back threatened, the ball was safely clutched in his right arm, his breath came easily, his legs were strong, and the goal-posts loomed far down the field and beckoned him on. this, he thought exultingly, was the best moment that life could give him. behind, although he could not hear it for the din of shouting from the harwell stand, he knew the pursuit to be in full cry. he edged farther out from the dangerous touch line and sped on. the yates full-back had been deceived by the play and had gone far up the field for a kick, and now down he came, and joel found a chill creeping over him as he remembered the player's wide reputation. he was the finest full-back, so report had it, of the year. and of a sudden joel found his breath growing labored, and his long legs began to ache and seemed stiffening at the thighs and knees. but he only ran the faster and prepared for the threatened tackle. harwell hearts sank, for the crimson-clad runner appeared to waver, to be slowing down. suddenly, when only his own length separated him from his prey, the yates full-back left the ground and, like a swimmer diving into the sea, dove for the hesitating runner. there was but one thing that day more beautiful to see than that fearless attempt to tackle; and that one thing was the leap high into the air that the harwell left half made just in the nick of time, clearing the tackler, barely avoiding a fall, and again running free with the ball still safe! the yates player quickly recovered and took up the chase, and the momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other pursuers almost to joel's heels. and now began a contest that will ever live in the memories of those who witnessed it. panting, weary, his legs aching at every bound, his throat parching with the hot breath, joel struggled on. joy had given place to fear and desperation. time and again he choked down the over-ready sobs. behind him sounded the thud of relentless feet. he dared not look back lest he stumble. every second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. every second he thought that _now_ he must give up. but recollection of that fumble crushed down each time the inclination to yield, and one after another the nearly obliterated lines passed under foot. he gave up trying to breathe; it was too hard. his head was swimming and his lungs seemed bursting. then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he felt a touch, just the lightest fingering, on his shoulder, and gathering all his remaining strength he increased his pace for a few steps, and the hand was gone. and the ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly. "one more," he thought, "one more!" the great stands were hoarse with shouting; for here ended the game. the figures on the score-board had changed since the last play, and now relentlessly proclaimed one minute left! nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line, nearer and nearer crept the pursuing full-back. then, and at the same instant, the scattered breadth of lime was gone, and a hand clutched at the canvas jacket of the harwell runner. once more joel called upon his strength and tried to draw away, but it was no use. and with the goal line but four yards distant, stout arms were clasped tightly about his waist. one--two--three strides he made. the goal line writhed before his dizzy sight. relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter about him like steel bands, and settled lower and lower until his legs were clasped and he could move no farther! despairingly he thrust the ball out at arms' length and tried to throw himself forward; the trampled turf rose to meet him.... * * * * * "the ball is over!" pronounced the referee. it was a nice decision, for an inch would have made a world of difference; but it has never been disputed. then dutton leaped into the air, waving his arms, rutland turned a somersault, and the west stand arose as one man and went mad with delight. hats and cushions soared into air, the great structure shook and trembled from end to end, and the last few golden rays of the setting sun glorified the waving, fluttering bank of triumphant crimson! chapter xxv. the return. "boom! boom!" thundered the big drum. "tootle-toot!" shrilled the fife. "tarum! taroom!" growled the horns. the harwell band marched through the archway and defiled on to the platform. the college marched after. well, perhaps not all the college; i have heard that a senior living in lanter was too ill to be present. but the incoming platform was thronged from wall to track, so it was perhaps as well that he didn't come, because there positively wasn't room for him. "what is it?" asked a citizen in a silk hat of a gayly decorated youth on the outskirts of the crowd. the latter stared for full a minute ere the words came. then he cried: "here's a fellow who wants to know what we're here for!" and a great groan of derision went up to the arching roof, and the ignorant person slunk away, yet not before his silk hat had been pushed gently but firmly far down over his eyes. punishment ever awaits the ignorant who will not learn. "glory, glory for the crimson, glory, glory for the crimson, glory, glory for the crimson, for this is harwell's day," sang the throng. "boom! boom! boom!" thundered the big drum. "tootle-toot!" shrilled the fife. "now, fellows, three times three, three long harwells, and three times three!" shouted the master of ceremonies hoarsely. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell! harwell! harwell! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell!" shrieked the crowd. "louder! louder!" commanded the remorseless youth on the baggage truck. "nine long harwells! one, two, three!" "har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well!" the sound crashed up against the vaulted station roof and thundered back. and none heard the shriek of the incoming train as it clattered over the switches at the entrance of the shed, and none saw it until it was creeping in, the engineer leaning far out of the cab window and waving a red bandanna handkerchief, a courtesy that won him a cheer all to himself. then out tumbled the returning heroes, bags in hands, followed by the head coach and all the rest of the attendant train. and then what a pushing and shouting and struggling there was! there were forty men to every player, and the result was that some of the latter were nearly torn limb from limb ere they were safe out of reach on the shoulders of lucky contestants for the honor of carrying them the first stage of the journey to college. there were some who tried to hide, some who tried to run, others who enjoyed the whole thing hugely and thumped the heads of their bearers heartily just to show good feeling. joel was one of the last to leave the car, and as he set foot on the platform a hundred voices went up in cheers, and a hundred students struggled for possession of him. but one there was who from his place of vantage halfway up the steps repelled all oncomers, and assisted by a second youth of large proportions seized upon joel and setting him upon their shoulders bore him off in triumph. "boom! boom!" said the big drum. and the procession started. down the long platform it went, past the waiting room doors where a crowd of onlookers waved hats and handkerchiefs, and so out into the city street. joel turned his head away from the observers, ashamed and happy. there was no let-up to the cheering. one after another the names of the players and substitutes, coaches and trainer, were cheered and cheered again. "out of the way there!" cried joel's bearers, and the marching throng looked about, moved apart, and as joel was borne through, cheered him to the echo, reaching eager hands toward him, crying words of commendation and praise into his buzzing ears. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, march!" "one!" shrieked a youth near where joel soon found himself at the head of the procession, and the slogan was taken up: "two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight! nine! ten! e-lev-en!" "now give me your hand, joel!" cried the youth upon whose left shoulder he was swaying. joel obeyed, smiling affectionately down into the upraised face. then he uttered a cry of pain. one of the fingers of his left hand was bandaged, and outfield west dropped it gingerly. "not--not _broke_?" he asked wonderingly. joel nodded. "aren't you _proud_ of it?" whispered his chum. "yes," answered joel simply and earnestly. "may i take it, too?" asked the other youth. joel started and looked down into the anxious and entreating face of bartlett cloud. he grasped the hesitating hand that was held up. "yes," he answered smilingly. and the big drum boomed, and the shrill fifes tootled, and the crimson banners waved upon the breeze, and every one cheered himself hoarse, and thus the conquering heroes came back to the college that loved them. and joel, a little tearful when no one was looking, and very happy always, was borne on the shoulders of west and cloud, friend and enemy, at the very head of the procession, honored above all! transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [illustration: he raised the ball in his arms, and placed it over the chalk mark.] the winning touchdown a story of college football by lester chadwick author of "the rival pitchers," "a quarter-back's pluck," "batting to win," etc. illustrated new york cupples & leon company * * * * * books by lester chadwick =the college sports series= 12mo. illustrated price per volume, $1.00 postpaid the rival pitchers a story of college baseball a quarter-back's pluck a story of college football batting to win a story of college baseball the winning touchdown a story of college football (other volumes in preparation) _cupples & leon company, publishers, new york_ * * * * * copyright 1911, by cupples & leon company the winning touchdown printed in u. s. a. contents chapter page i a mystery 1 ii more bad news 8 iii on the trail 19 iv another disappearance 26 v football talk 36 vi in practice 43 vii a new timepiece 53 viii another idea 61 ix a clash with langridge 67 x the big californian 73 xi a new complication 80 xii the missing deed 89 xiii the first game 98 xiv the hazing of simpson 109 xv the midnight blaze 120 xvi another clew 129 xvii a crash in the gale 136 xviii with hammer and saw 141 xix suspicions 150 xx the clock comes back 158 xxi seeking evidence 167 xxii bascome denies 173 xxiii haled to court 181 xxiv defeat 188 xxv bitter days 200 xxvi moses in physics 206 xxvii the dance card 213 xxviii the legal battle 225 xxix one point lost 233 xxx an unexpected clew 240 xxxi after the chair 249 xxxii "this isn't ours!" 260 xxxiii a great find 271 xxxiv the excited stranger 276 xxxv the winning touchdown 283 the winning touchdown chapter i a mystery "great cicero's ghost!" that was tom parson's exclamation. "it's gone!" a horrified gasp from sid henderson. "who took it?" that was what phil clinton wanted to know. then the three college chums, who had paused on the threshold of their room, almost spellbound at the astounding discovery they had made, advanced into the apartment, as if unable to believe what was only too evident. tom came to a halt near his bed, and gazed warily around. "it's sure enough gone," he went on, with a long breath. "somebody pinch me to see if i'm dreaming," begged sid, and phil gave him such a vigorous nip on the fleshy part of his leg that the tall youth howled. "turn over; you're on your back," advised tom, as he got down on his hands and knees to peer under the beds. "what are you looking for?" demanded phil. "our old armchair, of course. i thought maybe some of the fellows had been in here trying to be funny, and had hidden it. but it isn't here--it's gone." "as if it could be under a bed!" exploded sid, rubbing his leg reflectively. "you must be getting batty!" "maybe he thought it could be reduced to fractions or acted on by chemicals, like some of the stuff in the laboratory test tubes," went on phil. "that's all right!" fired back the varsity pitcher, rather sharply, "it's gone, isn't it? our old armchair, that stood by us, and----" "and on which _we_ stood when we couldn't find the stepladder," interrupted phil. "oh, quit your kidding!" expostulated tom. "the old chair's gone; isn't it?" "you never said a truer word in all your life, my boy," declared sid, more gravely. "sort of queer, too," declared phil. "it was here when we went out to football practice, and now----" "well, all i've got to say is that i'd like to find the fellow who took it!" broke out tom, dramatically. "i'd make a complaint to the proctor about him." "oh, you wouldn't do that; would you, tom?" and phil clinton stepped over to a creaking old sofa, and peered behind it, brushing up against it, and causing a cloud of dust to blow out about the room. "you wouldn't do that, tom. why, it isn't randall spirit to go to the authorities with any of our troubles that can be settled otherwise." "but this isn't an ordinary trouble!" cried the pitcher. "our old chair has been taken, and i'm going to find out who's got it. when i do----" he clenched his fists suggestively, and began to strip off his football togs, preparatory to donning ordinary clothes. "it isn't back there," announced phil, as he leaned upright again, after a prolonged inspection behind the big sofa. "but there's a lot of truck there. i think i see my trigonometry." getting down on his hands and knees, and reaching under the antiquated piece of furniture, he pulled out not one but several books. "oh, come out and let the stuff back of the sofa alone," suggested tom. "we can clean that out some other time," for the big piece of furniture formed a convenient "catch-all" for whatever happened to be in the way of the lads. if there was anything they did not have any immediate use for, and for which room could not be found in, or on, the "chauffeurs," as holly cross used to call the chiffonniers, back of the sofa it went, until such time as the chums had an occasional room-cleaning. then many long-lost articles were discovered. "yes, there's no use digging any more," added sid. "besides, the chair couldn't be there." "some of the fellows might have jammed it in back of the sofa, i thought," spoke phil. "but say, this is serious. we can't get along without our chair!" "i should say not," agreed tom, who was almost dressed. "i'm going out scouting for it. bascome, delafield or some of those fresh sports may have taken it to get even with us." "they knew we cared a lot for it," declared sid. "ever since we had that row about it with langridge, the time we moved into these dormitories, some of the fellows have rigged us about it." "if langridge were here we could blame him, and come pretty near being right," was phil's opinion. "but he's at boxer hall yet--at least, i suppose he is." "yes, he's on their eleven, too, i hear," added tom. "but this sure is a mystery, fellows. that chair never walked away by itself. and it's too heavy and awkward for one fellow to carry alone. we've got to get busy and find it." "we sure have," agreed phil. "why, the room looks bare without it; doesn't it?" "almost like a funeral," came mournfully from sid, as he sank into the depths of the sofa. and then a silence fell upon the inseparable chums, a silence that seemed to fill the room, and which was broken only by the ticking of a fussy little alarm clock. "oh, hang it!" burst out tom, as he loosened his tie and made the knot over. "i can't understand it! i'm going to see wallops, the messenger. maybe he saw some one sneaking around our rooms." "if we once get on the trail----" said phil, significantly. "it sure is rotten luck," spoke sid, from the depths of the sofa. "i don't have to do any boning to-night, and i was counting on sitting in that easy chair, and reading a swell detective yarn holly cross loaned me. now--well, it's rotten luck--that's all." "it certainly is!" agreed a voice at the door, as the portal opened to give admittance to dan woodhouse--otherwise kindlings. "rotten luck isn't the name for it. it's beastly! but how did you fellows hear the news?" "how did we hear it?" demanded tom. "couldn't we see that it wasn't here as soon as we got in our room, a few minutes ago? but how did you come to know of it? say, kindlings, you didn't have a hand in it, did you?" and tom strode over toward the newcomer. "me have a hand in it? why, great cæsar's grandmother! don't you suppose i'd have stopped it if i could? i can't for the life of me, though, understand where you heard it. ed kerr only told me ten minutes ago, and he said i was the first to know it." "ed kerr!" gasped phil. "did he have a hand in taking our old chair?" "your chair?" gasped dan. "who in the world is talking about your fuzzy old chair?" "hold on!" cried tom. "don't you call our chair names, kindlings, or----" "tell us how you heard about it," suggested sid. "say, are you fellows crazy, or am i?" demanded dan, looking about in curious bewilderment. "i come here with a piece of news, and i find you firing conundrums at me about a chair that i wouldn't sit in if you gave it to me." "none of us is likely to sit in it now," spoke phil, gloomily. "why not?" asked dan. "because it's gone!" burst out tom. "stolen," added sid. "vanished into thin air," continued phil. "and if that isn't rotten luck, i don't know what you'd call it," put in the pitcher, after a pause, long enough to allow the fact to sink into dan's mind. "isn't it?" "say, that's nothing to what i've got to tell you," spoke dan. "absolutely nothing. talk about a fuzzy, musty, old second-hand chair missing! why, do you fellows know that ed kerr is going to leave the football team?" "leave the eleven?" gasped phil. "what for?" cried tom. "is that a joke?" inquired sid. "i only wish it were," declared dan, gloomily. "it's only too true. ed just got a telegram stating that his father is very ill, and has been ordered abroad to the german baths. ed has to go with him. i was with him when he got the message, and he told me about it. then he went to see dr. churchill, to arrange about leaving at once. that's the rottenest piece of luck randall ever stacked up against. it's going to play hob with the team, just as we were getting in shape to do boxer hall and fairview institute. talk about a missing chair! why, it simply isn't in it!" once more a gloomy silence, at which the fussy little alarm clock seemed to rejoice exceedingly, for it had the stage to itself, and ticked on relentlessly. chapter ii more bad news "and so ed is going to leave," mused tom, after a momentous pause. "it sure will make a hole in the team." "oh, it's got me all broke up," gloomily declared kindlings, who was captain of the recently organized eleven. "i don't know what i'm going to do to fill his place, and mr. lighton, while he says we'll make out somehow, feels pretty bad over it. but it can't be helped, of course, for ed has to go." for the time being, the news of the loss of one of randall's best football players overshadowed the matter of the missing chair. tom had changed his mind about going out to see if he could get on the trail of who had taken it, and sat with kindlings and his two other chums, discussing what could be done to replace kerr as right half-back. "bricktop molloy might work in there," suggested phil, "only he's too good a tackle to take out of the line." "why can't you go there yourself, phil?" asked tom. "you've done some playing back of the line." "no, i need phil at quarter," objected dan. "we'll have to think of something else. if i didn't need you at end, tom, i'd try you in ed's place." "oh, i'm no good bucking the line," objected the tall lad who pitched for the 'varsity nine. "what's the matter with one of the jersey twins?" asked sid. "both jerry and joe jackson are too light," and dan shook his head. there were many suggestions, and various expedients offered, and, while the discussion is under way perhaps a moment can be spared to make our new readers a little better acquainted with the main characters of this story. in the initial volume of this "college sports series," entitled, "the rival pitchers," there was told the story of how tom parsons, a rather raw country lad, came to randall college, made the 'varsity nine, and twirled the horsehide in some big games, thereby doing much to help win the pennant for randall. he had an uphill fight, for fred langridge, a rich bully, contested with him for the place in the box, and nearly won out. there was fierce rivalry between them, not only in baseball, but concerning a certain miss madge tyler. in the second volume, called "a quarter-back's pluck," there was related how phil clinton went into the championship game under heavy odds, and how he won out, though his mind dwelt more on a fake telegram in his pocket, telling him that his mother was dying, than on the game, and on the players whom he at last piloted to victory. a winter of study followed the games on the gridiron, and with the advent of spring, longing eyes were cast toward the baseball diamond whereon, as soon as it was dry enough, the randall lads gathered to prepare for the season. in the third book of the series, called "batting to win," there was told the story of how randall triumphed over her rivals, though at first it looked as if she would lose. a loving cup had been offered, to be played for by members of the tonoka lake league, of which randall college was a member, and how it was won forms the subject of the story. incidentally, there was quite a mystery concerning sidney henderson, or "sid," as he was universally called. from the opening of the season his conduct was peculiar, and there were many unjust suspicions regarding him. it was not until near the end, when he had been barred from the games, that the cause of his actions became known. then, at the last moment, when randall was losing the final game of the series, which was a tie between her team and that of boxer hall, the ban was removed, sid rushed upon the diamond, and batted to win. the baseball season had closed, summer had come, and with it the long vacation. now that was passed, and from mountains, lakes and seaside the students had come trooping back to randall. all our old friends were on hand, and some new ones, whom we shall meet from time to time. as the weather became cool enough, the football squad had been put to work under the watchful eye of captain dan woodhouse, and the coach, mr. lighton. before i go on with the story i want to add, for the benefit of new readers, a little bit of history about the college. randall was located in a town of the middle west, and not far from the institution ran sunny river, a stream that afforded boating opportunities for the students. it emptied into tonoka lake, which body of water gave the name to the athletic league, made up of randall, boxer hall, fairview institute,--the latter a co-educational place of learning,--and several other smaller academies. haddonfield was the nearest town to randall college, and thither the lads went whenever chance afforded. venerable dr. albertus churchill was the head of the college, and even though he was privately dubbed "moses" by the lads, it was not in any spirit of disrespect, for they all loved and admired him. it was quite the contrary with professor emerson tines, the "latin dreadful," and when i state that he was called "pitchfork," his character is indicated in a word. hardly less disliked was mr. andrew zane, the proctor, who seemed to have a sworn enmity against the lads. but they managed to have fun in spite of him. there were other members of the faculty, some liked and some disliked, and occasionally there were changes in the teaching staff. as for randall itself, it was a fairly large institution. there was the main building, at the head of a large campus. off to the left was the athletic field, and somewhat to the rear was booker memorial chapel, the stained glass windows of which were worth going miles to see. to the right of the college proper was biology hall, the endowment gift of an old graduate, and not far from that was the residence for the faculty. directly in the rear of the main building were the dormitories, the east one for the freshmen and sophomores, and that on the west for the juniors and seniors. as for the lads who attended randall, you will meet more or less of them as this story progresses. sufficient to say that tom parsons, phil clinton and sid henderson roomed together, being called the "inseparables." among their friends they numbered many, dan woodhouse, billy or "dutch" housenlager, "bricktop" molloy, jerry and joe jackson, dubbed the "jersey twins," because they came from some town in the garden state. then there was "snail" looper, so called because of his propensity to prowl about in the dark; pete backus, nicknamed "grasshopper," because he aspired to be a jumper; "bean" perkins, who could always be depended on to make a noise at a game, and many more. there were some students not so friendly to our heroes, notably fred langridge, who, because of a serious scrape, had withdrawn from randall and was now at boxer hall. garvey gerhart, his crony, who appeared in previous books, had also left, and ford fenton, whose uncle always formed a subject of boasting with him, because of the latter's former ability as a coach at randall, was among the missing. for ford played a mean trick on his classmates, and there was such a row raised over it that his relatives advised him to quit. and now, i believe, you have met all, or nearly all the lads of whom i propose to tell you more. of course there were the girls, miss tyler, and ruth clinton--phil's sister,--and miss mabel harrison, who attended fairview. i will introduce them more particularly in due season. "say, how can you fellows stand that?" asked dan, after a pause, during which they had all done much thinking. "stand what?" asked tom, starting out of a day dream, in which thoughts over the loss of the chair and the loss of kerr on the football team were mingled. "that clock. it gives me the fidgets," and kindlings grabbing a book, made as if to throw it at the timepiece. with a quick motion, phil stopped him, and the volume fell harmlessly to the floor. "it doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath," went on the football captain. "always seems to want you to hurry-up." "i wish it would make sid hurry-up some mornings, when the chapel bell rings," remarked tom. "the frowsy old misogynist--the troglodyte--lies abed until the last minute. it would take more than that clock to get _him_ up." "slanderer!" crooned sid, unconcernedly, from the depths of the sofa. "no, but seriously," went on dan. "i can't see how you stand it. it gives me the fidgets. it seems to say 'hurry-up--hurry-up--hurry-up--no-time--no-time--no-time'! jove! i'd get one of those old grandfather clocks, if i were you. the kind that reminds one of an open fire, in a gloomy old library, with a nice book, and ticking away like this: 'tick----tock--tick----tock.' that's the kind of a clock to have. but that monstrosity----" he simulated a shudder, and turned up his coat collar as if a wind was blowing down his back. "oh, you're just nervous worrying about what's going to happen to the football team," spoke phil. "cheer up, old man, the worst is yet to come. suppose you'd been robbed of the finest armchair that ever you sat in----" "finest fiddlesticks!" burst out dan. "that chair had spinal meningitis, i guess, or the dink-bots. every time you sat in it you could tell how many springs there were in the seat and back without counting. ugh!" and dan rubbed his spine reflectively. "but it's gone," went on tom, "and i'd give a five-spot to know who took it. come on, fellows, let's go scouting around and see if we can get on the trail of it. i'm glad they didn't take the clock or the sofa," and he gazed at the two remaining articles which formed the most cherished possessions of the inseparables. they had acquired the clock, chair and sofa some time before, purchasing them from a former student on the occasion of their becoming roommates, and though they had since secured many new objects of virtu, their affections clung to these three originals. their room was a typical college lads' apartment, hung with sporting prints, boxing gloves, foils, masks, baseball bats, fishing rods, and in certain places, like honored shrines, were the pictures of pretty girls. "well, are you fellows coming?" asked tom, as he started for the door. "where?" inquired phil, who still had on his football suit. "to hunt for the chair. it _must_ be somewhere around the college. i think it was taken for a joke, and if it was by any freshmen i'll make 'em wish they'd never come to randall." "i'm with you!" cried sid. "oh, let's stay and talk about what we're going to do for the eleven!" begged dan. "but, for the love of cats, first stop that blamed clock, if you don't want me to go crazy!" his objection was so evidently genuine, that phil halted the ticking by the simple process of jabbing a toothpick in the slot of the timepiece regulator. "that's better," observed kindlings. "now, about ed kerr, i think the best we can do is to----" he got no further, for the door of the room was fairly burst open, and in came the jersey twins. "have you heard the news?" demanded joe jackson. "the news?" echoed jerry. "sure! we knew it first," said phil. "you mean about our chair being stolen." "oh, hang your chair!" cried dan. "it's nothing about chairs," said jerry, with a curious look. "not a word," came the echo. "it's worse," went on jerry. "much worse;" the echo. "oh, you mean about ed kerr having to leave," spoke dan. "how'd you hear it so soon? it will be all over college to-night, i guess." "ed kerr going to leave?" gasped jerry. "ed kerr?" also gasped the echoing brother. "yes. is that what you came to tell us?" demanded sid, as he got up from the sofa, not without some rather strenuous gymnastics, for once you sank into the soft depths, it was difficult to arise unaided. "no, we don't know anything about ed leaving," went on jerry, as he looked from one to the other, "but bricktop molloy just told us that he was going to quit next week, and go to----" "bricktop going to leave!" gasped dan. "more bad news! will it never stop raining!" and he clung heavily with his arms around tom's neck. "say, is this straight?" demanded phil, excitedly. "sure! bricktop told us himself," answered joe. "where's he going?" inquired sid. "to new york. going to take a special post-graduate course at columbia, he said. he's got a chance to get in with some big mining firm, and he's got to work up on a few special studies. oh, bricktop is going to leave all right." "then what's to become of the randall football eleven?" demanded dan, in a tragic voice. "two of her best players going to leave, and hardly time enough to break other fellows into their places before the big games! oh, fellows, this is sure beastly luck!" chapter iii on the trail oppressive silence once more filled the room--a silence unbroken by the ticking of the clock this time, for it was mute, because of the toothpick. but its accusing face seemed to look at the three chums, as though begging to be allowed to speak, even if it did but mark the passage of time. "maybe we can prevail on bricktop to stay until after the big game with boxer hall," suggested tom, hopefully. jerry jackson shook his head mournfully. "i've tried it," he said. "i knew it would be a bad loss, so i asked bricktop to stay, but he said his whole future depended on this chance, and he wouldn't feel that he was doing right if he let it slip." "talk about futures," murmured dan, "what of the future of randall?" "it does seem sort of tough for bricktop to leave just when we've all got so we play so well together," commented sid. "and only to go to another college, too! it isn't like ed, who has to go with his sick father. i tell you bricktop isn't doing right! he's deserting in the face of the enemy, for both boxer hall and fairview are after our scalps this fall, because of the walloping we gave them last season. bricktop's a deserter!" "oh, don't be ugly," begged tom. "maybe we don't know all the facts. i'm sure bricktop wouldn't do anything mean." "oh, of course not," sid hastened to say, "but you know what i mean. if bricktop----" "who's takin' me name in vain?" demanded a voice at the door--a voice with just the hint of irish brogue--and into the room was thrust a shock of auburn--not to say reddish--hair, which had gained for the owner the appellation of "bricktop." "i say, who's desecratin' me reputation, of which i have but a shred left--who's tearin' down me character behind me back?" and molloy, with a quick glance at his friends, entered and threw himself beside sid on the sofa, thereby making the old piece of furniture creak most alarmingly. "easy! for cats' sake!" cried sid, in alarm. "do you want to deprive us of our only remaining consolation, now that the chair is gone?" "surely not," answered the irish lad. "captain, i salute thee," and bricktop arose and bowed elaborately to dan. "i gather from what i heard, as i made my entrance, that you have received the unwelcome news, my captain," and, though bricktop was smiling, there was a sober look in his blue eyes. "yes, we've heard it," answered kindlings, shortly. "is it true?" "it is, my captain, and it's infernally sorry i am to have to confirm it. but i've got to go, and that right soon." "um!" murmured the captain. "well, the sooner the quicker, i suppose. kerr goes this week, also." "what! kerr going?" bricktop was manifestly surprised. "his father's sick--europe--ed's going with him," disjointedly declaimed tom. "whew!" whistled the irish lad. "now i _sure_ am sorry i'm leavin'. not that i'm any better than any other player, my captain, but i know what it means to take two men out of the team at this late day." "you're not throwing any bouquets at yourself," spoke dan. "it's the worst blow randall has had in a long time. we were just at the point where we had begun to gain ground after the long practice, and now----" he shrugged his shoulders. "is there no way you can stay on?" asked phil, softly. bricktop shook his head. "it means a big thing to me," he declared. "i know it looks like desertin', as ye call it, but, fellows, believe me, i'm not. it--it goes to me heart as much as it does to yours," and bricktop swallowed a big lump in his throat. when he was much affected he always "degenerated to the language of his forebears of the emerald isle," as he used to say. and he was much affected now--there was no doubt of that. "i wish i could stay--but i can't," he concluded, brokenly. "well, randall will have to do the best she can," spoke dan, after a pause, and with a heavy sigh. "isn't there plenty of good material in the scrub, and some in the freshman eleven?" asked sid. [illustration: "isn't there plenty of good material in the scrub?" asked sid.] "oh, it isn't so much a question of material, as it is breaking them in," answered the captain. "the great fault with some of our playing in the past was that we didn't have team work. this season we have it, and after a lot of grind we fellows were playing together like one. look how we walked away with dodville prep in the first game of the season. that showed what we could do. now the team's going to be disrupted--two of the best men----" "thanks, captain," interrupted bricktop, with a short laugh. "i mean it," went on kindlings, energetically. "two of our best men leave, and it's almost too late to get others to run with the team like the perfect machine it ought to be. but, we've got to do our best. come on, bricktop, we'll go see mr. lighton, and hear what he has to say." "there are a couple of new fellows coming soon," remarked joe jackson, as he and his brother arose. "who are they?" asked tom. "one is frank simpson. i heard bascome speaking of him the other day. he's played on some western eleven, i believe, and has quite a name." "yes, those western fellows are big and strong," put in jerry jackson. "oh, you can't tell anything about it," said dan, despairingly. "a new fellow can't be broken in at this late day. i'll have to depend on some of the scrub. who else is coming to randall? do either of you twins know?" "i heard proc. zane talking to moses about some new students who were going to enter," replied jerry, "but simpson is the only one whose name i heard mentioned." "come on, then," urged dan. "we'll go see the coach. maybe he has someone in mind, and you can stay on a few days and help break him in, bricktop." "sure, i'll stay as long as i can," agreed the irish lad. "it ought to be easy to get someone to work in at left guard, where i play." "we can't get anyone to beat you," spoke dan, sincerely. "well, i'm going." "if you see our old armchair walking around the campus, send it home," requested phil, earnestly. "sure!" chorused his chums. "seriously though, fellows," said tom, when the delegation had left the room, "we've got to do something. let's go out and make some inquiries. it was a nervy thing for anyone to do, to come in here and carry off our chair. i don't believe it was any freshmen." "neither do i," agreed phil. "wait until i dress and i'll be with you." "same here," added sid. "oh, i can't wait!" cried tom, impatiently. "i'll go out and see what i can learn. you fellows come when you get ready. we've got plenty of time before grub." tom's first act was to seek out wallops, one of the assistant janitors, or messengers, about the college. from that youth he inquired whether he had seen anyone taking the chair away, or whether he had heard of it being removed in a joke. "what, you mean that old big chair that was so--so----" and wallops hesitated, evidently in embarrassment. "yes, that's the one--the old rattletrap!" exclaimed tom. "don't be afraid to say it, wallops. the chair was pretty well bunged up, but we think a lot of it, and we wouldn't have it lost for a good deal. can you give us a clew?" "well, mr. parsons, i didn't see any one take it, but there was a second-hand dealer around the college to-day. he comes every once in a while, to buy up the things the students don't want any more. he was here, and he took away a wagon-load of stuff." "he did!" cried tom. "why didn't you say so before? was our chair on the wagon?" "i didn't see that one, though he had some small chairs, and a bureau." "who was he? where's his place? i'll go see him at once!" cried the pitcher. "i'll wager he sneaked in our room, and took it while we were out. who was he?" "isaac komsky," replied wallops. "he has a second-hand store on water street, in haddonfield. but i don't think----" "that's the fellow all right!" cried tom, excitedly. "i'll make him give that chair up, if we have to tear his shop apart!" and he raced back to the room to tell his chums. chapter iv another disappearance "hello! what's up?" demanded sid, as he and phil, about to leave their apartment, were almost hurled from their feet when tom burst in. "what in the name of the gaelic wars ails you, tom? has some one else left the team; or is the college on fire?" "yes, why this unseemly haste?" came from phil, as he sank back on the sofa and endeavored to recover his breath, which was almost at the vanishing point because of the suddenness of his chum's advent. "haste? i guess you'd be in a hurry if you just heard what i did!" exploded tom. "i'm on the track of our chair! what's the matter with you fellows, anyhow? i thought you were coming out and help me get on the trail of it." "oh, sid had to look at miss harrison's picture before he could venture out," replied phil, with a mocking grin at his chum. and then he dodged to escape a book, while tom murmured: "you old misogynist! and me working like a detective to get on the trail of our beloved chair! what kept you in, phil?" "couldn't get his tie fixed to suit him," responded sid, thus getting one in on the quarter-back, who was rather noted for his taste in neck scarfs. "well, come on, now!" urged the pitcher. "we've got time enough to get to town and back before the 'eats,' and if we go now proc. zane won't be so apt to spot us." "what's the game?" asked sid. "second-hand shylock has our chair," explained tom briefly, as he told of the information wallops had given him. "we'll go talk to him like a dutch uncle, and make him tell how he dared come into our rooms while we were at practice. come on!" "the nerve of komsky!" cried phil. "i'm with you," and the three lads hurried from the college, crossed the campus, and were headed for a trolley that would take them to the village. they saw the car coming, and were about to sprint for it, when tom became aware of the figure of a small, fussy little man striding toward them from behind a row of trees, holding up his hand as if to command a halt. "zane!" gasped the pitcher. "the proctor," added phil, in a whisper. "he hasn't any right to stop us now!" but whether the official had the right or not, he was evidently going to exercise it, and our heroes thought it better to obey. "well, young gentlemen," began the proctor, as he strode up to the trio, "you are evidently going to the village." "yes, sir," answered tom, meekly. "there goes the car," remarked sid in a low voice. "there won't be another for half an hour, and we'll sure be late for grub. hang zane, anyhow." "may i ask how long you intend to remain?" went on the obnoxious college official. "not very long," answered phil. "we are going on an errand. we didn't know it was against the rules not to leave the college grounds in daylight, mr. zane." it was a sarcastic reference to the many somewhat childish rules the proc. was in the habit of framing up from time to time. "there is no rule prohibiting students from leaving the grounds in daylight, mr. clinton," said the proctor, severely, "but the reason i stopped you is that i wish to point out that if you go to town now you will hardly be back in time for supper, and that means that you will probably get a meal in haddonfield. also, there is no set rule against that, but dr. churchill does not like it. staying to supper in the village might mean that you would stay later, and i need hardly point out that there _is_ a rule about being out after hours. that is all," and the little proctor walked stiffly away. "well, wouldn't that get your goat!" murmured tom, when the official was beyond hearing. "i should say so; and also frizzle your back teeth," added sid. "shall we go?" asked phil, doubtfully. "of course," asserted tom. "and we'll fool zane, too. it won't take us long to have it out with komsky. then we can go to one of those quick-lunch places, have a bite, and get back to college in plenty of time before locking up. we can arrange to have an expressman bring back the chair." "good!" exclaimed phil. "i was afraid you'd propose that we lug it back on the car, and while i'd do a good deal to get it again, i think we'd look foolish toting it home in our arms." "afraid of meeting some girls, i suppose," sneered tom. "say, supposing komsky hasn't got it," suggested sid, while phil blushed. "perish the thought!" cried the pitcher. "we've _got_ to get our chair back, and if that shylock hasn't it some of the other second-hand dealers in town have." they strolled along, talking of the chair, the chances for a good football team, and many other college matters until the next car came, when they hopped aboard, and were soon in haddonfield. "vell, young gentlemans, vot is it? somedings nice vor de college room, ain't it? yes! no? vell, isaac komsky has it vot effer you like, und cheap! so help me gracious, i lose money on everyt'ing i sell! now, vot it is?" thus spoke the old second-hand dealer, when our three friends entered. eagerly he had come forward, rubbing his hands and wagging his long, matted beard, while from under bushy eyebrows he peered at them with eager orbs. "we're looking for a chair, komsky," said tom, brusquely. "a nice, easy, soft, comfortable chair that we can sit in." "oh, so! an easy chair is it? vell, i haf many, und cheap! it is a shame about de cheapness. look, here is one, vot is so--vot you call--easy, dot it vould make you schleepy efen ven you looket at it, ain't it?" he thrust forward a most uncomfortable wooden rocker, with gaudy cushions on the seat and back. the cushions were in randall colors--yellow and maroon--and the chair had evidently been sold by some student, either because he needed the money or because he could afford better furniture. "no, that's not the kind we want," said tom, whose eyes were roving about the cluttered-up shop. he and his chums had decided on the course of pretending to want to buy a chair, with the idea that if komsky had taken theirs, by hook or crook, he would be more apt to show it if he saw prospective customers, than if he knew they had come demanding their rights. "we want an easier chair," went on tom. "oh, an easier vun? den i haf it. see!" and he brought to light a big turkish rocker, that was in the last stages of decay. meanwhile sid and phil had been strolling about, leaving tom to engage komsky in conversation. the two looked in many corners, and peered under heaps of furniture, but they did not see their chair. nor, if the dealer had it, did he show any desire to produce it. tom looked at rocker after rocker that was brought out, and at last, convinced that his method was likely to prove a failure, he boldly stated the case, and demanded to know, whether by mistake or otherwise, the dealer had taken their old relic. the surprise of mr. komsky was pitiful to observe. he all but tore out his beard, and called upon his ancestors as far back as the sixteenth generation to witness that he had not even seen the chair. he was an honest man, he was a poor man, he was a man born to poverty and under an unlucky star, but never, never, _never_! not if you were to give him a million dollars, would he take a chair from a student's room, without permission. "for vy should i, ven i can buys dem efery day?" he demanded, with a pathetic gesture of his forward-thrust hands. "well, i guess it isn't here," spoke tom, regretfully, when they had exhausted all the possibilities. "yet you were at college to-day, komsky." "vy, sure i vos at der college to-day. nearly efery veek i am there, ain't it? yet i have not your chair." it was evident that he was telling the truth. he did not have the chair then, though he might have had it, and have sold it to some other student, perhaps one from boxer hall or fairview, for those lads also patronized the second-hand dealers, and komsky was one of the largest. "cæsar's grandmother!" cried tom, in dismay, as this possibility suggested itself, "just suppose langridge or some of those chaps had our chair! say, maybe langridge put up the game!" "hardly possible," asserted phil. "come on, we'll have a look in some of the other shops, then we'll get grub and hurry back. i think i saw drops of blood in zane's eye." "he sure _would_ like to get our names down in his little book," said sid. but a round of the other second-hand dealers, where inquiries were made, developed nothing. there were many easy chairs on sale, but that of our heroes was not to be seen, and sorrowfully they returned to the college. it was long past the regular supper time, but they had satisfied their hunger in haddonfield. and, in spite of their troubles--their worriment over the chair, and the mix-up that was sure to result in the football team--they had managed to eat a good meal. they saw proctor zane, as they strolled up over the campus, and the official glanced sharply at them. "he's just wishing we were coming in late," declared tom. "i believe you," assented phil. they entered their room, stumbling in the darkness over books and chairs, for they never took the trouble to put their apartment to rights. "i say, strike a light, some one!" exclaimed tom, rubbing his shins where they had come in contact with a chair. there was a click as phil turned the electric switch, and the incandescent glowed. for a moment the three chums stood in the middle of the room, gazing at each other. "doesn't it seem lonesome without the old chair," spoke phil at length. "sort of makes the room look bigger though," declared sid, as he threw himself on the sofa. it was a poor consolation at best. "i can't imagine what has become of it," said tom, as he proceeded to get into some lounging clothes. "well, now for some boning, and maybe we'll forget our troubles," went on phil, as he scattered a pile of books, looking for his own. "are you going to the football meeting to-night?" asked tom, as he finished a hurried toilet, for a session of the squad had been called late that afternoon to consider the loss of kerr and molloy. "i may come over later," spoke phil. "i think the best thing we can do is to----" he paused suddenly, and glanced quickly toward the shelf that served as a mantle. the gaze of his chums followed. the room seemed suddenly to become oppressively still. they could almost hear each other breathing. then the same thought came to all three. "the clock!" they exclaimed in a tragic chorus. "it's gone!" gasped tom. "vanished!" added phil, staring at the vacant space as though unable or unwilling to believe the evidence of his eyesight. "another mysterious disappearance," exploded sid, and then tom remarked in significant tones: "i guess we'll have to chain the sofa if we want to keep that!" chapter v football talk "fellows, there is just one thing about it," announced tom, firmly, when a hurried search of the room had only made it more certain that the clock was nowhere in it, "either we are the victims of a practical joke, or there is some mystery here that we will have to fathom." "i'm inclined to think it's a joke," said phil. "same here," agreed sid, "only it's a pretty poor sort of a joke. first thing we know we won't have anything left," and he looked down at the sofa on which he was stretched out, as if to make sure that it would not take wings unto itself, and fly out of the window. "was the room locked?" asked phil. "sure," spoke tom. "whoever came in must have used a false key." "they're taking lots of risks," was sid's opinion. "how could they tell but what we'd come back any minute and catch them red-handed?" "well, this is no joke," insisted tom. "we've got to do something. it's too much to have the chair and clock disappear the same day. i'm going to post a notice on the bulletin board, stating that the person who took them is known, and had better return them at once to avoid further trouble. that's how the ladies advertise in the newspaper when they don't know who took their best umbrella at a society meeting. i'll write out a notice." "no, don't!" urged phil, quickly. "why not?" "because i think this thing is a joke on us, and the more fuss we make over it the more they'll laugh at us. bascome, or some of that crowd, have had their fingers in this pie, and it's up to us to find out how they did it, and what became of our things. now, let's work around quietly, get the evidence we need, get back the things if possible, and have the ha-ha on them." "good idea," commented sid. "i believe you _are_ right," agreed tom, after thinking the matter over. "we'll keep quiet about it. now let's get through with our boning, and go to the football meeting. they'll expect us, and, really, it's a serious matter. randall has got to wake up considerably if she wants the championship this year." the meeting was held in the gymnasium, and was pretty well under way when our three friends arrived. ed kerr was not present, as he had to get ready for his trip to europe, but bricktop was on hand, and it required all his irish wit to stand off the many appeals that were made to him not to desert in the face of trouble. there were tears in the eyes of the big left guard as he announced that his decision was final, and that he must leave for columbia in two weeks. "i'd like to stay and play in the first big game against newkirk college," bricktop said brokenly, "but it's impossible, me lads." "then we'd better get busy and consider how we're going to make up the team," declared dan woodhouse, and when the captain thus gave up hope of keeping bricktop, his fellow players did likewise. "yes," said mr. lighton, the coach, "we have none too much time to get at our team work in view of the changes. now, woodhouse, we'll hear what you have to say." "wait until i make out a list, and do some thinking," spoke the captain, and while he retired to a comparatively quiet corner to do this, the coach gave the lads a little informal talk on the science of the game. mr. lighton illustrated several points. he showed how the guards and tackle could best work together to hold the line with the centre, he impressed on the ends the necessity for speed in getting down the field. to the backs he talked of the need for being ready to get into action on the jump, to take advantage of the holes made for them. "we have decided to play a game consisting of two halves instead of the four quarters," said the coach. "it is more satisfactory, i think. of course, there is a certain advantage in three rest periods instead of one, but i believe that a faster, snappier game can be played by halves than by quarters. you don't run the chance of getting stiff, and you can keep limbered and warmed up." "what about the forward pass?" asked phil clinton. "i don't know that we will work that so much as we did last year," said the coach, "but of course we will have to be guided by what our opponents do in the games. that will be something for the captain and the quarter-back to work out together. of course we'll practice it." "onside kicks," came suddenly from sid, who had been somewhat quiet. "are we going to do anything with them?" "that is another matter that will have to be settled when you play the games," declared the coach. "it will do no harm to try them. i'm for straight football, as near the old-fashioned sort as we can get it under the new rules. we have had some hard practice, and we'll have more, for practice is what you will need in team work, especially if we have two new players. now has the captain anything to report?" "well," remarked kindlings, coming from his corner, with a puzzled look on his face, "it isn't so easy as you would think, and i just want to say that i hope no fellows feel badly because i don't select them in place of kerr and molloy." "sure not," came in a chorus. "'rah! 'rah! 'rah! for randall!" yelled bean perkins in his loudest grandstand voice. "wow!" "can some of that, and save it for the newkirk game," suggested woodhouse, with a grin. "now i've thought it all over, and i've decided that i'll put sam looper in bricktop's place at left guard, and----" "'rah for the snail!" shouted the irrepressible bean. "oh, i can be quick enough when i want to," declared sam, his face shining with delight at the honor that had come to him unsought. he had practiced hard on the scrub, and while he was not a bright and shining light, he had grit and stamina, and was very strong. there were some doubtful looks over his selection, but everyone was willing to admit that while he was not as good as bricktop, he might do after some gruelling practice. "and to fill kerr's place i'll name pete backus," went on the captain. "'rah for grasshopper!" cried bean. "he'll jump over their heads and make a touchdown." "quiet!" begged mr. lighton, for there was a pandemonium of yells and laughter at this. "and i want pete to jump into plays when he has the ball," continued kindlings. "do you approve of those selections, mr. lighton?" "certainly, woodhouse. i only want to say that of course it all depends on how these new candidates make out in practice." "oh, sure," assented the captain. "they've got to make good, or we'll put some one else in. you understand that, pete and sam." "of course," they murmured, and each secretly determined to leave nothing untried that would win for him the coveted honor of playing on the 'varsity eleven. "then everybody be on hand for practice on the gridiron at three o'clock sharp to-morrow," announced kindlings. "we'll run through some hard plays, do some passing and tackling, and play a fifteen minute half against the scrub. sharp work, everybody!" "'rah for kindlings!" yelled bean, and the shout that followed, if it did not exactly raise the roof of the gymnasium, at least testified to the regard in which the captain was held. there was more talk from mr. lighton, who had worked out a new system of signals for the present season, and he gave the lads a short drill in it before the meeting adjourned. meanwhile phil, tom and sid had been keeping their ears on the alert, and their eyes open for any hint, in talk or action, that would give them a clew to who had taken their chair and clock. but they were not successful. if any of the football squad was guilty, the fact was successfully concealed. chapter vi in practice there was a crisping tang in the air. the wind had in it just the hint of winter, but the sun shone bravely down and glinted on the green grass of the football field--a field marked off in white lines, so meaningless to one not familiar with the game, yet so full of meaning to a player. soon what a struggle there would be to cross those same white lines--especially the last, whereon were the goal posts, and to gain which every last ounce of strength, every atom of breath, every nerve and sinew that could be urged to lend speed to the runner would be called upon to do the utmost that the ball might be shoved over for a touchdown. now, however, the gridiron of randall college lay peaceful and quiet under the october sun. the grass seemed to shiver in the breeze, as if in anticipation of the struggles it would soon have to bear. the silent grandstands were but waiting the cheering, yelling, singing, sport-maddened and enthusiastic throngs that would shortly occupy them, to cause them to sway as in a gale with the stress of their applause, to echo to the thunder of thousands of stamping feet. but now the gridiron was deserted. it was like a battle-field whereon had taken place many a conflict, but which, like the arena of old, had been swept and garnished with sand, effacing the marks of strife, that those who came might not see them. it was all ready for the next battle of brawn, practice for which would soon take place. out from the gymnasium came rushing a crowd of lads--in canvas trousers and jackets, and in sweaters, the shoulders of which bulged with great leather patches. some of the warriors had on leather helmets, and others swung rubber nose-guards from their arms by dangling strings. "line up! line up!" came the cry. "come on for some punts!" "hey, phil, send out some drop kicks!" "pass the ball!" "fall on it! fall on it!" the lads were racing about, leaping and jumping. some were punting, others sending the ball swiftly around by a quick arm and hand motion. still others, in the excess of their exuberance, were wrestling or tackling. for it was the first day of practice with the newly-organized team, and everyone was anxious to see what the result would be. kerr had gone from randall, after an affecting good-bye to his classmates, bearing with him their sincere wishes that his father would speedily recover, and that ed would return. bricktop, for the first time since the season had opened, was without his football togs, and he felt it keenly. but once he had made up his mind, he decided to forget practice, though he consented to stay on about a week, and help mr. lighton coach snail looper in his work behind the line. "here you go, tom!" called sid, and he sent a puzzling spiral down the field. the plucky left end was down after it like a flash, extending his arms to gather it in. so swift was it, however, that it went right through his grasp, and bounded on the grass. tom, like a flash, fell on it. "good!" cried the coach, who seemed to be watching every preliminary play, though regular practice had not yet been begun. "that's the way to do it." there was some warm-up work, while mr. lighton and dan woodhouse consulted, and while the captain of the scrub was getting his men together. then came the cry again: "line up! line up!" "we'll play a ten minute half," said the captain, and he glanced at a list in his hand. "here's how the 'varsity will line up," he added. "tom parsons will play at left end, bert bascome at left tackle, sam looper at left guard, holly cross at centre. billy housenlager will be right guard. i'll play at right tackle, as usual. joe jackson will be at right end, and his brother can try it at full-back, only i wish he'd put on more weight. phil, you'll go to quarter. pete backus will play right half-back, and sid henderson at left half. now, i guess that completes the team. get in line and see what we can do." "and remember what i told you about fast, snappy playing," cautioned the coach. "i'm going to have the scrub do its best to make a touchdown on you, so watch out. line up!" the ball was placed in the centre of the field, and, as the 'varsity wanted to get into offense as soon as possible, the scrub was to kick off. "all ready?" asked ned hendrix, who was captain of the scrub, as he looked across the field to see how his own players were bunched. "all ready," answered kindlings. ping! that was the nerve thrilling sound of the toe of hendrix's shoe making a dent in the side of the ball. straight and true it sailed, and into the arms of jerry jackson it fell. "now, fellows, come on! make up some interference for him! don't let them get through on us!" yelled the captain of the 'varsity, as the jersey twin tucked the ball under his arm, lowered his head and started back with the pigskin. before him ran his fellows, and speeding toward them came the eager scrub, thirsting for tackles. jerry managed to run back twenty yards before he was downed, and as the two teams lined up for the first scrimmage, the coach shook his head rather dubiously. "the scrub is a bit quicker than the 'varsity, i'm afraid," he whispered. "i've got to whip them into shape. well, now to see how they tear through the line." phil clinton was kneeling down behind holly cross to receive the ball. he gave a quick glance behind him, and decided to try out the mettle of pete backus. "seventeen--eighty-four--ready now--twenty-two--four--sixteen--eighty-three," counted phil, but before he had called the last number he had given the signal for the ball to come back. it was for pete to take the pigskin in between tackle and guard, and, as he received the leather, pete made a spring through the hole that was opened for him. he gained two yards, seeing which the coach murmured: "he's got the strength, but he needs to be a bit quicker. well, we've got time enough to get speed out of him, i guess." the piled-up players slowly emerged from the heap, and kindlings whispered to his new man: "good work, old fellow. that's the way to tear through them." phil was already calling off the next signal. he had found that quick, snappy work in beginning the signal, even though it was not quite yet time for the play, had the effect of somewhat demoralizing the other players, and also hastened the actions of his own men. once more the ball went to the grasshopper, but he failed to gain, and was thrown for a slight loss, for the scrub players were eager in breaking through. "that won't do," objected the captain, gloomily. "i--i didn't know he was going to give it to me so soon again," spoke pete, pantingly. "you must always be ready," was the comment. phil was calling for a kick now, on the last down, and joe jackson dropped back for it. the ball was sent out of danger, but coach and captain shook their heads. the 'varsity had not gained as much ground as they should have done. "better luck next time," said kindlings hopefully. "your men need it," responded mr. lighton. it was now the turn of the scrub to see what they could do, and they quickly formed over the pigskin, while their quarter-back called off the signals. at the sturdy line of the 'varsity, they plunged, trying to tear a hole between the left guard and tackle. they had quickly found the weakness of pete, and bert bascome was not a tried warrior of the gridiron. the scrub penetrated for a couple of yards, and then, seeing what the danger was, the other players massed their strength there, and stopped the advance of the man with the ball. again the scrub hurled themselves against the line, trying on the other side this time. they could not gain, and joe jackson dropped back to receive the kick he expected would come. but the scrub's quarter gave the signal for a fake punt, and when the 'varsity had spread out, the right half-back was sent forward with the ball. but they did not gain what they expected, for kindlings, ever on the alert for a play like that, was watching, and, cleverly dodging through the interference, he downed the man with the ball in a fierce tackle. the scrub had gained their distance, however, and still had possession of the pigskin. "hold 'em this time!" begged the captain, as he got rid of some dirt that had been ground into his mouth under his nose-guard. and hold the 'varsity did after that. not an inch could the scrub gain, for the wall in front of them was like stone, and they were relentlessly hurled back. twice they tried it, and on the third down they kicked--no fake affair now. the 'varsity had the ball again. phil did not try pete this time, but gave the leather to sid, who, like an old time warrior, lowered his head and plunged into the line for three yards. "come on! come on!" yelled phil, pushing and pulling on his chum to help him through. there was a mass of crowding, struggling players all about sid. the scrub, with desperate energy, tried to stem the progress of the human tide. still sid worked on, worming to get every inch, and he broke through the scrub line, staggered on and on, and when he was finally downed, with half a dozen of the players clinging to him like hounds to a stag, he had gained three yards, through a hard defense. "wow! wow!" yelled bean perkins. "that's what i ought to have done, i suppose," murmured pete, regretfully, as he saw what a gain sid had made. "oh, you'll do it yet," said tom consolingly. "it takes a little practice. those fellows are out for blood to-day. a lot of them are hoping to get on our team." "well, they won't!" declared pete, and when he was given a chance with the ball a little later, he tore through for a two-yard gain in great fashion. the 'varsity was now playing fiercely, and had the "measure" of the scrub. those unfortunate lads tried in vain to stem the human torrent. the first team had the ball, and were not going to give it up. down the line they rushed, shoving the second lads to one side--bowling them over. "touchdown! touchdown!" came the cry when the five-yard line was reached. "touchdown!" and a touchdown it was, sid being pushed and dragged over the line. it took eight minutes of play to make it, though, and the scrub felt in their hearts that they had done good work, as indeed they had. there was another line-up, after a kick-off, and the scrub had another chance to show what they could do, but they failed to gain in two trials, and kicked. then the 'varsity once more had the ball, and in the little while remaining to play, for the half had been lengthened to fifteen minutes, they rushed it up the field. a forward pass was tried, but did not work well, nor did an onside kick, and mr. lighton wisely decided to defer these plays until the team worked together better in straight football. "well, what do you think?" asked kindlings, as he walked to the gymnasium with the coach. "it might be worse," was the non-committal answer. "but they all mean well, and as soon as sam and pete get more confidence, they'll do better. but--oh, well, what's the use of crossing a bridge until you get out of the woods, as holly cross would say. we have a game with newkirk in two weeks, and if we can't beat them, even with the team we have----" "we'd better go out of business," finished dan. "exactly," agreed the coach, with a shrug of his shoulders. chapter vii a new timepiece "anything on for to-night fellows," asked tom parsons, as he limped along with sid and phil. "no. why?" inquired the quarter-back. "are you going to see a girl? if you are, i heard ruth say that she and madge had a date at some fairview affair, or something like that." "no, i'm not going to see a girl," retorted tom somewhat savagely, and a spasm of pain shot over his face. "i'll leave that for you and sid this time. i'm going to lay off and bone." "what's the matter?" asked phil, anxiously. "sick?" "no, but i'm tired, and some one stepped on my ankle in that last mix-up." "by hannibal! i hope you don't go lame," put in sid. "the team is crippled enough as it is." "oh, i'll be all right," asserted tom. "all it needs is a rest and some liniment." "i wrenched my knee a bit," spoke phil, "but it doesn't bother me now." "and i'd like to get hold of the fellow who rubbed my nose in the dirt," came wrathfully from sid. "i must have chewed up about an ounce of it." "it's good for your digestion," asserted tom, with a wry face. "but say, fellows, doesn't it strike you as rather queer that we didn't get a hint about our missing chair and clock?" "it is sort of so-so," admitted phil. "you'd have thought," went on tom, as he stopped for a moment in the shadow of biology hall to favor his bruised ankle, "you'd have thought that if it was some of the boys putting up a job on us that they'd have given it away." "yes, such as asking what time it was, or if we rested well in our room, or something like that," added sid. "but there wasn't even a look to give us a clew." "which means," declared the 'varsity left end, as he limped on, "that either none of our fellows have had a hand in it, or that they can keep a secret better than we fellows could. if this bunch had done anything like that we'd be wanting to rig the victim. but i can't understand this silence." "it means something," declared phil. "there's some mystery about this that's deeper than we have any idea of." and there was a curious mystery which was destined to have quite an effect on randall college. "well, let's forget all about it for a while," suggested sid. "maybe if we do, it will be like one of those problems in solid geometry, and the solution will come to us when we least expect it. many a time i've stared at the figures and letters until they did the blue danube waltzes up and down the pages. then i've just chucked it aside, taken up something else, and, all at once, it's as plain as----" "the nose on tom's face," interrupted phil, for tom was well blessed in that feature. "go ahead. have all the fun you like," the pitcher invited, for his ankle was beginning to pain him more severely, and he did not feel equal to skylarking with his chums. "but as to forgetting about our chair, i can't do it. queer, isn't it, how you'll get attached to an ordinary piece of furniture like that?" "it wasn't an _ordinary_ piece, you sacrilegious vandal!" exploded sid. "there isn't another chair like that in college. i have it on good authority that it was a family heirloom before we bought it of hatterly, the big senior. it belonged in the hess family, which was quite some pumpkins around here about the time of the wreck of the _mayflower_." "the _mayflower_ wasn't wrecked, you chump!" cried tom. "well, what of it? something happened to it, anyhow. it was stranded, or ran ashore, or else people landed from it. i never can keep those things straight in my head. at any rate, the chair is quite a relic, and i wish we had it back." "i'm with you," declared tom, feelingly. "i could just curl up in it in comfort to-night." "only you won't," retorted phil. "nor yet listen to the clock tick," added sid. "now, let's talk of something else." "football," suggested phil, quickly. "what do you fellows think about our chances, anyhow?" "not much," asserted the end. "sam and pete aren't doing as well as they used to do on the scrub." "stage fright, maybe," came from sid. "it's likely," admitted the quarter-back. "i remember when i first played on the 'varsity, i couldn't seem to see straight, i thought i was going to miss every tackle i tried for, and i was mortally afraid of dropping the ball. they'll get over it." "i hope so," spoke tom. "i wish bascome wasn't playing on my end." "why?" asked phil, quickly. "well, you know he rather stood in with langridge and gerhart when they were here, and, though he isn't as mean as they were, he isn't exactly in our crowd. i can't play with him the same way i can go into a game with the other fellows. i think i'll ask kindlings to let me shift to the other end." "don't you do it!" cried sid, quickly. "look here, tom parsons, the surest way to have a team go to pieces is to have personal feelings crop out among the players. we've got to play together, or----" "'play separately,' as one of the signers of the declaration of independence said," interrupted phil, with a laugh. "no, i'm serious," protested sid. "if we're going to act that way, tom, we might as well give up the team now, and also all hopes of ever winning the championship this year. it's bad enough to have bricktop and ed off, without having you kicking up a fuss about bascome." "who's kicking up a fuss, you old misogynist?" demanded the end, limping along. "i only said i couldn't play with bascome as well as i could with dan, and i'd like to shift." "and if you do that it means that some one else will have to shift, and that will throw the whole team into confusion. no, you stick it out, tom." they walked on in silence for a few minutes, each busy with his own thoughts. the sun slanted across the campus, and glinted through the stained glass windows of booker chapel, coloring the sward with a wonderful combination of violet and red. back of the main college was a bank of purplish and olive tinted clouds, which tom paused to gaze at in admiration. "look, fellows!" he exclaimed, softly. "it's just like one of those pictures of venice, painted by what's his name." "yes, great artist," put in phil. "second cousin to 'who's this.'" "no, but look at those colorings," protested tom. "did you ever see such cloud masses? the only thing about them is that they tell of fall coming on, and winter and leafless trees, and----" "oh, for cats' sake cut it out!" groaned sid. "you must be in love again. got a new girl?" "shut up!" ordered tom, peremptorily, as he started toward their dormitory. "the next time i try to elevate the minds of you fellows by pointing out the beauties of nature you'll know it!" "all right, old chap," came in soothing accents from phil. "those clouds _are_ worth looking at, for a fact. sid has no soul for anything above the commonplace." "neither would you have, if you'd been chewing on mud," declared the other. "it strikes me that we are getting silly, or sentimental, in our old age. come on up and get into a bathrobe and we'll take it easy. i have some imported ginger ale, and some prime cheese in the closet." "you rat! and you never spoke of it before!" cried phil, clapping his chum on the back. "come on, let's see who'll get there first, as the wolf said to red riding hood," and he started up the stairs on the run, followed by sid, while tom limped on more slowly. when the end reached their apartment he found the door open, and his two chums standing on the threshold as though afraid to enter. it was dark inside, for the shades were drawn. tom looked at his two companions in some surprise. "what's the matter?" he asked. "snake in there? why don't you go on in?" "listen!" exclaimed phil, softly. they stood expectantly. through the stillness there came to them a rhythmetic tick-tick, which floated out of their room and into the corridor. "the clock!" gasped tom. "our clock!" whispered phil, as though to speak aloud would break the magic spell. "it's come back," went on sid, taking a step forward in a stealthy manner, as if he expected to surprise a burglar in the act. "fellows, to all the gods that on olympus dwell most everlasting praises be! our clock's come back!" chapter viii another idea making ready as though to greet an old friend who had long been absent, the three lads advanced to the middle of the room in the semi-darkness. louder ticked the clock, and it was like music to their ears. tom snapped on the electric lights, and the gaze of our three heroes went together toward the mantle shelf. then there came three simultaneous gasps of astonishment, a starting back in surprise, a catching of breaths. "the clock!" spoke tom, aghast. "it isn't ours!" added phil, gaspingly. "they've brought back the wrong one!" exclaimed sid. then, as they looked at the new timepiece, a smart one in a new and dull-polished mahogany case--an expensive clock--one they never would have thought of possessing, as they looked at it, there was a musical tinkle of a bell, and five strokes rang out as if in welcome. "a new clock!" went on phil, in accents of horror. "a clock that strikes!" "'come plump, head-waiter of the cock, to which i most resort. how goes the time? 'tis five o'clock? go fetch a pint of port!'" quoted sid. "oh, what are we up against?" cried tom. "the plot thickens! there is more of the direful mystery here! talk about the arabian nights' tale of new lamps for old! some one has taken our old clock and left in its place this new choice specimen of the art of the horologiographer." "the art of whom?" asked phil, in wonder. "clock-maker," translated tom. "they say a fair exchange is no robbery, but this was an unfair exchange. we don't want a striking clock." "no, give us back our own fussy little alarm," begged sid. "i say, though, fellows, this is no slouch of a piece of horologiographic work, though. it must have cost eight or ten bones, and it's brand new. do you guess some one's conscience smote 'em, after they'd made away with our ticker, and they wanted to make amends?" "i don't know what to think," admitted phil. "me either," came from tom. "but if they bring back one of those new-fangled turkish rockers in place of our old chair, i'll fire it out of the window. we can stand the clock, though i'll be hanged if i like that striking arrangement." "me, either," agreed sid. "but maybe we can get some clew from this clock. let's have a look." he turned the clock around on the shelf, thereby disturbing its mechanism and stopping the ticking, but he little minded that. he was looking for the maker's name. "say, was our door locked when you fellows got here?" asked tom, who had been a little in the rear of his companions, due to his injured ankle. "sure it was locked," asserted phil. "i opened it with my key. whoever sneaked in here and left the new clock while we were at football practice must have had a duplicate key. how are you making out, sid?" "the clock, according to a card pasted on back, was made or sold by amos harding, of chicago." "chicago!" cried tom, in some excitement. "that's where langridge came from! is it possible that he could have come over from boxer hall, and played this joke?" "it's possible, but not probable," declared sid. "but we could write to chicago, and see if mr. harding could give us any clew." "oh, what's the use?" asked phil. "chicago is a big place, and it's hardly likely that a dealer there would remember to whom he sold a particular clock, when there are a whole lot like it. this clock is of fairly common pattern, though it's rather expensive. i'm inclined to think that we'll never get on to the game that way." "what have you got to suggest?" asked tom, as he prepared to bathe his ankle, while sid set the clock going again. "i was going to say that we might post a notice on the bulletin board, stating that we'd had enough of the joke, and would exchange clocks back again." "say, i've just thought of something!" exclaimed sid. "maybe there's a thief in college, and he's been going around snibbying things from the fellows' rooms. he's been found out, and made to put the things back. he got our clock mixed up with another, and the other chap has got our ticker." "not a bad idea," assented phil. "in that case a notice on the bulletin board would be all right, and we'll wait about writing to chicago. but langridge is out of it, i think." "well, i don't," declared tom, half savagely, for his ankle hurt him when he rubbed it vigorously. "you'll find that he's been mixed up in this somehow. the clock is from chicago, he comes from chicago, and there's some connection there, you can depend on it!" "well, maybe," admitted phil. "but let's get at the notice, and then it will be grub time. might as well say something about our chair while we're at it; eh, fellows?" "no," came from tom, "let that go. i think the clock and chair were two different propositions. we'll work the chair ourselves." after some talk his chums were inclined to agree with tom, so phil wrote out a notice about the timepiece, while sid interestedly examined the clock, making various speculations concerning it, while tom doctored his ankle. "there, i guess that will do for a while," he announced, with a wry face, as he pulled on his shoe. "i hope i'm not lame for practice to-morrow." "well, here's the notice," exclaimed phil, a little later. "i'll read it. 'for exchange: one mahogany-case clock, new; striking the hours and half hours----'" "hold on!" interrupted sid. "_does_ it strike the half hours?" "sure, they all do," asserted phil, and as if in confirmation of his words, there tinkled out a silvery stroke at five-thirty. "what'd i tell you?" he asked, in triumph. "where was i?" as he looked at the piece of paper. "oh, yes: 'strikes the hours and half-hours. the undersigned will give it back for their small nickel-plated alarm clock, rather battered, but still in the ring. doesn't strike at all.' how's that, fellows?" "all right," said the end, as he laced his shoe loosely, for he had bandaged his ankle. "let's have it, and i'll put my name down, then you fellows can go down and stick it up. i'm going to stretch out;" and, scribbling his name on the notice, tom threw himself on the couch, with due regard for its age and weakness. "i'll fix it up," volunteered phil. chapter ix a clash with langridge in the meanwhile football practice went on, and the team seemed to be getting into better shape, though there was much to be desired. sam and pete did better, though they were uncertain, and there was much ragged work, both in offensive and defensive plays, over which coach and captain shook their heads. "randall has got to do better than that," said mr. lighton, "if she wants to stay at the head of the league." "right!" agreed kindlings. "bricktop is coaching sam all he can, but it needs more than coaching to make a guard." "hope for the best," suggested the coach. "i wonder how our freshmen will make out saturday against boxer hall?" "they'll win, of course," declared dan, energetically. the game between the two freshmen elevens of boxer hall and randall was quite an event, almost approaching the 'varsity struggles, and there was a big crowd on hand at the boxer hall gridiron the following saturday when the contest was about to begin. nearly all of the 'varsity squad was present to lend moral and vocal support, and bean perkins was in his element. it was a hot battle from the very kick-off, and the two teams fought each other up and down the field. there was considerable kicking and open playing, but randall depended on old-fashioned football, modified by mr. lighton, and secured the first touchdown. boxer hall got one before the initial half was finished, and then there was much speculation during the intermission as to which side would win. by tremendous efforts, ploughing through the line, bucking great holes between their opponents, and by putting up a great defense, randall succeeded in getting another touchdown, and a goal from the field, while boxer hall was unable to score in the last half. it was a glorious victory, all the more so because randall had lost the contest the previous season. the game was over. there had been cheers for the winners and losers, and college cries and songs galore. "come on over this way," urged tom to sid and phil, who had sat with him during the game. "i think i see madge, ruth and mabel. there are a lot of fairview girls here." "oh, trust you for seeing the lassies," half-grumbled sid, yet he followed, for he had more than a passing liking for miss harrison. as the trio approached the three girls, who were standing together on the side lines, tom suddenly plucked his companions by their sleeves. "what's up?" demanded sid. "there's langridge and gerhart going to speak to them," said the end. "what?" cried phil, and a red glow suffused the quarter-back's face as he saw the former bully of randall speaking to his sister. "i'll not stand for that! i don't want ruth to have anything to do with him!" for langridge was not the kind of a chap any fellow would want his sister to associate with. in times past langridge had been quite friendly with miss madge tyler, but when she had discovered certain things about him, she had cut his acquaintance. "guess he's trying to get in with her again," suggested sid. "i'll put a stop to that!" exclaimed phil, grimly, as he strode forward. then he called peremptorily: "ruth!" his sister looked up, caught his eye, blushed a little and, with a word to langridge and gerhart, moved off. her two girl friends followed, and seemed glad of the chance to get away from the two sportily-dressed lads. langridge swung around, and at the sight of the three lads who, more than any others, had been instrumental in causing him to leave randall, his face turned a dull red. "what's wrong, clinton?" he called, sharply. "do you think your sister is too good to speak to me?" "he evidently does," sneered gerhart. "since you ask me--i do," replied phil, calmly, and then he turned his back on the angry boxer hall students and began to talk to his sister and her friends, tom and sid joining in the conversation, not without a little sense of embarrassment. "look here, if you think i'm going to stand for being insulted publicly this way, you're mistaken, clinton!" cried langridge, hotly. he strode forward, while gerhart tried in vain to hold him back. "oh, phil!" cried ruth, reaching out her hand to halt her brother, but in an instant he had gone beyond where she stood. she clasped her hands in alarm, and madge and mabel, with heightened color, gathered close to her. langridge and phil faced each other with flashing eyes, and gerhart stood just behind the former bully of randall, looking a bit alarmed, for langridge had torn from his grasp with considerable force. "look out, phil," spoke sid, in a low voice, but langridge heard him. "you keep out of this!" he snapped. "i'll settle with clinton first, and then if you or parsons want anything, you know where you can get it." "yes, and so do you!" declared tom, stung by the bully's words. more than once had the plucky end proved his words, too. "oh, tom!" breathed madge, and she laid a gentle hand on his coat sleeve. "don't--don't let them--fight!" tom slowly turned his gaze from the flushed and angry face of langridge to that of the beautiful girl at his side. she was pale, but smiled bravely. it was a tense moment. phil and the bully still stood facing each other, neither willing to give way. a little crowd, attracted by the impending clash, was approaching. tom caught sid's eye, and the latter, with a quick motion, indicated that he and tom must interfere to prevent an encounter, at least thus publicly. "you--you insulted me," mumbled langridge, his fists clenched, as he glared at phil. "impossible," murmured tom. "i told you the truth, in answer to your question," retorted the quarter-back. "you brought it on yourself." "but why you should consider that my speaking to your sister was an insult, i can't quite make out," declared langridge, with a sneer. "neither she, miss tyler nor miss harrison resented it. but perhaps you consider yourself the knight errant of all girls. if so----" "that will do!" interrupted phil, sharply. "leave my sister and her friends out of this discussion, if you please!" "and if i don't please," sneered langridge, "for i assure you that i do not, and----" phil fairly jumped for the bully and ruth uttered a little cry. in another instant there would have been a scene which phil, in his calmer moments would have regretted as greatly as any one. chapter x the big californian tom saw what was about to happen, and his ready hand fell on his chum's shoulder. "not here! not now!" he whispered into his ear. "some other time, phil. think of your sister--of the other girls. a crowd is gathering. not now! not now!" phil made a motion as if to shake off the restraining grasp, and then thought better of it. in the meanwhile, sid had casually stepped in front of langridge. the left half-back motioned to gerhart to call aside his chum, and the bully's crony was only too glad to do this, for he was somewhat of a coward, and he feared lest he, too, be entangled in the quarrel which seemed imminent. "go away, langridge," advised sid, in a low voice. "if you want satisfaction later i'm sure our friend will give it to you. but not now." "yes, come on," urged gerhart, linking his arm in that of his friend. he swung him around, and langridge, with a vindictive look at phil, allowed himself to be led away. at the same time tom, with a forced laugh, for the benefit of the crowd, walked phil to one side. "say something!" he whispered, hoarsely. "laugh, phil, if you don't want to make it unpleasant for the girls. the people are beginning to ask questions." the quarter-back at once rallied to save the situation. he clapped tom on the back, and exclaimed: "that's pretty good, old fellow! pretty good. you must tell that story at the next frat. dinner. but it was a great game, wasn't it? now, come on, ruth, and we'll all go and have something to drink. hot chocolate wouldn't be bad." "most delightful," chimed in miss harrison, with a grateful look at sid and tom, as she gallantly threw herself into the breach. "so good of you," murmured ruth, smiling, though her paleness belied her meaningless words, and she was trembling. the three lads, each walking beside one of the girls--tom with ruth, phil with madge tyler, and sid with miss harrison--strolled toward the entrance gate of the football field. "nobly done, old chap," whispered tom. the crowd began to melt away. "i thought there was going to be a fight," murmured one disappointed lad, whose "loud" clothes bespoke his sporting proclivities. "there was," answered a companion, "only something stopped it." "who are those three fellows?" asked another lad from boxer hall--a freshman evidently. "what--don't you know the three inseparables?" inquired the "sport." "not to know them argues yourself unknown." the girls were more at their ease now, and phil, who had started what had so nearly been trouble, did not refer to it, to the great relief of his sister. really, the interview with langridge had been unsought on the part of the girls, and they had done their best to avoid speaking to him, without being downright insulting. miss tyler and miss harrison began a series of gay nothings, and ruth was soon drawn into the conversation, to which tom, phil and sid contributed their share. "oh, tell us about the clock and chair mystery, boys," begged ruth, when they had left the place where they had partaken of hot chocolate. "phil said something about it, but i had to drag it out of him like a lawyer cross-questioning a reluctant witness." "my! listen to portia!" cried madge. "but we should dearly love to hear about the queer happenings." thereupon the three young men together and separately, told of the disappearance of their beloved chair, the missing clock, the appearance of the mahogany timepiece, and their ineffectual search for clews. "and if langridge didn't have a hand in it, i'll eat my hat, saving the presence of you ladies," declared tom. "only i can't get sid or phil to agree with me." "what about, eating your hat?" demanded the quarter-back. "don't let us interfere with that pleasure. go ahead. if yours isn't enough, you may have a couple of bites out of mine." "oh, you know what i mean," declared tom, in a little huff. "if you mean about langridge, i _don't_ agree with you," put in sid. "he never had his finger in this pie." "right, oh!" exclaimed phil, and then the discussion started all over again, and lasted until the girls declared that they must return to fairview. "well, what do you think of it, fellows?" asked tom, some time later, when the three chums were on their way back to their rooms. "think langridge will start anything?" "no," was sid's opinion. "i guess he'll be glad to let well enough alone." "i suppose you think i didn't do exactly right to make the break i did," ventured phil, "but i couldn't stand it to see him talking to ruth." "me, either!" declared tom, so heartily that the other two laughed, and the little strained feeling that had manifested itself passed away. as they strolled down the corridor the three lads nearly ran into a youth who turned the corner of the hall suddenly. "i beg your pardon, strangers!" he exclaimed, in a full, rich voice. "i sure didn't see you coming, nor yet hear you. i guess i'm in the wrong pew." tom and his chums saw confronting them a tall, well-built lad--big would be the more proper term, for he was big in every way. six feet if he was an inch, and broad in proportion. he stood regarding them without a trace of embarrassment, a stranger in a strange place, evidently. for a moment tom had a wild idea that the mystery of the chair and clock was about to be solved. he had not seen the youth before, and he might be a clever thief who had sneaked into the college. "what did you want?" asked phil, quickly. "and who are you?" demanded tom. "i beg your pardon," went on the stranger. "i've just arrived at randall, and mr. zane showed me to my room. i left it and went outside, but when i came in again, either someone took my apartment, or, as i said, i'm on the wrong front stoop. simpson is my name, frank simpson. i'm from california, and i've been attending leland stanford university, but father's business called him east permanently, and so i decided to come to randall. i've just arrived," he concluded. "simpson," murmured phil, wondering where he had heard the name before. "with a capital 's'," put in the strange student, with a whimsical smile. "oh, you're the fellow jerry jackson was speaking of," exclaimed tom, recalling the jersey twin's reference to some new students who were due to arrive at randall. "much obliged to mr. jackson, whoever he may be," spoke the tall youth, "but i haven't the honor of his acquaintance." "oh, you'll soon know him," added sid. "and so you're from california, eh?" "yes, but i think i'm going to like it here," was the response. "they tell me there was a freshman football game to-day. did our boys win?" he asked, eagerly. "you see, i'm making myself right at home, calling 'em _our_ boys." "that's the way to do," declared tom, who, somehow, felt a sudden liking for the stranger. "are you interested in football?" "i played--some--at stanford," was the modest reply, "but i suppose it's too late to get on the team here. you're all made up, i hear." "made and unmade," murmured tom, in a low voice. "jove!" he added under his breath, as he took in the proportions of the big californian, "what a guard or tackle he'd make!" chapter xi a new complication "oh, hang it all!" burst out phil clinton, as he tossed aside his trigonometry. "what's the matter?" inquired tom, looking up from his latin prose. "have you got the dink-bots?" was sid's gentle question, as he kept on carefully mounting a butterfly, one of the specimens he had captured during the summer, and had laid aside until a leisure moment to care for properly. "i don't know what it is, but i can't get my mind down to study," went on the quarter-back. "you never could," declared tom, fortifying himself behind the sofa in case phil should turn violent. it was the evening after the freshman game, and the three chums were in their study, after the meeting with the big californian, as frank simpson had at once been dubbed. he had been directed to his room, which was on the floor above the apartment of our heroes, and he had gone off thanking them warmly. "what's the main trouble?" asked tom. "oh, nothing in particular; but i guess i'm thinking of too many other things. there's that little run-in i had with langridge, seeing the game to-day, worrying about the clock and chair mystery, and wondering how our eleven is going to make out." "it's enough to drive you to--cigarettes," admitted tom. "but i----" "say, i'll tell you what let's do," broke in sid. "let's invite that simpson chap down here. he must be sort of lonesome, being a stranger here. i saw him going off to his room after grub, and none of the fellows spoke to him. now, randall isn't that kind of a college. true, we don't know much about him, but he looks the right sort. it won't do any harm to have him down here and talk to him." "sure not," agreed phil at once. "good idea," declared tom. "shall we all go and invite him down, as a committee of three, or will one be enough?" "oh, one," replied phil. "you go, tom, you're the homeliest. have it as informal as possible." "i like your nerve!" exclaimed the end. "however, i will go, for i like simpson. i wish he was on the eleven. wonder if he was any good at stanford?" "never heard of him setting the goal posts on fire," came from sid, "but you never can tell. if he has any football stuff in him lighton will bring it out. we can tell simpson to get into practice, anyhow." "randall needs just such material as he looks to be," went on tom, as he arose to go to the room of the californian. "i rather hope he makes the 'varsity." frank simpson very much appreciated the invitation he received, and a little later he was accorded a seat of honor on the sofa, and made to feel at home by our heroes, who plied him with questions about his native state, and what sort of a college leland stanford was. the newcomer at randall answered genially, and, in turn, wanted to know many things. particularly he was interested in football, and in response to tom's urging that he practice, he said that he would. "you fellows have quite a place here," went on frank, as his gaze roved admiringly about the room. "quite a tidy shack." "you don't see the best part of it," spoke sid. "how's that?" inquired frank. "our old easy chair was mysteriously taken, and in place of a clock whose tick, while an aggravation, made us all feel at home, that timer was left in its place," remarked phil, before his chum had a chance to answer. and then the story of the queer happenings was told again. "somebody's rigging you, i guess," was the opinion of the lad from stanford. "i wouldn't let 'em see that i was worried." "oh, we're not, but we'd like to get our chair back," replied tom. "something like that happened out in our college, when i was a freshman," went on the newcomer, who, it developed, was in the randall sophomore class. "we fellows missed things from our rooms and made quite a row about it, thinking a thief was busy. but it developed that there was a secret society of seniors whose sworn duty it was to furnish up their meeting-room with something taken from every fellow's apartment in the college. jove! but those fellows had a raft of stuff, every bit of it pilfered, and when we got next to it we stripped their meeting place as bare as a bone, and got our things back. maybe that's what's happened here." "it's possible," admitted phil, "but we haven't heard of any senior secret society like that. it's worth looking up." there was a knock on the door, and holly cross and dutch housenlager entered. they were introduced to frank, and the congenial little party of lads talked of various matters, mostly football, until the striking of the new clock warned them that it was time for the proctor to begin his nightly rounds of discovery. frank simpson began football practice with the scrub eleven the next day, and though he was sneered at by some, tom and his friends on the 'varsity at once saw that the californian knew the game. mr. lighton did not have to have his attention called to the work of the newcomer, for he picked him out at once, and kept his eyes on him during the warm-up play. "i shouldn't wonder but what there'd be 'varsity material there," the coach confided to the captain after the practice game was over, when the scrub had rolled up two touchdowns against their mates. "the land knows we need something to brace us up," replied kindlings, somewhat despondently. "sam looper is getting worse instead of better. they tore big holes through him to-day." "i know it," admitted mr. lighton. "and what will happen when boxer hall tackles us can be more than imagined, unless there's a big improvement. but i'm going to watch simpson." the big californian was of a genial temperament, and he endeavored to make friends with his fellows on the scrub, but, somehow or other, they rather resented his advances, and turned the cold shoulder to him. hurt, but not despairing, frank "flocked by himself" for a few days. he was becoming known as a "dig," for he did well in the classroom. then tom, and his two mates, seeing how the wind was blowing, made a special point to invite the newcomer to their room more frequently. they took him to their bosoms, and their warm welcome more than made up for the coldness on the part of some of the others. it was not an intentional slight by those who did not welcome simpson. don't get that impression, for there was a warm school spirit at randall. only, somehow, it took a little longer for a stranger to make friends, coming in after the term had started, than it did before. then, too, the fact that he had not passed his freshman year there was a bit against him. but tom, phil and sid minded this not in the least, and soon frank was made to feel quite at home, for which he was duly grateful. "it's mighty white of you fellows, to treat me this way, like a friend and a brother," he said, feelingly, one night, after a session in the room. "oh, get out! why shouldn't we?" demanded sid. "of course," spoke tom. "well, lots of fellows wouldn't go to the trouble, and i appreciate it," went on the lad from the golden gate. "all i want now is to make the 'varsity, and i'll be happy!" "you may be nearer getting on than you think," murmured phil, for in practice that day snail looper had done worse than ever, while frank was a tower of strength to the scrub, which had almost beaten the first team. in spite of their work on the gridiron, our heroes did not forget to look for clews to the missing chair and clock. only none developed, search and pry about as they did. the big californian helped them by suggestions, but there proved to be nothing in his theory of a purloining secret society, and tom and his chums did not know which way to turn next. the date for the game with newkirk was drawing closer, and practice was correspondingly harder. it was one afternoon, following a gruelling hour on the field, that as tom, his two chums, and frank were walking toward the gymnasium, they saw several members of the faculty entering the house of president churchill. "hello! what's up?" exclaimed tom. "something, evidently," answered phil. "have any of you fellows been cutting up?" asked sid, with suspicious looks at his companions. they quickly entered denials. clearly there was something extraordinary in the meeting that had evidently been called, for the professors wore grave looks as they entered the residence of the head. "i hope none of the 'varsity crowd has been misbehaving himself, and will get laid off the team," went on phil, who felt that he carried the weight of the eleven on his shoulders. "we're in bad enough shape now." "here comes wallops, let's ask him," suggested tom, and when the messenger approached they plied him with questions. "i don't rightly know what it is," answered wallops, "but it is something important and serious, so i heard mr. zane saying to professor tines, when he gave him word about the meeting. it has something to do with the title to the land on which the college is built. i believe some one has laid claim to it, on account of a cloud on the title, but i really don't understand legal terms." "do you mean that randall college is in danger of losing some of the property?" gasped phil, as he looked around at the fine campus, the athletic field, and the group of buildings. "it's something like that," went on the messenger. "i heard mr. zane say the land might be taken by the heirs of some old man who once had a claim on it." "well, what would happen if he could make good his claim?" asked sid. "i don't know, but i suppose the heirs could say the college was theirs, being built on their ground, or they could tear it down. but i don't rightly know," concluded wallops. "probably it will be known after the meeting." "more trouble for old randall!" groaned tom, as he and his chums watched the gathering of the solemn professors. chapter xii the missing deed bad news, they say, travels fast, and certainly it must have made a record trip throughout the length and breadth of randall that afternoon. tom and the others had scarcely changed from their football togs into ordinary clothes before half a score of their fellows demanded to know if they had heard the rumors that were flying around. "we sure have," replied tom. "how much truth is there in them, jerry jackson?" "i don't know," replied the jersey twin. "we only heard as much as you did," echoed his brother. "prexy will make an announcement at chapel to-morrow morning, if there's anything in it," declared dutch housenlager. "then i wish it was chapel time now," murmured phil. "i don't like this suspense." "me either," declared sid. "well, there's one consolation," put in frank simpson. "if it's got anything to do with the law there's no present danger that the college will be torn down--not before the football season is over, anyhow." "why not?" demanded tom. "because the law is so slow. if it's a question of title to land it can go through several courts before it's definitely decided. i know because my father's a lawyer, and he's had several cases of disputed titles." "well, there's something in that," declared phil. "but i don't like to think of old randall being in any kind of danger. it makes me uneasy." the talk became general, and there were many speculations as to what the trouble really was, and what the outcome would be. the conversation continued after our friends had gone to their room, whither flocked a number of their chums to discuss the situation. for the time being football was forgotten, and the trouble of randall held the centre of the stage. "well, there's no use worrying about a bridge, until you hear the rustle of its wings," said sid at length. "what we fellows need to do is to get out and make a noise like having some fun," opined dutch housenlager. "when the cat's gone on her vacation, the mice eat bread and cheese, you know. proc. zane is closeted with the bunch of highbrows, and so what's the matter with cutting up some?" "dutch, i'm surprised at you!" exclaimed tom, reproachfully. "why? what's the matter?" asked the fun-loving youth, innocently. "wanting to skylark at a time like this, just because the authorities are in _statuo quo_," went on tom. "not on your life, dutch! it's fun enough to play some tricks when you're taking chances on getting caught. now it would be like taking pie from a baby in arms." "i guess you're right," admitted dutch housenlager, contritely. "we'll defer the operation," he went on, in solemn tones. "i think the patient will survive until morning." seldom had there been such an attendance at service as greeted dr. churchill when he stood on the platform in the booker memorial chapel the next morning. the early sun glinted in through the stained glass windows, and seemed to pervade the room with a mystic light that added to the solemnity of the occasion. the scriptural selection was from one of the psalms of david--one of those beautiful prose poems which are such a comfort in times of trouble. and as the vibrant tones of the venerable president's voice rose and fell, when he feelingly spoke the words, it seemed to the boys, careless and happy-go-lucky as they might be ordinarily, that a new dignity and depth of appreciation was theirs. after the prayer, which was in keeping with the bible reading, dr. churchill arose, and came slowly to the edge of the platform. he stood for a moment, silently contemplating the throng of earnest young faces raised to his, and then he spoke. "men of randall," he began, solemnly, "we are facing a crisis in the history of our college. men of randall, it behooves us to meet it bravely, and with our faces to the enemy. men of randall, we may be at the parting of the ways, and so, being men together, i speak to you as men." the good doctor paused, and a sound, as of a great sigh, passed through the assemblage. usually when the doctor had any announcement to make, he addressed the students as "young gentlemen." they felt the change in the appellation more than any amount of talk would have impressed them. "doubtless you have heard rumors of the crisis in our affairs," went on the president, after taking off his glasses, slowly wiping them, and replacing the frames back of his ears, over which the white locks fell. "whatever you have heard i beg of you to disregard to this extent, that you do not repeat it. in evil times words increase trouble. i will tell you the truth as nearly as i and the gentlemen associated with me can come at it. "randall college, as you know, was built many years ago. the land was purchased from a fund left by a gentleman who had the good of the youth of this land at heart. other endowments enabled buildings to be put up. in all these years no hint of trouble has come to us, but now we are confronting a fact, not a theory, as your political science teaches you. "the land whereon randall and the various buildings stand, yes, where there is laid out the fields for the pursuit of baseball and football, and i think i am right in assuming this to be the football season?" the president paused, and glanced questioningly at the proctor, whom he evidently took for an authority on sports. for dr. churchill, while an enthusiastic supporter of every team in the college, knew rather less about the various terms, and times of games than the average baby. the proctor nodded in acquiescence. "even the very football field is under suspicion," continued the president, and there was another great sigh, mainly from that section of the chapel where sat tom and his chums. "in fact the entire ground on which the college is built has been claimed by outsiders. "the facts, in brief, are these: when the land was purchased there were several persons who had interests therein. from them releases, in the form of quit-claim deeds, were obtained, and then it was thought that the corporation of randall had a clear title. now it develops that a certain simon hess was one of the persons who gave a quit-claim deed, after being paid for his share in the land. "that deed, i regret to say, can not be found, and in the absence of it, it is as if it never existed. simon hess is dead, but he left several heirs, and they are now making a claim against the college. perhaps they might not be so eager, were it not for certain lawyers who are apparently urging them on. "an attempt was made to settle with them when they made their claim known, but the lawyers insisted that their clients prosecute their suits, and so the hope of compromise was abandoned. it seems that they want the life's blood of our college, and, as you know, we are not a wealthy institution. "yesterday i received from mr. franklin langridge, the lawyer who represents the claimants, a demand for a large cash settlement if their claim was abandoned. i need hardly say that randall is in no position to pay a large amount in cash. i called a meeting of the faculty, and we came to that conclusion. i have so notified mr. langridge." at the first mention of that name there had been an uneasy movement among the students. at its repetition, when it was whispered around that this was the father of fred langridge, the former bully of the college, the movement became more pronounced. "mr. langridge," went on the president, when he was suddenly interrupted by a series of hisses. dr. churchill started. mr. zane hurriedly whispered to him, explaining that it was only the name of langridge that thus met with disapprobation. the venerable president raised his hand for silence. "men of randall," he said, solemnly, "that was unworthy of you." the hissing stopped instantly. "and so our college is in danger," continued the good doctor, after a pause, "but we must face it bravely. we will not give way to it. we will meet it like men! we will fight the good fight. we will----" "three cheers for randall college and dr. churchill!" yelled bean perkins, leaping to his feet and forgetting that he was in chapel--forgetting that it was a solemn occasion--forgetting everything save that he was wrought up to the point of frenzy. "three cheers, and the biggest tiger that ever wore stripes, fellows!" oh, what a shout there was! every student was on his feet in an instant, yelling at the top of his voice. even some of the faculty joined in, and dr. emerson tines was observed to be wildly waving his hands. how the cheers rang out! and then the tiger! dr. churchill blew his nose violently, and wiped his glasses several times, for there was a mist of tears on them. he tried to speak--to go on--but he was too affected. slowly he turned, and walked back to his seat amid the faculty. and then bean perkins did what forever covered him with glory, wherever, in after years, the stories of randall college were told. jumping up on one of the pews, he raised his hand for silence. then, in a voice that was singularly sweet and clear, he started that school song: "_aut vincere, aut mori!_" welled out the strains from hundreds of throats--the song of songs--the song that was always sung in times of victory, or when the teams on diamond or gridiron seemed to be putting up a losing fight--the song that had snatched many a victory from defeat. forth it rolled, deep-voiced and solemn, sung in the original latin, in which it had been composed years ago by a gifted graduate: "_aut vincere, aut mori!_"--"either we conquer, or we die!" it was the rallying cry to the battle that confronted the college. chapter xiii the first game silence followed what was probably the most remarkable scene that had ever taken place at chapel in the history of randall. a deep, heart-felt silence, which was almost as impressive as the unexpected singing had been. some of the students were fairly panting from the emotion which had racked them, for they had been stirred as they seldom were before. slowly dr. churchill arose from the chair, and again approached the edge of the platform. his voice broke as he spoke a few words. "men of randall, i thank you," he said impressively and simply. "you may rest assured that nothing will be left undone to save the old college, which has no more loyal supporters than yourselves, and, i may add, than the gentlemen associated with me on the faculty." he paused a moment, as if he would say more, and then, with a motion of his hand, dismissed the assemblage. in silence the students filed out, and it was not until they were some distance away from the chapel, broken up into little groups, that they began discussing the situation. even then it was in hushed voices, as if the enemies of randall might be hiding about, listening for something of which they could take advantage. "wallops wasn't far out," remarked tom, who, with phil, sid and some other friends, was walking slowly along. "no," came from the quarter-back, "but wouldn't it get your angora, though? to think of there being a flaw in the title all these years, and someone only just now taking advantage of it!" "i wonder what can have become of the missing quit-claim deed?" ventured sid. "no telling," remarked holly cross. "prexy said it was given by a simon hess," went on tom. "i've heard that name before, somewhere, but i can't recall it." "i was telling you about our chair having been in the hess family," explained sid. "don't you remember, i said it was one of the hess heirlooms when we bought it of hatterly, the senior." "that's right," agreed tom. "fancy that now! maybe next they'll be accusing us of having the missing deed, because we have some of the hess property." "we _haven't_ got it, you mean," put in phil. "our chair is still in a state of _non est_." "haven't you located that venerable piece of architecture yet?" asked dutch housenlager, with a sly putting forth of his foot, in an effort to trip tom. dutch was always up to some horse-play. "no, we haven't found it, and i guess we're not likely to," went on the end, as he spoiled the efforts of dutch by hitting him a playful blow in the side. "the mystery of the clock is still unexplained. our offer to trade back hasn't had any takers." "oh, you fellows make me tired, always talking about your old relics!" broke in kindlings. "you had much better be considering some new football plays, or how to help randall out of the hole she's in." "out of the hole some rascally lawyers _got_ her in, you'd better say," corrected holly cross. "this trouble never would have developed, if it hadn't been that some legal sharps stirred it up, for the hope of a fat fee, i presume." "and langridge's father, of all lawyers!" put in sid. "you'd have thought that since his son once went here, he'd have had the decency not to appear in the case, and would have left it for some one else." "maybe he's doing it on purpose, just because his son had to leave here," suggested tom. "shouldn't wonder a bit," agreed captain woodhouse. "but, say, don't let this trouble get on your minds, fellows, so that you can't play football. we're going up against newkirk day after to-morrow, you know, and while we'll probably roll up a big score against 'em, we can't take any chances. hard practice this afternoon. we want to wipe up the field with the scrub." "we'll be on hand, captain!" promised phil, and the other players shouted their assents. the students went to their various studies, still talking over the scene of the morning, and what it portended. it was learned, later in the day, that the best legal talent possible had been engaged to fight the claim of the hess heirs for the randall land, and that a vigorous search would be made for the missing quit-claim deed, without which the college could not prove a clear title to the property. it also was hinted that mr. langridge was not altogether actuated by purely legal motives in prosecuting the claim against the college. when it became known that the father of garvey gerhart was associated with him in the law business, there were few students who did not believe that the two men were acting as much out of revenge because their sons had been forced from randall, as from any other motive. "but it will take some time to get the land away from the college trustees, even if they lose the case," explained frank simpson, "so there won't be any football games cancelled." he was in his uniform, and was walking out on the field with tom and the others to the practice. "i only wish he was going to be in the game with us against newkirk instead of the snail," mused tom, as the scrub and 'varsity lined up. "we'd stand a better chance to pile up a big score." but sam looper seemed to do better that afternoon, and was complimented by the coach for some good tackles he made, as well as for his ability in breaking through the scrub line. "oh, maybe he won't be so bad," conceded the captain, hopefully. the practice was hard and gruelling, but it brought out a number of weak spots, which were impressed upon the players, that they might avoid them. also some faults in plays were discovered, and measures taken to correct them. there was more hard practice the following day, when the scrub, mainly through the fine playing of the new member, frank simpson, came perilously near scoring, which they had been prevented from doing of late. the big californian was showing up wonderfully well, and he was making more friends by his sterling character. at last came the time for the first regular 'varsity game of the season, and though newkirk was considered a sort of second-rate rival, there had been a marked improvement in her playing of late, so that the randallites understood they were to have no walkover. the grandstands were filled with a motley crowd of students, men and women spectators and pretty girls galore, for nearly all the feminine contingent of fairview institute was on hand, shrilly cheering, or singing for their favorite team, and waving the colors of their own college, intermingled with those of randall or newkirk. it is no exaggeration to say that the yellow and maroon of randall predominated, and when tom, phil and sid looked toward a certain section of grandstand a, which location had previously been brought to their attention, they saw three particularly pretty girls, waving the colors that meant so much to them. "madge, ruth and mabel are there," announced tom, as he followed his mates into the dressing room. "glad of it," remarked phil. "it sort of makes you feel as if you could play better when----" "your sister is looking on--or some one's else sister, eh?" broke in sid. "oh, dry up!" exclaimed phil, as he looked to the shoulder pads on his canvas jacket. out on the gridiron trotted the newkirk players, to be received with a salvo of cheers from the contingent of supporters who had accompanied them to the randall grounds. then the home team followed, and bean perkins leaped to his feet, wildly brandishing a cane with the college colors streaming from it, while he led the cheering, and then added his powerful voice, as the students broke into the song: "we're going to wallop 'em now!" it was announced that the game would be played in two halves, and when captain woodhouse had conferred with billy bardeen, who ran the newkirk team, they tossed for choice. dan won, and elected to defend the north goal, which gave him and his men the advantage of a little wind. newkirk was to kick off, and when bardeen had teed the ball on a little mound of dirt in the centre of the field, he gave a glance to see if his men were ready. he gave the signal to the referee, and that official, after a confirmatory nod from captain woodhouse, blew his whistle. with a little run, bardeen planted his toe in the pigskin, which, straight and true, sailed to randall's ten-yard line, being caught by sid henderson, who rushed it back fifteen yards before he was downed by a fierce tackle by ed denton. there was wild cheering by perkins and his mates at this, for it seemed to indicate that newkirk was not as strong as she had been rated. sid slowly arose and planted his foot on the ball until holly cross came up. "line up!" yelled phil, stooping down behind the big centre, and then he began calling the signal: "fourteen--eighty-seven--one hundred and six--forty-two----" he snapped his hands, and the ball came back to him. like a flash it was passed to joe jackson, who hit the line for all he was worth, and tore through for two yards, the newkirk players seeming to crumple to pieces under the smashing attack. there were more cheers at this, and when sid henderson tore off three yards more around left end, the randall crowd went wild. "walk it up for a touchdown!" yelled bean perkins. it did look as though the ball might be steadily advanced up the field for the coveted point, especially when pete backus managed to wiggle through between left guard and tackle for three yards more. but then newkirk took a brace, and held against the rushing tactics of her rival, so that, after getting the ball to within ten yards of the goal line, randall tried for a field goal, and lost because the pigskin struck the post. once more randall, after some scrimmages during one of which tom got the ball, began the rushing tactics, and this time with such fierceness and energy that inside of five minutes his mates had shoved sid henderson over the line for the first touchdown. holly cross kicked the goal, and there was a wild riot of cheers. "that's the way to do it; eh, kindlings?" cried tom, capering about in delight. "we'd ought to have done it twice over in this time," was the somewhat unsatisfactory response. "if we don't look out, they'll score on us." but there was no danger of that in the first half, when randall got another touchdown and goal, and ended up with a field goal. then indeed did bean perkins and his cohorts let loose, singing wildly, though they did not give the "conquer or die" song. there seemed to be no need for it. newkirk was downcast, but would not give up. when the second half was resumed, with some new players lining up against randall, there was a moment when it seemed as if her rivals might menace her goal line, for they rushed the ball up with disheartening speed. the gains were mostly made through the unfortunate sam looper, who could not seem to hold, and bert bascome, his tackle, was not playing at his best. "put in simpson," suggested tom to kindlings, during the time taken out to enable the newkirk players to try to get some wind back into their plucky quarter-back. "i don't like to put him in over the heads of men who have been on the scrub all season," objected the captain. "it will be worth while," insisted tom. "well, we'll see," promised dan, and then play was resumed. once more there was a gain through sam, and partly because of a fear that his team would be scored upon, and partly in exasperation, dan signalled for frank to jump in. there was a joyful look on the face of the big californian as he took his place in the line, and the snail rather ruefully retired. "i guess i need more practice, or--something," he admitted. "principally 'something,'" agreed one or two of the scrub players. randall did not exactly need new life, for she practically had the fight won, but the advent of simpson was good. he was a powerful player, knew the game and its tactics to perfection, and tore open great holes in the other line, through which the randall backs plunged for substantial gains. it looked to be easy sailing from now on, and when several more points had been scored for randall, captain woodhouse gave orders for easier playing, as he wanted to save his men. it nearly cost them something, however, for joe jackson made a fumble, and the ball went to newkirk. then, wild to score, those players tore things loose, and shoved back the randallites until it looked as if their goal line would be crossed. there were many anxious hearts when the ball was on the twenty-yard mark, and when a trial for a field goal was made by newkirk, there were prayers that it would fail. it did, and then the leather was quickly booted far enough away to preclude the possibility of further danger. before newkirk could rush it back five yards, the final whistle blew, and the first game of the season was over, with a score of thirty-two to nothing, in favor of randall. chapter xiv the hazing of simpson "three cheers for the newkirks!" commanded bean perkins, as he swung his gaily decorated cane, and the yells bore ardent testimony to the warm feeling felt for a defeated rival. "now, then, sing: 'though we walloped you, we love you'!" again ordered the cheer leader, and the song welled forth. in turn, the newkirk players cheered for their opponents, and though there was the bitterness of defeat in their hearts, none of this betrayed itself in their yells. the big crowd scattered from the grandstands, and, pausing only to get rid of the worst of the dirt that marked them, our three heroes were soon walking side by side with phil's sister and her two companions. "oh, wasn't it great?" demanded miss tyler, of phil. "splendid!" cried ruth clinton. "you certainly rolled up a great score against them," was miss harrison's contribution to the trio of opinions. "we ought to be ashamed of ourselves," declared phil. "newkirk isn't in our class, and we only play them to sort of open the season, and for practice. yet they nearly scored on us." "oh, we didn't do so bad," was tom's opinion. "i think we showed up pretty well, for a team that had to be patched up after we lost two of our best players," came from sid. "well, you fellows didn't play so awful," conceded the quarter-back, "but if sam had been in much longer there'd have been a different story. pete backus is making out all right, and his practice in jumping does him good. but sam----" "simpson helped a lot," said the end. "yes, better than i thought he would. he didn't get gridiron-fright because he was on the 'varsity, and his head seems to be about the same size as before, barring where he got kicked over the eye," went on phil. "understand, i'm not knocking the team!" he explained quickly, for he saw the girls looking at him rather oddly. "only i know, and so does kindlings and lighton, that we've got to do heaps better when we play fairview and boxer hall." "oh, our boys are going to beat you!" exclaimed miss tyler, with a mischievous glance at her chums. "yes, you have to stick up for fairview," declared phil, "but wait and see." he spoke confidently, yet there was an uneasy feeling in his heart. both boxer and fairview had stronger teams than ever before. the little party walked on, laughing and chatting, discussing the game at intervals. phil had a chance to speak to his sister away from the others for a moment, and took advantage of the opportunity, to ask: "langridge hasn't been pestering you with any of his attentions lately, has he, ruth?" "indeed he hasn't!" she exclaimed vigorously. "and if he does, phil, i hope you won't do as you did before, and make the other girls and me ridiculous." "i didn't mean to do that," replied the quarter-back, "only i'm not going to have him mixing in with anyone i care for." "and i presume that is intended as much for madge as it is for me!" whispered ruth, with a laugh at her brother's blushes, which were visible under the bronze of his tan. "oh, don't----" he began, and then the others came up. "well, what about us, fellows?" asked tom, when the inseparables were in their room that night, rather sore and tired from the game. "we can't pat ourselves on the back, and vote ourselves gold medals," declared phil. "i hear that lighton and old kindlings are having a consultation, and there may be a shift of some of the players." "i hope he puts me on the other end," exploded tom. "bascome didn't support me at all to-day." "now, don't get to feeling that way over it!" cautioned phil, quickly. "that spirit makes a team go to pieces sooner than anything else." "oh, i'm not going to disrupt the team!" declared tom. "i think, though----" he stopped suddenly, and appeared to be listening. phil sat up on the old sofa, and sid looked questioningly toward the door. "someone's out in the corridor," he whispered. "yes," and tom nodded. "maybe they think we're out, and they're bringing back our chair." "or the clock," added phil. tom arose, and tiptoed toward the portal. before he reached it, there came a cautious knock on the panel. "shall we answer it, or pretend we're not in?" he breathed to sid. then, without giving the latter time to answer, a voice called, in a hoarse whisper: "i say, tom, are you and the bunch in there?" "it's dutch!" spoke phil, in his natural tone. "come on in, you old scout! what's all the secret society business about, anyhow?" tom opened the door, and billy housenlager and holly cross stood revealed. "don't yell so!" cautioned dutch. "we're going to haze that big chap--what's his name?" and he turned to holly. "the one from california," explained the centre rush. "oh, simpson," supplied tom. "haze him--what for? the hazing season is over." "not for him," explained dutch, with a chuckle. "you see, he arrived late, and he didn't get what was coming to him in his freshman year. so he has to take it now. do you lads want to be in on it? if you do, don't make any noise. he's in a room nearly above you fellows, and he may suspect something and listen. want to have some fun?" "i don't know--do we?" and tom turned to his companions. they hesitated a moment, and then phil, with a long yawn, exclaimed: "i don't know as i care to. too tired. you fellows can, if you like." "not for mine!" came quickly from sid. "i've got some butterfly specimens to mount." "oh, you fellows make me tired!" declared dutch, in accents of disgust. "why don't you be sports? have some fun! come on, tom!" "no; if phil and sid are going to stay in to-night, i'll be with them. you and holly can go ahead with the hazing. what's it going to be?" "oh, it isn't holly and me alone," explained dutch, quickly. "a lot of the lads are in on it, but i suggested you chaps, and now you back out." "we never backed in," replied phil. "what are you going to do to simpson, anyhow?" "make him swim sunny river," declared dutch, with a chuckle. "that is, we're going to chuck him in, and he'll sink or swim." "that's taking chances," remarked tom, quickly. somehow, he did not like the idea of hazing the californian. they had become too friendly with him, and tom was glad his chums had declined to have a hand in it. "no chances at all," denied dutch, vigorously. "we'll be ready with a boat and ropes, in case he can't swim. but i think he can." "i didn't mean about that part of it," went on the end. "but he may take cold." "oh, piffle!" cried holly cross. "if he can't stand a little wetting he's no good. besides, it's warm to-night. come on, dutch; we'll go back and tell the crowd that this bunch is doing its knitting, and can't come." his voice showed his contempt. "tell 'em anything you like," retorted sid, "and maybe before you're through you'll wish you'd stayed home and learned your lessons." "aw, rats!" fired back dutch, as he and his chum went down the corridor. "say, maybe there's more truth than poetry in what you said," commented phil, after the door had been closed. "in what?" asked sid. "about those fellows being sorry. you know, simpson is a husky lad, and he may put up more of a fight than they give him credit for." "by jove!" cried tom, suddenly. "i believe you're right, phil. those hazers are going to stack up against trouble, and what's the matter with us seeing the fun?" "how?" asked sid. "go down to the river, and watch 'em throw frank in." "sure!" cried phil; and a little later three figures stole cautiously out, crossed the campus, and took position well concealed in the now leafless shrubbery that lined the bank of the stream. "here they come!" suddenly exclaimed tom, who had constituted himself a lookout. "and they've got him, too!" "how can you tell?" demanded phil. "he's the biggest fellow in the bunch." "i didn't think he'd let them take him out of his room," said sid. "maybe he's in a blue funk." "you don't know him," declared tom, quietly. "if i'm not mistaken, there'll be some fun soon." "keep quiet, or they'll have the laugh on us if they see us," cautioned phil. the hazers and their victim came nearer, and the voice of dutch housenlager could be heard declaiming in triumph: "now, then, fellows, we'll initiate mr. simpson into the mysteries of the mermaid society. i believe you never were a member of that, were you, mr. simpson?" he asked, mockingly. "never, and i don't want to join now," came from the big californian, who seemed strangely gentle in the hands of his captors. "oh, but you must, you know," explained holly cross. "sure," asserted bascome. "you ought to have joined as a freshman, but it's not too late. is the water nice and warm, dutch?" "yes; i had it heated to seventy-two degrees this afternoon," replied the fun-loving housenlager. "what! you're not going to put me in the river to-night, are you?" demanded simpson, in almost tragic tones. "that's our intention," mocked dutch. "but i may catch cold. you oughtn't to do a thing like this, boys," pleaded frank. "oh, listen to him!" mocked bascome. "let's take him back to his mama!" and he imitated the crying of a baby. "oh, but, fellows, just consider," begged the intended victim. "i--i may be drowned," and his teeth seemed to chatter. "please--please let me go!" "oh, yes--with bells on!" cried holly, with a laugh. "say, i thought you said he'd make mincemeat of 'em?" whispered phil. "why, he's a coward!" "maybe," admitted tom, somewhat puzzled. "i didn't think he'd beg off like this." "pshaw! it's going to be a fizzle," declared sid. "now, then, all ready?" asked dutch of his chums. "get good holds, holly and bascome, and pitch him in." "oh, let me go! please let me go!" begged simpson. "aw, cut it out! be a sport!" urged dutch. "it won't hurt you, and if you can't swim, we'll pull you out. you've got to take your medicine, and you might as well make up your mind to it. in with him now, fellows!" "let her go!" cried holly. "no! don't! stop!" cried the californian, and his voice broke. "please let me go--consider, fellows--you may regret this!" "regret nothing!" cried dutch. "in with him!" there was a struggle on the bank of the river, a series of surprised grunts and exclamations. then a dark body went sailing through the air, and fell with a splash into the stream, while the shout that followed ended in a gurgle. "there he goes!" cried phil. "he's in!" another dark body shot from the bank into the water. "why--why!" gasped sid. "they're hazing two! who's the other lad, i wonder?" the second body made a great splash. then, before it came to the surface, a third form hurtled through the air and made a great noise in sunny river. "julius cæsar's grandmother's cat's kittens!" yelled tom, careless of who heard him. "simpson isn't in the water at all, fellows! look! look! there he is! he's throwing the others in! he's throwing 'em all in!" [illustration: "simpson isn't in the water at all, fellows! he's throwing the others in."] phil and sid stood beside their chum, and gazed on the scene, which was now partly illuminated by a half moon. they saw the big californian standing in the midst of his would-be hazers, knocking them down right and left as they rushed at him, and then, as the hidden ones watched, they saw the new student grasp holly cross around the waist, and, by a wrestler's trick, toss him over his back, and into the stream, where three forms were now swimming toward shore--three wet, miserable forms--three very much surprised lads--and holly cross joining them by the most direct route--by an air line, so to speak. into the water holly fell with a splash, and after him went dutch. then, seeing their two ringleaders thus summarily disposed of, the other hazers ceased their attack on simpson. he stood in the midst of the throng, many of whom were just arising from some terrific left-handers. "i told you that you might be sorry," came in calm tones from the californian. "for the love of mustard, who are you, anyhow?" demanded bascome, as he crawled dripping and shivering up on the bank. "are you a champion strong man, or an elephant trainer?" "oh i spent one vacation traveling with a circus, and learned to do some throwing tricks," modestly explained simpson. "and now, gentlemen, i'll bid you good-evening," and before the crowd could stop him, had they been so disposed, he walked away. that's how frank simpson was hazed. ask any old randall graduates to tell you about it, and hear what they say. chapter xv the midnight blaze dripping, shivering, very much chagrined, and somewhat bruised and lame from their encounter with the student they had expected to haze so easily, holly cross, dutch housenlager and the others gathered in a little disconsolate group. tom, phil and sid, hiding in the bushes, and trying to stifle their snickers of mirth, looked at the scene, which was thrown into partial relief by the moon. "i wonder how they feel?" came from tom. "don't let them hear you," cautioned phil, "or they'll vow and declare that we were in on the game, and knew how it was going to turn out." "that's right," agreed sid. but now someone in the group of hazers spoke. it was the puzzled and dubious voice of dutch housenlager. "i say, does anyone know what happened?" he asked. "we must have been struck by a cyclone," declared holly. "or a waterspout," added bascome. "bur-r-r-r-r! but it's cold! i'm going to cut for college!" "who said he was easy?" demanded holly cross. "was it you, dutch?" "who, me? no, i never said such a thing! perish the thought! easy!" "the hardest proposition i've stacked up against in a long while," said another, rubbing his elbow. "jove! how he did hit out!" "and so _sudden_!" commented dutch. "well, did you think he was going to send word on ahead when he was going to land on you?" asked jerry jackson. "come on. we've had enough." "too much," added his brother. "i suppose this will be all over randall in the morning." "not if i have to tell it," insisted bascome. "but simpson may squeal." "he'd be justified," asserted another. "he has one on us, all right." "i believe he's too square to say anything about it," spoke jerry. and so it proved. the next morning, when the big californian met his classmates, there was a calm smile on his face, but neither by word nor action did he refer to what had taken place. but, somehow, the story leaked out. perhaps it was because tom, phil and sid could not refrain from publicly asking dutch and the others how the hazing had resulted. "did you duck simpson?" inquired tom, as they were on their way to chapel next morning. "why didn't you come and help with the fun, if you're so anxious to know about it?" inquired dutch, non-committally. "oh, we don't care for baths in the river this time of the year," remarked phil, with a laugh, and then dutch knew that the story was known, though tom and his two chums said nothing about having been concealed where they had a grandstand view of the whole performance. there were now busy days at randall, for football was in full sway. as a result of the newkirk game, several shifts were made by coach and captain, and hard practice was called for. the california lad was given a chance on the regular against the scrub, and there was talk that he would permanently replace sam looper. it was felt that randall had not done herself much credit thus far on the gridiron, and there were many anxious hearts in consequence. but the members of the eleven made up their minds to do or die, and they went against the scrub so fiercely that several members of that unfortunate contingent had to go to the hospital for repairs, or else report disabled. then the coach and captain smiled grimly, and were not so worried about the result of the fairview and boxer hall games. it was practice, practice, practice, early and late, until some of the members of the 'varsity felt like falling on the exacting mr. lighton and tearing him limb from limb. but they knew it was for their good, and that they needed it. our three friends were in their room one evening, talking of various matters, and incidentally speculating on the loss of their clock and chair. they had not had much time, of late, on account of football, to seek for clews, and they had about given up hope of recovering their possessions. "well, it will soon be time to go up against fairview," remarked tom, as he looked critically at a big leather patch he had sewed on the shoulder of his canvas jacket. "i do hope we win." "same here, old man," added phil, who was inspecting a new leather helmet he had just purchased. "i think----" he was interrupted by a knock on the door. "come in!" cried sid, who was trying to study, but making little headway at it. frank simpson entered. "well, you fellows are nice and cozy here," he remarked. "am i intruding?" "not a bit! come on in, and make yourself at home!" called tom, heartily, shoving a pile of miscellaneous articles off one end of the sofa, to make room for the visitor. "just sit down sort of easy, please," cautioned sid, as he motioned toward the couch. "one of the bottom boards is loose, and it may come down, especially----" "as i'm not exactly a featherweight," finished frank. "i'll be careful. i got through with my stuff, and didn't have anything to do, so i thought i'd drop in." "yes, we live by the river; when you're down that way, drop in," said phil, and there was a laugh at the joke and reference. "i didn't see you fellows out there," remarked the lad from the west, with a motion of his head toward the stream. "no, we had another engagement," remarked tom. "speaking of engagements, reminds me of something!" exclaimed phil, pulling a note from his pocket. "ruth wrote me yesterday to come over to fairview to-night, and bring you fellows. there's some sort of doings--giving a greek play, or something like that, and a feed after it. i forgot all about it." "say, you're a nice one!" cried tom, jumping up and looking at the new clock. "i should say yes!" added sid. "is it too late to go now?" "guess not," drawled phil. "if you fellows think we can escape the eagle eye of proc. zane, i'm willing, are you?" "sure we are!" cried phil and tom, eagerly. "we can pull on our best duds, and catch the next trolley. zane can go hang! i guess we can slip in all right!" "i reckon i'd better be off then," spoke simpson, as he arose to go. "you haven't any too much room to get dressed, all three at once." "no, don't go," begged phil. "that is go and get togged up, and come back. go along with us over to fairview. my sister said she'd like to meet you. i was telling her about you." "do you mean it?" asked the californian earnestly, for he liked social pleasures, and he had not met any girls, as yet. "sure, come along!" urged tom and sid. "we can fix you up with a girl, i guess." "kind of you," murmured frank. "i believe i will go." a little later, the four caught a trolley car for fairview institute, where they were met by phil's sister and the other young ladies, who were glad to see them. there was a little amateur theatrical, followed by a dance and supper, and frank simpson was made to feel very much at home, for the girls took to him at once. it was long past midnight when our four friends alighted from the car, and stood for a moment, before starting toward their college. "what'll we do if we're caught by zane?" asked tom, for there was every likelihood of that happening. they had known it all the while, but did not like to think of it when the fun was at its height. "if he nabs us, we'll have to put up with it," said phil. "it's easy enough to say," commented sid, "but you know prexy made quite a talk about it the other day, and said that anyone who was caught out late would be severely dealt with. it might mean being barred off the team." "jove! you don't want that to happen," remarked frank. "isn't there some back way we can sneak in?" "proc. zane knows 'em all," asserted tom. "we might try it around by the chapel, though. he isn't there quite so often as he is around the court and campus." "go ahead," urged phil, grimly. "might as well be killed for a lobster as a crab." they stole silently forward, looking cautiously around for a sight of the proctor. they had almost reached the chapel, and were hoping that the remainder of the way would be clear, when tom, who was in advance, suddenly uttered a hiss. "what is it?" whispered phil. "zane--right ahead there." pausing in the shadows, they peered forward. there stood the proctor directly in the path they must cross to get into college. "just our luck!" groaned sid, dismally. they hesitated a moment, not knowing what to do. to be caught, just after the president's solemn warning, might mean severe punishment. "can't we----" began tom, and then frank simpson, who was a little in the rear, suddenly uttered an exclamation. "fellows, look!" he called, in a hoarse whisper. "there's a fire!" startled, they looked to where he pointed. through the windows of the chapel could be seen little tongues of flame, leaping up inside. the building was ablaze. for a moment, the boys did not know what to do. then tom called: "come on, fellows! we've got to put that out! there are extinguishers right in the vestibule, and we can break down the door. lively! we've got to fight the blaze, and give the alarm! ring the bell!" they needed no other urging. without another glance at the proctor, who had turned back toward the college, the four lads rushed silently toward the chapel. it was the work of but a moment for their sturdy shoulders to break in the outer door. then, catching up several chemical extinguishers, they sprang in through the swinging inner portals. there was a lively blaze in the floor, just over the furnace. "douse it! douse it!" yelled tom, making a jump for it. "someone ring the bell! maybe we can't control it!" "i'll do that!" yelled simpson, and a moment later the deep, solemn tones of the great bell boomed out on the midnight air, while the hungry tongues of fire leaped higher and higher. chapter xvi another clew with a hissing sound, the chemical streams from the extinguishers spurted upon the blaze. the fire died down around the edges of the big hole that had been burned in the floor, but in the centre there was hot flame. "can we get it under?" panted sid, who, having emptied one extinguisher--a small one--ran after another. "we've got to!" declared phil, trying to shield his face from the fierce heat. "if we can only keep it down until the fellows come with the hose, we'll do all right," gasped tom, choking from the smoke. there was a high pressure water service maintained at the college, hose being connected with a big tank, for the buildings were so far from town that the fire department could not easily get there. again and again the alarm boomed out from the big bell, rung by the vigorous arms of the californian. the others kept playing the streams on the fire, retreating as it got hotter, and rushing in on it as they gained a momentary advantage. "aren't they ever coming?" gasped tom. the college lads had formed an amateur fire brigade, and had frequent drills. "they've got to--pretty soon!" choked phil. "here they come!" cried frank, and he hastened down from the organ loft, where he had been pulling on the bell rope, catching up an extinguisher as he came. soon he was adding his stream to the others. outside could be heard excited yells and shouts, and the rumble of the hand hose carts as the students rushed them toward the chapel. in a short time tom and his chums were being assisted by scores of their mates, who, in all sorts of nondescript garments, formed a strange contrast to our four heroes, in their immaculate dress suits--no, not immaculate any longer, for they were dripping from the chemicals, they were dirty and smoke begrimed, and tom and sid's garments were scorched in several places by the sparks. "say, did you fellows stop to tog up before you came to the fire?" demanded holly cross hoarsely, as he directed a stream of water into the very heart of the blaze. "of course," answered tom, for he saw proctor zane coming up with two pails of water to dash on the embers. "well, i'll be----" began holly, and sid quickly stopped him with a punch in the ribs. the fire, which had been discovered soon after it broke out, could not stand the combined assault of the water and chemicals, and, soon after the arrival of the student brigade, it was practically extinguished. it had started from an overheated flue, and had burned quite a hole in the floor, but, aside from that damage, the destruction of some pews, cushions and hymn books, the loss was comparatively slight. the valuable stained glass windows had not been harmed, though some of the delicate fresco work on the side walls was smoke-begrimed. "well, i guess that's out," remarked dutch housenlager, as he looked down into the basement through the burned hole in the floor. "and very efficient work you young gentlemen did, too," complimented the proctor. "if it had gotten much more headway, the chapel would have been consumed. may i ask who discovered the fire." there was a moment's hesitation. our friends realized what it might mean to tell just _how_ they had discovered it. their chums, among whom the story had quickly circulated, kept silent. "i heard the alarm bell ring, and i jumped up," said jerry jackson, innocently. "so did i," echoed his brother. "who rang the bell?" the proctor wanted to know. "could the heat waves have done it?" suggested professor newton, who was much interested in science. "it is possible," and he looked up in the direction of the belfry, and shivered slightly, for he was only partly dressed. "i rang the bell," admitted frank simpson, in a low voice. "ah, then we have to thank you for discovering the fire and giving the alarm," went on the proctor. "it was----" "we all discovered the blaze at the same time," remarked tom, desperately, and he indicated his companions. "that's right," agreed sid and phil. they made up their minds that they were in for it now. "oh, you saw it from your window, i presume," went on mr. zane, "and you came out----" then, for the first time, he seemed to realize that the quartette were attired in dress-suits--wet, bedraggled, chemical-marked and scorched evening clothes--but still dress-suits. "oh, ah, er--that is----" he began. "we were coming home from a dance over at fairview," said phil, doggedly, "and we saw the blaze." "oh," exclaimed the proctor, illuminatingly, and then, unconsciously perhaps, he looked at his watch, and noted the lateness of the hour. "you four young gentlemen will call at my office to-morrow--this morning," he hastily corrected himself. "yes, sir," answered tom, with a grim setting of his jaw. an examination showed that there were no sparks left, and the students were ordered to return to their rooms. the janitors were sent for, to remain on guard and place boards over the hole in the floor. "don't you think he has nerve, to tell us to report to him, after what we did?" asked tom, when, following a rather restless night, he and his chums were on their way to services the next morning. the chapel was not so badly burned, but that it could be used. "zane? oh, he's _all_ nerve!" declared sid. "i almost wish we'd let it burn!" "shut up, you anarchist!" cried phil. "we'll take our medicine." but there was none to take. the proctor met them on their way to chapel, and smiled as genially as was possible for him. "young gentlemen," he said, "you need not report at my office. personally, i wish to thank you for the service you rendered to randall college last night--or, rather, this morning," and he smiled grimly. "had it not been for you, we should have had no chapel in which to worship to-day. i thank you most sincerely," and then proctor zane did an unheard-of thing. he shook hands with tom and his chums. "well, what do you know about that?" gasped phil, when the proctor had passed on. "he didn't say a word about our being out late," came from sid. "pinch me--i think i'm dreaming!" begged tom, but they were all too interested in other matters to comply with his request. dr. churchill referred to the fire in his remarks that morning, and the words of praise he bestowed on our heroes made them wish they were sitting over the hole in the floor, that they might sink through out of sight, and so hide their blushes. dutch housenlager started to whistle, "see, the conquering hero comes," when he saw the four approaching, but tom upset him with a quick tackle, and dutch subsided. the fire and football furnished fruitful topics for conversation among the students for some days to come, so much so that our heroes had little time to think about their missing chair and clock, until an unexpected happening brought the matter forcibly to their attention again. they had been out together to a meeting in the gymnasium one night, and on their return, phil, who was ahead, had some trouble opening the door. "one of you fellows left your key in it when you went out," he said, as he removed it, and inserted his own. "not me," asserted tom. "me either," declared sid. "i've got mine." "so have i," added the end. phil said nothing until he had entered the room, followed by his chums. then, turning on the light, he examined the key he had taken from the door. "fellows, look here!" he exclaimed. "here's a clew to our mysterious visitor and thief. this key is a false one, and has been filed down from some other kind. this thing is getting serious." chapter xvii a crash in the gale curiously, phil's chums crowded close to him, looking over his shoulder at the odd key. as he had said, it was one apparently filed down from a larger one of different pattern, so that it would open their door. and fit their lock it did, as they soon demonstrated, for, though crude in finish, it threw back the catch as easily as did one of their own. "worse and more of it!" murmured phil, as he tried the key. "the fellow, whoever he is, must have been just going in our room when we came along the corridor, and frightened him." "in that case, we ought to have seen him go past us down the stairs," said sid. "no, he could use the back flight, that goes down into the janitors' apartments," suggested tom. "say!" cried sid. "i have it. maybe he was here some time ago, and when he went out, he forgot his key. let's look and see if he took anything." "the sofa's here, at any rate," spoke tom, with a sigh of relief. "but maybe something else is gone." "there are too many 'may-bees' for this time of the year," declared phil. "the fellow might have run away as we came up; he might have taken his time ransacking our rooms, for we were long enough in the gym; he may be here now; he may have brought back our chair and alarm clock--only he hasn't," he added, after a quick glance about the room. "but, as i said, what's the use of speculating on what _might_ be. we've got to get busy and solve this puzzle. we've got some sort of a clew in this key." "not much, though," from tom. "i think a lot," asserted phil. "in the first place, it shows that it's been made by an amateur, and by someone who knows a little about making keys. therefore, as we say in geometry, we must look for a fellow who knows how to use a file and a hack saw, and who understands locks." "are there any such in college?" demanded sid. "there may be." "let's put it up to zane," suggested tom. "he's friendly with us now, on account of the fire." "no!" exclaimed phil, quickly. "let's work it out ourselves. i believe we can do it." "how?" sid wanted to know. "by keeping our eyes open." "we've been doing that a long time, and haven't gotten any nearer to the mystery than we were at first." "that's because we didn't look in the right direction," spoke phil. "it has narrowed down now--the inquiry has, i mean. before, we had to suspect every fellow in college. now we need only look for one who has a mechanical turn of mind." "frank simpson has!" spoke sid, quickly. "i saw him making a new kind of cleat for his football shoes the other day." "you're a hot detective!" exclaimed phil, with a laugh. "our clock and chair were taken before simpson came here." "that's right," agreed sid, ruefully. "i wonder if the unknown visitor did anything to our new clock?" he went on, as he walked over to examine the timepiece. "perhaps he left a note of explanation in it." but there was nothing, and the clock chimed out the time as cheerfully as ever, as though urging the new owners to never mind the mystery, since they had a better recorder of the hours than before. but the boys wanted their first love. our heroes were up early the next morning, to indulge in a practice run with the football squad--a little jaunt along the river, proposed by the exacting coach, with the idea of improving the wind of his men. "jove! but it's getting cold!" remarked tom, as rosy and glowing with health, he and his mates turned into the gymnasium for a shower, and vigorous rub before breakfast. "regular football weather," agreed sid. "well, i feel as if i could tackle boxer hall and fairview together now." "keep on feeling that way," urged the coach, grimly, as he passed by. "we all need it." an unexpected storm blew up that night, putting a stop to practice on the gridiron, and the squad had to be content with indoor work. the weather grew worse, and by night there was a gale blowing. "old king winter isn't far off, by the sound of that," remarked tom, who, with his chums, was in the room, studying or making a pretense of so doing. he arose, and, going to the window, where sid was, looked out. there came a sharp dash of rain against the glass. "it's a peach of a night!" exclaimed sid, as he turned back with a shiver to his comfortable nook on the old sofa. "yes, but we're snug and cozy here," murmured phil. "this is one of the best rooms in the college." "if we only had our old chair," remarked sid, rather sadly. he seemed to miss it more than the others, for it was his favorite place for study. "well, it won't come back to-night, at any rate," observed tom. "whew! hear that wind!" there came a sudden burst of fury on the part of the storm, that seemed to rock the very college. in the midst of its rage, borne on the wings of the wind and darkness, there came to the ears of the three lads a mighty crash. it seemed to vibrate through the air, and then the echoes of it were swallowed up in the louder roar of the wind. "what was that?" whispered tom, in an awesome voice. "some building collapsed!" gasped phil. "come on, fellows, we must see what it was!" and he reached for his raincoat, the others following his example. chapter xviii with hammer and saw out into the storm they raced, to find that the alarm of the crash had been general, and that students from all the dormitories, and also a number of members of the faculty, were hurrying from their rooms to learn what was the trouble. "what was it?" "did you hear it?" "is it another fire?" "i heard it was the gymnasium that had blown up." "somebody told me that prexy's house was destroyed by a bomb." questions and statements like those were heard on all sides, as the lads gathered in a group outside the college, or stood in the pelting rain on the campus. the wind still blew with great violence, and the downpour was in keeping with it. anxious eyes looked up to the sky to detect the shimmering of flames, and were relieved when no glare met their gaze, though in that rain it would have been a big fire indeed that could have kept on burning. "the noise was over that way," declared tom parsons, pointing toward the gymnasium. "no, it was over there," and phil indicated the river. "maybe it was one of the boathouses." "i think it was out on the athletic field," asserted sid. "let's go have a look," proposed holly cross. "it was a great old crash, whatever it was." "yes, it woke me up," said bert bascome. "i was dozing over my latin prose, and i dreamed we were playing boxer hall. i was making a touchdown, and smashed into a goal-post--that woke me up--or, rather, the racket did." "well, make a real touchdown when we play boxer, and we'll forgive you," put in kindlings, joining the group of football players. "come on, let's investigate." as the students reached the gridiron they saw, even in the darkness, the cause of the crash. one of the largest grandstands had collapsed. the supports, weakened by the rain, had been unable to stand against the force of the wind, and had tilted over, letting the whole structure come slantingly to the ground, like some cardboard house upon which a heavy weight has fallen. "for cat's sake, look at that!" cried phil. "it's a ruin!" added sid, in despair. "the biggest grandstand, too!" remarked tom. "come on, fellows!" cried holly cross. "maybe we can prop it up so it won't go down any farther," for part of the structure was still standing. holly started toward it, but had not advanced more than a few feet, when there came another sudden burst of fury on the part of the wind, and there was a second crash in the splintered and broken timbers. "come back!" yelled dan woodhouse. "you'll be hurt! it's going to fall apart!" there was an instinctive retreat on the part of the throng of students, but the stand, after settling forward a little more, became stationary, and, aside from the flapping of a few loose boards, the wind seemed incapable of doing any more havoc. "well, wouldn't that jar you!" exclaimed dutch, as he carefully held holly's umbrella over his own head. "we'll have to hustle to have that raised again." "yes, and the game with canton military academy comes off soon," added phil. "the carpenters will have to get busy in the morning. where's kindlings?" "here i am." "say dan, we'll have to have a meeting of the athletic committee right away, and take some action on this. if we can't use that grandstand for the canton game, we'll lose a lot of money, and, goodness knows, we need the coin this year." "that's right," came in a chorus from the others. mr. lighton, the coach, came up just then, and agreed that immediate action was necessary, late as it was. the students were walking about the ruined stand, oblivious to the pelting rain, and they might have stayed there a long time, had not mr. zane bustled up to inspect the wreck. "now, then, young gentlemen," he said, "you had better all get back to your rooms. there is nothing more to see, and there might be some danger. the wind is increasing." "i hope no more stands blow down," murmured tom. "mr. zane, we want to have a meeting of the athletic committee, to take measures for rebuilding the stand," spoke the football captain. "may we?" "to-night?" "yes, sir." "well, i'm going to make a report of this to dr. churchill, and you may come, if you like. also mr. lighton, and two or three members of the committee." "come on, phil and tom," urged dan, and the end and quarter-back followed. the other boys, finding the storm most unpleasant, now that the excitement was over, moved toward their rooms. proctor zane stated the case to the president, and then kindlings made his appeal. "we want to arrange for the rebuilding of the stand at once," he said, "as we expect a big crowd at the canton game, and we need all the seats we can get." "yes," remarked dr. churchill, musingly. "i presume the athletic committee has the funds available to pay for the work." "no, we haven't, dr. churchill," answered holly cross, who acted as treasurer, "but we thought the amount could be advanced from the college treasury, and we could pay it back, as we did once or twice before. we'll need quite a large sum, i'm afraid, for the stand is one of the big ones, and is flat on the ground." "yes," again mused the president. "well, young gentlemen, i would be very glad indeed to advance the money from our treasury, but, i regret to say, that it is impossible." "impossible!" repeated holly. "yes, for the reason that there is no money in the treasury." "no money!" the students looked at each other aghast. "no," went on dr. churchill. "this legal complication regarding the missing quit-claim deed, and the lawsuit that has been started against the college, has made it necessary to spend considerable cash in the way of preliminary fees and court expenses. this has left the college without a running balance. in fact, randall is poorer to-day than ever before. i might add that even money to pay the salaries of the faculty is lacking, and----" there was something like a gleam of hope in the eyes of the youths, but it died away when the president, with a grim smile added: "i will state, however, that the gentlemen of the faculty regard the financial difficulty as only temporary, and are willing to continue on without pay for a while, so you see there is no excuse for not attending lectures," and the president's eyes twinkled. "but that is why," he continued, "i can not advance any sum for the rebuilding of the collapsed grandstand. i am very sorry, but it will have to stay down for the present." "then we'll lose on the canton game," spoke sid in a low voice, "lose money, i mean." "it's too bad we can't have it put up," came from phil, as the lads filed from the president's room, where the conference had taken place. "no use in having a meeting, if we can't get the money." "yes, there is too!" cried tom parsons, suddenly. "do you think we fellows can raise enough cash by ourselves?" demanded kindlings. "i wish we could, but we can't." "we can raise enough for what i am going to suggest," declared tom. "and what's that?" "enough for hammers and saws and nails." "and let the grandstand rebuild itself?" asked phil, incredulously. "no!" cried tom, eagerly. "we fellows can rebuild it ourselves! i know how to handle tools, and i guess lots of the other fellows do, also. we can do it if we try. we haven't got the money to hire carpenters, so we'll be carpenters ourselves! we'll build that grandstand!" "hurrah for carpenter tom!" cried dutch housenlager, doing a highland fling down the long dormitory corridor. "i don't know the difference between a beam and a joist, and a two-by-four is as illuminating to me as a greek root would be to a baby," said kindlings, "but i'm with you, fellows!" "so am i!" cried frank simpson. "i worked in a lumber camp once, and----" "say, is there anything you didn't do?" asked holly, as he thought of the hazing. "you're all right, simpson. you can carry the two-by-fours for kindlings." "make him carry the beams and joists," suggested phil. "he'll do for that, all right." eagerly talking of the new idea, the boys gathered in the room of our heroes, and such a lively meeting was in progress that proctor zane was forced to call an adjournment, though he was very decent about it, and, hearing of the plan announced that he would amend some of the college rules, to enable the amateur carpenters to work at night, by means of powerful arc lights. "hurrah!" cried the lads, and proctor zane was cheered for one of the few times in his life. he seemed to like it, too. a meeting of the athletic committee was called for early the next day, and the plan of having the lads do the carpenter work was discussed in all its details. there was some money available for tools, and it developed that, as tom had said, many of the students were handy with them, some even having done carpenter work in their vacations to earn tuition money. one of the janitors had once been a builder, and he offered to show the boys how to do the work properly, so that it would be safe. "it will be almost as good as football practice for us," declared tom, when he and his chums went to town to buy the tools and nails. "it will keep us on the jump, if we get it done in time for the canton game," declared phil. chapter xix suspicions "has anyone seen my hammer?" "where the mischief did i put those nails?" "hey, tom, give us a hand setting this joist, will you?" "i say, phil, should this two-by-four go in with the big side out, or the narrow?" "simpson, look out, or you'll saw my finger. you're too close to me." "wow! ouch!" and holly cross dropped the hatchet he was using in place of a hammer, and held his thumb in his mouth. "jerusalem crickets!" he cried. "i'll never be able to practice football if i keep on this way!" there was a riot of sounds: hammering, planing, and chiseling, and sawing; and, mingled with them, the clatter of the lads' voices, in entreaties, commands, appeals for help, asking for advice, or, as holly's was, raised in agony over some misdirected blow. work on rebuilding the grandstand was in full swing. on examination of the wrecked structure after the storm, it was found that nearly all the material in it could be used over again. all the new lumber that would be needed would be some heavy joists, to take the place of those broken in the collapse. they were quite expensive to buy, but a lumber dealer who heard of the boys' plight agreed to let them have the timber, and to wait as long as they liked for his pay. he even furnished a couple of men to raise the heavy pieces into place, and the boys voted him a first-class "sport," and sent him a season complimentary ticket to all the games. it was not as easy as it sounds, nor as simple as the boys had expected, to rebuild the structure, but they went at it with hearty good will, and a determination, in the path of which nothing could stand. the several janitors gave them all the aid they could, but the boys did most of the work, after they were told just how to do it. frank simpson was of great help, for he was probably the strongest and biggest lad in college, and the way he could shoulder a beam, and walk off with it to where it was needed in the work was something to look at and admire. "but you fellows needn't stop work to watch frank," said tom parsons, who, because of his knowledge of carpentry, and because he had proposed the scheme, was, by common consent, made a sort of foreman. "get busy, and do some of the lifting yourselves," he advised. "i say, tom," demanded sid, "what makes these boards split every time i try to nail them on these four-by-fours? i must be a hoodoo, for i've split half a dozen." "those aren't four-by-fours," declared tom. "they're two-by-fours, or scantling, and there are a lot of reasons why you split the boards." "give me one, and i'll be satisfied." "well, you're using cut nails, and you ought to use wire ones there, as the boards are old and dry. then you have to nail so close to the edge that they split easier than they would if you could put the nails nearer the middle. but use wire nails." "you mean those round ones?" "yes. the cut nails are those black, square-headed ones, and when you do use them, drive 'em with the widest part of the end at right angles to the grain of the wood." "what's that, a lesson in geometry, young gentlemen?" asked a voice, and the students turned quickly, to observe president churchill observing them with an amused smile. "no, sir," answered sid. "tom was telling me how to drive nails." "ah, yes, a very useful accomplishment, i believe," remarked the doctor. "though i never could do it without hitting my thumb. a very useful accomplishment, very." he looked at the grandstand, which was nearing completion, and, as he passed on, with a book of sanskrit under his arm, he remarked: "you are doing very well, young gentlemen--very well. randall has reason to be proud of her resourceful students." "prexy looks worried," remarked sid, as the good doctor passed on out of hearing. "yes, i shouldn't wonder but what that legal business is bothering him," admitted tom. "it's a blamed shame it had to happen, but it's just like the langridge breed to want to stir up trouble. now, sid, put plenty of nails in when you fasten two scantling together, and use the big cut ones. we don't want this stand to come down with a lot of pretty girls on it." "i should say not!" and sid plied his hammer with renewed energy, as though to prevent any such catastrophe. tom went on with what he was doing, on another part of the stand, until he was called by frank simpson, who wanted his opinion on a certain point. "i think if we run these cross-pieces the other way," suggested the big californian, "it will brace the stand better." "so do i," agreed tom, after an examination. "go ahead, do it that way, frank. want any help getting that beam up?" "no, i can do it alone." which the strong lad did, to tom's admiration. and thus the building work went on. true, not every joint was as even as regular carpenters would have made them, and a number of boards were sawed very crookedly, but this did not interfere with the strength of the stand, and little was cared for looks in the emergency. president churchill was not taking any chances, however, and he privately sent for an architect friend of his, who examined the rebuilt structure, and assured the worried doctor that it was perfectly safe. record time was made with the task, for three hundred willing lads can accomplish wonders, even if they lack the training of a trade. as the date for the canton game approached, it was seen that the stand would be very nearly finished on time. it was necessary to stop work sometimes to get in football practice, but the boys were developing unused muscles, and hardening others by their labors, so that they were in fine physical trim. "it's the best thing that could have happened," said holly cross to captain woodhouse, at the close of work one afternoon. "we'll wipe the ground up with canton." "well, we ought to," declared dan. "don't be so sure," retorted mr. lighton; "they have a pretty good team." "ours is improving," asserted kindlings, proudly, and, in a measure, this was so, though there were still some weak places in the line. it was within two days of the canton game, and the boys were working eagerly to get the stand in shape. they had put in several nights on it, laboring in shifts, by the light of some flaming arc lamps rigged up by the college electrician. tom, in virtue of his position as foreman, was going about and doing as much as he could, when, as he passed near phil, who was nailing down some of the seats, the quarter-back called to his chum: "i say, tom, when you have a chance just take a stroll over where that lenton chap is working." "you mean henry lenton--the freshman?" "yes, the chap who flocks by himself so much, and always seems to be tinkering with something in his room. see what he's doing?" "why; is he doing it wrong?" "no, but you remember the queer key we found in our door that night?" "sure." "well, just think of that when you see what lenton is doing." wondering what motive phil could have, tom did stroll over to where, down in the front part of the stand, the odd student was screwing some hinges on the doors of a row of boxes, the seats in which sold for higher prices than the ordinary ones. lenton was a strange lad. he was bright in his studies, and his taste ran to matters scientific. he was eager in the physics and chemistry classes, and had made a number of ingenious machines and pieces of apparatus to illustrate the forces of nature. as tom approached he heard the shrill scraping of a file, and at once what phil had said about the key came into his mind. "i wonder what lenton is filing?" thought the end. not wishing to seem to sneak up on him, yet desiring to solve the mystery, if there was one, tom called: "what's the matter? don't those hinges fit, lenton?" "some of them do, and others don't," was the reply. "or, rather, the hinges are all right, but the hasps that hold the doors shut aren't true. i have to file some." "oh," said tom, and then he noticed that the lad had rigged up a small, portable iron vise on the rail near which he was working. the vise held a piece of metal, and this the lad was industriously filing. as tom noticed the manner in which lenton handled the tools, working with files of several different sizes, the same suspicions that phil had entertained came into his own mind. as for the files, tom knew that none had been bought for use on the stand. "where did you get 'em?" he asked, picking up one. "oh, they're mine," answered lenton. "i've got quite a few tools in my room," and then he drew the file back and forth over the metal, making such a noise that conversation was difficult. tom watched him a few minutes, and then turned away. "phil was right," the end murmured. "there is something expert in the way he uses a file, and perhaps he did make the false key. we'll have to do some investigating." chapter xx the clock comes back they worked on the grandstand even during the morning of the day when the canton military game was to be played, and then the tired but satisfied students laid aside their hammers and saws, picked up the scattered nails, and sighed with relief. "it was a big job--bigger than i thought it was when i proposed it," spoke tom, "and i'm glad it's over." "so am i," added holly. "we'll take in some money, now. i hear there's a big crowd coming." "we may have to take some of our funds for the relief of the college, if things keep on," remarked kindlings. "there was another meeting of the faculty this morning, about that law and claim business." "is that so?" asked phil. "cæsar's ghost! but things aren't doing a thing but happening to randall!" "well, it's always darkest just before daylight," observed sid, and then the coach came along, and ordered them all out to light practice, in preparation for the game soon to be played. tom and his two chums were on their way from the gymnasium, refreshed by a shower bath, and were going to their room, to rest a bit before appearing on the gridiron with their team mates. "did you find out anything more about lenton, tom?" asked phil, for it had been agreed that tom was to do a little detective work concerning the queer lad and his files. "no, nothing of any account," he answered. "i talked with some of the fellows who room next to him, and all they could tell me was that he is always tinkering on something or other. he's making some kind of an electrical machine, perkins said, and he keeps buzzing away at it half the night. he's a queer dick, all right, but i don't know that he had anything to do with the taking of our clock and chair." "i've got my suspicions," declared phil. "i'm mighty sure he made that false key to our room, anyhow, and i'm going to put it up to him some time soon." "oh, i wouldn't," advised sid. "it might make trouble." "well, didn't he--or someone--make trouble for us?" asserted the quarter-back. "but i'll be pretty sure of my ground before i make any cracks. now for a rest, and then----" "a good fight!" finished tom, stretching out his arms. "i hope we wallop 'em good!" as both captain woodhouse and mr. lighton were sure of the ability of randall to beat the military eleven, a number of the substitute players were allowed to go on the 'varsity team, much to their delight, for they were hungry for a scrimmage. there was a record-breaking crowd, and the rebuilt grandstand was taxed to its capacity. though the canton game was one of the minor contests, it always drew well, and was quite a society function, for the school was an exclusive one. the cadets, in their natty uniforms, came almost in a body, and of course the girls were there in "beautiful bunches," as holly cross said. not only damsels from the military school town, but from fairview and from haddonfield. "i tell you what it is," said holly, as he was practicing with his mates; "'uniforms git gals,' as the schoolboy once wrote in his composition. 'if you can't be a soldier, be a policeman, for uniforms git girls.'" "it's got 'em here to-day, all right," observed sid. "i hope that----" "that the heads of our particular girls aren't turned by any of the cadets," finished phil, with a laugh. the game was on, and it was seen that, while randall had every chance of beating, she would have no easy contest for the victory. the cadets played with a beautiful precision, and their team work was something that made coach lighton sigh in vain. "why can't i get our fellows to play like that?" he asked in despair of captain woodhouse, during a lull in the game, when one of the cadets had the wind knocked out of him. "it's because of the changes so late in the season," declared kindlings. "we miss kerr and bricktop." "well, go on in and do 'em up," advised the coach, as the referee's whistle blew. "don't let 'em score on you." "not if i know it," answered the captain. the game was resumed fiercely. knowing they had little chance to win the game, the cadets devoted all their energies to trying to score. they wanted at least one touchdown, or a field goal, and randall was determined they should have neither. in the first ten minutes of play, randall had shoved the ball over the line, and the goal was kicked. then, after some rushing tactics, which demonstrated that the cadets' line was stronger than at first appeared, phil gave the signals for some kicking plays. but it was soon demonstrated that canton was almost as good at this as was her rival, and while it was desired to get some practicing in punting and drop work, it was deemed too dangerous. "straight football," ordered the captain to the quarter-back, and the game went on in that style. there were several forward passes, that netted good gains, and the onside kick was tried, until a fumble nearly resulted in canton scoring, and then it was not used again. up the field the randallites rushed the ball, not so fast nor so easily but what they felt the strain, and soon there was another touchdown against the cadets. there was almost another in the first half, but the whistle cut the play short, and the nearest the military lads had been to scoring was when they tried for a field goal, and failed, because sid broke through and blocked the kick. with indomitable energy, the cadets went at their opponents again in the second half. several fresh players were put in, and captain woodhouse allowed other substitutes to try their abilities. this nearly proved the scratching down of a score against randall, as the new lads did not hold well in line, and they were being shoved back for a loss, when phil called for some kicking tactics. this took the ball out of danger, and soon our friends had again crossed the military goal line. it was characteristic of the pluck of the canton lads that they never gave up. at it again they went, hammer and tongs, giving their heavier rivals no rest. it was a much more "scrappy" game from the point of playing, than had been expected, and on occasions excitement ran high. several times randall was penalized for holding in the line, or for off-side play, but this was due to the eagerness of the substitutes, who had not the seasoned judgment of the 'varsity men. the game was drawing to a close, amid a riot of songs and cheers. randall had rolled up a big enough score to satisfy even the exacting coach, and there were but a few more minutes left to play. canton had the ball, it being given to her on a penalty, and they were just over the centre line, in the randall territory. there came a signal, and the canton left half-back was sent charging into the line between sam looper and bert bascome. whose fault it was no one stopped to figure out, but there was a big hole opened, sam was sent sprawling to one side, with bascome on top of him, and the man with the ball was through the line, running like a deer for the randall goal line. sid henderson tried for a tackle, and missed, and then george carter, who was playing full, got ready to throw the man with the ball. but the latter proved to be a player of exceptional ability, and speeding straight at the full-back, he suddenly dodged, so that carter, who made a dive for him, also missed, and went sprawling. there was now not a player between the canton man and the goal line. like mad, his friends leaped to their feet, and sent cheer after cheer ringing into the air. "touchdown! touchdown! touchdown!" was the frenzied yell. "after him!" shouted captain woodhouse. "don't let him touch it down, fellows!" he was running desperately, but speed was not his strong point. tom parsons, however, was on the alert. there was not many who could beat him at the scudding game, and he tore off over the white marks after the cadet, with a fierce desire to pull him down in his tracks. it was a hard race, but tom won, and grappled his man in a fierce tackle from behind, not two yards from the goal line. down they went heavily, lying there for a few seconds, the breath knocked from them both. "do--down!" gasped the cadet, and there were tears in his eyes, for it meant the end of the hope of his school. "too bad, old man," spoke tom kindly, "but we really couldn't allow it, you know. it was a good try, though." the other did not answer. he still had the ball, and there was another line-up, but before the play could be made, the whistle blew, and randall's goal line was still inviolate. "how'd he get through?" demanded captain woodhouse, when the cheering was over, and the players were going to the dressing rooms. "he got through between bascome and me," said the unlucky snail. "it wasn't my fault," declared the tackle. "he just pushed sam over. it wasn't my fault." "well, it was _somebody's_ fault," grumbled the captain, "and if it happens again, something else will happen." there was quite a jolly time after the game, in spite of the defeat of the military lads, and the left half-back, who had made the sensational run, and who had so nearly scored, was properly lionized. "when are you going to have another little dance, girls?" asked tom, of ruth clinton and her two friends. "when you boys have another fire at randall," was the quick answer. the little party of students had some refreshments together, and then, as a little shower came up, the crowd scurried for shelter, the girls going back to fairview. "well, it was a pretty good game, all right," remarked tom, as he and his chums were walking down the corridor to their room. "pretty fair," admitted phil. "hold on a minute, fellows; i want to see something." "what?" asked tom. "if there are any more keys in the door," answered the quarter-back, "and also whether anyone is in there. listen!" they approached their portal cautiously, and waited in silence for a moment, but heard no sound. then they entered, finding no false key in the lock. but, no sooner were the chums in their apartment, than they were made aware of something strange. as if by common impulse, they came to a stop in the middle of the floor. then tom cried: "listen! our old clock! the alarm clock!" a loud ticking was heard--a tick different from that of the mahogany timepiece. tom switched on the light. there, on the mantle, in the place where it had always rested, was their battered old relic! they gazed at it, scarcely able to believe their eyes. then sid remarked: "the clock has come back!" "and only increases the mystery," added tom, slowly. chapter xxi seeking evidence phil clinton walked over to the mantle, and, almost reverently, took down the fussy, ticking clock. it seemed to make more noise than usual, but perhaps this was because the room was so quiet, or perchance they had become used to the rather gentle tick-tock of the mahogany timepiece. the quarter-back turned the clock over and over. "yes, it's ours, all right," he finally announced. "did you have any doubt of it?" asked tom. "some," admitted phil. "there have been so many queer things happening, that i don't know whether or not to believe that we are really here, that we exist, and that there is such a place as randall college." "there won't be, if langridge's father and those other lawyers have their way," declared sid, solemnly. phil was still closely examining the clock, turning it over and over, and listening to the tick. "well, what's the matter?" asked tom. "do you think it's got the measles or the pip, that you have to hark to its breathing apparatus that way?" "there's something wrong with it," declared phil, with a dubious shake of his head. "it doesn't tick as it used to. here, sid, you listen to it." thus appealed to, sid put the timepiece to his ear. "don't you remember," went on phil, "how it used to sort of have a double tick, like an automobile with carbon in the cylinders? sometimes it would act as if it was going to stop, and you'd think it had heart failure. then it would get on the move again. it doesn't do that now. it ticks as regular as a chronometer." "you're right," agreed sid. "here, tom, have a hearken." after a few minutes' test, tom was also forced to conclude that there was something strange about the clock. yet it was undeniably theirs. "and it's exactly right, too," went on phil, comparing it with his new watch, a present from his mother. "it's right to the half minute, and that's something that never happened before since the time when the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. whoever had it, and brought it back, took the trouble to set it right." tom was now carefully looking the clock over. he gazed thoughtfully at the back, where there were a number of turn screws and keys for winding and setting it, and uttered an exclamation. "fellows!" he cried, "our clock has been taken apart and put together again. see, the back is scratched where some one has used a knife or screwdriver on it, and smell the oil they've put on it." he held it first to the nose of sid, and then to phil. after several detecting whiffs, they both gave it as their opinion that the clock had been given an oil bath. "this gets me!" exclaimed phil. "why in the name of the seven sacred somnambulistic salamanders, anyone should go to the trouble of making a false key to our room, take our clock away, renovate it, and then bring it back i can't see for the life of me." "same here," came from sid, as he slumped down on the sofa. "but we've got it back, anyhow, and isn't there a proverb to the effect that you shouldn't look a beggar in the mouth?" "you're thinking of gift-horses," declared tom, "but what you mean is, 'take the gifts the gods provide.' still, it is mighty queer, and i wish we could get some clews that would help unravel the mystery--that of our chair as well as the clock." sid uncurled long enough to reach out and get a book, which he began to study, while phil set himself at some of his college tasks. only tom remained inactive--yet not inactive, either, for he was doing some hard thinking, in which the clock, the missing chair, and the troubles of randall in general, formed a part. he arose and walked about the room, pausing now and then in front of the clock to listen to the insistent ticking. "oh, for cat's sake, sit down!" exploded phil, at length. "i've written this same sentence over six times, and i can't get it right yet, with you tramping around like a prisoner in a cell." "yes, go to bed," urged sid. tom did not answer. instead, he stooped over and picked up an envelope from the floor, where it had fallen partly under and was almost hidden by a low bookcase. he turned it over to read the address, and uttered a startled cry. "what's the matter?" demanded sid, springing to an upright position with such suddenness, that the old sofa creaked and groaned in protest, like a ship in a storm. "look!" exclaimed tom. "this letter--i found it on the floor--it's addressed to bert bascome--from someone in the college, evidently, for it hasn't been through the mail, as there's no stamp on it." sid and phil eagerly examined the missive, turning it over and over, as if something on it might escape them. it was a plain white envelope, and was sealed. "that throws some light on the mystery, and bears out my suspicion," went on tom. "what light?" asked sid. "and what suspicion?" demanded phil. "the suspicion that langridge has had a hand in this mystery, and that bert bascome has been in our room since we last left it. that letter wasn't here when we went out, i'm sure of that, so bascome must have dropped it when he brought back the clock." "brought back the clock!" cried phil. "do you mean to say he took it--and the chair?" "i don't know that i do, but either he or langridge had a hand in it," asserted tom, positively. "langridge probably put bascome up to it, to annoy us. you know bascome and that bully were quite thick with each other before langridge was forced to leave." "but this letter isn't in the handwriting of langridge, tom," objected sid. "i know _his_ fist well enough." "that's right," agreed phil. "but i can tell you who did write this." "who?" demanded tom and sid, in a breath. "henry lenton," was the quiet reply. "what, the fellow you suspected of making the false key?" cried tom, in startled tones. "that's the chap. he wrote this letter to bascome; i'm sure of it." "then those two are in the game against us!" came from sid. "oh, say, this is getting more puzzling than ever! what can we do about it--langridge--bascome--lenton--who's guilty--who had our clock?" "i'm going to find out one thing!" declared tom, with energy. "what's that?" asked phil, as his chum arose and strode toward the door. "i'm going to give bascome this letter, and find out what he was doing in our room." "you may make trouble," warned phil. "i don't care if i do! i'm going to get to the bottom of this," and holding the envelope as if it might somehow get away from him, tom strode from the apartment, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, while back in the room his chums listened to the ticking of the clock that formed a link in the curious mystery. chapter xxii bascome denies tom parsons knocked vigorously on the door of bert bascome's room. if the character of his summons was any indication of his mind, the bearer of the letter was in no mood for compromise. as soon as he had tapped at the portal, there was audible within the apartment a hasty scramble. "guess they must think it's zane, or prexy," mused tom, grimly. he waited several seconds, and then came the gentle and somewhat sleep-simulated query: "who's there?" "it's me--parsons," was the ready, if ungrammatical, answer. "are you there, bascome?" "yes, of course. i thought it was one of the profs. it's all right, fellows--you can come out," and, as the door opened, tom saw several of bascome's friends crawling from under the bed and couch. there was a smell of cigarette smoke quite noticeable in the room. "whew! you fellows are going some!" commented tom. "you can smell that all the way up to our room." "no! can you really?" asked bascome, in some alarm. "we opened all the windows, and we fan the smoke out regularly every ten minutes; don't we, fellows?" "sure," replied merkle, one of the sportiest of sporty seniors. "it's regular bore to think we have to sneak around this way when we want to smoke. why, in some big colleges, i understand, they allow the undergraduates to smoke in their rooms, and even the tutors have a pipe with them." "pity this isn't a big college," remarked bascome, as he lighted another cigarette. "i suppose i oughtn't to do this when i'm in training," he went on easily, "but you won't squeal, will you, parsons? have a cig. yourself?" "no, thank you. may i see you just a moment, bascome?" tom had not thought to find anyone in the room save the left tackle, and he hardly knew how, under the circumstances, to put his question. "sure," answered bascome. "anything about football? because if it is----" "it isn't," answered tom, quickly. "oh, then, come on out. excuse me just a moment, fellows," he said to his guests, as he followed our hero out into the corridor. "i hope it isn't spondulix, old man," he went on. "i'd let you have some in a moment, but i'm dead broke, and----" "i don't need any money!" broke in tom, half angrily. "look here, bascome, were you in our room to-day--after the football game?" "in your room? certainly not, either before the game or after it. what do you mean?" "well," went on tom, "there have been some queer things happening lately. our old chair was taken--for a joke, i presume, and----" "do you mean to accuse me of having a hand in that?" demanded bascome, indignantly. "if you do, parsons----" "take it easy," advised tom, calmly. "i haven't accused you of anything yet. i merely asked you if you had been in our room." "but why do you do that? what makes you think i was in there?" "because i found this there--after we came back from the game this afternoon," went on the end. "it's a letter addressed to you, and i thought maybe you had dropped it." tom held out the missive, but, before taking it, bascome, with a glance of anger at his companion, said cuttingly: "look here, parsons, i don't know what your game is, but i think you're confoundedly insulting. now, before i look at that letter, i want to say, in the strongest way i know how, that i was _not_ in your room to-day, nor any other day lately. in fact, i haven't been there since a lot of us fellows were talking over football matters with you and phil and sid one evening." "yes, i remember that time," spoke tom. "well, i believe you, of course. here's the letter. it's mighty queer, though." bascome gave one glance at the missive, and murmured: "lenton! i wonder what he's writing about now. that fellow's off his base, i think." as he read the note, a scowl came over his face, and he muttered something that tom could not catch. however, the end did hear bascome say: "insolent puppy! he's got nerve to write to me that way! i'll have it out with him!" then, with rapid motions, bascome tore the letter to pieces, and scattered them about the corridor. "it doesn't throw any light on the mystery that has been bothering you fellows, about your clock and chair," went on the tackle. "i had some dealings with lenton, and this was about that." "i didn't ask to know what was in the letter," said tom, quickly. "the only funny part of it was that it was in our room. i thought perhaps----" he hesitated. "oh, don't make any bones about it," urged his fellow player. "you might as well say it as think it. you imagined i had been in there, playing some sort of a joke on you." "yes, i did," admitted tom. "our clock was returned mysteriously to-night, and the one left in its place was taken away. the other night we found a false key in our door, and now----" "now you find a letter addressed to me!" interrupted bascome. "i don't blame you for thinking it a bit queer, old man, but i'm not in the game. i've got other fish to fry. the way i suppose my letter got in you fellows' room, is that wallops, or some of the messengers to whom lenton gave it to be delivered to me, must have dropped it there." "but wallops nor none of the messengers would have a right to go into our room while we were out," declared tom. "oh, you can't tell what those fellows would do," asserted bascome, easily. "i'll wager that's how it happened. ask wallops. i'm out of it, anyhow. i wasn't in your shack, and you can't make that too strong when you report back to phil and sid." "i will," promised tom, somewhat nonplused at the outcome of the affair. he had been sure that something would come of the connection between bascome and the letter. "i'm sorry i took you away from your friends," he went on. "oh, that's all right. i'd rather have you _speak_ openly like this, than be _thinking_ a lot of queer things. no, i'm out of it. the letter had nothing to do with your clock or chair," and with this denial bascome turned back toward his own room. "good night," he called to tom; "that is, unless you'll join us?" he paused and looked back. "no, thank you, i'm going to turn in." tom swung around, and was about to proceed down the corridor, when the torn pieces of the letter bascome had destroyed caught his eye. by this time the other youth had entered his room, before tom could call to him that perhaps he had better pick up the scraps. "oh, well, leave them there," mused tom. "i guess if he doesn't care whether or not anyone sees them, i oughtn't to." slowly he walked along, when a piece of paper, rather larger than the other fragments, was turned over by the draft of his walking. it was directly under a hall light, and tom could not help seeing the words written on it. they stood out in bold relief--three words--and they were these: _the alarm clock_ tom stared at them as if fascinated. they seemed to be written in letters of fire. he stooped and picked up the piece of the torn letter. "the alarm clock!" murmured tom. "i'll wager anything lenton _was_ writing about our clock, and yet bascome said the letter didn't have a thing in it about our mystery. i wonder--i wonder if he expects me to believe that--now." for a moment he paused, half inclined to go back and have it out with bascome. then he realized that this would not be the wisest plan. besides, he wanted to talk with phil and sid. "i'll tell them," he thought. "maybe they can see through it, for i'll be hanged if i can. 'the alarm clock!' i wonder if i would be justified in picking up the rest of the pieces, and seeing what i could make of them? no! of course i couldn't read another fellow's letter, even to solve the mystery. it's not serious enough for that." then tom, after another look at the scrap he had, thrust it into his pocket, as much for the sake of preventing it from falling into the hands of curiosity seekers, as for any other reason. "we'll see what phil and sid can make of it," he mused, and then, hearing someone approaching, tom hastened on to his own room. "it certainly is queer," said phil, when tom had told him the result of his little excursion. "i think i'd almost have picked up the whole letter. bascome couldn't have cared much about it, or he wouldn't have thrown the pieces into the hall. guess i'll go get 'em." "no, we can't do a thing like that," declared sid quickly. "i know a better plan." "what?" inquired tom. "let's ask wallops if he had a note to deliver to bascome from lenton. he may have gotten in our room by mistake." "of course!" cried tom, quickly. "the very thing. maybe that will help clear it up." it was comparatively early, and wallops was found in the janitors' quarters. "no," he replied, in answer to sid's inquiry, "i haven't seen mr. bascome or mr. lenton this evening, and i had no note for either of them, nor from one. and i wasn't in your room." "oh, all right!" exclaimed phil, quickly, for he did not want to create any talk. "i dare say it was a mistake. come on, fellows." "well, what do you think now?" asked tom, as the three were on their way to their room. "i think either bascome or lenton was in our room," declared phil. "yes, but which one?" asked sid. no one could answer him. chapter xxiii haled to court our heroes were in a quandary. they had gotten on the trail of the mystery, and it diverged in two directions. both paths seemed to lead to one or the other of two students--bascome or lenton. to accuse either, or to question them, would mean serious trouble, for it would be considered as an insult. tom and his chums realized that. "but what gets me, if either one of them _did_ take our clock and chair, is what their motive could have been," spoke tom. "why in the mischief should they take our battered old ticker, leave another in its place, and then make the exchange again?" "it's just as easy to answer as to say who has our chair," declared phil. "it isn't in bascome's room, that's certain." "and lenton hasn't it," asserted tom. "i found that out, all right." it was the morning after the sensational discovery of the letter, and they were still discussing it, without apparently getting anywhere. they had tacitly agreed that, without more evidence than they now possessed, it would be folly to go to bascome again. "let's get out of here," proposed tom, after some more talk on the subject. "we're almost late for chapel as it is." it is doubtful if either of the three chums gave much consideration to the services that morning. their minds were too much filled with other matters. dr. churchill made an announcement to the effect that there might soon be some news to communicate in the matter of the suit against the college. "at present," he stated, "the matter is in the hands of the lawyers, and we hope to effect a compromise. if we arrive at one, i shall be most happy to let you young gentlemen know of it. of course, too, there is the possibility of unfavorable news. but, in any event, i know that you will be loyal to the college." "you bet!" cried bean perkins, fervently, and he was not rebuked, for the devotional exercises were over. "i wonder what prexy meant by bad news?" asked holly cross, as he walked over the campus with tom and several other chums. "he didn't mean that we're going to lose the game with fairview saturday, i hope," put in kindlings. "we're going to have long practice this afternoon, and i want every fellow to show up. simpson, i'm going to give you a chance at left guard in the second half of the game." "thanks!" exclaimed the big californian, fervently. the practice on the gridiron that afternoon was the hardest to which the players had yet been subjected. the scrub had been instructed to play for all they were worth against the 'varsity, and the inducement was held out that if any of the second team outplayed the man against him on the regular eleven, that he could replace him in the fairview game. this was enough to stir the blood of the scrubs, and they went at the 'varsity hammer and tongs. the result was rather a surprise, for the regulars developed unexpected strength in the line. and even snail looper proved that he could do well when he wanted to, for when the backs were sent against him and bascome, the two held well together, and the wave of human beings, of whom one had the ball, was dashed back, failing to gain in several cases. there was one particularly hot scrimmage, and andrews, who was playing left half-back on the scrub, went at the line like a stone from a catapult. he broke through, and pete backus and sid henderson, who tried to tackle him, missed. andrews was gathering his speed for a spring down the field for a touchdown, when phil clinton, who had circled out of the press, was after him like a shot, and after a daring tackle threw him heavily. but, somehow or other, phil slipped, and his foot was doubled under him. when he got up he limped painfully. "what's the matter?" demanded mr. lighton, anxiously, as he ran up. "twisted my ankle." "is it sprained?" "no, only a little. i'll be all right in a minute." they had his shoe off in a jiffy, and massaged the ankle, but it did little good, and wanting to save his quarter-back for the big game on saturday, captain woodhouse sent in art benson, as a substitute. phil retired to the side lines, tears of chagrin in his eyes, but his friends comforted him with the thought that he would be all right by saturday if he rested, while, if he didn't he couldn't play against fairview. the game went on, and, as if nerved by phil's injury, the 'varsity played like fiends. they rushed the unfortunate scrub team all over the field, and rolled up more touchdowns than they had previously done in practice that season. "i guess we'll come out all right," spoke kindlings, gleefully, to the coach, as they walked from the field, discussing some new plays that had been tried. "i'm more hopeful," answered mr. lighton. a hot bath, a rub down and a vigorous massaging of his ankle with liniment, made phil feel much better, and that night, propped up in an easy position on the sofa--the seat of honor--the quarter-back received his friends, several of whom dropped in to inquire after him. "will you be fit, old man?" asked holly cross, anxiously. "i hear that fairview has it in for us for keeps." "sure i'll be on hand," declared phil, gamely. "this isn't anything." "i hope not," remarked kindlings, with a dubious shake of his head. "we can tell better in the morning." for he well knew that such injuries as phil's often became worse in a few hours than they seemed at first. the captain's apprehension was realized, for the next morning phil could not step on his foot, and dr. marshall, the college physician, was summoned. the doctor looked at the swollen ankle, felt of it gently, thereby causing phil to wince with pain, and then announced: "no playing for you, clinton." "but i've _got_ to play, doctor. i've _got_ to be in the game against fairview saturday. that's three days off. won't it be well then?" "i'm afraid not." "well enough to play if i wear a leather protector?" "if you play, you may be out of the game the rest of the season," was the solemn answer. "i must forbid it. you may do yourself serious injury. what you need is complete rest." phil gasped, and held back the exclamation that sprang to his lips--an exclamation partly of bitterness and partly of pain, for the physician was rebandaging the foot. then he turned his face to the wall, and when the doctor was gone, tom and sid sat in silent communion with their chum. for they knew how he felt, and knew that mere words could only make the wounded spirit more sore. silence was the best balm, and silence there was, with only the fussy clock to mark the passage of the seconds. phil's ankle was even worse the next day, and it was announced that he would not be in the fairview game, which news cast a gloom over randall, and caused rejoicing in the camp of their rivals, for fairview was none too sure of a victory, though they had a fine eleven. benson, the substitute quarter, was slated for the contest. there was hard practice every available moment up to the night before the game, and though the team was rather demoralized, the captain and coach, by vigorous words, kept the players up to the mark. "we're going to win! we're going to win!" they said over and over again. there was a noticeable air of something portending when dr. churchill and his colleagues took their seats on the platform at chapel the next morning. the president's voice was solemn as he read the scriptures, more solemn as he offered prayer, and when he advanced to the edge of the rostrum to make an announcement, there was a long breath of expectation from the students. "is it about football or the trouble, i wonder?" whispered holly cross. "quiet," begged tom. "young gentlemen," began the president, "i regret to say that i have bad news for you. randall college has lost the first skirmish in the legal battle. the directors have been summoned to court to show cause why they should not vacate the land whereon our buildings stand. the matter had assumed a serious phase, all through the loss of that quit-claim deed." chapter xxiv defeat there was a buzz of excitement; everyone was whispering to his neighbor, and there was even talking among the members of the faculty. dr. churchill gave a few more facts concerning the matter, stating that though the first move had gone against the college, the randall legal representatives hoped to be successful in court. "i might add," went on the good doctor, "that we are making every effort to locate the missing quit-claim deed. and i might also add that if any of you young gentlemen happen upon it, the faculty and myself, as well as the directors, will be under great obligations to you, if you will turn it over to us. "to that end, perhaps, i had better describe the deed," which the president did, at the same time making a few remarks concerning legal matters, and impressing on the students the necessity of taking care of legal papers. "you will now know the document, if you should happen to see it," he concluded, "though i fear we cannot hope for that. but we will not give up yet," he added, and then the exercises came to an end. discussion on the new development of the trouble continued, as the students filed out of chapel, and strolled across the campus, some to lectures, some to studies, while others, who had the early periods free, made for the football field. "it's a rotten shame, isn't it?" exclaimed holly cross, as he dug his toe into the pigskin with vicious force. "i wish i had some of the lawyers who are making the trouble where this ball is," and as the spheroid again sailed high into the air, holly grinned in delight at his effort. "yes, it's just like langridge to make trouble," agreed tom. "probably he's delighted at the turn affairs have taken, and he very likely hopes to see randall down and out." "well, he won't!" declared frank, as he passed the ball to jerry jackson. "i feel sure we're going to win. as sure as i feel that----" "we'll put it all over fairview," finished billy housenlager. "we've just _got_ to do 'em!" "glad you feel that way," spoke captain woodhouse. "but with phil laid up----" he did not finish, but they all knew what he meant. up to the last, there was hope that phil might pull around in time to play at least part of the game, but the doctor soon put an end to this thought. "it's utterly out of the question," he said, and phil, with a groan, turned his face to the wall. as if randall did not have trouble enough, more developed the night before the game. there had been a final meeting of the eleven, and phil had managed to limp to it on a crutch. final instructions were given by the coach, some new plays were decided upon, and a particular code of signals, of which there were several in use, was adopted. "no objections to taking a glass of ginger ale before we turn in, is there, mr. lighton?" asked jerry jackson of the coach, who was a strict trainer. "i'll allow you one," he answered. "come on then, fellows, i'll stand treat. got something extra in my allowance this month," went on the jersey twin, and he led a crowd of his chums to a small refreshment place that did a thriving business just outside the college grounds. whether it was the ginger ale, or the excitement caused by anticipating the game, was not ascertained, but it was a fact that in the night sid henderson was taken ill. tom heard his chum groaning, and, sitting up in bed, asked: "what's the matter, old man?" "i don't know, but i feel as if i was burning up inside." tom was at sid's bed in a moment, and placed the back of his hand on his friend's cheek. "why, you've got a fever!" he exclaimed "i'm going to call for dr. marshall." wallops was sent for the physician, who pronounced sid a very sick youth, and ordered his removal to the sick ward, a sort of emergency hospital maintained at randall. "i shouldn't be surprised but what it was the ginger ale," said the physician, after questioning sid. "you have a very bad bilious attack." "will i--will i be all right by morning?" "by morning? gracious, young man, what do you think we doctors are, magicians? we have to wait for nature to help us." "then i can't play." "play? i should say not! you've got to stay in bed." "well, wouldn't that get your goat!" exclaimed tom, when he heard the news. "phil and sid both out of the game. now we _are_ up against it, for further orders." phil did not answer, but he gritted his teeth, and in the darkness stepped out of bed, bearing his weight on his injured ankle. he could hardly keep back an exclamation of agony, as a sharp pain shot through him, and he knew that what he had hoped for--that he might possibly play--was out of the question. the day dawned cold and fair, ideal weather for football, with no wind to make kicking difficult. the contest was to take place at randall, and the squad was out early at practice. it was rather a serious gridiron squad, too, for the absence of two of the best players crippled the team in a manner that none cared to think about. "jove, but i wish i was going to be with you!" spoke sid softly, when tom paid a visit to him, just before the time for calling the game. "i wish you were," said the end. "i guess you'd better pray for us, sid, for we sure are up against it." phil managed to limp out on the side lines, where he sat wrapped in a blanket like an indian brave, and watched the preliminary practice, unable to keep back the tears that came into his eyes. there was a big crowd present. every stand was filled, and there were throngs about the field. george carter was to play in sid's place, and art benson would be at quarter. the rest of the team was made up substantially as the one that had played the previous games, save that frank simpson was slated to play one half at left guard, dividing with sam looper. it was the first big game of the season, and both teams were on their mettle. in the stand given over to the cohorts of fairview there was a big crowd, of which a goodly part were girls from the co-educational institution. their shrill cheers, songs and cries mingled with the hoarser shouts of the fairview lads. "i wonder if madge and the others are cheering against us?" asked tom, as he passed the ball to simpson. "well, you can hardly blame them for sticking up for their own college." "no, that's so. say, they're a lively eleven, all right, aren't they?" "they sure are! never mind, though, parsons, we'll go through 'em all right." there had been many changes in the fairview eleven, but some of the lads who had played before were on the team. there was lem sellig, who played quarter, instead of in his old position of left half-back, frank sullivan was at right end, and roger barns was full-back; ted puder was playing left guard. the practice was over, the toss had been made, and randall was to kick off. bean perkins had led his cheerers in many songs and college yells, and the colors on his cane were frayed from much waving. the referee's whistle blew, and kindlings, with a final glance at his own men and those of fairview, nodded to holly cross, who was to send the ball down the field. there was a thud as the toe of the big centre met the pigskin, and away it sailed. it was caught by ed turton, who was playing left half-back, and he managed to get over about fifteen yards before he was caught and heavily thrown by tom parsons. then came the line up, and the first scrimmage. at the line came fred hanson, the right half-back, aided by his mates. right for a space between bert bascome and snail looper he headed, and managed to get through. "hold 'em! hold 'em!" begged kindlings, desperately, but his men were shoved back, and there was a two-yard gain. it was not much, but it showed the power that was behind the fairview plays. there was a burst of triumphant cheers from the co-educational supporters, and silence on the part of the cohorts of randall, as they waited for the next play. it came promptly, and netted three yards. then a run around right end tore off four yards more, and it looked as if fairview would rush the ball for a touchdown in short order. but, in answer to the frantic appeals from kindlings, his players braced desperately, and held their opponents to such advantage that fairview was forced to kick, and randall had the ball, and a chance to show what she could do. "now, then, boys!" cried benson, as he began to give the signal, "tear 'em apart!" it was a heart-meant appeal, but something was lacking. phil's magnetic presence was needed, and though pete backus, to whom the ball was passed, managed to wiggle through for a yard gain, there was noticed a great strength in the line of fairview, against which the randall players hurled themselves. another try only netted two yards, and then, not wanting to give up the ball by sending it sailing into the enemy's territory, benson signalled for a fake kick, joe jackson dropped back, and holly cross snapped the ball to george carter, who was playing in sid's place. carter at once passed it to joe, who ran with it. but, alas for the hopes of randall! joe dropped the pigskin, and jake johnson, the big centre of fairview, who had broken through, fell on it. [illustration: carter at once passed it to joe, who ran with it.] there was a wild riot of yells on the part of the fairview crowd, and groans of anguish from randall. the fairview players quickly lined up, and almost before kindlings and his men had recovered from their astonishment and chagrin, fred hanson had broken through, and was speeding for the goal line. he got past all the tacklers, and after a sensational run, planted the ball between the posts. "touchdown! touchdown!" came the fierce cries. randall realized that she had been scored upon for the first time that season, and the fact was bitter to her. the goal was kicked, and there were six points against our friends. it was disconcerting, but they went back into the play with such fierce energy that inside of the next ten minutes they had forced their opponents up the field to their five-yard line. "now, boys, give it to 'em! don't wait until you can see the whites of their eyes, but give it to 'em!" howled bean perkins. "touchdown! touchdown!" yelled the randall crowd. "give 'em the good old song, fellows," fairly screamed bean. "conquer or die," and he led the singing of "_aut vincere, aut mori_." it was just the note needed to make the randall players turn themselves into football fiends, and they ripped the fairview line apart, and had the ball over in another minute. "now, kick the goal, and tie the score!" urged bean, but it was not to be. the ball hit the post, and bounced back, and fairview had still one point the better. there was hard playing the rest of the half, but neither side scored. "well, what do you think about it?" asked kindlings, of the coach, during the rest period. "i'm afraid to say," was the answer. "we'll have to do better, or----" "lose," spoke the captain, grimly. the story of the second half of the game is shameful history to randall. it started off fairly well, but there was fumbling, and even the presence of the big californian, who replaced the snail, could not avert the defeat that was in store. try as randall did, she could not make the necessary gains, and the players hurled themselves against the stone wall defense of fairview. on the other hand, the fairview players found several holes in their opponents' line, through which they made substantial advances with the ball. "hold 'em! hold 'em!" begged kindlings, desperately, the fear of defeat staring him in the face. his men worked like the ancient trojans, and tom parsons covered himself with glory twice; once when he made a sensational tackle, and saved a touchdown that seemed imminent, and again when he made a brilliant run of sixty yards, and would have scored, but for an unfortunate slip that enabled george curtis, the fairview left end, to nab him. that was as near as randall came to scoring in the second half, while fairview made three more touchdowns, though only one resulted in a goal. the score stood twenty-two to five against randall when she was awarded the ball for interference and offside play on the part of her eager rival, who wanted to roll up a bigger total. there was only a little time left to play, and kindlings desperately called upon his men in every way he knew how to rally and score again. there were desperate--aye, even tear-stained faces--among the randall players as they lined up. hearts were beating as though they would burst. lungs were panting, and tired muscles fairly begged for relief. there came a great heave as the big californian tore a hole in the fairview line to let pete backus through, but pete was almost downed in his tracks, and ere the line could be formed again, the whistle blew, and the game was over. for a moment the struggling players could scarcely realize it, and then, as the truth broke over the randall lads, and they heard the shouting of the great crowd--as they knew the score--twenty-two to five--they filed silently from the gridiron. it is not writing of anything disgraceful against old randall when i say that more than one player shed tears--bitter tears. and they were not assuaged by the hearty cheer which fairview gave her rival. "now--boys, three--three cheers for fairview!" called kindlings brokenly, in return, and his voice was not the only one that faltered when the tiger was given. silently the randall crowd left the grandstands, while the victorious cohorts of fairview were singing their songs. "boys!" cried bean perkins, eagerly, "don't let our fellows go off that way. give 'em the 'conquer or die' song, but--sing it softly!" and then, out over the big field, welled the beautiful strains of the latin hymn. the effect was wonderful, for the boys were good singers. the great crowd halted and listened, as the last chords died softly away. then came a great cheer--a cheer from friend and opponent alike--a cheer for defeated randall--for randall that had not conquered, but had been conquered. then the players filed to their dressing rooms. chapter xxv bitter days "shall we look up the girls?" asked phil softly, as he clasped his arm in that of tom's, and limped with him from the rooms under the grandstand. "they'll want to see us." "but i don't want to see them!" exclaimed the end, half fiercely. "i don't want to see anybody. i want to go off in the dark somewhere, and----" he stopped, for he felt a raging spirit within him that he knew was not good. "it's tough, old man," spoke phil, softly, "but maybe it will be best for old randall in the end." "best nothing! it never would have happened if we'd had you and sid on the team." "oh, yes, it might." but tom would not have it so, and clung to the dispute until someone started an argument about the referee's ruling on a certain point, and then the subject was quickly changed. "better come over and see the girls," urged phil again, as he walked along on his crutch. "sid will want to know what they said, and you know he can't get out for a couple of days." "oh, all right," tom almost snapped. "they won't rub it in--they'll know how we feel," went on the quarter-back. and to the credit of ruth, madge and mabel, be it said that though they were fairview girls, and their college had downed randall, which had not happened in a blue moon before, they never so much as "looked" the triumph they must have felt. they knew the bitterness of defeat, and--well, they were wise little damsels. they talked of anything but football, though the reference to phil's injury and to sid's illness naturally verged on it. then they got on safer ground, and, as tom walked along with ruth, while phil had madge tyler on one side and mabel harrison on the other, the bitterness, in a measure, passed from them. "we'll do up boxer hall twice as bad!" predicted tom. "that's right," agreed phil. "i'll play then, and----" "don't boast!" called his sister, with a laugh. the girls sent messages of condolence to sid. tom and phil hurried to tell their chum all about it. sid had improved enough to enable him to be moved to their room, and there, with him in bed, the game was played all over again. "it wasn't the poor playing of any one man, or any two or three men," declared tom. "it was the fault of the whole team. we're crippled, that's what we are, and we've got to get in shape for the rest of the season, or----" the possibility was not to be mentioned. "i don't suppose anything like this would happen again in years, that we'd lose so many players," spoke phil. "we can't always play in luck." "kindlings feels it pretty fierce," said tom. "he couldn't talk when he came off the field." "yes, it's got him bad," agreed phil. "well, we'll have to do better, that's all. i think simpson is booked for good on the 'varsity, after the dandy game he put up in the second half." "yes," came from tom. "the snail means all right, but he's too slow. frank will help the team a whole lot." "tell me about his playing," urged sid, and they gave it to him, point by point. there were bitter days for randall following the fairview game, and for a time it seemed that the defeat would work havoc with the team. but mr. lighton was a wise coach, and he only laughed at the gloomy predictions. "oh, we'll come into our own, soon," he declared. "get right into practice, and keep it up." phil was able to be in his old place a couple of days later, and sid was soon off the sick list, so that the team was once more in shape. simpson was voted a "find," and showed up well at guard. bascome also improved under the influence of the presence of the big californian. "well, i think we're gradually getting into shape again, captain," remarked the coach to kindlings one day, after some hard practice, during which the scrub had been "pushed all over the field, and had its nose rubbed in the dirt," as holly cross picturesquely expressed it. "yes," agreed dan woodhouse. "we miss bricktop and ed kerr, but what can't be cured must be put up in pickles, as the old woman said when she kissed the broom." "cow, you mean," corrected the coach. "i make my own proverbs," replied kindlings, with a laugh. "they keep better. but, seriously, i think we will shape up pretty well for the boxer game. we've got a couple of contests in between, one with the waram prep, and the other with duncan college. we will take both of those, and that will make the boys feel better." "yes, a little victory, now and then----" "makes good dressing on your salad," finished dan, with a laugh. though football took up much of the time of our heroes, with phil and sid again on the active list, they had not forgotten their quest after their beloved chair, nor had they given up their plan of discovering who took the clock. but, as the days passed, our friends were no nearer a solution than they had been in the past. they kept watch on bascome and lenton, but nothing developed, and they did not like to make any inquiries. the bitterness of the fairview defeat still lingered like a bad taste, in the mouth of the randall gridiron knights, but it was being overshadowed by the game which would soon be played with boxer hall. this season they would clash but once with those doughty warriors, and according to the games that had thus far been played in the tonoka lake league, the championship was practically a tie between randall and boxer hall. "if we win all our other games, and we're likely to do that," said kindlings, "all we need to do is to wallop boxer hall, and the championship is ours." "yes, that's all," remarked dutch housenlager. "it's easily said, but not so easy to do." "get out, you old catamaran!" cried holly cross. it was one morning at chapel, following the annual reunion of the "old grads" of randall, that president churchill made an announcement that caused quite a sensation. "i have bad news to announce," he said, as he stood on the platform after the devotional exercises. "there has been a conference between our lawyers and those representing the claimants to our land. they demand twenty thousand dollars in settlement." there was a gasp of surprise that went around the chapel like a wave of hysteria among a lot of girls. "twenty thousand dollars!" whispered tom parsons. "randall can never pay it," remarked sid, who sat next to him. dr. churchill waited for the murmurs to cease. "i need hardly add," he continued, "that it is out of the question for us to pay this sum. yet, if we do not, we may lose all that we hold dear," and the president seemed much affected. "however, we have not given up the fight, and there may yet be a loophole of escape. you may now go to your classes." chapter xxvi moses in physics "say, fellows, have you heard the news?" burst out dutch housenlager one morning after chapel, about a week following the announcement about the twenty thousand dollars being demanded. "news? what news?" inquired holly cross. "has the lawsuit been called off?" asked tom. "or has bricktop molloy decided to come back to play on the eleven?" demanded sid. "neither one, but we're in for no end of a lark." "oh, yes. if there's anything funny in the wind, you can depend on dutch to ferret it out," spoke phil. "well, what is it now, you old hollander?" "prof. newton is down with the pip, or something, and can't take his chemistry or physics classes to-day. they're shy one other teacher, so prexy is going to handle the physics recitation. what a cinch it'll be! i'm not up in mine, but moses is sure to ask us where the lesson is. we won't do a thing but steer him back to one we had a week ago. then i'll be safe." "you can, if you like," spoke tom, "but i'm not going to. i've got mine, and it's a shame to put one over moses." "aw, what's the harm?" demanded dutch. "it will amount to the same thing in the end. now don't go to spoiling my fun. i'm not up, i tell you, and i don't want to get any more crosses than i have. my record won't stand it." "then you can do the funny work," declared phil. "if he asks any of us----" "i'll sing out about a back lesson," interrupted dutch. "then i'll be safe. anyhow, moses will be sure to ask about three questions, and they will remind him of something about sanskrit or modern chinese, and he'll swing into a talk about what the ancient babylonians did in war time. then you fellows will call me blessed, for you won't have any physics to prepare to-morrow, when prof. newton will likely be back." "have it your own way," spoke holly cross. as usual when there occurred a change in the routine of lectures or classes there was more or less of a spirit of unrest or mischief among the students. those in the natural science division filed into the room where professor newton usually held sway, and it was quickly whispered about that "moses" would appear to hear them. the venerable president entered with his usual book under his arm, for he studied early and late--harder than the "greasiest dig that ever kept the incandescent going," to quote holly cross. "ah, young gentlemen," began dr. churchill, blandly, "i presume you are surprised to see me, but your instructor is ill, and i will endeavor to take his place. you are--er--you are in advanced science, are you not? i believe i have the right class," and the good doctor, somewhat puzzled, consulted a memorandum slip in his hand. "yes, this is the class," he went on, with an air of relief. "now, to-day's lesson was to be on--er--i'm afraid i have forgotten. professor newton told me, but it has slipped my mind." it was exactly what dutch housenlager had counted on, and he was ready to take advantage of it. "but of course," continued the president, with a smile, "you students will know where it is." he opened the physics book, and leafed it over, as though the lesson would be disclosed to him in some supernatural way. all eyes turned to dutch, for his impending game had become whispered about. "i think it's page three hundred forty-seven, dr. churchill," said dutch, mentioning a lesson about a week old. "ah, yes," went on the president. "i see. it has to do with heat and cold, sudden changes of temperature and the effects produced by each. very interesting, very. i trust you are all prepared?" "if we aren't, it's funny," murmured dutch, for they had recited on it several times in review. "speaking of the changes produced by sudden changes of temperature, can you give me a common example?" asked the president, his eyes roving about the room. dutch seemed so eager to recite, and have it done with, that his agitation could not but be noticed. "you may answer, mr. housenlager," finished dr. churchill. "ice and snow," came the ready reply. dutch breathed easy again. he thought he was done for the day. "very true," continued dr. churchill easily, "but that is a little _too_ common. i referred to the prince rupert drops. i dare say you all know what they are. mr. housenlager, you will kindly explain to the class how they are made, the effect they produce, and what principle they illustrate." the doctor sat down, and all eyes were once more turned toward dutch. nearly every lad in the class could have given some sort of answer, for they had seen the curious glass drops broken by their regular teacher. but, as it happened, dutch had been absent when that subject came up, and, as he made it a practice never to inquire what went on in the lecture room when he was not present, he was wholly at sea regarding the drops. he had a hazy idea regarding them, however, and resolved to hazard a recitation. it was better than complete failure. as "every schoolboy" (to quote a well known authority) knows what the prince rupert drops are, i will only state that they are globules of glass, pear shaped, with a long thin "tail" of the same brittle material. they are formed by dropping molten glass into water. the outside cools quickly, a long tail is formed, and there results an unequal strain on the glass, because the outside part has cooled faster than the inside. the instant a small part of the "tail" is broken off, the entire drop crumbles to glass-dust, the pressure once more being equalized. it was this object and phenomenon that dutch was called on to recite about. he rose in his seat, and began with an air of confidence that he did not feel: "the rupert drops illustrate the power of hot water or steam. they are globules of glass, filled with water, and, when they are heated, they burst to pieces, showing the expansive force of heat." the class wanted to roar. dr. churchill raised his eyebrows in surprise. dutch had described another glass object used in the class room, and his explanation of that had been correct, but it was as different from a prince rupert drop as a ham sandwich is from chicken. "ah--um," mused the president, putting on his glasses, and gazing at dutch through them. "very interesting, mr. housenlager--very--but--hardly what i asked you." "i--er i--er--i'm afraid i'm not prepared, sir," stammered the fun-loving youth, and the smiles went round the class. "too bad--don't you want to try again?" asked the president. dutch thought, and thought hard, but the more he tried to use his brain, the more foreign prince rupert seemed to him. he gave it up. "failure," murmured dr. churchill, as he marked it down against dutch. "you may try, parsons." tom gave the right answer. dutch gave a gasp of surprise, and it was noticed that he paid very close attention to the rest of the lesson. but it did not go much farther, for, as dutch had predicted, the president soon got on a strain that interested him, and, ignoring the text book, which was opened at the wrong page, he swept into a talk on something about as far from physics as is bookkeeping. but the "goose of dutch had been done to a lovely brown," once more quoting holly cross. his trick had turned against him, for, had he given the proper page, or had he allowed anyone else to do so, the chances are that he would not have been called on. he made himself conspicuous, and so fell before the good doctor. "well, dutch," remarked holly, as they filed from the room, "don't you want to try it on again in our latin class?" "cut it out!" advised dutch gruffly, as he marched on. "i know when i've had enough." chapter xxvii the dance card "you look all right, sid; you'll pass!" "hey! what's that?" and sid henderson swung around from the mirror over his bureau, with a somewhat guilty flush on his face. "i said you'd do," repeated tom, with a mischievous grin, as he stood in the doorway of the room, having paused in the act of entering. "what were you doing, putting on a beauty mark, or looking to see if you needed a shave?" "i was trying to get my tie straight," growled sid, as he fastened his low cut vest, for he was in his evening clothes. "get out, you musty old misogynist!" exploded phil, following tom into the room. "we know what you were doing, all right. you wanted to see if you were good-looking enough, so that you could dance with mabel all the evening." sid looked around for something to throw at his tormenting roommates, but nothing was handy. besides, he might crack the stiff bosom of his shirt, the snowy expanse of which reflected back the glow of the incandescent light. "if you fellows are going to the racket, it's about time you togged up," went on sid, as he carefully took a seat in a chair. he did not sink luxuriously onto the sofa this time, for fear of "mussing himself up," as holly cross would have said. "oh, we'll be ready in jig time!" cried phil, throwing his coat on one chair, his vest on another, and, almost before the garments had landed in "artistic confusion," he was changing his shoes. "we went to a football meeting," explained tom, as he shed his ordinary raiment and proceeded to "tog up." "anything doing?" asked sid, as he manicured his nails. "oh, for the love of tripe! look at him!" cried phil, with his head half way through a clean shirt. "say, you'd think he was going to a coming-out party, instead of to a fairview frat. dance. oh, tom, is my back hair on straight?" and phil, who had uttered the last in a shrill falsetto voice, tried to look at the after-portion of his shock of football hair. "say, when you fellows know how to act like gentlemen instead of like a bunch of rough-necks, i'll talk to you," spoke sid, with dignity. "i asked you a question, tom." "oh, yes, about the football meeting," went on the end. "well, you needn't get on your ear just because we jollied you a little. stand the gaff like a man. no, there wasn't much doing. we talked over some new plays. incidentally we tried to explain the slump randall seems to be up against, but we couldn't. where were you?" "don't ask him. he was up here fussing worse than a girl," broke in phil. "hannibal's henpecked hyperbolas! but do you remember the time, tom, when we couldn't get sid to look at a girl, much less to take one to a dance? now he feels hurt if he doesn't do the cubanola glide with one at least once a week. vanity, thy name is sid henderson!" "oh, cheese it, for cats' sake!" begged sid, in despair. then phil, who seemed to take delight in "rigging" his chum, glanced at the battered old alarm clock, which was again on duty. "cæsar's grandmother!" cried the quarter-back. "i'll be late," and forthwith he began to make motions "like a fellow dressing in a hurry," as he said afterward, and sid was left in peace to complete his immaculate attire, while tom, too, seeing the need of haste, left off "badgering" sid. it was the occasion of one of the several dances that the girls of fairview institute had arranged, and to which they were allowed to ask their friends. of course, miss philock, the preceptress, was chief chaperone, and there were other elderly teachers who took part. tom, phil and sid, together with a number of other students from randall, had been invited, and this was the evening when "event number six, in the free-for-all-catch-as-catch-can style of dancing would be pulled off," as holly cross remarked, when he was preparing for it. it was about a week after dr. churchill had so taken the wind out of the sails of dutch housenlager in the physics class, and in the meanwhile life at the college had gone on much as usual. the affair took place in the fairview gymnasium, which was appropriately decorated for the purpose. tom and his three chums--for frank simpson went with them--had called for miss tyler and her friends, ruth and mabel. frank was to escort a new girl, miss helen warden, to the dance. "you're a little late," chided ruth, as she greeted her brother and the others. "it was sid's fault," asserted phil, with a wink at tom. "he _would_ insist on changing his togs at the last minute." "and the hairdresser disappointed him, and he had to curl it himself," put in tom. "you--you----" spluttered sid, and then he choked back his justifiable wrath. "don't mind them," sympathized mabel harrison. "we know some secrets as well as they, sid." "oh, i'll get back at 'em some time," predicted the stocky half-back. there was quite a throng at the dance when our friends arrived, and shortly after the girls came from the dressing rooms, the orchestra began a dreamy waltz. the lads led out their partners, and the gymnasium presented a brilliant and animated scene. "did you see him?" called tom to phil, as the two young men and their pretty partners swung near each other in the middle of the big waxed floor. "who?" asked phil, slowing up. "langridge," was the reply, and then they were too far apart for more conversation. "oh, dear, did _he_ come?" asked ruth of tom, and she seemed distressed. "i do hope he and phil----" "no danger," interrupted tom. "we'll keep clear of him. what girl has he?" "i can't imagine. i'll look when i see him dancing with her." tom pointed out his former enemy, as he swung his partner around again, and ruth exclaimed: "oh, she's that new girl! miss rossmore is her name. i guess she doesn't know mr. langridge--very well." "probably not," agreed tom, and then the dance came to an end in a crash of melody. there was applause for an encore, and once more the strains were taken up, and the youths and maidens were treading the misty mazes of the waltz. the custom prevailed at these fraternal society affairs of the lads taking their partners' dance programmes and filling the cards for them. this was usually done in advance, and insured a girl plenty of dancers with partners of whom her escort approved. for he would only put down, or allow their owners to, the names of his own friends. it was a sort of "clearing-house" of dances, and the lads lobbied among themselves, and "split" numbers with each other at their own sweet will, in order to "fill in." "i've got to get one more partner for you," remarked tom, when the second half of the waltz had come to an end. "i'll be back in a moment," and leading ruth over to where her friends were seated, tom scurried off toward some of his chums, in order to impress one of them into service for his fair partner. there was one vacant waltz on her card, and tom himself had been booked for that number with miss tyler. "i want one for miss clinton," called the pitcher, as he slid into the group of his chums. "put me down!" exclaimed jerry jackson eagerly. "she's one of the best waltzers here. put me down, tom." "all right," and tom reached in his pocket for the card. it was not there, and a puzzled look came over his face. "jove, i must have lost it!" he exclaimed blankly, as he looked back over the route he had taken. as he did so he saw garvey gerhart approaching, holding out one of the dance orders. "i think you dropped this," murmured the crony of langridge. "i just picked it up." "thanks--very much," exclaimed tom, in relief, and taking the card, he had the jersey twin scribble his name on the only vacant line. "i put our friend jerry down for you," he explained to ruth, as he joined her. "thanks," she murmured. "oh, there's that lovely two-step. i can't dance that enough!" and her little foot tapped the floor impatiently. tom led her out as the music welled forth. all too soon it was nearing the end of the little affair, for, though it was not late, the rules of fairview forbade any extended festivities. tom, who had been dancing with miss harrison, was walking over to claim ruth for the next number, when he saw langridge stepping toward her. "confound him!" thought tom, an angry flush mounting to his face, "is he going to speak to her again?" such was evidently the intention of the former randall bully. he was smiling at phil's sister, who at first did not notice him. langridge and tom reached her at about the same time, and what was our hero's surprise to hear his enemy say: "i believe this is our dance, miss clinton?" she turned in astonishment, a wave of color surging into her fair face. "our dance--yours----" she stammered. "i have your name down on my card," went on langridge calmly, "and i believe if you will look at yours that you will find mine on it." hastily ruth caught up her dance order, which dangled from her fan. as she scanned the names, the color of her face deepened. "why--why--it--it _is_ here," she murmured. "i did not know--tom, did you----" "most certainly _not_!" declared tom, as emphatically as he could without attracting too much attention. "i think you are mistaken, mr. langridge," he added stiffly. "i booked no dance for miss clinton with you." "perhaps you had better look at the card," replied the bully, sneeringly. tom gave it a hasty glance. there was no doubt of it. there, in bold writing, on a line where he was sure he had scribbled his own name, was that of langridge. it was the last dance but two, and tom had the last one. he was also sure he had this one, and yet the name of his enemy---"there must be some mistake," he said, in confusion, for sometimes mistakes would occur in the indiscriminate trading of cards among friends. "but i'm sure i never gave you that card to fill out, mr. langridge." the bully shrugged his shoulders. "i don't know that you figure in this at all," he said, with a sneering air. "i have this dance with miss clinton. may i have the honor?" and he bowed gracefully to the confused girl, and held out his arm. "i--i don't----" she began, in distress. "this is not your dance," declared tom, glaring at langridge, reaching out his hand toward his own partner. the rivals faced each other. rivals again, though on a different field than the baseball diamond. an angry light gleamed in tom's eyes--on the face of langridge there was a supercilious sneer. they stood thus, at one side of the ballroom floor. the music was playing softly, and some were dancing, but the impending scene between tom and langridge was attracting attention. ruth realized it, and was very much distressed. tom was determined not to give way, but he realized that to make further claim against langridge would have the effect of causing a most unpleasant affair. he felt that there was something wrong somewhere. it was frank simpson who saved the day. the big californian had seen at a distance what took place, and had guessed what was going on. also he had overheard a little of the conversation, and he was able to fill in the rest. he sauntered slowly up to the trio, and, with an air of good fellowship, which he assumed for the occasion, he clapped langridge lightly on the back. "hello, old man!" he exclaimed. "we'll meet soon on the gridiron, i hope." "yes," answered langridge stiffly, turning aside. "miss clinton, will you----" he paused suggestively. "no!" whispered tom. "your name never got on her card right." "take care!" almost hissed langridge. "no, it is you who must take care!" broke in simpson, leaning forward as if he was talking on ordinary topics to the three. the crowd saw, and taking the very view of the little gathering that the big californian wished them to, they turned aside. "it is _you_ who must take care, mr. langridge," went on frank. "i saw you write your name on miss clinton's card." "what!" the bully's eyes blazed. "easy now," cautioned simpson, in calm tones. "tom, you dropped your partner's card a while ago, didn't you?" "yes!" the end was beginning to understand now. "i happened to be standing behind a pillar," went on frank, "when i saw langridge pick it up. i saw him erase a name and substitute another, but i thought nothing of it at the time, as lots of the fellows had girls' cards, filling them out. then i saw mr. langridge hand the dance order to a friend of his, who started toward you with it, tom, just as you discovered your loss." "gerhart--he handed it to me!" gasped tom. "i see now! langridge, you----" "he tried to play a sneaking trick, and was caught at it!" broke in simpson. "now, mr. langridge, i'd advise you to leave this dance!" and the voice of the big californian grew stern as he looked full into the eyes of langridge. without a word, but with a glance of hate at tom, the bully swung around and crossed the room, threading his way amid the dancers. "thanks, old man!" exclaimed tom, fervently, to frank. "you save us--saved miss clinton--an unpleasant time." "indeed you did," spoke ruth, holding out her little hand. "i don't know how i can repay you. i did not look at my card when tom handed it back to me, but when i saw--saw that name there, i--i knew i had never let him put it down." "here!" exclaimed tom, taking the order. he scratched out the offending name. "it's gone now," he added, with a laugh. "i am in your debt, mr. simpson," went on ruth. "then repay me sometime by saving a dance for me," spoke the lad from the golden west, as he bowed and moved away. "i think this is our dance--_now_!" spoke tom, with a smile. "oh--tom!" exclaimed the girl, "i--i think i'd rather sit it out." chapter xxviii the legal battle langridge left the gymnasium immediately after the unpleasant scene, and gerhart soon followed. in a manner, the evening had been partly spoiled for ruth, but her girl chums gathered around her, and succeeded in bringing back a smile to her face. she and tom "sat out" the dance over which there had been a dispute, and in a palm bower they talked of many things. miss clinton begged off from her partner in next to the last dance, but she did the closing number with tom, who wished that the music would never cease. but the dance finally came to an end with a crash of melody, and though the youths and maidens applauded vigorously, the tired musicians put away their instruments and departed. "well, it's over," spoke tom, regretfully, as he escorted his fair companion toward the dressing room. "yes, but it was--glorious while it lasted!" she exclaimed, with brightly sparkling eyes. she was herself again. "when is the next one?" he asked, eagerly. "oh, you greedy boy!" she cried. "i'll let you know, however. we can't have them too often. the ogress objected to this one, as it was." "meaning miss philock?" asked tom. "no one else. i'll be out soon, and then we'll go home. there are madge and mabel." tom and his friends went to have a final cup of coffee, before starting off with the girls, and while they were drinking the beverage, frank simpson remarked: "well, we ought to know this week whether we're going to have a randall college any more or not." "how so?" asked phil. "the real legal battle opens in court to-morrow. i heard dr. churchill telling mr. zane about it this afternoon. it seems there is a certain point to be argued before they get at the main issue, and whichever side wins this point will have the advantage, and practically get the case." "what sort of a point is it?" asked tom, who had a little leaning toward the law. "blessed if i know?" replied the californian. "it was too deep for me, though i heard moses mention it. there was something about a writ of _certiorari_ or _lis pendis_ or an injunction, or something like that." "maybe the college authorities are going to ask for an injunction to prevent langridge and that crowd from interfering until the football season is over," suggested holly cross, hopefully. "what? do you imagine that all moses and the others have to think of is football?" demanded phil. "i tell you, fellows, this is a serious matter. i'd hate to see old randall done away with." "so would we all," declared kindlings. "but maybe we'll win in court, just as----" "as we didn't against fairview, but as we're going to do against boxer hall!" interrupted tom, with energy, and then he saw ruth beckoning to him, as she stood with her chums, most bewitchingly arrayed in a fur coat. "come on!" called tom to his friends, and soon they were escorting the girls home. there was some expectation when the students at randall assembled in chapel the next morning, and it was borne out by an announcement dr. churchill made. "perhaps some of you have heard of the further rumors going about concerning our difficulties," he said, gravely. "i beg of you to pay no attention to them. the case is far from settled, though within two days it may progress much toward that end, either for us--or against us. i now wish to state," he went on, after a pause, "that the faculty as well as the directors have been summoned to court to-morrow and the following day, so that randall will be without a teaching force. you young gentlemen will be given two holidays from your lectures and studies, but i request that none of you leave the vicinity of the college in that time. mr. zane will be in charge. i believe that is all," and the president bowed to the students. "wow! think of it! two days off!" whispered dutch. "you'll practice football as you never did before," declared kindlings with energy. "it isn't going to be all cakes and ginger ale for you, dutch, my lad!" there was much jubilation among the students at the prospect of an unexpected vacation, and even that day, preceding the two days' holiday, the spirit of unrest was manifested, so that lectures suffered. early the next morning, president churchill and the entire faculty took the train for the county seat, where the legal battle would be fought in the courthouse. the president and the instructors were needed to give evidence as to how long randall had been in undisturbed possession of the land, as the college lawyers hoped thus to prove their right to it, even without the lost quit-claim deed. "now, young gentlemen," began proctor zane, when the authorities had departed, "i shall expect implicit obedience from all of you in this emergency. i want no skylarking or horseplay," and as he said that he looked directly at dutch housenlager. "oh, no, we won't do a thing," promised the fun-loving lad. "will we, holly?" "speak for yourself. i'm going to practice kicking," declared the big centre, as he walked over toward the gridiron with a ball under his arm, followed by a number of the eleven. kindlings and the coach took advantage of the free time to insist on thorough practice, and an impromptu game was arranged with a nearby preparatory school for the following day, while for the present the 'varsity would have the scrub as opponents. there was a noticeable improvement on the part of the regular eleven, and captain woodhouse felt much encouraged. "i say, fellows," remarked dutch housenlager, as he strolled into the room of our four chums that night, and found frank simpson there, "i've got a great idea." "what is it, to set the college on fire, transport it bodily to some other location, or some other cute and infantile bit of cutting-up like that?" asked tom. "neither, you old catamaran! but zane has his hands full with the freshman class. particular hob has broken loose over in their dormitory, and 'zany' is at his wits' end. now, what's the matter with some of us getting into his room, and upsetting it a bit, to pay him back for what he's made us suffer? how's that for a joke?" "too kiddish," declared phil. "if you can't think up anything more lively you'd better go to bed, or join the freshies. come again, dutch." "say, it's a wonder you fellows wouldn't think up something lively yourselves, once in a while," protested the big lad. "you want me to do it all, and then you blame me if it doesn't come out right. name something yourself, phil clinton," challenged dutch. "oh, get out, we're going to have a game of chess," declared sid. "keep quiet." "well, if you fellows don't want to have a good time, i'm going to," declared dutch, with an injured air. "i'll find someone to do the trick with me, and then you'll wish you'd come along." "fare thee well," mockingly called tom, after the departing student. dutch managed to get holly cross and the two jersey twins into his scheme, and the four lads, after ascertaining that the proctor was busily engaged trying to bring order out of chaos in the freshmen ranks, made for mr. zane's room. "we'll make him think a cyclone has broken loose," declared dutch, gleefully. "it will be rich." now mr. zane was the personification of neatness. his room was as well arranged as the stateroom of the captain on an ocean liner. there was a place for everything, and everything was always in its place. but the mischief-making students had not been inside more than three minutes, before the apartment did indeed look as though a looting burglar had been at work. drawers of bureaus were pulled out, books were scattered all about, the chairs were piled up on the tables, a couch was turned over, and some of the incandescent light bulbs removed. "now let's turn every picture with the face to the wall," proposed dutch, with a chuckle. "great!" declared joe jackson. "immense!" echoed his brother. they were in the act of turning the etchings and engravings about face, when there came a sudden knock at the door. if thunder had sounded in the room the lads could not have been more surprised. they looked at each other in consternation. the knock was repeated. "co--come in," stammered holly. slowly the portal was pushed open, and, there, standing in the hall, was professor emerson tines, with a small valise in his hand. at the sight of the confusion that reigned in the proctor's well-ordered apartment a look of amazement spread itself over the face of the latin instructor. his jaw fell, and the valise did likewise. then he snapped his teeth together, there came a glinting light into his eyes, and with a frosty smile he spoke. "good evening, young gentlemen," he said, as he stepped into the room. "caught!" murmured dutch, as he let a picture swing back into place. "caught!" chapter xxix one point lost for a moment there was silence--portentous, momentous silence, while "pitchfork" gazed at the astonished lads, and as they returned his stare. "well," remarked the latin professor, as he advanced farther into the room, and looked about at the confusion on every side, "i see that mr. zane is not here." "n--no--no, sir," answered dutch, for mr. tines was looking directly at him, and seemed to expect him to reply. "he--he has gone out." "which is evidently the reason _you_ are here, committing these acts of vandalism!" said the professor, bitterly. "i am ashamed of you! to think that dr. churchill, myself and the other teachers could not go away for two days without you students behaving yourselves like this, it is disgraceful, shameful!" he spoke as though the whole responsibility of the college rested upon himself and the venerable president, whereas it was common knowledge that the plan was being considered of dropping mr. tines and getting a more popular professor, as well as a proctor who was more in sympathy with the boys. "we--we only wanted to have some--some fun," went on dutch, who, having acted as leader in the prank, thought it was his duty to defend his friends. "fun!" burst out mr. tines. "do you call this disgraceful vandalism _fun_?" "we--we meant it as such," went on dutch. professor tines only sniffed. probably he did not know what else to do. "you young gentlemen--i had almost said ruffians," he finally remarked, "you will remain here until i return. perhaps you may be able to tell me where mr. zane is." "i--i think he is in the freshmen dormitory," replied holly cross, who had been puzzling his brain trying to think of a reason for the unexpected return of mr. tines. "ah, thank you. i will find him, and return here. _you_ will kindly remain. i wish him to see his room--_as it is_." professor tines turned about stiffly, and left. the four lads gathered together in the centre of the apartment, a miserable and forlorn quartette. "who'd have thought he'd show up?" demanded dutch, as if it was against the rules for such a thing to be done. "i didn't," declared jerry. "me either," echoed his twin brother. "well, he caught us with the goods, all right," said holly. "i--i wonder what he'll do--he and zany?" ventured dutch. "shall we stay?" "got to," was holly's opinion, and indeed the request of the professor was equivalent to a command--under the circumstances. they waited there in misery until the latin instructor and mr. zane came. the gasp of astonishment and dismay that the proctor gave as he saw his room was evidence enough of the manner in which he viewed it. "this is what i found them at when i returned--most unexpectedly," said mr. tines, with a wave of his hand toward the shrinking youths. "if i were in your place, mr. zane, i would make them restore everything to rights, and then inflict such punishment as would cover the case. disbarment from athletics would be none too severe, as i see that all these are members of the football team." there was a gasp of dismay from the four, they had not bargained for that. "i came back unexpectedly," went on the professor. "dr. churchill had forgotten some papers to be used in the lawsuit, and i volunteered to return for them. getting here unexpectedly, i looked for you, mr. zane. i knocked at your door. i was bidden to enter. this--this--" and the professor made a dramatic gesture, "this is what i beheld," and he waved his two hands hopelessly at the confusion. as yet the proctor had said nothing. he looked at his dismantled room as though he could not comprehend it. never--never had he beheld it in this way before, not even when he moved from one apartment to another, nor when a section of the building in which he had his study was rebuilt. "i was in the freshman dormitory--there was a little--ahem--a little difficulty there," and the proctor hesitated. "i had no idea----" "if i were you i would make them put everything exactly as they found it," interrupted mr. tines, severely. "i--er--i--that is--i think i would prefer to straighten matters out myself," said mr. zane hesitatingly. it was as though he was in a daze. "you--you young gentlemen may go to your rooms," he added, softly. "what!" cried professor emerson tines. "aren't you going to----" then he realized that he was infringing on the prerogatives of the proctor, and he kept still. "you may go," said mr. zane, softly, and dutch and his mates went. it was not long before the news buzzed in every dormitory of the college. "served dutch right," declared tom. "he ought to have known better." "yes, but if zane and pitchfork take him and holly and the twins off the team," suggested phil, "then we _will_ be in the soup, for further orders." it was a direful thought, and no one liked to dwell on it. there was a lot of talk, and much speculation as to how "pitchfork" had managed to get back unobserved. there were also guesses as to what would be done with the culprits. then something new developed. it concerned the excitement in the freshman ranks. there had been considerable horseplay, it was said, and mr. zane had indignantly ordered it stopped. to his surprise, the students not only obeyed him, but his pardon was formally asked in the name of the class, and he was given a ringing round of cheers. "oh, _that's_ the noise we heard," commented tom. "i thought they were raising the roof." whether it was the unexpected compliment paid to him, or a feeling of commiseration for the four culprits was not made known, but, at any rate, proctor zane inflicted absolutely no punishment on dutch and his mates. he did not even refer to the subject again, though professor tines was seen in excited conversation with him. perhaps the trouble in which randall was involved, and a feeling that he was not as well liked as he might be, influenced mr. zane. so dutch and his three chums breathed easier, and the football team blessed its lucky stars that it was to lose no more men. professor tines went back to court early the next morning, taking with him the documents forgotten by the president. he gave out no news of the court proceedings, which indeed had not been opened as yet. but word of them was received on the second day of the absence of the faculty. it was when the randall 'varsity was returning from the game with the preparatory school, having won by an unexpectedly big margin. the players were feeling jubilant, and were telling each other what they would do to boxer hall. "hello, there's prexy!" exclaimed tom, as he saw the venerable president strolling over the campus toward his residence. "let's ask him what happened in court," suggested phil. "he won't mind, for he knows we're anxious." the little squad of players surged up around dr. churchill. "can you tell us--that is--is randall safe?" stammered phil, as he looked up into the president's face, his mates anxiously surrounding him. "i regret to say that we have been defeated in the first--ah--scrimmage, i believe you football players call it," said the doctor, a bit sadly. "we have lost the first point in the main legal battle." chapter xxx an unexpected clew four lads sat in various ungraceful if easy attitudes in the room of our heroes one evening. four--for frank simpson was now an accredited member in full and regular standing of the "big four," as they were coming to be called. frank had moved his belongings into the apartment of the three chums, who were now four, for he found their comradeship congenial, and they liked him immensely. it was a week after the announcement by dr. churchill of the setback the college had received in the opening of the legal battle. football practice had, naturally, gone on as usual, and there was a more hopeful look on the faces of the captain and coach. the team was playing more as a unit. kicks were being handled better, the ball was being advanced with greater certainty in the games with the scrubs, and it looked as if randall would come into her own again. they had played another minor game, and had rolled up a surprisingly big score. "but the trouble of it is," said tom, as he got in a more comfortable position on the creaking sofa, "the trouble of it is that boxer hall is doing just as well. she's cleaning up everything that comes her way." "but we have a look-in at the championship," declared sid. "yes, if we win the game saturday against pentonville prep," agreed phil. "oh, we'll do that all right," declared frank. the football situation in the tonaka lake league was peculiar that year. in spite of the fact that randall had not done well and had been beaten by fairview, the latter college had "slumped" so after her victory over randall that she was practically out of it as regards the championship. should randall win the game against pentonville, which was almost a foregone conclusion, there would be a tie between boxer hall and the college of our heroes for the championship. it was this knowledge which made the players, coach and captain a trifle nervous, for so much depended on the final struggle that was close at hand. would it be randall or boxer hall that would carry off the honors of the gridiron? "well, we'll play our heads off, that's all i can say," remarked tom, as he glanced over the sporting pages of a paper. "i see that they're trying some new kicking game at boxer." "yes, they're always after fads," declared phil. "but straight football, with some of the old-fashioned line bucking, such as we play, and two halves, are good enough for me." "same here," agreed sid. "i guess nothing will come of that law business before the final game, eh, fellows?" went on tom, who seemed anxious about it. "no danger of a decision from the courts right away," said frank. "from what i can hear, our lawyers are going to get back at langridge and his partner in some new kind of an injunction or a _lis pendis_ or a _whang-doodle_. that may make it look like a white horse of another color." they talked of football and the legal tangle at some length, and were deep in a discussion about a certain wing-shift play, when tramping footsteps were heard down the corridor. "holly cross," ventured sid. "dutch housenlager or--an elephant," predicted tom. "he walks as though he had his football shoes on." "perhaps he's coming to suggest another trick on the proctor or pitchfork," suggested phil, for the latest attempt of dutch was a standing joke against the fun-loving student. "hello, dutch!" greeted tom, as the big guard entered. "anything wrong?" "no. why?" "oh, i didn't know, but i thought you looked as if you just met the proctor, who made you sweep and dust his room." the others joined in the laugh against dutch. "oh, can you fellows ever forget anything?" he asked, in accents of deep disgust, as he looked about for a place to sit down. "where's the seat of honor, anyhow?" he demanded. "am i to sit on the floor?" "oh, suit yourself," remarked phil. "our seat of honor hasn't yet come back from the realms of mystery." "no, hang it all!" exclaimed sid. "i'd give a good deal to know who has our old chair." "what! haven't you got that back yet?" asked dutch. "seems to me if i were you i'd make it a point to go in the room of every fellow in college until i found it." "we've practically done that," declared phil. "in fact, we've done everything but offer a reward, and i guess we'll have to do that next." "just what sort of a chair was it that you lost?" asked frank simpson. "i've heard a lot about it since i came to randall, but i don't exactly know whether it is a turkish rocker or a chinese teakwood affair with a cold marble seat." "it was the easiest chair you ever sat in!" declared tom. "a regular sleep-producer," was sid's opinion. "nothing like it ever known when you came in all tired out from football practice, as i did to-night," spoke phil. "it rested you all over, and now we only have the couch, and tom or sid have that all the time now, so i don't get a chance at it." "get out, you syndicated cynic!" cried tom. "you're always on the 'lay' when i come in. but, frank, seriously, this chair of ours was the real thing. it was a beaut, and i haven't been able to find one like it since. it was an heirloom!" "it was a relic of the dark ages!" broke in dutch. "say, simpson, you'd ought to have seen it! that chair was broken in the back, the seat was humped up like a camel with the heaves, both cylinders were cracked, the gears were stripped smooth, the differential was on the fritz, there wasn't a tire on it without a puncture, it had the pip and the epizootic, and, to crown it all, when you sat down in it you never knew whether you were going to get out of it alive or were a prisoner for life on hard labor." "soak him!" "traitor!" "put him out!" "roll him under the sofa!" "that'll do for you, dutch!" these were only some of the things that tom and his mates called at the big guard as he went on slandering the precious chair. frank simpson sat an amused witness of the little scene. "it was pretty big, wasn't it?" he ventured, at length. "that chair, i mean." "as if we were talking of anything else," retorted phil. "yes, it was big and heavy and clumsy--about fifty years old, i guess, and it disappeared just before the clock went off on a vacation, and came back so unexpectedly. by the way, fellows, we're as far from that mystery as ever." "don't speak of it!" begged sid. "did your chair have a sort of reddish-brown cover on it?" went on frank. "that may have been the color once," broke in the irrepressible dutch, "but it was sky-blue pink when it walked away, for these fellows used to empty their ink bottles on it, and use the upholstery for a blotter." "cheese it!" cried tom. "yes, frank, the cover was a reddish-brown." "and were the legs carved with claws, and the arms with lions' heads?" went on the californian. "exactly! say!" cried phil, "like the dervish in the story of the camel, have you got our old chair?" he arose, and fairly glared at frank. the latter, too, had been growing more serious as he proceeded with his questions. sid and tom leaned forward eagerly, and dutch looked on, wondering what was coming next. "i haven't got your chair," went on frank, "but when i know what kind it is, as i do now for the first time, i think i can give you news of it." "then, for the love of mike and the little fishes, speak!" cried tom. "or forever after hold your peace," chimed in dutch, solemnly. "where's our chair?" demanded phil, dramatically. "i was passing a second-hand store, the proprietor of which also does upholstering as a side line," went on frank, "when, happening to glance into the left-hand--no, i think it was the right-hand--window, i espied----" "oh, put on more steam!" begged tom. "i saw a chair," went on the californian, "a chair that i am sure must be yours. it was exactly as you have described it. i thought it looked to be quite a relic." "where is that second-hand place?" cried phil and tom in a breath, while sid grew so excited that he grabbed frank by the arm, and held to him as if he, too, might vanish as had the chair. "where is it? where is it?" "in haddonfield, on a little side street that runs up from the depot. i don't know the name of it," answered simpson. "decker street," supplied tom. "about the only place we didn't look, fellows. i didn't know there was a second-hand place there." "there's only this one!" said frank. "but he has your chair!" "hurrah!" cried phil. "on the trail at last! where's my cap?" and he began looking about the room. "where you going, this time of night?" demanded dutch. "over to haddonfield to get that chair, of course," replied the quarter-back. "come on, sid and tom." they were enthusiastically hunting about for their hats and coats, which were never put in the same place twice. "i'll go along and show you," volunteered frank. "but he may be closed now. it's after nine. we won't get to town until nearly ten." "we'll make him open up if we have to get the police," declared sid. "sure!" exclaimed tom. "fellows, it's too late to go to-night," said dutch, seriously. "you can't run any chances of zane catching you, especially as the big game with boxer is so near at hand. if you're caught it may mean being ruled off the team, and you ought not to take chances." the four hesitated. it was their chair against the eleven, for they knew that there had been a number of college rule violations of late, and the proctor was unusually strict. they might be caught and punished. "morning will do," insisted dutch, who, if he did not care much for the chair, did have the interests of the eleven at heart. "it won't do, but i suppose we'll have to wait," conceded phil, slowly. "jove! it's tough to almost get your hands on it, and then have to hold back. why didn't you tell us this before, frank?" "i didn't see the chair in the window until day before yesterday, and then i never thought it could be yours, until we got to talking about it to-night." "and to think that we may have it back to-morrow," murmured tom. "it seems too good to be true! i wonder how it ever got away?" "i don't know that, but i do know that we'll chain it fast when we have it again," declared phil, and then they made frank tell all over again how he had happened to see it, and how it looked. chapter xxxi after the chair the four chums begged off from football practice directly after the first lecture the next morning, when they had a clear period until noon. "say, what's up?" demanded kindlings, to whom they made the request. "we want to go to haddonfield and get our chair," explained phil. "and you want me to knock out a morning's practice, when you know how much the team needs it," went on the captain, reproachfully. "we don't need it--so much," declared sid. "no, you fellows think you're perfect, i guess," and the captain looked injured, and spoke sarcastically. "it isn't that," said tom, eagerly, "but if we _don't_ go, our chair may vanish again. we'll put in hard practice when we come back." "oh, well, then, go ahead," conceded kindlings, after a consultation with the coach. "i'll make you pay for it, though. if we lose the boxer game, it will be up to you fellows." "we won't lose!" declared tom, confidently. they caught the next trolley car for town, and, piloted by frank, headed for the second-hand shop on the little side street. "now we'd better map out a plan of campaign," suggested phil, as they neared the place. "if we go into the place, and demand the chair, the fellow may insist that he has a good claim on it, and raise a row. we can't take it away by force, and----" "we sure _can_!" broke in tom, indignantly. "that chair is our property, and we have a right to take it wherever we find it." "suppose the dealer bought it in good faith from some one who stole it from our room?" asked sid. "that makes no difference," went on tom, who thought that perhaps some day he would study law. "if the dealer hasn't a good title to it, he can't claim it. we can take it away from him." "how?" asked sid. "get a policeman and have him ride it away for us in the patrol wagon?" "yes, we could do that," agreed frank, "but it would be sure to raise a row, and draw a crowd, and then folks would blame it on the pranks of some of the randall boys. we can't afford to have that happen. prexy wouldn't like it." "but we've got to get our chair," insisted sid. "isn't there some sort of a legal way of doing it?" asked phil. "can't we go to court and get a search warrant." "what we need, in case we locate the chair, is a writ of replevin," declared tom, as if he knew all the ins and outs of the legal game. "is replevin any relation, say a second cousin, to _lis pendis_?" asked frank, who seemed to have a special fondness for that term. "nothing like it," asserted tom. "to replevin your goods, it means you get a court order to take them wherever you can find them. now my plan is this: we'll go into the store, look around until we locate our chair, and then boldly demand it. if the fellow refuses to give it up we'll go get a policeman, and swear out a warrant against him for receiving stolen goods. that's what it amounts to, and we three fellows are witnesses enough, and can prove that the chair is ours." "good!" cried phil. "we're with you, tom." no better plan having been proposed, tom's was agreed to, and they proceeded on toward the shop, having come to a halt to discuss the situation. eagerly they peered forward as they swung around the corner. each of the three wanted to be first to sight their beloved chair. as for frank, he felt that he had already seen it. "that's the place," suddenly remarked the californian. "that shop with the spinning wheel sign over the door. it's a queer old place, kept by a down-east yankee, to judge by his talk." "the worst kind of a fellow with whom to talk business such as we have," said sid. "he'll stand on his rights to the last inch or penny. but there's no help for it." they were almost in front of the place now, and they strove to appear indifferent--as though they were merely strolling by; for, as tom said, first they wanted to catch a glimpse of their chair in the window, and then they would have the evidence they needed. four pairs of eyes were turned simultaneously toward the dingy casement, in which stood an odd assortment of chairs, tables, small sofas and other antique furniture. four gasps of breath told more plainly than any words the shock of surprise that followed the glances. "it isn't there!" cried tom. "it's gone!" added sid. truly enough there was no big, old-fashioned, easy chair in the window. "maybe it's in the other," suggested frank. "i told you i wasn't sure whether it was the left or right window." phil darted across the doorway. "it isn't over here, either!" he cried, as a rapid survey of the contents of that window disclosed the fact that it contained only some brass warming pans, a broken spinning wheel, some andirons and fire tongs. "perhaps it's inside," came from frank. "this fellow changes his window goods every other day to attract trade. let's go in." there was nothing else to do after they had assured themselves, by eager glances through the windows, that their chair could not be seen from without. "well, gentlemen, what can i do for you to-day?" asked a little wizened man, with a much wrinkled face, as he came forward, briskly rubbing his hands. his face was smooth shaven, and seemed to be made of some kind of upholstery leather. his blue eyes were deep set, under shaggy brows. "like something to furnish your college rooms with?" he went on, making a shrewd and correct guess as to their character. "i've got some sporty things, all right." "real sporty, eh?" asked tom. "something that will make our den look homelike?" "sure. why, i can sell you a pair of andirons dirt cheap. real antiques they be, too. come over in the _mayflower_. then i've got a lot of revolutionary muskets and swords you can hang up on the walls, and make it look like a regular den. could you use a spinning wheel? i've got a dandy that just came in. i sold one like it to some girls from fairview institute the other day, and they paid me a good price. i could let you have this one a little cheaper, if you bought all your stuff from me. you're from boxer hall, ain't ye?" "no, from randall!" exclaimed phil, indignantly. "i--i meant to say randall all the while!" exclaimed the man, in some confusion. "i don't know what's gittin' into me lately. guess i need a new pair of eyes. that's twice i made a mistake like that. i might have knowed you was from randall, of course. you fellers are goin' to beat them all holler in the championship game, ain't ye?" "we hope so," answered phil, "but we came to look for an old easy chair. we need one for our room, and we heard you had one that would suit us." "easy chairs for college rooms? why, i've got 'em by the bushel!" exclaimed the man, eager for business. "look here!" and he led the way to the rear of his shop. "i've got 'em in colonial style, early english, flemish, louis the fourteenth, and almost any kind you like. what'll you have?" the chums eagerly looked around the shop. their chair was not in sight. somehow their hearts sank, and they hardly dared ask the next question. "let's see a good, old-fashioned, easy chair. we don't care whether it's early flemish or late irish," said phil. "something like the one you had in your window the other day," put in tom. "a friend of ours saw that one, and told us about it. we'd like to look at that." the dealer, who had been marching hopefully toward the rear of his shop, suddenly paused. he turned around and looked at the boys. "were you meanin' a big chair, with reddish-brown velour on it, and----" "claw legs!" interrupted sid, eagerly. "and lions' heads on the arms," put in phil. "that's it!" cried tom. "where is it? show us that one!" the dealer glanced at them sharply. "well, now i'm monstrous sorry," he began apologetically, "but i just traded that chair--traded it last night." "traded it?" gasped frank. "last night?" echoed sid. "yes," went on the dealer. "i had no call for it. you see, that old-fashioned upholstered stuff is out of date. what folks want now is real antiques like louis the fourteenth, or mission. mission is great stuff! now i've got a mission chair, in real spanish leather, that----" "how'd you come to trade our chair--i mean the one we _hoped_ to call ours," and phil quickly corrected himself, for it had been decided they would make no claim until they had assured themselves that it was really their chair. "well, the fact is a feller who's in the same line of business as i am wanted it more than i did," explained the yankee dealer. "he offered me two spinning wheels for it, and i took him up. i've got quite a call for spinning wheels. them girls over at fairview college likes 'em for their rooms." "that's so," murmured phil, regretfully. "ruth told me she got one the other day for their den." "and you traded off our--i mean that easy chair?" went on sid. "yes, i couldn't get rid of it, so i let it go." "how'd you come to get hold of it?" asked tom. "who'd you trade it to?" inquired frank, and his question was the more practical. yet the dealer answered tom first. "i bought it from a hebrew peddler," he replied. "he come along one day with a load of stuff, and offered me the chair with some other things. said he'd been buying 'em up at different colleges around here, and trading stuff for 'em. so i took the chair, and it was one of the few times i've been stuck. still, i didn't make out so bad, as i got the spinning wheels for it." "so you can't show it to us," spoke sid. "no, that chair's gone. but i've got lots of others. there's one real antique, in horsehair, and----" "no, thanks!" interrupted phil. "we'd slide off that every time we tried to go to sleep, it's so slippery." "then there's that mission----" began the dealer, eagerly. "no, we want one like that one which was in the window," spoke tom. "by the way, with whom did you say you traded it?" asked frank, casually, as if it did not matter. "i don't know his name," spoke the dealer. "i've done some business with him before, but not much." "is he in haddonfield?" phil wanted to know. "no, he's out in the country somewhere. lives on a little farm, i believe, and does the furniture business as a side line. he also upholsters chairs, i understand. it was some name like cohen, or rosasky, or isaacs--i really forget. but now, if you're lookin' for chairs----" "no, thank you," interrupted tom. "i don't think we care to look at any to-day. if you could put us on the track of the one we saw, we might get that, and then we could buy others of you." he added this as a bait to the trader. "well, i'm very sorry, but i can't, for the life of me, think of the name of the man who took that old chair," declared the dealer. "but if it was a spinning wheel now, or something in mission, i could----" "come on, fellows," interrupted tom, sadly. "i--i guess we don't want anything to-day." "now i've got a real gem in louis the fourteenth," went on the man eagerly. "no," said phil, decidedly. "or early flemish." "nothing doing," declared sid. "or a colonial sideboard and a warming pan--a warming pan is dead swell in the room of a college lad." "no, we don't----" began tom. "let's jolly him along," whispered frank simpson. "we want to get on the trail of that hebrew. now if we buy--say, a warming pan, of this man, he may give us more information." "right!" whispered tom, eagerly. "why didn't i think of it myself? of course! we do need a warming pan," he went on, winking at phil and sid, who at first thought their chum was out of his mind. "now if we could get a nice copper one, pretty good sized, it might do in place of the chair." "for you to sit on," murmured sid, keeping a straight face. "i've got just what you want!" declared the dealer, happy now at the prospect of business. "come back this way to the warming pan department. i've got one that came over in the vessel that followed the _mayflower_." "it must have been the _jilliflower_," murmured sid, with a silent chuckle. chapter xxxii "this isn't ours!" half an hour later tom parsons and his chums left the antique upholstering shop, richer in the possession of an old warming pan, which they did not want, poorer in the sum of six dollars, but also possessing more information than they at first had regarding the hebrew to whom had been traded their old chair--or, at least, the chair they hoped would prove to be theirs. "his name is a common hebrew one," the dealer told them, when he had been thawed out by the trade, "but i don't believe it was cohen. anyhow, he lives on the medford road, just beyond the village of rosevale. i remember that, because he told me how long it took him to drive in from there. but if he shouldn't have the chair on which you fellows seem so bent, i can fix you up. i've got an ancient colonial one that----" "i guess we've got all we need to-day," said phil, as he and his chums walked out. "whew!" he exclaimed, as he stood on the sidewalk. "if we hadn't made a break when we did, he'd have sold us a spanish sideboard or a holland tiled fireplace. come on, fellows, we must get on the trail of this hebrew gentleman." "i'm afraid we can't to-day," spoke tom. "why not?" "kindlings will want us to get into our football togs as soon as we get back, and jump out at practice. no chance to chase off around the country, looking for an unknown furniture dealer out rosevale way." "that's so," agreed sid. "well, we can go to-morrow." "i'm full up with lectures to-morrow," objected phil. "well, some of us can go," declared frank. "we mustn't let that chair get away again." for, though he was a new chum, he felt the same interest in the recovery of the missing piece of furniture as did his friends. "i can stand a few more cuts, and i can get off right after practice." "maybe i can go with you," suggested tom. the two did manage to get away the next day, taking a trolley car as far as it went, and hiring a farmer to drive them to the village of rosevale, a quaint little place. the farmer said he knew of no second-hand furniture dealers in that vicinity, but the boys had hopeful visions, and, dismissing their rig, as they intended to hire another in which to drive back, they tramped along the country roads, making inquiries wherever they could. but fate was against them. late that afternoon, having covered many miles, they gave up, and made arrangements to be driven back to where they could get a trolley car to randall. they had called on many men who dealt in old furniture, and some who made a specialty of upholstering. some were hebrews, and some were not. but none had the chair they sought. "i wonder if that yankee was fooling us?" asked tom. "no, i guess he meant all right, but he couldn't tell us any better than he did," replied frank. "and we're out six bones for that warming pan," went on tom, regretfully. "we'll have to see him again." they did, but the dealer insisted that he had told them to the best of his ability. he offered to get the man's name and correct address the next time he saw him, but this was not likely to be soon. in the meanwhile our friends were without their chair, and their spasmodic efforts to discover the mystery of the clocks had amounted to nothing. "i tell you what it is," said kindlings to them one day. "if you chaps don't perk up, and come to practice a little oftener, you'll find yourselves on the side lines when the boxer game comes off." that put more "ginger" into tom and his chums, for they had been rather neglecting practice of late in their efforts to locate their chair. they had, however, almost given up ever seeing the ancient piece of furniture again. in the meanwhile matters concerning the lawsuit were not going any too smoothly. a most careful search had been made for the missing quit-claim deed, and without it, it was rumored, the court proceedings must soon come to an end, with the eviction of the college authorities from the ground in dispute. there were dark days for randall, and only the hope of winning the football championship kept up the hearts of the students. nor was this hope any too strong, for there were whispers as to the prowess of boxer hall. randall had won her final game before the big struggle, and now was devoting all her energies to playing off the championship tie. new plays were tried and rejected. a different code of signals was put in vogue, for it was rumored that boxer hall was "on" to those in use. "they say langridge is playing his head off this year," declared tom one night, when a crowd of the football boys had gathered in the room of our friends. "maybe he'll go stale," suggested holly cross. "he won't if he can help it," was sid's opinion. "he's been waiting all season to get a whack at us fellows." "well, it will make the game lively," declared kindlings. "we'll give boxer hall all she wants." jerry jackson, who was sitting on the old couch with sid, moved to a more comfortable position. "i say," he drawled, "it's a wonder you fellows wouldn't either renovate your furniture, or else get some new. joe and i got some swell stuff the other day from an old shylock of a chap that has a joint out rosedale way." "out where?" asked tom, quickly, catching at the name. "out in a little place called rosedale," repeated jerry. "i guess you mean rose_vale_, don't you?" asked sid. "we heard of that fellow, but we couldn't find him." "no, i mean rose_dale_--d-a-l-e," spelled jerry. "he's an ancient hebrew--rather a decent chap, too, and he had a lot of antique stuff. joe and i bought a fine sofa." "a peach!" declared the twin brother. "you can go to sleep on it standing up." "what's this fellow's name?" asked phil, quickly. "rosenkranz," replied jerry. "but he hasn't got any more sofas. we bought the last one." "has he any chairs?" inquired sid. "a raft of them." "and his place is in rose_dale_, and not rose_vale_?" spoke tom. "that's it," the jersey twin asserted. "the two places are in opposite directions. i guess we ought to know. joe and i were out on a walk one day, and we saw the sofa in his window. he has his shop in one side of his house--a queer old place with a lot of russian brasses. he had one samovar that was a pippin, but he wanted eight dollars for it, and the sofa broke us." "fellows!" cried tom, excitedly, "i believe we are on the right track at last!" "track of what?" demanded jerry. "our chair," and tom quickly told what little was known. "it's evident," he said, "that the yankee dealer got twisted between rose_vale_ and rose_dale_. they're as alike as two peas." "then it's rose_dale_ for ours as soon as we can get there in the morning!" cried phil. "this time i hope we're on the right trail." "yes, we've been in the right church, but the wrong pew, so often that it's getting to be monotonous," commented sid. mr. rosenkranz proved to be a hebrew gentleman of the old-fashioned type--venerable, with a long, straggly beard. he greeted the boys courteously when they called on him two days later, as that was the first chance they had to make the trip. with a voice that trembled with hope, tom asked about an old-fashioned easy chair. "sure i have him," declared the hebrew, eagerly, scenting a trade. "ven effer you vants an easy chair, comes you to isaac rosenkranz, und you get him. i show you!" the boys followed him to the rear of the store. there, amid a pile of broken furniture, old stoves, odds and ends that seemed utterly worthless, but which seemed to constitute the entire stock-in-trade of the dealer, they saw a big chair. "that's it!" cried phil, eagerly. "ours--ours!" gasped sid. "no mistake this time," murmured tom. "chair, allow me to present you to our new member, frank simpson; this is the chair you have heard so much about." "are you sure of it?" asked the big californian, as he pretended to make a bow to the article of furniture. "sure, we can't be mistaken," declared phil. "there are the claw feet, lions on the arms, and all that. that's our chair." "your chair?" asked the dealer, quickly. "ha, yes, i see, if you _buys_ him!" the boys looked at each other. what was to be done? at length tom hit upon the simplest plan. it was no doubt their chair, he explained, and he told how it had disappeared. they could recover it by process of law, he went on, when mr. rosenkranz evinced a desire to hold it, but they would pay a reasonable price for it. "mind you, only to get it back in a hurry, though," declared tom, "for it's ours by right. but i think it will be a lucky hunch for the football team, if we get it before the big game with boxer hall saturday. so, mr. rosenkranz, how much do you want for it?" the dealer named a preposterous sum, but the boys were shrewd, and beat him down. finally, when he had admitted that the chair was not likely to sell soon, because it was in poor repair, he consented to part with it for a reasonable sum. he confirmed what the yankee dealer had said, that he had acquired it in a trade. "well, we'll take it," said tom, passing over the money. "now, how can we get it home?" it was rather a problem, as the chair was big and clumsy, and they were quite a distance from randall. but finally, on payment of a further small sum, the dealer offered to deliver it to the college. "it doesn't seem possible that we've got it," said tom, as they were on their way back that afternoon, the hebrew promising to bring the chair to them on the morrow. "we'll have a celebration in honor of its return." "nothing in the fancy eats line until after the big game, i'm afraid," objected sid. "kindlings and lighton will sit down on that. but we'll have a double celebration after we do up boxer hall." "i wish it was to-morrow--i mean, so we could sit in the old chair," went on phil, almost as eager as a child. but the chair did not come the next day, and after fretting and worrying, the boys received a badly written, and worse spelled, postal from mr. rosenkranz, explaining that his horse was sick, but that he would deliver the chair as soon as the animal was well. "say, there's a hoodoo about that chair," declared tom, as he went out to football practice with his mates. it was on the morning of the big game with boxer hall that an ancient wagon, drawn by a decrepit horse, drove up to randall college. at first the students were inclined to make game of the outfit, but when phil and tom discovered that it was mr. rosenkranz with their chair, there was a change of heart. for the belief that the chair might prove to be a mascot or "lucky" hunch had grown. "there she is!" cried sid, seeing the old piece of furniture on the wagon. "now, up into our room with her, fellows." "yes, and don't stop to admire it all day, either," called kindlings. "i want you in practice right away." the chums promised, but they could hardly tear themselves away from the room where, once more, reposed the old chair. it looked as natural as it ever had, and its sojourn "in the land of the philistines," as tom declared, had apparently not harmed it any. "i declare, the old clock seems glad to see it back," declared phil. "it sure does," agreed sid, sinking down on the sofa. that piece of furniture seemed to creak and groan out a welcome to its fellow. "we'll draw lots to see who has the honor of first sitting in the old chair, and then we'll get out on the field," suggested tom. he himself drew the lucky number. with something of a little ceremony he made ready to sink down into the depths of the chair. slowly he let himself back. a cloud of dust, as of yore, arose around him, making phil, sid and frank sneeze. "they're greeting you, old chap!" cried tom to the chair. he leaned back. his chums, watching him, saw a look of wonder come over his face. then his hand went under the seat, and began feeling there. tom leaped up, raising more dust--a regular cloud. "what's the matter? a pin stick you?" asked sid. "a pin? no. but, say, fellows, this isn't our chair!" "not our chair?" echoed phil. "not--not----" faltered sid. "not our chair!" exclaimed tom, decidedly, as he sat down in it again. "here, phil, you try it. it looks like our chair, and it's built like it--upholstery and all--it's a dead ringer, in fact, but it's not _ours_!" and tom moved aside while phil got ready to make the test. chapter xxxiii a great find the quarter-back let himself down critically and easily into the chair. he was not in it more than a few seconds, ere he arose quickly. "it seems to fit, just as our chair did," he said, with a puzzled air. "i can't tell----" "it's _not_ our chair," insisted tom. "of course when you sit in it it doesn't feel any different. but look here!" he tilted it over backwards with a sudden motion. "what are you trying to do?" indignantly demanded sid. "break it?" "i'm going to look under the seat," replied tom. "don't you remember how i nailed a board on last term to hold it together?" "that's right," agreed sid. "and i put on a cleat near the back legs. see if that's there, tom." tom had the underside of the chair exposed to view now. eagerly the lads peered forward. to their gaze was presented no indiscriminately-nailed-on boards or cleats, which they so well remembered. instead, there was a smooth brown covering of cloth, such as is put under most upholstered chairs. "what did i tell you?" cried tom, in triumph. "i knew this wasn't our chair as soon as i sat in it and ran my hand under it. you could feel the board i put on, and when that was missing i knew something was wrong." "you're right, old man!" exclaimed phil. "but if this isn't our chair, we've got its twin brother. i never saw two more alike. but if it isn't ours, whose is it?" "and where's yours?" asked frank simpson. "this mystery is only beginning, fellows." "that dealer gave us the wrong chair," said tom. "he must have another one in his shop." "i don't believe so," declared phil. "if he had had two he'd have mentioned it when we were out there. besides, we would have seen it. frank, are you sure this is the chair you saw in the shop window of that yankee dealer?" "no, i can't be sure of it, of course. it looks like it, though." "well, we certainly are up against it," declared tom. "wait a minute, i'll soon find out what it means." he started from the room. "where you going?" called sid. "i'm going to see rosenkranz and ask him about this mix-up." "it's too late," declared phil. "rosenkranz is quite a distance toward home by this time. we'll see him later--to-morrow, after the game. but it sure is a queer mix-up. who'd ever suppose there was another chair like ours." "this one is newer," announced tom, who had turned it right side up again, and was critically examining it. "not newer, i guess," said phil. "only it hasn't had the usage ours got. this is evidently of the same vintage, but has been reposing in some one's back parlor for centuries, with the curtains down and the blinds closed to keep out the sun. but a fair exchange is no robbery, and i don't know but what we're just as well off. we have a better chair than ours." "i'd rather have our own," declared sid. "so would i," added tom. "it sat easier," and he dropped into the chair, and lolled back critically. "here, give me a show at it," begged sid. "i haven't had my sitting yet." tom arose reluctantly, and, as he did so, there came a knock on the door. "come!" cried phil. it was wallops, the messenger. "if you please," he said, "captain woodhouse wants you gentlemen to come out on the gridiron at once, for practice." "of course!" cried tom. "we were nearly forgetting that in the excitement over the chair. tell the captain we'll be right out." there was hard, snappy practice against the unfortunate scrub, and as it progressed the captain and coach looked more gratified than at any time that season. "they're fit, all right," declare kindlings, with sparkling eyes. "i think they'll do," agreed mr. lighton, "but you've got the fight of your life ahead of you, old man." "i know it--but we'll win!" tom and his three chums returned from practice for a brief rest before the game. it was a holiday, with no lessons or lectures to mar the sport. "first shot at the chair!" cried tom, as he burst into the room. he threw himself into the big piece of upholstered furniture. there was a sudden cracking, breaking and tearing sound, and the whole bottom of the chair seemed to drop out. a cloud of dust arose. tom was like a person who had sat upon a barrel, the head of which had collapsed. "oh, wow!" he cried, as he vainly struggled to get up. "i say, can't some of you fellows give me a hand?" "what's the matter, hurt?" asked phil, anxiously. "no, but i'm wedged in here as if i'd sat on a drum." they pulled him out, and through the settling cloud of dust gazed at the ruin. "now you have gone and done it," said sid, reproachfully. "i guess i have," admitted tom, regretfully, as he moved the chair to one side. several of the bottom boards were on the floor. on top of them, amid a little pile of dirt and splinters, was a folded paper. tom picked it up. he knocked the dust from it and slowly and wonderingly read several lines of writing on the front, and, as he read, a look of bewilderment came over his face. "why--why, fellows!" he exclaimed. "look--look here! a deed--an old deed given by simon hess to jacob randall, in consideration of--and so forth and so forth--for the purpose of--um--setting aside land on which to erect a college. why, great cæsar's grandmother's pumpkin pie!" almost yelled tom, "this is the missing quit-claim deed that everyone is looking for! the deed on which the title to the college depends! it was in that old chair!" chapter xxxiv the excited stranger at first, tom's chums did not know whether or not he was joking. they crowded around him and looked over his shoulder as he unfolded the paper. the inner contents bore out the endorsement on the face of the document. "that's it, all right!" cried frank. "it's the quit-claim deed, as sure as you're a foot high!" "and does possession of it mean that randall college is all right?" asked sid. "sure!" asserted tom. "but how in the world did it ever get inside that chair?" demanded phil. "this is the greatest mystery yet. the loss of our chair and clock aren't in it." "i should say not!" agreed frank. "what had we better do?" asked sid. "get this deed into the hands of dr. churchill as soon as possible," decided tom. "he'll lock it in the safe, whence it can't disappear again, and then they'll call off the suit against randall. i guess this will put a crimp in lawyer langridge, all right." "who was this jacob randall mentioned in the deed?" asked frank, who was carefully reading the document. "oh, he was some relative to the randall who founded the college," declared phil. "randall, the founder, got it later, and endowed the college. jove! but this is a great find, all right, eh, fellows?" "it's a good thing i came down hard in that seat, or we'd never found the deed," went on tom. "otherwise we might have traded back this chair for our own, and never would have known a thing about the quit-claim." "but where _is_ our chair?" asked sid. "and how in the name of the sacred cow did the deed get in the seat of this one?" "say, don't ask any more questions, or i'll go batty," declared tom. "come on, let's take this deed to prexy right away." it was such a momentous occasion that nothing less than a full delegation of the four "guardsmen" could do justice to it, so the quartette of chums invaded the office of dr. churchill, to that gentleman's no small amazement. on the way our heroes met several of their chums, but they did not mention their find, thinking it best to let the proper authorities know of it first. "ahem! is this a strike, gentlemen?" asked the president, with a twinkle in his eyes. "it's a 'find'!" exclaimed tom, and he held out the deed. to say that dr. churchill was surprised would be but faintly to express it. he eagerly questioned the boys, who as eagerly answered, telling the story of their missing clock and chair from the beginning. "i can't understand it," went on the president, with a puzzled shake of his head. "but i'll take good care of this quit-claim deed, and we can make inquiries later. you have rendered a service to randall to-day, gentlemen, that she will not soon forget. i thank you personally, and, later, i will see that you receive the recognition you deserve." "come on!" whispered tom to his chums, for the good old doctor was much affected. "it's nearly time for the game, and we don't want to miss that." murmuring over and over again his thanks at the unexpected discovery, dr. churchill locked the deed in the safe, stating that he would take immediate steps to have the court matters brought to a close, if possible. "for this, i think, settles forever the title of randall college," he said. "we are now secure." tom and his chums hurried back to their room. dr. churchill had requested them to say nothing for a little while regarding the finding of the deed. "now for boxer hall," remarked phil, grimly, as he looked at his watch. "they'll begin to arrive in about an hour." wallops, the messenger, stepped toward our friends. "there's a gentleman just gone up to your room," he said. "he was inquiring for you, and i sent him up. he said he'd wait outside until you came back from the president's office." "who is he?" asked tom. "maybe it's some of our folks, fellows, come to see the big game." "no, i think he is a stranger," remarked the messenger. wondering who could be paying them a visit at this time, our heroes hastened their steps. outside, in the corridor, they saw a man excitedly pacing up and down. he approached them eagerly. "are you mr. parsons, mr. clinton, and--er----" he paused, as if trying to remember the other names. "simpson and henderson," finished tom. "did you want to see us?" "indeed i do, very much! did you receive a big chair from a dealer named rosenkranz, a few days ago?" "we received it to-day," spoke phil. "why?" "may i look at it?" went on the man, eagerly. "i have reason to think that it is mine, and that i have yours." "at last!" murmured tom. "once more on the trail of the mystery at last! like a prima donna's final-final concert. yes, you may see the chair, and welcome." he opened the door of their room, and at the first glance inside, the stranger noted the chair. "yes, that's mine!" he cried, eagerly. "that's what _we_ thought--at first," spoke sid, calmly. the stranger paid no attention to the boys now. he went over to the chair, in the bottom part of which the boards had again been fitted loosely. the man put his hand underneath, and, as he did so, the boards fell down once more. "what's this!" he cried. "someone has been tampering with my chair! there is something missing! something valuable! did you lads take anything from this chair?" "what might it have been?" inquired tom, calmly, motioning to his chums to keep silent. "a paper--a document--a valuable document! did you take it?" "we found a certain paper," replied tom. "i sat in the chair a little too hard, the boards dropped, and there was a paper in there." "it's mine! where is it now? i demand it!" "easy," counseled tom. "do you know what that paper was?" "i should say i do! give it to me at once! you may keep the chair if you like, but give me the paper!" the man was getting more and more excited. "that paper," said tom, calmly, "was a missing quit-claim deed to property owned by randall college. the loss of it entailed a lawsuit which is still pending. we found the deed, and, of course, that brings the suit to an end." "where is that deed?" demanded the man, angrily. "it was in my chair, and i want it." "it was in the chair--it isn't now," said tom. "it is where you can't get it--in dr. churchill's safe, and randall college is rid of her enemies!" "give--me--back--my--deed!" fairly howled the man. he seemed as if he would strike tom, but the plucky end faced him fearlessly. suddenly from outside came a burst of cheers. they welled to the ears of our heroes. "the boxer hall crowd!" exclaimed phil. "they're here for the big game! come on, fellows! now to play for our lives!" once again came the burst of cheers. looking from their windows, our friends could see a crowd of boxer hall students, arriving in big stages, which they had hired. their cries of greeting and defiance were answered by those of the randall lads, who came pouring out on the campus. "my deed--where is my deed? give it to me!" repeated the stranger, eagerly. tom turned on him like a flash. "look here!" the end cried. "i don't know you, and i don't know what your game is. but i _do_ know that we've got the deed, and that we're going to keep it. now, you get out of here, and don't come back. we're going to play football, and if you want to make any claim, you go to the randall lawyers. now--vamoose!" tom pointed to the door. the man looked at him defiantly, and seemed about to leap at the lad. then, with a slinking glance, he departed. "well," remarked phil, as the echoes of his footsteps died away down the corridor, "what do you think of that?" "isn't it the limit?" demanded sid. "worse and more of it," added frank. "i wonder----" "no time to wonder now," interrupted tom, briskly. "we haven't anything to worry about from that chap. the deed is safe. now, come on, get into our togs, and wipe up the ground with boxer hall." chapter xxxv the winning touchdown what a crowd there was! it seemed to surge all over the grandstands, hiding the boards from sight, so that the structure looked like a solid mass of human beings. old men there were, and elderly ladies, too, and young men--and maidens--girls, girls, girls, everywhere, their pretty hats and bright wraps making the otherwise dull and cloudy day seem like a fairy garden. nearly everyone from fairview institute was on hand, and the girls sat together, chanting songs--sometimes for randall and sometimes for boxer hall. the former contingent was led by the friends of our heroes, miss tyler, miss harrison and miss clinton. it was almost time for the game to start, and bean perkins had led his crowd of shouters, cheerers and singers in various calls and melodies. out on the field were the players, nearly two score of them, for each college had plenty of substitutes. "it's going to be a game for blood, all right," murmured tom, who, standing with his three chums, watched boxer hall at practice. "look how they get into play on the jump." "oh, we can do it, too," declared phil. "they've got some good kickers," announced sid, critically. "so have we," fired back phil, who seemed to resent any implied slight of the randall team. "have you heard where langridge is going to play?" asked frank simpson. "against me, someone said," replied tom. "he's been shifted to right end, i hear, and i wish he wasn't. there'll be some scrapping, sure." "don't let him get your goat," advised phil. speculation as to the position of the players was soon set at rest, when the list was announced this was the lineup. boxer hall position randall ford enderby _left end_ tom parsons dave ogden _left tackle_ bert bascome george stoddard _left guard_ frank simpson paul davenport _centre_ holly cross lynn railings _right guard_ billy housenlager ed dwight _right tackle_ dan woodhouse fred langridge _right end_ jerry jackson tom miller _quarter-back_ phil clinton fred cooper _right half-back_ pete backus charles baker _left half-back_ sid henderson william cook _full-back_ joe jackson it was stated that two halves of thirty minutes each would be played, and it was also known that some of the old-time rules, as regarded play, would be used, for the tonaka lake league had their own ideas on this subject. the crowd continued to increase, and when captain miller, of boxer hall, and captain woodhouse, of randall, met for a conference, the stands had overflowed into the field, where the officers had trouble keeping the crowd back of the ropes. boxer won the toss, and there was a momentary feeling of disappointment at this, but it soon passed away, for there was no wind, and little advantage to be gained by selecting a goal. "i'm glad we've got 'em on our own grounds," remarked tom, in a low voice. "yes, that's one advantage," agreed phil. "oh, if we can only win, old man--if we only can! then randall will come into her own again, and down all her enemies." "we're _going_ to win," said tom, simply, as if that settled it. boxer elected to defend the south goal, which gave the ball to randall to be kicked off. holly cross topped it on a little mound of dirt. he looked to kindlings for a confirmatory nod, which the captain gave, after a glance at his men. the boxer halls were on the alert. the whistle of the referee blew, and holly's toe made a dent in the new yellow ball. away it sailed far into boxer's territory. langridge made the catch, and started over the chalk marks with speed, protected by good interference. but with a fierceness which it seemed that nothing could stop, tom parsons circled in, and made one of the best tackles of his career, as he brought his old enemy down with a thud to the ground, on boxer's thirty-eight yard line. "now the real battle begins," murmured tom, as he ran to his place, while the opponents of randall lined up, the quarter-back singing out his signal. fred cooper was given the ball, and made a try at getting around randall's right end, but jerry jackson and his support were right there, and cooper was nailed, after a gain of about four yards. it was a splendid defense on the part of randall, and her cohorts were glad, for boxer had some big players that year, and there was fear that she would smash through. in fact, so fearful was captain miller after that first try that he called for a kick. it was well done, and cook sent the pigskin sailing far back toward randall's goal posts. joe jackson caught it, and began a run which brought the crowd to its feet as if by magic, while thousands of throats yelled encouragement, and bean perkins broke his cane to slivers, in his excitement. past man after man of the boxer team did joe dodge, until he was nearly in the centre of the field before he was downed. "now's our chance," murmured phil, as he knelt to take the pigskin when holly should snap it back. phil signaled for sid henderson to take the ball, and take it sid did, smashing through the boxer line for five yards. joe jackson was next called upon, and proved a good ground-gainer. then came the turn of pete backus, who got into action on the jump. in less than three minutes of play randall had ripped out seventeen yards through the hardest sort of a defense, and this exhibition of skill, pluck and line-smashing was a revelation to those who had feared for their favorite college. it was disheartening to boxer hall. randall had had no need to kick. another signal came, and frank simpson, with a tremendous heave, opened up a big hole for joe jackson to dart through. then, and not until then, did boxer prove that she could hold, for, in response to the frantic appeals of her captain, his men stopped joe, after a small gain. then came some kicking, and boxer had the ball again. with desperate energy she began at her smashing tactics once more, and to such advantage that she was advancing the leather well up the field. something seemed to be the matter with randall. she was giving way--a slump. "hold! hold! hold 'em!" pleaded dan woodhouse. his men braced, but either they did not work together, or they braced at the wrong moment, for on came boxer hall. right up the field they went, until they were only twenty yards away from the randall goal line. there were glum feelings in the hearts of the supporters of the yellow and maroon, and wild, delirious joy in the ranks of the enemies, for the stands were rioting with cheers and songs, while above all came the deep-throated demand for: "touchdown! touchdown!" "and they'll get it, too, if we don't stop 'em," thought tom, in despair. he had been playing well, and taking care of all the men who came his way, but that was all he could do. then randall braced, and, in the nick of time, and held to such advantage that boxer had to kick. joe jackson caught the ball, and was gathering himself for a run back, when langridge, who had broken through with incredible swiftness, tackled him, almost in the very spot where the randall full-back had grabbed the pigskin. langridge and joe went down in a heap, and how it happened, joe, with tears in his eyes, later, could not explain. but the leather rolled away from him. like a flash langridge was up, had picked the ball from the ground, and amid a perfect pandemonium of yells, was sprinting for randall's goal, with not a man between him and the last chalk mark. it was almost a foregone conclusion that he would touch down the ball, and he did, though tom sprinted after him, with such running as he had seldom done before. but to no avail. to the accompaniment of a whirlwind of cheers, langridge made the score, and then calmly sat on the ball, while the others rushed at him. but he was safe from attack. oh, the bitterness in the hearts of the randall lads! it was as gall and wormwood to them, while they lined up behind their goal posts and watched lynn railings kick the goal. "six to nothing against us," murmured phil, with a sob in his throat. "oh, fellows----" he could not go on, but walked silently back to the middle of the field. "now, boys, give 'em the 'wallop' song!" cried bean perkins, with a joyousness that was only assumed, and the strains of that jolly air welled out over the field, mingling with the triumphant battle cries of boxer. but the randall players heard, and it put some heart into them. the game went on, with slight gains on either side, for ten minutes more. there were forward passes and on-side kicks tried, and an exchange of punts. once randall was penalized for holding, and twice boxer had the ball taken from her for off-side plays. the leather was kept near the middle of the field, and it was evident that a most stubborn battle would mark the remainder of the championship game. yet the advantage of first scoring was with boxer, and it gave them additional strength, it seemed. "fellows, we _must_ get a touchdown!" declared kindlings, with tears in his eyes, when time was called, as charles baker was knocked out, and ted sanders went in as the boxer left half. randall had the ball, and with the energy of despair, was rushing it down the field. the loss of baker, who was one of the mainstays of the boxer team, seemed to affect randall's opponents, for they appeared to crumple under the smashing attack directed at them. in turn, sid, pete and joe rushed through the holes torn for them. they seemed resistless, and the sight brought forth a round of cheers. "now for the 'conquer or die' song," called bean, hoarsely, leaping to his feet and waving his battered cane and the tattered ribbons. "now's the time. we need that touchdown they're going to get!" his voice carried to the struggling players, for there was a moment of silence. then, as the grand latin strains broke forth, they seemed to electrify tom and his chums. the players fairly jumped at the opposing line. within two yards of the goal chalk mark pete backus was given the ball. with tremendous strength, the big californian opened a hole for him. pete slipped through, and staggered forward. cook, the boxer full, tried to tackle him, and did get him down, but, with a wiggle and a squirm, pete was free, and the next instant had made the touchdown. randall's supporters went wild with delight, and bean could not shout for some time after the fearful and weird yells he let loose. he had to take some throat lozenges to relieve the strain. there was some disappointment when the goal was missed, leaving the score six to five, in favor of boxer. but randall felt that she now had the measure of her opponents. the rest of the half was finished, with neither side scoring again, and then came a period of much-needed rest, for the lads had played with fierce energy. the opening of the second half was rather slow. the ball changed hands several times, and it seemed as if both sides were playing warily for an opening. "fellows, we've just _got_ to get another touchdown," declared kindlings. "that one point may beat us." "we'll get it," asserted phil, when time was being taken out to enable sid henderson to get back his wind, for he had been knocked out by a fierce tackle. then the battle was resumed. up to now, tom and his old enemy, langridge, had not clashed much, though langridge kept up a running fire of low-voiced, insulting talk against tom, to which our hero did not reply. "he's only trying to get my goat," tom explained to frank simpson. then came a play around tom's end, when boxer had the ball, and langridge deliberately punched his opponent. like a flash, tom drew back his arm to return the blow, and then he realized that he was in the game, and he got after the man with the ball. following the scrimmage, he said, with quiet determination: "langridge, if you do that again, i'll smash you in the eye," and from the manner of saying it, langridge knew he would carry it out. thereafter he was more careful. try as randall did, she could not seem to get the ball near enough to make an attempt for a field goal, or to rush it over for a touchdown. on the other hand, boxer was equally unable to make the needful gains. there was much kicking, and the time was rapidly drawing to a close. "we've _got_ to do it! we've _got_ to do it! we've _got_ to do it!" said the captain over and over again. he begged and pleaded with his men. the coach urged them in all the terms of which he was master. there were but two minutes more of play, and randall had the ball. it was within twenty-five yards of the boxer goal, and one attempt to rush it through guard and tackle had resulted in only a little gain. it was a critical moment, for on the next few plays depended the championship of the league. phil was doing some rapid thinking. sid had just had the ball, and had failed to gain. in fact, the plucky left half-back had not fully recovered from the effects of a fierce tackle. "they won't expect him to come at them again," thought phil. "but i wonder if old sid can do it. i'm going to try him." the quarter-back was rattling off the signal. somewhat to his surprise, sid heard himself called upon for another trial. he almost resented it, for he was very weary, and his ears were buzzing from weakness. and then he heard that song--the song that always seemed to nerve randall to a last effort. the latin words came sweetly over the field from the cohorts on the big stand--"_aut vincere, aut mori!_"--"either we conquer, or we die!" "might as well die, as to be defeated," thought sid, bitterly. the ball came back to him. like a flash he was in motion. the big californian, as he had done before several times in the game, opened a hole so fiercely that the opposing players seemed to shrink away from him. forward leaped sid, with all the power of despair. forward! forward! "there! see!" cried bean perkins. "he's through the line! he's going to make a touchdown--the winning touchdown!" sid _was_ through. staggering and weak, but through. between him and the coveted goal line now was but one player--the boxer full-back--william cook. he crouched, waiting for sid, but there were few better dodgers than this same sid. on he came, wondering if his wind and legs would hold out for the race he had yet to run--a race with glory at the end--or bitter defeat on the way. cook was opening and shutting his hands, in eager anticipation of grasping sid. his jaw was set, his eyes gleamed. on came the half-back, gathering momentum with every stride, until, just as cook thought he had him, sid dodged to one side, and kept on. there was now a clear field ahead of him, and he was urged forward by the frantic yells of his fellow players and the wild, shouting crowds on the stands. not a person was seated. they were all standing up, swaying, yelling, imploring, or praying, that sid would keep on--or fall or be captured before he crossed that magical white line. sid kept on. then there came a different yell. it was from the boxer stands. tom, picking himself out from a heap of players, saw langridge sprinting after sid. and how the former bully of randall did run! "oh, sid! go on! go on!" implored tom, in a whisper, as if the youth could hear him. and sid went on. after him, fiercely, came langridge. the distance between them lessened. sid was staggering. his brain was reeling. his legs tottered. the ball seemed about to slip from his grasp, and he found himself talking to it, as to a thing alive. "stay there, now--stay there--don't fall out. and--and you legs--don't you give way--don't you do it! keep on, old man, keep on! you can do it! you can do it!" thus sid muttered to himself. he heard the patter of the running feet behind him. he did not look to see who was coming--he dared not. he felt that if he took his eyes off the last white line ahead of him that he would stagger and fall. the line was like the crystal globe that hypnotizes one. it held his gaze. on, and on, and on---sid fell in a heap. his breath left him. there was a darkness before him. down he went heavily. but, oh, what a shout came dimly to his ears! what a wild riot of cries! he tried to look down and see whether he had crossed the line before he stumbled, but he could only see the brown earth and green grass. he heard someone still running after him. he lifted his head. there, just before him, was the goal line. with the energy of despair, he raised the ball in his arms, and placed it over the chalk mark, holding it there with all his remaining strength, when someone threw himself fiercely upon him. it was langridge, eager, wrathful and almost beside himself with rage. but he was too late. the ball was well over the last line, and, knowing from the attitude of the boxer player that it _was_ there, the great throng of randall men and women, young men and maidens, joined in one great cry: "touchdown! touchdown!" it was--the winning touchdown, for, as the other players, some fearful, some hoping, came rushing up, the final whistle blew, ending the contest that had resulted in championship for randall. and then, welling over the field once more, came softly the song: "either we conquer, or we die!" * * * * * there were bonfires that night at randall--bonfires in which the football suits were burned, for the eleven broke training in a blaze of glory. also there were feastings, for there was no ban on eating now. and, likewise, there was much rejoicing. for was not randall champion again? had not her loyal sons again won a victory on the gridiron? therefore, let the gladness go on! sid was the lion of the hour. it was his great run--his struggle against long odds--that had won the big game, and he was carried on the shoulders of his mates, and his name was heralded in song and story. "oh, it was great, old man, great!" cried tom, as they walked together from the gymnasium, where there had been a sort of impromptu joy-meeting after the feast. "nothing like it ever seen at randall," declared phil. "nothing like it ever seen _anywhere_," put in the big californian. "i never could have done it, if you hadn't opened the hole for me, frank," spoke sid, gratefully. "i just had to open that hole," was the retort. "i felt that i'd tear those fellows limb from limb if they didn't give way, and----" "they did," finished phil, with a laugh. they had met their girl friends after the game, and had received their congratulations. then had come a happy time, walking with them, then the feasting, and now our friends were on their way to their room. "there are only two things that are bothering me," remarked tom, thoughtfully. "what's that--langridge?" asked phil. "say, he must have felt sick when he got to where sid was, and saw that it was a touchdown, all right! did he hurt you, sid?" "well, he knocked the wind out of me--that is, what there was left to knock. but i guess he didn't mean to." "oh, he meant it, all right," declared tom. "but i wasn't thinking of langridge. i was going to say that the two things that bothered me was the mystery of the chair and the clock." "that's so," came from phil. "i wonder who that fellow was, and how the deed came to be in his chair?" "we must tell prexy about it," decided sid. "it may have a bearing on the case." they were deep in a discussion of possible explanations of the various problems that vexed them, when they turned down the corridor that led to their room. there was so much noise going on out on the campus--shouts and yells, and the students circling about the bonfires--that the footsteps of our friends made no sound. that is why they were close upon a figure crouched in front of their door before the kneeling one was aware of their presence. then the figure started away. but phil was too quick, and grabbed it. "i've caught you!" cried the quarter-back. "so you sneaked back, to see if you could find the deed, eh?" for he thought he had the stranger who had before visited them. "by jove, it's lenton!" cried tom, catching a glimpse of the face of the captive. and indeed it was the odd student who was such an expert with the file. "and he's got a false key!" added sid, as he saw a bit of brass in the lad's hand. "here, you little shrimp, what do you mean?" and sid shook the lad. "i--please--i didn't mean anything," was the stammering answer. "weren't you trying to get into our room?" demanded tom. "yes, i--i was, but----" "where's our chair?" came fiercely from phil. "i haven't got it! i never had it." "did you take our clock, and afterward exchange it?" asked tom, determined to solve part of the mystery, if not all. "yes, i had it, and i--i was coming back to borrow it again," answered the odd student. "borrow it?" repeated sid. "yes, that's all i did with your alarm clock. oh, fellows, i didn't mean anything wrong. i'll tell you all about it." "you'd better," said phil, keeping a hold of the intruder's collar. "come inside." they entered the room, and tom locked the door. "well?" asked phil, suggestively, as he pointed out a chair to lenton. "we're ready to hear you." "i borrowed your clock to take a wheel out," said the odd student, simply. "to take a wheel out?" repeated sid, in amazement. "yes. in an alarm clock there is a certain size cog wheel that i could find nowhere else. fellows, i am making a new kind of static electric machine, and i needed a certain sized wheel. i tried everywhere to get one, and i couldn't afford to pay for having one made. then, one day, i happened to see your alarm clock in here. i thought, perhaps, that it would have in it the wheel i wanted. i made a false key, sneaked in, and took the clock out. then i happened to think you'd want a timepiece, so i brought in that mahogany one--it was a present to me from a friend in chicago, but i didn't care for it. the wheels weren't right." "i guess _you've_ got wheels," murmured phil. "your alarm clock had just the right size wheel in it," went on the odd student, "so i took it out, and made my electrical machine. then i made another wheel that would answer as well in your clock, and i made the exchange back again. now my electrical machine is broken, and i need another wheel from your clock, and----" "you were going to sneak in again and take it," broke in sid. "yes. i made another false key, for i accidentally left the first one in the door when you came and surprised me, the day i brought your clock back." "why didn't you _ask_ us for the clock?" inquired tom. "because i was afraid you wouldn't let me take it. i heard the fellows say how fond you were of it. i thought you wouldn't miss a wheel from it, if i gave you a better clock." "_another_ one--not a _better_," insisted phil. "but did you drop a letter in here one day?" "yes, i did, to bert bascome, and i wondered what had become of it." "we found it," said tom. "was there something in it about a clock?" "yes, i bought an expensive alarm clock from bert, but i wrote rather sharply to tell him it wasn't any good. it had the wrong kind of wheels. bascome was mad at me for not keeping it to pay off some of the money he owes me. that's all there is to tell." "and it's enough," declared sid. "i guess that explains everything. bascome's denial was justified." "and we thought langridge had a hand in it," went on phil. "but there is still the chair and deed to be explained." "i don't know anything about the chair," insisted lenton, and they believed him. "but could i have----" he hesitated. "do you want the clock?" asked tom. "i--i just want to take out one of the wheels. i'll put in another just as good," promised lenton, eagerly. and they let him have the battered timepiece. "now, if we could only explain the chair matter as easily, all would be well," commented phil, when lenton had gone. they had not long to wait. a little later a message summoned them to the office of dr. churchill. the president greeted them pleasantly. "i have just had the lawyers here," he said, "and they state that the quit-claim deed which you boys found is genuine, and the very one that was missing. it brings to an end the suit against the college, and i wish to once more thank you lads. the prohibition of silence is now removed, and you are at liberty to tell your friends the good news." "but you have not heard it all," said tom, and he told about the visit of the excited stranger just before the game. "i think i can explain that," went on the president, with a smile, "and also tell you where to find your chair." "can you?" cried the three, eagerly. "your visitor was a mr. james lawson," continued dr. churchill, "and he was the one who made the claim against the college, being a distant heir of simon hess. without the quit-claim deed being available to us, he was the ostensible owner of our property. how he got possession of the deed he would not say, though the lawyers and i questioned him." "was he here?" asked phil. "yes, your actions evidently frightened him, for he called a little while ago to say that he gave up all claims to the land. he stated that he thought he had a right to the deed." "how did it get in the old chair?" asked tom. "being an heir of simon hess," went on the doctor, "this mr. lawson had some of the old family furniture. among the pieces was a chair, similar to yours, which i understand was also a hess heirloom. your chair was taken by a man whom we engaged temporarily to do some janitor work. he sold it to a second-hand dealer, and i have only to-night learned his name and address. the janitor was dismissed shortly after being hired, as it was found that he was dishonest. to-day i received a letter from him, begging forgiveness, and telling about the chair he sold from your room. but he did not mention a clock, for i understand you also lost a timepiece." "oh, we have that back," said tom. "but about the chair?" "i'll come to that, and tell you where to get yours. it seems that mr. lawson retained possession of the quit-claim deed, which he would not tell how he obtained. "one night, when looking it over in his home, near rosedale, he was interrupted by an unexpected visitor. not wishing his caller to see the deed, he slipped it under the lining of the seat of the old chair. business matters came up immediately afterward, and he went out, forgetting about the document, which was left in the seat. "the next day his wife, who liked new instead of old furniture, sold the old armchair to a second-hand dealer, deed and all, though, of course, she did not know of the paper. naturally, when mr. lawson heard of his loss, he was frantic, for on the deed his whole claim depended. he intended to destroy the document to prevent it ever being found by anyone so that it would benefit randall. but he reckoned without fate, which stepped in most opportunely. he sought the old chair, but it had gone from dealer to dealer, until finally a mr. rosenkranz got it. "you obtained it from him just before mr. lawson called to claim his furniture, and later he came on to the college. the rest fits in with what you already know." "well, wouldn't that----" began tom, and then he happened to remember that he was in the president's presence, and he stopped. "your old chair is at this place," went on dr. churchill, giving the address of a small dealer in a nearby city. "you may go and get it any time you like," the good doctor concluded. "and now i think that this clears up the mystery. but, before you go, let me congratulate you on the magnificent victory of this afternoon. the nine did exceedingly well." the president smiled benignly, unconscious of the "break" he had made in calling the eleven a "nine," and the boys, joyful over the prospect of an early recovery of their chair, left the office. at last the mystery was ended. there was more rejoicing in randall when the facts regarding the quit-claim deed became known, and the next day formal notice of the withdrawal of the suit was filed. there was some talk about prosecuting mr. lawson, but there was a doubt as to his real criminality, so nothing was done. and thus ended the troubles of randall, not only from a legal standpoint, but also from an athletic, for her title to the championship of the gridiron was firmly established. but there were other battles of the field to come, and those who are interested in them may read thereof in the next volume of the series, to be called: "for the honor of randall; a story of college athletics." "they look like twins, don't they?" remarked tom, a few evenings later, when, having recovered their own chair, it was placed beside the one left by mr. lawson, for he did not come to claim it. "yes, if we had two more, we'd have a collection, and there'd be one apiece," added phil. "oh, the sofa's good enough for me," came from sid. "i hope nobody borrows that to take out a wheel, or some of the stuffing." "and the clock ticks as naturally as it always did," commented phil, as he took a seat in one of the easy chairs, for lenton had returned the timepiece. "and they lived happily forever after," murmured tom, now half asleep, for it was warm in the room. "i say, are you fellows going to the next fairview frat. dance?" "are we? wild horses can't hold us back!" cried sid, with energy. "good!" murmured tom, still more sleepily, and then, as the chums lapsed into silence, there sounded the loud and insistent ticking of the battered alarm clock. the end the baseball joe series by lester chadwick _12mo. illustrated. price 50 cents per volume._ _postage 10 cents additional._ [illustration] 1. baseball joe of the silver stars _or the rivals of riverside_ 2. baseball joe on the school nine _or pitching for the blue banner_ 3. baseball joe at yale _or pitching for the college championship_ 4. baseball joe in the central league _or making good as a professional pitcher_ 5. baseball joe in the big league _or a young pitcher's hardest struggles_ 6. baseball joe on the giants _or making good as a twirler in the metropolis_ 7. baseball joe in the world series _or pitching for the championship_ 8. baseball joe around the world _or pitching on a grand tour_ 9. baseball joe: home run king _or the greatest pitcher and batter on record_ 10. baseball joe saving the league _or breaking up a great conspiracy_ 11. baseball joe captain of the team _or bitter struggles on the diamond_ 12. baseball joe champion of the league _or the record that was worth while_ 13. baseball joe club owner _or putting the home town on the map_ 14. baseball joe pitching wizard _or triumphs off and on the diamond_ _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the motor boys series by _clarence young_ [illustration] _12mo. illustrated._ _price per volume, 50 cents._ _postage, extra, 10 cents._ _bright up-to-date stories, full of information as well as of adventure. read the first volume and you will want all the others written by mr. young._ 1. the motor boys _or chums through thick and thin_ 2. the motor boys overland _or a long trip for fun and fortune_ 3. the motor boys in mexico _or the secret of the buried city_ 4. the motor boys across the plains _or the hermit of lost lake_ 5. the motor boys afloat _or the cruise of the dartaway_ 6. the motor boys on the atlantic _or the mystery of the lighthouse_ 7. the motor boys in strange waters _or lost in a floating forest_ 8. the motor boys on the pacific _or the young derelict hunters_ 9. the motor boys in the clouds _or a trip for fame and fortune_ 10. the motor boys over the rockies _or a mystery of the air_ 11. the motor boys over the ocean _or a marvelous rescue in mid-air_ 12. the motor boys on the wing _or seeking the airship treasure_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the jack ranger series by clarence young _12mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in colors._ _price 75 cents per volume. postage 10 cents additional._ [illustration] _lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. jack ranger's school days _or the rivals of washington hall_ you will love jack ranger--you simply can't help it. he is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. jack ranger's western trip _or from boarding school to ranch and range_ this volume takes the hero to the great west. jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. jack ranger's school victories _or track, gridiron and diamond_ jack gets back to washington hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. there are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. jack ranger's ocean cruise _or the wreck of the polly ann_ how jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. jack ranger's gun club _or from schoolroom to camp and trail_ jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. they have many adventures in the mountains. 6. jack ranger's treasure box _or the outing of the schoolboy yachtsmen_ jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. how he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the boy ranchers series by willard f. baker _12mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors._ _=price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid.=_ [illustration] _stories of the great west, with cattle ranches as a setting, related in such a style as to captivate the hearts of all boys._ 1. the boy ranchers _or solving the mystery at diamond x_ two eastern boys visit their cousin. they become involved in an exciting mystery. 2. the boy ranchers in camp _or the water fight at diamond x_ returning for a visit, the two eastern lads learn, with delight, that they are to become boy ranchers. 3. the boy ranchers on the trail _or the diamond x after cattle rustlers_ our boy heroes take the trail after del pinzo and his outlaws. 4. the boy ranchers among the indians _or trailing the yaquis_ rosemary and floyd are captured by the yaqui indians. 5. the boy ranchers at spur creek _or fighting the sheep herders_ dangerous struggle against desperadoes for land rights. 6. the boy ranchers in the desert _or diamond x and the lost mine_ one night a strange old miner almost dead from hunger and hardship arrived at the bunk house. the boys cared for him and he told them of the lost desert mine. 7. the boy ranchers on roaring river _or diamond x and the chinese smugglers_ the boy ranchers help capture delton's gang who were engaged in smuggling chinese across the border. 8. the boy ranchers in death valley _or diamond x and the poison mystery_ the boy ranchers track mysterious death into his cave. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the bomba books by roy rockwood _12mo. cloth. illustrated. with colored jacket._ _price 50 cents per volume._ _postage 10 cents additional._ [illustration] _bomba lived far back in the jungles of the amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. the jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. he had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. bomba the jungle boy _or the old naturalist's secret_ 2. bomba the jungle boy at the moving mountain _or the mystery of the caves of fire_ 3. bomba the jungle boy at the giant cataract _or chief nasconora and his captives_ 4. bomba the jungle boy on jaguar island _or adrift on the river of mystery_ 5. bomba the jungle boy in the abandoned city _or a treasure ten thousand years old_ 6. bomba the jungle boy on terror trail _or the mysterious men from the sky_ 7. bomba the jungle boy in the swamp of death _or the sacred alligators of abarago_ 8. bomba the jungle boy among the slaves _or daring adventures in the valley of skulls_ _send for our free illustrated catalogue._ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the speedwell boys series by roy rockwood author of "the dave dashaway series," "great marvel series," etc. 12mo. illustrated. price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. all boys who love to be on the go will welcome the speedwell boys. they are clean cut and loyal lads. [illustration] the speedwell boys on motor cycles _or the mystery of a great conflagration_ the lads were poor, but they did a rich man a great service and he presented them with their motor cycles. what a great fire led to is exceedingly well told. the speedwell boys and their racing auto _or a run for the golden cup_ a tale of automobiling and of intense rivalry on the road. there was an endurance run and the boys entered the contest. on the run they rounded up some men who were wanted by the law. the speedwell boys and their power launch _or to the rescue of the castaways_ here is an unusual story. there was a wreck, and the lads, in their power launch, set out to the rescue. a vivid picture of a great storm adds to the interest of the tale. the speedwell boys in a submarine _or the lost treasure of rocky cove_ an old sailor knows of a treasure lost under water because of a cliff falling into the sea. the boys get a chance to go out in a submarine and they make a hunt for the treasure. the speedwell boys and their ice racer _or the perils of a great blizzard_ the boys had an idea for a new sort of iceboat, to be run by combined wind and motor power. how they built the craft, and what fine times they had on board of it, is well related. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york the bob dexter series by willard f. baker _12mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in colors._ _price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid._ [illustration] _this is a new line of stories for boys, by the author of the boy ranchers series. the bob dexter books are of the character that may be called detective stories, yet they are without the objectionable features of the impossible characters and absurd situations that mark so many of the books in that class. these stories deal with the up-to-date adventures of a normal, healthy lad who has a great desire to solve mysteries._ 1. bob dexter and the club-house mystery _or the missing golden eagle_ this story tells how the boys' athletic club was despoiled of its trophies in a strange manner, and how, among other things stolen, was the golden eagle mascot. how bob dexter turned himself into an amateur detective and found not only the mascot, but who had taken it, makes interesting and exciting reading. 2. bob dexter and the beacon beach mystery _or the wreck of the sea hawk_ when bob and his chum went to beacon beach for their summer vacation, they were plunged, almost at once, into a strange series of events, not the least of which was the sinking of the sea hawk. how some men tried to get the treasure off the sunken vessel, and how bob and his chum foiled them, and learned the secret of the lighthouse, form a great story. 3. bob dexter and the storm mountain mystery _or the secret of the log cabin_ bob dexter came upon a man mysteriously injured and befriended him. this led the young detective into the swirling midst of a series of strange events and into the companionship of strange persons, not the least of whom was the man with the wooden leg. but bob got the best of this vindictive individual, and solved the mystery of the log cabin, showing his friends how the secret entrance to the house was accomplished. _send for our free illustrated catalogue_ cupples & leon company, publishers new york the fred fenton athletic series by allen chapman author of "the tom fairfield series," "the boys of pluck series" and "the darewell chums series." 12mo. illustrated. price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. a line of tales embracing school athletics. fred is a true type of the american schoolboy of to-day. [illustration] fred fenton the pitcher _or the rivals of riverport school_ when fred came to riverport none of the school lads knew him, but he speedily proved his worth in the baseball box. a true picture of school baseball. fred fenton in the line _or the football boys of riverport school_ when fall came in the thoughts of the boys turned to football. fred went in the line, and again proved his worth, making a run that helped to win a great game. fred fenton on the crew _or the young oarsmen of riverport school_ in this volume the scene is shifted to the river, and fred and his chums show how they can handle the oars. there are many other adventures, all dear to the hearts of boys. fred fenton on the track _or the athletes of riverport school_ track athletics form a subject of vast interest to many boys, and here is a tale telling of great running races, high jumping, and the like. fred again proves himself a hero in the best sense of that term. fred fenton: marathon runner _or the great race at riverport school_ fred is taking a post-graduate course at the school when the subject of marathon running came up. a race is arranged, and fred shows both his friends and his enemies what he can do. an athletic story of special merit. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york * * * * * transcriber's note: --punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected except as noted below. --archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --changed "haddonville" (p. 257) to "haddonfield", the name of the town nearest randall college. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 46592-h.htm or 46592-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46592/46592-h/46592-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46592/46592-h.zip) transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). center rush rowland * * * * * * _by the same author_ left end edwards left tackle thayer left guard gilbert * * * * * * [illustration: ira felt the blood pouring into his cheeks as he jumped to his feet] center rush rowland by ralph henry barbour author of left end edwards, left guard gilbert, etc. illustrated by e. c. caswell [illustration] grosset & dunlap publishers new york copyright, 1917, by dodd, mead and company, inc. contents chapter page i rowland arrives 1 ii a chance acquaintance 17 iii getting settled 36 iv found--a roommate 48 v school begins 61 vi the enemy calls 78 vii the fight 94 viii ira declines an invitation 108 ix an ultimatum 126 x on the fourth squad 140 xi ira renews an acquaintance 157 xii in the line-up 169 xiii a conference 182 xiv hard knocks 196 xv parkinson has a change of heart 211 xvi ira plans 224 xvii through the enemy's line 234 xviii "old earnest" 251 xix callers 264 xx before the game 278 xxi parkinson scores 288 xxii coach driscoll apologises 297 illustrations ira felt the blood pouring into his cheeks as he jumped to his feet (page 304) _frontispiece_ facing page "the coat slips off right easy" 14 more circling then, each watching the other warily 98 "i want to tell a story," he said 220 center rush rowland chapter i rowland arrives "say, where's this school located?" the speaker removed a straw hat, rather the worse for wear, and mopped a damp forehead, while a youngster with a freckled face, who was engaged in lowering an awning in front of a grocery store, paused and viewed the inquirer with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. eventually he jerked a thumb northward. "two blocks straight ahead," he answered. "all right. thanks." the other settled his hat on his head again and went on. he was a big, deep-chested, broad-shouldered youth, rugged-looking, bronzed of face and hands. he carried himself a trifle awkwardly, as though conscious of being a bit too large for his seventeen years. under the straw hat the hair was warmly brown and a pair of calm dark-grey eyes looked out with level gaze. he was good-looking without being handsome, for, while his nose was exceptionally straight and well made, the mouth, turned up at the corners in a quiet smile, was too wide for beauty, just as the chin was too square. the street hereabouts mingled houses and shops, but beyond the next intersecting thoroughfare, which a sign declared to be main street, the shops ceased. on the boy's left was an elm-shaded cemetery filled with slate headstones, mossy and ancient, and beyond it was a wooden church with a square, stunted steeple. burying ground and churchyard continued for the next block, while across the tree-lined street, pretentious dwellings peered over white picket fences or rather straggly lilac hedges with an air of strict new england propriety. the boy in the straw hat walked slowly, partly because the day was excessively warm for the last of september, and partly because he was curious to see this place that was to be his home for the next nine months. so far it was attractive enough and not greatly different from cheney falls, which was the little maine town from which he had departed yesterday evening. of course, one should scarcely expect to find much difference between towns barely four hundred miles apart, but he had never been so far away from home before and had looked on massachusetts as a place quite foreign. he was, perhaps, a trifle disappointed to discover that warne was only, after all, a bigger and more ancient appearing cheney falls. at the next crossing he stopped in the shade of a maple tree and viewed with interest the scene before him. across the street--the corner post declared it to be washington avenue--lay the school grounds. the campus, a level expanse of smooth turf intersected by neat gravel walks between rows of linden trees, stretched at his left for a distance of two blocks. beyond the campus the school buildings were lined up as though on parade, with, to aid the simile, a building at either end set in advance of the line--like officers. there were five buildings in the row--no, six, for there was a smaller one peering around a corner like a "rookie" slightly out of position--and all were of red brick with grey slate roofs save the big and more pretentious one in the centre. this was, as the boy knew from familiarity with the school catalogue, the recitation building, parkinson hall. it was built of light-hued sandstone, in shape a rotunda flanked by wings. it was two stories in height, with an imposing dome in the centre. two curving steps led to the big doors and the entrance was guarded by copper columns holding big ground-glass globes. there were, the observer decided, more windows than he had ever seen in one building. on the whole, parkinson hall was really beautiful, and one didn't have to be a student of architecture to realise it. the boy on the corner felt a thrill of pride as he looked, for this was to be his school after today. he guessed, too, as he fanned his flushed face with his hat, that he was going to like it. it was a heap more attractive than the pictures in the catalogue had shown it. but of course, he reflected, the pictures had just been black and white, while now the scene was full of colour: the blue of the sky above, the warm red of the bricks, the cooler cream-white of the sandstone, the many greens of grass and trees and shrubbery and ivy, the hot, golden-yellow splotches of sunlight and the purplish shadows. facing the campus, on the south side of washington street, were perhaps a dozen residences, beginning beyond the church property, each surrounded by lawns and beds of flowers and shaded by big elms or maples. nearby a locust shrilled loudly, making the heat even more appreciable, and beyond the churchyard a gate opened and closed with a click and a man passed through and approached the corner. he was a tall, spare gentleman and wore, in spite of the weather, a long, black frock coat and a broad-brimmed, black felt hat. as he drew near the boy observed a lean, clean-shaven face, kindly, nearsighted eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses and a rather thin mouth set in a friendly smile. the gentleman appeared to be quite sixty years of age, but held himself very erect and walked with a firm energy that was a defiance to the heat. he bowed and smiled and would have passed around the corner had not the boy spoken. "excuse me, sir, but will you tell me where i should go to register?" "very gladly indeed," was the reply in a thin but pleasant voice. "the small building in the corner of the campus is your destination, young sir." the gentleman laid a friendly hand on the boy's arm and with gentle pressure turned him about. "that is the administration building and you will see the office of the secretary on your right as you enter. i am not certain, however, that you will find him in just now." the speaker drew a very large gold watch from his pocket and snapped open the case. "hah! you will just get him, i think. it is not as late as i presumed it to be." "thank you, sir." "you are entirely welcome. i should be very glad to accompany you and present you to mr. hoyt if it were not that i have an engagement in another part of the town. may i inquire your name?" "ira rowland, sir." "rowland? a fine old english name. i am professor addicks, of the greek and latin department. we shall doubtless meet again, and, i trust, to our mutual advantage." "to mine, i'm sure, sir," replied the boy, with a smile, "but where your advantage will come in i'm afraid i don't see!" "why, as to that," responded the professor, his grey eyes twinkling behind his glasses, "i shall have the pleasure of your society for several hours each week, and, from what i see of you, i judge that an advantage. good morning, mr. rowland." the old gentleman smiled sunnily, bowed again and went on along maple street, and as he proceeded his smile continued and seemed to hold a trace of not unkindly amusement. ira rowland once more donned his hat and made his way toward the small, three-story brick building set close to the street. over the door was a small sign which bore the words, "parkinson school--administration building." two worn granite steps led to the entrance and as ira mounted them the screen door was thrust open and a rather smartly dressed youth collided with him. "i beg your----" "all right," said ira, drawing aside to let the other boy pass on down the steps. but the other seemed to have got over his hurry and was observing ira with an interest that held both surprise and amusement. however, he spoke before the silence became embarrassing. "are you--are you parkinson?" he asked. "no." ira shook his head. "my name's rowland." "oh, i see. but i meant were you a student here." "going to be. i'm looking for the place to register." "first door to your right." the other stepped aside and held the door open. "you've got a good day for it," he added pleasantly. ira nodded once more, not thinking of any suitable rejoinder to this somewhat puzzling remark, and went on. the boy at the door looked after him until he had passed into the secretary's office, still holding the screen open. then he let it shut, whistled softly and expressively and hurried off, a broad smile wreathing his good-looking face. the office of the secretary was a square, well-lighted and business-like apartment holding, beside the necessary desks, chairs and filing cabinets, only one settee. a railing divided the room approximately in half, and the secretary's desk was set close to it. two boys finished their business as ira entered and turned to go out. but at the doorway they turned with one accord and looked back at the newcomer, and as they disappeared their mouths began to curve upwards at the corners. mr. hoyt, the secretary, was a small, light-complexioned man with a near-sighted scowl and a nervous manner. but experience had taught him expedition, and before the second hand on the face of the big clock between the windows had moved sixty times ira had answered all questions and was moving away in possession of a copy of the school catalogue and a slip of paper on which was printed a list of private houses, approved by the school, offering accommodations. parkinson school had a roster of four hundred and eighty-odd that year and the four dormitories housed but three hundred and ninety. since ira had applied for admittance as late as the preceding june he had not drawn a room on the campus, and now, leaving the little brick building, he drew the list from between the pages of the catalogue and consulted it. more than two dozen addresses were given, each followed by the mystifying letters "r" or "r & b." fortunately the catalogue contained a map of the town in the vicinity of the school, and by referring to that he found that most if not all of the addresses were within a few blocks of the campus. instead of returning by maple street, he entered a gate and went along the gravel walk leading in front of the row of school buildings. being very intent on the matter of locating the first entry on the list: "j. d. anstruther, 29 linden street, r & b," he failed to notice that the steps of the gymnasium building toward which he was proceeding held a half-dozen youths who were watching his approach with poorly concealed amusement. in fact, he would have turned off on the path leading across the campus to the middle gate on washington avenue had not one of the group hailed him. "good morning, stranger! are you looking for something?" ira stopped and removed his puzzled gaze from the map. after a moment of hesitation he crossed the few yards to the gymnasium steps. "yes," he replied, addressing the group in general, "i'm looking for a room. where's linden street, please?" "linden street? straight ahead. follow this path until you come to a gate. open the gate--it isn't necessary to climb over it--and there you are." "thanks." ira viewed the speaker a trifle doubtfully, however. in spite of the serious countenance, the reference to the gate had sounded suspicious. "and will you tell me what 'r' means here; and 'r & b'?" "'r'? oh, that means--er----" "'r,'" interrupted a tall, dark-haired chap, stepping forward and taking the list from ira's hands, "means 'rats,' and 'r & b' means 'rats and bugs.' you see, the faculty is very careful about our comfort. some fellows object to rats and some object to bugs. so they state here what you're to expect." "rats and bugs!" exclaimed ira. "you're fooling, aren't you?" "certainly not," replied the other almost indignantly. "do you mind rats? or bugs?" "why--" ira's gaze swept over the group in puzzlement--"i'm not particularly stuck on either of 'em. aren't there any places where they don't have 'em?" "no, not in warne. warne is noted for its rats. bugs are scarcer, though. you'll notice that only about half the houses offer bugs with their rats." "'offer' 'em," muttered ira dazedly. surely these fellows were poking fun at him. and yet they all looked so serious, so kind and eager to help him. he shook his head as he reached for his list. "do you know anything about that first place, j. d. anstruther's?" "not bad," was the answer, "but i've never lived there myself. i've heard, though, that the rats at baker's are bigger. billy, you roomed at anstruther's, didn't you? how about it?" "good rooms, but rats very inferior," answered a chunky, broad-shouldered boy in tennis flannels. "and scarcely any bugs at all." "there it is, you see," said the dark-haired youth sadly. "now if you want some corking big rats you'd better try baker's. that's on apple street. or, if you prefer bugs, too, you might go to smith's. i've heard smith's spoken of very highly." ira received this advice in silence. he was thinking. at last: "well, i'm much obliged to you," he said gratefully. "but i guess i'd rather go where the rats aren't so big. of course you fellows are used to rats, being together so much, but i've never had much use for them." "just a minute," exclaimed a well-built boy of medium height who held a pair of running shoes on his knees. "i didn't quite get that. about our being used to rats, freckles. come again, please." "i beg your pardon?" said ira innocently. "the gentleman wishes to know," explained the dark-haired boy sweetly, "the meaning of your cryptic utterance. why, mr. johnson, should our being together make us used to rats?" "my name is rowland." "really? well, then, mr. rowland, kindly elucidate." "i guess i don't know what you want," said ira, viewing them blankly. "of course he doesn't," said another member of the group. "he didn't mean anything. what class are you in, hayseed?" "who, me? i'm going into the third, i guess." "then you've got another guess," jeered the boy with the running shoes. "how were the crops when you left home, freckles?" "speaking to me? my name's rowland. first name's ira." "well, don't take on about it. you can't help it. how's crops?" "it's mostly lumbering where i come from. cheney falls, maine, is my home." "dew tell!" drawled the dark-haired youth. "what were you, a bump?" "a bump?" asked ira. "yes, don't the logs up your way have bumps on them?" "oh, yes!" ira smiled faintly. "the bumps grow on 'em, though. you--you don't put 'em on." "oh, you don't? thought you did. well, what did you do in the lumbering line, then?" "well, last winter i worked on the knots. it's hard on your fingers, though." he observed a hand reflectively. "i'm not going to do that again," he added. "worked on the knots," repeated the boy with the running shoes. "what do you mean by that?" "why, you see," explained ira patiently, "you take a pine or a spruce log and it's got knots in it and it isn't so good for sawing." "well, what was your stunt?" "me? oh, i untied the knots," replied ira gravely. there was a moment of silence. then most of the audience chuckled. but the boy with the running shoes flushed. "you think you're pretty smart, don't you?" he asked irritably. "you're one of those 'country wits' we read about, eh? dressed for the part, too! for the love of mud, where'd you get the costume?" "oh, cut it out, gene," said the dark-haired fellow. "run along, rowland, and find your room." "better get a job as a scarecrow," sneered the boy addressed as gene. "say, those clothes must have cost you as much as six dollars, eh? if you'd had another dollar you might have got them big enough." "they're all right for me," responded ira calmly. "and the coat slips off right easy." [illustration: "the coat slips off right easy"] "what do you mean by that?" demanded gene, jumping to his feet. "oh, forget it, gene!" begged one of the fellows. "let him alone." but gene pushed his way past the boy's detaining arm and thrust an angry countenance in front of ira. "what do you mean, eh?" he repeated. "what do you take it that i mean?" asked ira, viewing the other undismayedly with half-closed grey eyes. for answer, gene goodloe brought his right hand up quickly from his side. the boy with dark hair stepped forward to interfere, but he was too late. ira sprang nimbly to the right and ducked, avoiding gene's blow, and at the same time shot his own right fist around. it was only a half-arm jab, but there was enough behind it when it landed on gene's chin to send him staggering back into the arms of one of the others and to temporarily deprive him of all desire for battle. he stared at his assailant in a dazed and almost reproachful way as they lowered him to the turf, and then he closed his eyes wearily. "that's a bad place to hit a fellow!" grumbled the dark-haired fellow, regarding ira uncertainly. "you'd better get out of here before someone comes." "maybe he will want to go on," suggested ira mildly. "huh! maybe he will, but not for awhile! billy wells, duck inside and get some water, will you? you, rowland, or whatever your name is, you get along. if the faculty sees this they'll make trouble for you. i know he made the first swipe, but that wouldn't help you much." "all right," said ira. "what's his name?" "goodloe. why?" "i'll let him know where he can find me. just tell him, will you?" chapter ii a chance acquaintance "not what you'd call a very good beginning," thought ira, ruefully, as, followed by the somewhat puzzled looks of the group in front of the gymnasium, he made his way across the campus. "it was his fault, though. there wasn't any call for me to stand around idle and get jabbed in the nose. just the same, it would have been better if i'd gone on about my business instead of trying to get a rise out of them. guess what you need to do, son, is keep your hands in your pockets and your mouth shut!" for the following hour he was very busy. mrs. anstruther regretfully informed him that all her rooms were engaged, and the same announcement awaited him at baker's. it was at the latter house that the mysterious symbols were satisfactorily explained. "r," he was told, meant that the house offered rooms only, while "r & b" stood for room and board. ira mentally called himself an idiot for not having guessed as much. at a little past one he gave up the search long enough to perch himself at a counter in a lunch-room on school street. a sign over the doorway held the inscription "the eggery," and, judging from the fact that fully half the patrons in sight were boys of ages from fourteen to twenty, it was the favourite resort for hungry parkinsonians. there were many small tables at the back, but all were occupied, and ira finally found an empty stool in front of the long counter. the school colours, brown and white, were lavishly displayed, and there were many framed photographs of school teams and numerous unframed posters on the walls. these, however, interested ira less than the neat sign which proclaimed the restaurant's offerings, for he had eaten his breakfast on alighting from the portland train in boston, and that had been quite early, and he was now extremely hungry in spite of the warmth of the day. while the electric fans overhead spun dizzily and the clatter of crockery and the babel of a hundred voices made a cheerful pandemonium, he thoughtfully contemplated the signs. one thing he knew he was going to have, and that was iced tea, but beyond that he was open-minded. corn-beef hash sounded too warm. the same was true of roast beef and lamb stew with dumplings. eggs didn't sound appealing, although they were offered in more styles than he had ever heard of. he was still undecided when a voice said: "try the cold ham and potato salad. it isn't bad." ira looked around to find the boy with whom he had collided at the door of the administration building sitting beside him. "all right," said ira. "i guess i will. it looks good." "it's too hot to eat today," went on his neighbour, "but you sort of get the habit. this iced coffee is the best thing i've found. do you like it?" "i never tried it. i thought i'd have some iced tea." "no one can blame you. i saw you over at ad, didn't i?" "'ad'?" "administration. what's your class?" "third." "mine, too. here's alphonse. tell him what you're risking." "alphonse" proved to be a sandy-haired waiter who grinned at the speaker as he ran a towel over the counter. "sure, take a chance," he said cheerfully. "what's it going to be, sir?" "some of the cold ham and potato salad and a glass of iced tea," replied ira. "got any lemon?" "i don't know. i'll see," was the sober response. "we did have one last week." then, applying his mouth to a tube: "one-cold-ham-potato-salad!" he called. "ice-tea-with-lemon!" "do you eat here regularly?" asked ira of his neighbour. "dear, no! i eat in hall, but they don't start until supper tonight. lots of the fellows don't come until afternoon, you see. them as does has to eat where they can, and this is as good a joint as any. how do you like the place, as far as you've got?" "all right. i haven't seen much of it, though. i've been tramping around looking for a room most of the time." "any luck?" ira shook his head. "there was one at--" he refreshed his memory by glancing at the slip--"at parent's, but it was pretty small and awfully hot." "keep away from that dive," advised the other. "you'd freeze to death in winter there. besides, we come to school to get away from them." "to get away from----" "parents," chuckled the other. "asterisk. see footnote. joke intended. have you tried maggy's?" "no. i don't think it's on my list." "let's see. yes, here it is: 'd. a. magoon, 200 main street.'" "oh! i thought you said----" "maggy's? yes, they call her that for short. she's got some good rooms, but you have to more than half furnish them. about all maggy gives you is a carpet and a bed. if you like i'll go around there with you when you're through." "why, thanks, that's very kind, but i don't want to trouble you." "you don't. i haven't a thing to do until the boat comes in." "boat?" ejaculated ira. "figure of speech, meaning that the afternoon stretches before me devoid of--of--say, what do i call you?" "rowland's my name." "mine's johnston. there's a t in it to make it harder to say. here's your grub. guess i'll have a piece of pie, jimmy." "what kind?" asked the waiter as he slid ira's repast before him. "why the airs? you know you've only got apple." jimmy grinned. "got you this time, johnston! there's cream and cocoanut, too." "make it cream, jimmy, and tell the pie specialist downstairs to let his hand slip a little." "do they give board at this place you spoke of?" asked ira when he had sampled his dinner. "no, they don't. you can eat in hall, though, or you can get your meals around. there are four or five places like this and a lot of boarding houses. the way i did my first year was live at the restaurants and quick-lunch joints for the first term and then, when i was sick to death of them, go to a regular boarding house. smith's is pretty fair. a lot of fellows eat there." "they give you pretty good meals at the school dining hall, don't they?" "y-yes, but they charge for them." johnston shot a swift, appraising glance over ira. "if you can stand six dollars a week, all right. some fellows can't." jimmy presented his slice of pie at that moment and johnston observed it gloomily. "that fellow's got perfect control, hasn't he, jimmy?" "oh, they cut the pies with a machine," replied the waiter airily. "want some more coffee?" "walk around! think i'm a millionaire? make it a glass of water instead." then, addressing ira again: "what are you going in for?" he asked. "going in where?" "my fault! i mean what are you going to do with your spare time? football? tennis? golf? what's your line?" "oh! i don't know. i've never played anything except a little baseball. i guess i won't try any of those things yet." "you look as though you'd make a football player," said johnston. "if you don't intend to try it you'd better keep out of sight. if driscoll sees you he will get you sure." "is he the captain?" asked ira. "coach. ever played it?" "football? no." ira shook his head. "i never thought i'd care to. i saw a game once at lewiston." "where's that?" "maine. i live in cheney falls." "no one can blame you. how's the grub?" "fine, thanks. who is goodloe?" "gene goodloe? track team captain. know him?" "not very well. i--i sort of met him awhile back." "you'll like him, i guess. most of us do. he's a corking runner. good fellow to know, rowland. better cultivate him. meet all the fellows you can, old man. the more the merrier. you can't know too many at school, especially if you're a new boy. i had a perfectly miserable time of it here my first year. i was horribly shy, you see. yes, i got over it!" he laughed as he caught ira's quick glance of surprise. "had to. i used to get red clear around to the back of my face if anyone spoke to me. the second year i realised that it wouldn't do and i made up my mind to get cured. how do you think i did it? i got up one morning and went out and spoke to every fellow i met, whether i'd ever seen him before or not. it nearly killed me at first and i got all sorts of snubs and funny looks, but it cured me. now i--i'd slap jud himself on the back if it would do me any good." "jud?" asked ira. "otherwise doctor judson lane, principal of this here school. all through? going to have desert? no? come along then. there's your check. might as well pay it if you've got the money. they have a nasty way of going out on the street after you and bringing you back if you get absent-minded." they slid off their stools and made their way to the cashier's desk, johnston hailing many acquaintances on the way and once pausing in response to the invitation of one. ira had an uncomfortable suspicion that he was the subject of the short, whispered dialogue that ensued. "it's probably these clothes," he thought. "they _are_ different from other fellows'. i'll have to get some new ones, i guess." outside, johnston chatted merrily as he conducted his companion around the corner of main street and finally brought up before a three-story house set close to the sidewalk. it showed evidences of past grandeur, but the buff paint was peeling away from the narrow porch and stores had been built close to it on either side. the first floor was occupied by a tailor's establishment on the right and by the agency of a spring-water company on the left. johnston gaily pointed out the convenience of having your trousers pressed on the premises as they waited in the hallway. presently, in response to the tinkling of a faraway bell, footsteps creaked on the stairs and a tall and angular woman came into sight. "good afternoon and everything," greeted johnston. "you don't remember me, mrs. magoon, but we were very dear friends once. i used to come here to call on dan phillips a couple of years ago." "i remember you very well," was the reply in a dry voice. "you're the young man that broke the newel post one time when you was sliding down the----" "my fault! i see you do remember me, after all. i feared you didn't. now----" "it wasn't ever paid for, either, although you said time and again----" "you're perfectly right, ma'am. it just somehow slipped my memory. i'm glad you mentioned it. everybody ought to pay his just debts, i should think. i've brought you a lodger, mrs. magoon. this is mr. rowland, mr. thomas chesterfield rowland, of cheerup falls, maine, a very personal friend of mine. he was about to take a room over on linden street, but i prevailed on him to come to you. i told him that you had just the room for him. you have, haven't you?" johnston beamed ingratiatingly. "well, i dunno," said mrs. magoon, folding her hands in a blue checked apron and looking doubtfully from one boy to the other. "everything's pretty well taken now. there was a young man in here not ten minutes ago to look at the only room i've got left. i dunno will he be back, though. he said he would, but they always say that. if you'd care to look at it, sir----" "he would," declared johnston. "he would indeed. after you, rowland. one flight and turn to your left." "two flights and turn to your right, if you please," corrected the landlady. "all the second floor rooms are taken." she toiled upstairs at their heels and directed the way to a large, scantily furnished room at the back of the house. "it's a nice, cheerful room," she said pantingly. "two good windows and a fine view. there's a washstand goes in here yet." the fine view consisted of several backyards, the roof of a shed and a high board fence in the immediate foreground, but beyond the fence lay the trim, green lawn of a residence on washington avenue, while, by stretching his neck a little, ira could see a few gravestones in the cemetery around the corner of the next-door building. just now the foliage hid the school, but mrs. magoon predicted that in the winter he would have a fine view of it. there were two big windows on the back of the room, a sizable closet, a fireplace with a dingy, white-marble mantel and a rusted grate and a few oddments of furniture all much the worse for wear. ira tested the bed and shuddered inwardly. it was like a board. there was a green plush rocking-chair, a battered walnut table with an ink-stained top, a bureau of similar material and condition, two straight-backed chairs and an ornate black walnut bookcase with one glass door missing. a faded, brown ingrain carpet covered the centre of the floor, the wide expanse of boards surrounding it having at some far distant time been painted slate-grey. johnston expatiated warmly, even with enthusiasm, on the room's attractions. "how's that for a fireplace, old man?" he asked. "it's real, mind you. no stage fireplace, with a red lantern in it, but the genuine thing. lots of room here, too. must be twenty feet each way, eh? of course, you'll need a few more things. a window seat would help. and another easy-chair, maybe. then, with the family portraits on the walls and a fire crackling cheerily--what ho! 'blow, wintry winds! what care we?' or words to that general effect. you say there's a washstand, too, mrs. magoon? fine! imagine a washstand over there in the corner, rowland. sort of--sort of finishes it off, eh? useful little affairs, washstands. no home should be-how about the bathroom, mrs. magoon? adjacent or thereabouts, i presume?" "one flight below, sir. it's a very nice bathroom, with an enamelled tub, sir. if you'd care to look at it----" "by all means, ma'am, as we descend. you said the rent was----" "four a week, sir." "oh, no, indeed! for the school year, mrs. magoon." "i said four a week, sir." "and i said--oh, i see! four dollars a week! you will have your joke, eh? the lady has a sense of humour, rowland. you can't deny it." "it doesn't seem to me that it's worth that much," said ira dubiously. "bless us, no!" said johnston. "that was only her joke. now, mrs. magoon, seriously, what do you ask by the month for this palatial apartment?" "it's four dollars a week, young man, whether you pay weekly or monthly; although i have to insist on the bills not running no longer than a month." "no one can blame you. but you'll find my friend here very prompt, ma'am, in such matters. i have never known him to let a bill run longer than a month. you might almost call him finicky in money matters. considering that, now, suppose we say three dollars a week, with--" he shot a questioning glance at ira--"two weeks paid in advance?" "i couldn't do it, sir," replied the landlady firmly, arms akimbo. "three-seventy-five is my lowest figure, and nothing you could say----" "i don't think i want the room, thanks," interrupted ira. "i'd have to buy a good many things for it to make it comfortable. much obliged, ma'am." "don't be hasty, old man. think well. rooms are scarce, as mrs. magoon will tell you, and at three and a half----" "three-seventy-five," corrected the landlady. "you couldn't do better. i'll take you to a place where you can get anything you need for half of nothing and pay when you like. with another chair and a couch and a few pictures--why, you wouldn't know the place! he wouldn't know the place, would he, ma'am?" "'twould look better, no doubt. there's the washstand yet, sir, and it helps to fill up, so to speak." "we-ell," began ira, doubtfully. "that's decided, then!" exclaimed johnston gaily. "have the room all ready in an hour, mrs. magoon. if you've got seven dollars where you can put your hand on it, rowland, you might bind the bargain, eh?" "if the lady wants to let me have it at three dollars and a half----" "she does! hasn't she said so? you said three and a half, didn't you, mrs. magoon?" "i did not!" "no? my fault! but you're going to, eh? rather than lose a tenant?" mrs. magoon wavered. "here it is the last day, ma'am. school begins tomorrow. i guess everyone's settled by this time. you wouldn't want the room to stay empty, now would you? of course not! a bird in the hand, and all that, eh? well, that's settled, what?" mrs. magoon nodded without enthusiasm. "it's less than i ever took for it before," she said sadly. then, brightening: "maybe the young man would want his breakfasts in?" she asked hopefully. "many of them does." johnston was shaking his head violently, but neither the landlady nor ira saw it. "why, thanks, i--how much are breakfasts?" said ira. "twenty-five cents, sir. coffee and toast and two eggs or a bit of meat." "perhaps it would be more convenient than going out," mused ira. "all right, ma'am, i'll take breakfasts." "fine! come along, rowland. remember that doctor lane was very particular about having you let him know what you decided on. he will be anxious. back in an hour, mrs. magoon." "if you'd care to see the bathroom--" began mrs. magoon as they descended. "not now," said johnston, shoving ira along toward the next flight. "i'm sure it's absolutely perfect, ma'am." when they were once more on the street he turned sorrowfully to ira. "you shouldn't have let yourself in for the breakfasts, old man," he said. "they're fierce. i tried to give you the sign, but you wouldn't look. still, you can cut them out after a week or so. they all do." "i dare say the room will look better when there's more in it," said ira. "rather! you'll be crazy about it, old man." "or in it," said ira drily. johnston preferred not to notice the remark. "and three-fifty isn't bad these days, either." "i guess i'd rather pay her what she asked, johnston. she says she never let it for so little, and----" "yes, but her memory's failing her. johnny grew had that room two years ago, and i happen to remember that he paid exactly three and a half for it. besides, she'll make it up on the breakfasts. now let's run around to jacobs' and see what we can pick up. better leave the buying to me, old man, for in spite of being a maine yankee, you're a mighty poor bargainer!" "i'm taking up a lot of your time," ira demurred. "i like it. besides, i've got nothing on until the five-twelve gets in." he was silent for a full minute, something so unusual that ira viewed him in surprise. then, with an odd lack of assurance, he said: "about that newel post now, rowland. i--you see----" "all right," said ira. "i understand." "eh?" asked the other startledly. "hold on, though! no, you don't, old man." "all right. i don't care, anyway." "but you mustn't think i took you around there on that account. fact is, i'd quite forgotten about it." johnston chuckled. "guess if i'd remembered it i'd have stayed away. but when she sprang it on me, why--why, then i thought i might as well square myself." he looked uncertainly at ira. "see what i mean?" "oh, yes." "well--well--oh, hang it, rowland! now, look here. you don't need to take that room if you'd rather not. i guess i did sort of force your hand. we'll go back now and get the money and tell her it's off. come on! i'd feel a lot better. then we'll look somewhere else. hang it, it was only a dollar, and i'm switched if i want to look like a piker for just a little old dollar! come on back!" but ira shook his head. "when you know me better, johnston," he said with a smile, "you'll find that it's awfully hard to make me do anything i don't want to. if i hadn't thought the room would answer i'd never have taken it, no matter what you might have said. i don't think it's palatial, but i do think it will do well enough, and if mrs. magoon lets you off about the newel post on my account i'm glad of it. i owe you that much, anyhow, for all your trouble. just the same, i'm glad you didn't--didn't take me around there on purpose." "i didn't, honestly, old man. i'd forgotten all about it. but you're quite sure it's all right, eh? sure you really want to take the room?" "certain sure." "well, you're a brick. i guess i'll drop around and pay maggy her money, just the same. any fellow ought to, i should think. i'll do it this afternoon while i've got it. well, that's settled. and here's the emporium of our friend jacobs. "'open the door and tinkle the bell: you want to buy and i want to sell!'" chapter iii getting settled half an hour later ira was the proud possessor-now that's what comes of using phrases. it's a poor habit. as a matter of honest fact, no one could have been really proud of the articles purchased in mr. joseph jacobs' second-hand emporium. first, there were the remains of a window seat. ira had viewed it distastefully until johnston--it had developed that his first name was martin and that he was usually called mart--assured him that with a hammer and four nails and a bit o' luck he could fix it as good as new. then came a leather couch. the frame, springs and hair were quite serviceable, but the leather--well, mart said it was a "crime," and we'll let it go at that. "but," he pointed out, "all you've got to do is throw something over it, old man, and no one will know. haven't you some trifle like a paisley shawl or a persian rug about your person? never mind, we'll find something. and five dollars is dirt cheap for it. why, it's worth that much for fuel, and you want to remember that you've got a perfectly good grate to feed when winter comes. we'll take it, jacobs." the easy-chair was not as easy as it looked. about the only thing easy, except its appearance, was the price. it was one of those brown-oak contraptions with a back that let down to form various angles with the seat. unfortunately each succeeding angle was more uncomfortable than the last. "old man mission," observed mart, "may have been a dandy carpenter, but he was a mighty poor comforter!" they picked up some hanging book shelves for sixty cents and two rugs only half worn out for a dollar apiece and, finally, an oak table-desk with a column of drawers at one side, one of which would open without the use of a jimmy. leaving instructions to have the furniture delivered not later than five o'clock, they returned to "maggy's." mart heroically paid mrs. magoon a dollar, much to that lady's bewilderment, and then they went up to the room. a decrepit walnut washstand was already in place, but ira couldn't see that its presence added much to the apartment. they tried it in three places and at last returned it to its original position, restoring the casters which it had sprinkled around the room in its travels. then mart threw himself into the plush chair and stretched his legs out and viewed the room thoughtfully. "better make a list of things to buy, old man," he advised. "all ready? paper of tacks and a hammer--better get a real hammer and not one of those playthings; a hammer's always useful--, two brass curtain rods-by crickey, we forgot curtains! never mind, though, we'll get those at alston's. we can get the rods there, too. and you'd ought to have a cloth for that table. every fellow ought to have a cloth on his table, i should think. and--let's see--" he looked around the room inquiringly. "i guess that's enough for today," said ira. "the next thing is to get my trunk over from the station. i suppose there's an expressman around somewhere." "come on down with me at five and give your check to harris. he does most of the school work and won't mind lugging it up two flights. some of them expect ten cents more for that. let's get cooled off a bit and then buy the curtains, eh? curtains will make a lot of difference, i tell you! i'll borrow a yard-stick or something from maggy and measure the windows." when that had been done they sailed forth again. there was one excellent feature about ira's abode, and that was its convenience to the shops. alston's dry goods store was only a half block away, across school street, and soon they were viewing muslin and scrim curtains which an obliging saleslady hung over big brass rods. mart found that he might as well have spared himself the trouble of taking measurements, for the curtains were all the same length. they finally selected two pairs of what the young lady called "cross-barred muslin" and purchased rods and fixtures. subsequently they visited a hardware store and bought the hammer and the paper of tacks and a small quantity of nails. when they got back to number 200 main street they found an expressman struggling upstairs with the leather couch, followed grimly by the landlady who exhorted him at every step to "mind the plaster now!" when the new purchases were in place the room did look a lot better, and when mart had, after much difficulty, put up the rods and pinned the curtains over them the two boys viewed the result with deep satisfaction. "it's the little touches that do it," proclaimed mart. "now when we get a cloth----" but they had forgotten the cloth for the table, as well as the "drape" for the couch, and had also neglected to provide anything in the way of a cushion for the window seat. "but rome was not built in a day," said mart cheerfully. "i forget how long it took, but it was more likely a week. now, in a week you won't know this place, rowland. got any pictures to hang on this lovely yaller paper?" "no, but i can get some," answered ira, regarding the paper distastefully. "wish i could get enough to hide the walls entirely!" "put up half a dozen and hang a pennant over the door and stick a few posters around and you won't notice the walls at all. and if i were you i'd buy a can of brown paint and go over this border again. that colour on there now makes me sort of faint. what time might it be?" "twenty to five." "geewhillikins! where's the afternoon got to? here, i'll knock this window seat together and then beat it. where's that hammer? don't tell me--oh, all right! toss it over. nails? thank you, sir. now then, you rickety, tumble-down, lob-sided bunch of boards, how do you go, anyhow? i say, rowland, there's a leg missing! i didn't notice that, did you? never mind. it won't matter if you don't sit on that corner, and some time you can nail a piece of board on there. say, this thing is a regular chinese puzzle! know what i think? well, i think he's gone and sold us parts of two different seats!" but he wronged mr. jacobs, for ultimately the sections fitted together, and when they did the two boys looked at the result in silence and then burst into howls of laughter. the window seat had been built for a corner! no matter how they struggled with it it remained l-shaped! if half of it ran across a window the other half stuck out into the room at right angles like a sore thumb! ira subsided on the bed and mart sprawled himself on the floor and they laughed until they were weak. "well," said mart finally, "either you've got to change your room or this seat, and i guess the seat's the easier. now look here. if we turn this end around, so, and tack a couple of short boards on here----" "oh, don't!" begged ira. "don't spoil it! it--it's beautiful!" "oh, well, if you won't be serious," laughed mart, dropping his hammer. "let's leave it until tomorrow. i've got to meet brad at five-twelve. put your hat on and come along. bring your trunk check, by the way. hang it, quit laughing! get a move on, you--you idjit!" "y-yes, but--but look at it, johnston!" gasped ira. "isn't it--_funny_?" "it's killing," agreed the other, grinning. "i say, why not leave it that way just for a joke?" "i--i'm going to! i--l-like it!" "well, don't cry, old man! pull yourself together! here's your hat. now come on. we've only got eight minutes." the railway station was four blocks south and by the time ira had arranged for the delivery of his trunk and rescued his suitcase from the parcel room those eight minutes were gone and the express was rumbling in. mart left ira at the waiting-room door, with instructions not to move until he returned, and was presently pushing his way through the throng of arriving students in search of his roommate. ira, however, concluded that he would only be in the way. the chums would of course have lots to say to each other and he didn't believe that either of them would really be any happier for his presence. so, before the new arrivals had more than overflowed the platform, he was on his way uptown again, the heavy suitcase, into which at the last moment he had forced a lot of things that had been intended for the trunk, tugging at his arm. station carriages, filled to capacity with merry youths, began to pass him before he reached main street and turned toward his lodgings, but he saw nothing of mart. he had a bath in the wonderful enamelled tub on the floor below and felt cooler and generally better for it. after he had returned to his room and made himself as comfortable on the bed as the hard, lumpy mattress would allow he heard the sound of arrivals. voices and footsteps and the banging of doors came to him. downstairs a spirited battle began for the possession of the bathroom. across the hall from his closed door a youth with a strident voice sang loudly and opened and shut drawers most ungently. in spite of the noise, ira, who had slept but poorly on the train the night before, drowsed off presently and knew no more until there came a banging at his portal. half awake, he admitted the expressman with his trunk, paid for it in a stupor and then subsided on it to gather his faculties. his blinking gaze rested on the window seat and he began to chuckle at the perfectly idiotic way in which it thrust one decrepit end into the room. by that time he was sufficiently awake to find his key and open the trunk, after which he donned fresh underwear and his second-best suit of blue serge, spruced himself up and thought of supper. however, there was no great hurry about that, he concluded. since he had decided to get his meals at the restaurants for awhile he was not required to observe regular hours. it was only a little past six, and there was his trunk to unpack and his things to find places for. the closet, although short on hooks, was roomy. he made a mental memoranda to buy some hooks tomorrow and in the meanwhile "doubled up" with what there were. the bureau drawers stuck abominably, but he at last conquered them and arranged his possessions within. books, of which he had brought a good many, were equally divided between bookcase and shelves. (he wondered why he had bought the shelves until he remembered that he hadn't; that mart johnston had bought them!) by half-past six the nearly empty trunk was pushed out of sight in the closet, his few toilet things decorated the marble top of the bureau, sponge and toothbrush reposed on the washstand and, in short, he was settled. the room really began to look a bit homelike, he concluded, viewing it critically from what would have been the hearth-rug had he possessed such a thing. he would have to get something to hide the tattered and torn leather on the couch, and a cloth for the hideous walnut table; and, of course, there was that ridiculous window seat! he had to smile every time his eyes fell on it, but for some reason it seemed quite the most companionable article of furniture in sight. he decided that he would find an upholsterer and have a good cushion made for it, and then he would buy some pillows. probably, he reflected, he would fall over the protruding end of the crazy thing a dozen times in the next week. if only---and right there a brilliant idea struck him! "why, of course!" he exclaimed. he tugged and pushed the oak desk alongside the end of the seat that ran out from the wall, restored the walnut table to its erstwhile position in the middle of the rug, placed the plush easy-chair beside it and there you were! that put his desk between the windows, with the light coming over his left shoulder very nicely, and made a back for the homeless end of the window seat. and it looked great! he was quite proud of that arrangement and went out in search of supper very cheerfully. he found a lunch room around the corner on linden street and, probably more because he was really hungry than because the food was especially good, made an excellent repast, with an evening paper propped up against the vinegar cruet. it was nearly eight when he wandered back to his lodging through the warm, quiet evening. most of the stores on main street were closed, but a few windows still threw floods of yellow radiance across the brick sidewalks. doorsteps held family groups, quite as if summer had not gone, and children played along the pavement. an old-fashioned lantern with a gas jet sizzling inside it hung above the door of number 200 and threw a wavering, uncertain light on the four creaking steps. as ira passed into the hall the door of the tailor's shop was open and he saw a little hunchbacked man of uncertain age and nationality working steadily and swiftly over a pressing board. on each floor a dim gaslight flickered, but for most of the distance each flight was in darkness and he made his way upwards warily, a guiding hand on the banister rail. halfway up the second flight he heard mrs. magoon's voice. it sounded querulous, even a trifle resentful. the next moment another voice broke in angrily, and ira reached the third floor and viewed an astounding scene. in the doorway of his room, seated determinedly on a small trunk, with a bag on his knees, was a boy of perhaps sixteen. in front of him stood mrs. magoon, her hands wrapped in her apron. at the sound of his footsteps both actors in the little drama staged on his doorsill turned their heads and regarded him, the boy with an expression of dogged defiance and mrs. magoon with very evident relief. chapter iv found--a roommate "now i guess you'll behave yourself," exclaimed the landlady triumphantly. "here's the young man that's taken the room." "he hasn't any right to it," declared the boy on the trunk, gripping the bag on his knees more firmly. "you gave me the refusal of it! i told you i'd be back! it's my room, and i mean to keep it!" ira looked inquiringly at mrs. magoon, but she silently referred him to the claimant in the doorway. "what's wrong?" ira asked of the latter. "why, i came here this afternoon and looked at this room and i asked this--this lady if she'd give me the refusal of it until evening and she said she would. i agreed to come back in any case and say whether i'd take it or not. and now, when i send my trunk here, she tells me she's rented it to you!" "i gave him no refusal," exclaimed mrs. magoon irately. "he said he'd be back, yes, but he didn't know whether he wanted it or didn't want it. and i can't be losing the chance to rent my rooms while he's making up his mind." "well, if you didn't have a refusal," said ira mildly, "i don't see what claim you have. i found the room for rent and took it this afternoon, and paid two weeks in advance. i'm sorry, but i guess you'll have to look somewhere else." "i have looked!" cried the other. "there aren't any rooms left. this is all there is. i've been all over the crazy place." "oh, i guess you can find one tomorrow," said ira soothingly. "why don't you get a lodging for tonight somewhere and then start fresh in the morning? i've got a list of houses here----" "i've been all through the list. everyone's full up. anyway, this is my room, and i mean to have it. she _did_ give me the refusal of it, and she knows plaguey well she did!" "the idea!" exclaimed mrs. magoon in shrill tones. "calling me a liar to my face, are you? if you don't get right out of here this very minute i'll call a policeman, i will so!" "wait a minute," counselled ira. "he didn't mean it that way. now i tell you what we'll do." he glanced across the corridor to where a door had just opened to emit a large youth who was now regarding them with his hands in his pockets and a broad smile on his face. "you let this chap and me talk it over quietly, mrs. magoon. we'll settle it between us. there's no reason to get excited about it, is there? just you go on down, ma'am, and it'll be all right." "there's only one way it can be settled," replied the landlady irately, "and that's for him to take himself and his trunk out of my house!" "but there's no hurry, mrs. magoon. besides, we're disturbing the others with all this racket. shove that trunk inside, please, and we'll close the door first of all." mrs. magoon grunted, hesitated and finally went grumbling off down the stairs, and ira, taking affairs into his own hands, pushed the small trunk out of the way of the door, its owner grudgingly vacating his strategic position atop, and closed the portal, to the disappointment of the neighbour across the way. "now," said ira pleasantly, "sit down and be comfortable. try the armchair. what's your name? mine's rowland." "mine's nead," replied the other, not very amiably. "names haven't anything to do with it, though." "just wanted to know what to call you. now, honest-to-goodness, nead, did mrs. magoon say she'd hold this room until you had decided?" "she did! if it's the last word i ever utter----" "all right! and, if you don't mind telling me, how much were you to pay for it?" "thirteen dollars and a half a month." ira did some mental calculating and smiled. "that's about three dollars a week, isn't it?" he asked. "you're certain that was the price?" "of course i'm certain. three dollars was all i wanted to pay, and i told her so. she wanted four at first. four dollars for this--this old poverty-stricken attic!" "oh, i wouldn't be hard on it," said ira pleasantly. "i like it pretty well." "but it isn't yours! now you look here, boland----" "rowland. and don't let's have any melodrama, please. we can come to a settlement if we don't shout, i guess. what you agreed to and what mrs. magoon agreed to is no business of mine. that's between you two. she says the room is mine. you say it's yours. i've got it!" "you haven't any right----" "well, there's the right of possession," chuckled ira. "mind you, i'm inclined to believe your account of what took place, because--well, i'm beginning to doubt mrs. thingamabob's--er--memory. but i think you left it pretty late to decide, nead. if i'd been mrs. magoon i'd have considered myself released from that refusal by six o'clock; by seven, anyway. you couldn't have got here until half-past, i guess." "i had to get something to eat and then find a man to fetch my trunk----" "yes, but you could have dropped around before and told her you'd take it. you see, nead, if you hadn't wanted it, and she had stood by her bargain until nearly eight, she might not have rented it at all. there's that to consider." "oh, you make me tired! you talk like a--like a lawyer! she said i could have the room and i've come for it and that's all there is to it!" "well, what about me?" inquired ira mildly. "you can find another one. you can do what you told me to do. if you think it's so easy, just take a try at it!" "if i thought you really had a right to this room i'd do it," answered ira, "but i don't. at least, not a convincing one. tell you, though, what i will do, nead. i'll get mrs. magoon to fix up some sort of a cot or something and you can stay here until tomorrow. it's pretty late to go room hunting now and that's a fact. or maybe she has another room that she will let you have overnight. we'll go down and ask her." "but i tell you it's my room, boland! i don't care whether you think i have any right to it or not. i know that i have. i know that i was given a refusal of it until evening----" "what do you call evening?" interrupted ira. "oh, if you're going to split hairs----" "i'm not, but if i said evening i'd have some time like sunset in mind. the fact is, nead, you didn't make sure that there was nothing better until just before you came around here. and if you had found anything better you would never have shown up here again. and you know that's so, too. i'm perfectly willing to share the room with you tonight, but i'm not going to get out of it. i'm sorry the misunderstanding happened, but it isn't any fault of mine. now, what do you say to making the best of things and bunking out here until morning?" nead observed ira gloweringly, and for a long moment made no answer, and in that moment ira had a good look at him. he was at least a full year younger than ira, a thin, rather peevish looking youth with a poor complexion. his features were not bad, and he had rather nice eyes, but there was something unpleasant about his expression. he wore good clothes, but wore them carelessly, and ira noted that his tan shoes looked as if they had not seen polish for many days. on the whole, ira felt no enthusiasm about having nead for a roommate even overnight. "well, i'll stay here, i suppose," said nead ungraciously. "but i'm not giving up my claim on the room. tomorrow i mean to go to the principal and tell him about it. i guess he will see that i get what belongs to me." "all right! that's settled for the present, anyway. now i'll go down and interview mrs. magoon. if she hasn't an empty room she can probably find us a cot or a mattress. you can come along if you like," he ended questioningly. but nead shook his head. "she will only get mad again if i go," he said. "besides," he added, tossing his hat to the table and stretching himself more comfortably in the plush chair, "it's not up to me. i'm at home already." "glad you feel that way," replied ira gravely. "i'll be back in a shake." he found mrs. magoon more complaisant than he had expected. there was, she recalled, a cot in the attic, but he would have to bring it down himself. and having an extra person in the room would be fifty cents a day. ira, however, gently but firmly negated that, pointing out that she had got herself into the fix and that it was nothing to do with him, and finally the landlady agreed to waive remuneration. ten minutes later, not very enthusiastically aided by nead, he had the cot set up. there was a rather sketchy mattress on it and mrs. magoon grudgingly furnished two sheets and a blanket. by that time nead had got over his grouch to some extent and was displaying a few human qualities. "i thought i was going to have a room in one of the dormitories," he explained, divesting himself of his outer clothing and depositing it helter-skelter around the room. "i wouldn't have come if i'd known i had to room off the campus. why, you can get a fine study in leonard hall for a hundred and twenty-five for the year, and that's only about three dollars a week. they ought to have enough dormitories here and not make fellows live around in dives like this. gee, some of the prices they talked today would make your hair stand up! one place i went to asked six dollars for a room not half the size of this. it was furnished, though, which you can't say of this place. she's put some more things in here since i saw it, though." "bought 'em myself," said ira. "bought them! but they look second-hand!" "n-no, i don't guess so. third-hand, maybe, or fourth, but hardly second, nead. still, they're all right, aren't they? how do you like the window seat?" "window seat? is that what you call it?" nead laughed. "say, what's the matter with it? why does it shoot out like that?" "it used to be straight," answered ira soberly, "but it's rather old and has rheumatism. that explains the crook in it." "huh! it looks mighty silly. if you expect me to buy this trash off you you've got another guess coming." "i don't, thanks. it's not for sale. especially the window seat. i'm sort of fond of that." he chuckled. "it's so--so foolish looking!" nead viewed him in puzzlement. "well, if you like foolish things, all right," he said finally, dipping into his bag for his pyjamas. "i don't, though. say, where do you come from?" "maine. how about you?" "buffalo." "dakota?" inquired ira blandly. "dakota! of course not, you idiot! there isn't any buffalo in dakota. new york, of course." "there used to be. maybe they're all killed now, though. buffalo's quite a big place, i suppose." "it's big enough, anyway. and it's the best city in the country." "sort of like this place, then, i guess." "_what!_" "well, you said it was a city in the country, didn't you?" asked the other innocently. "and that's what this is. i'd call it that, at least." "you go and see buffalo some time," advised nead disgustedly. "i guess you live in the country, all right." he grinned at the nightgown that ira was getting into. "don't they have pyjamas up in maine?" "not many. there's a few raccoons left, though." "oh, gee, you're a smart guy, aren't you? well, i'm going to turn in. hope you'll find that cot comfortable, but it doesn't look it!" "oh, you're taking the bed, are you?" "sure," chuckled nead. "it's mine, isn't it?" "it's yours for tonight," was the answer. "if i have the nightmare, just yell. i usually wake up. good night." ira slept soundly in spite of the discomforts of that wobbly, creaking cot, and when he awoke the early sunlight was slanting in at the windows behind the new curtains. across the room nead was still asleep. reference to his watch showed the time to be but a few minutes past six. ira turned over stiffly and tried to slumber again, but after ten minutes of unsuccessful effort he gave it up, rolled over on his back, put his arms over his head, fixed his gaze on an interesting crack that travelled from one side of the ceiling to the other with as many ramifications as a trunk-line railway and faced the problem presented by the unconscious form on the bed. there was a freshness and coolness in the morning air that made for well-being, and ira felt extremely kindly toward the world, even including nead and the pugnacious gene goodloe. he wondered whether the latter would see fit to follow up the little affair of yesterday, and remembered that he hadn't sent him word of his whereabouts. he would write goodloe a note as soon as he got dressed. as far as he was personally concerned, he was ready to call quits. it was much too wonderful a day for fighting! then he speculated about mart johnston and wondered whether mart would look him up. he didn't care a whole lot. mart was a cheerful sort of idiot, but he wasn't exactly restful! and mart had so many friends, besides that chap "brad," that it wasn't likely he would recall the existence of the boy who was thinking of him except, perhaps, to laugh at him. and, finally, there was nead. nead was a problem, and ira scowled at the crack in the ceiling and tried to solve it. perhaps, after all, nead did have a good claim on that room. ira tried to see the affair from nead's point of view. it was rather puzzling. he didn't quite know what he ought to do. of course, he might follow nead's idea and leave the decision to the faculty, but it seemed a trivial affair to bring to its attention. or he might---he brought his gaze suddenly from the ceiling and stared blankly at the window for a moment. then he turned and regarded the sleeping countenance of the boy across the room. in slumber nead didn't look so unpleasant, he thought. and living alone would be, perhaps, rather lonesome. certainly, could he have his choice of roommates the choice wouldn't fall of nead, but he couldn't. and maybe nead would improve on acquaintance. ira had already discovered that first impressions are frequently erroneous. there was, too, the advantage of having someone share the expense, although ira wasn't greatly concerned about that. he weighed the question for some time, lying in bed there, and finally made up his mind. he would make the proposition to nead. if nead wasn't agreeable, why, nead could find another room. ira considered that he would then have done all that was required of him. he plunged out of bed and, gathering up towel and sponge and soap, made his descent on the bathroom. chapter v school begins it was all settled by the time they had finished breakfast. perhaps the cheerfulness of the morning, or it may have been mrs. magoon's coffee, worked its effect on nead, for that youth was far more amiable, and, while he did hesitate and seem a bit dubious for a moment, he ended by accepting the proposition. ira found himself hoping that he wouldn't and took the other's hesitation as a good augury, but put aside all regrets the moment nead made his decision. "that's all right, then," he declared. "now we'll have to make a dicker with mrs. magoon, i guess, for she'll want more for the room if there's two in it." "i don't see why," objected nead. "anyway, we oughtn't to pay more than four a week." "i think four would be enough," ira agreed. "and what about breakfasts? she charges a quarter apiece, you know." "and they're pretty punk, if this is a sample," said nead. "the coffee's all right, but my chop had seen better days. still, it's easier than hunting a restaurant. i thought maybe i'd eat in school. they say you get mighty good feed at alumni hall." "well, we'll tell her we'll take two breakfasts for awhile. that will cheer her up, maybe. shall i make the dicker?" "yes, she doesn't like me. and i don't like her. so that's even. what class are you going into, rowland?" "third, unless i trip up. what's yours?" "second. wish we were in the same. it makes it easier if you're with a fellow who's taking the same stuff. there's another thing, too; that bed's fierce. see if she hasn't got a better mattress." "i was going to buy one," said ira. "i guess hers are all about the same, don't you?" "well, make a stab," said nead. "she may have one that hasn't been slept on twenty years. what are the other fellows here like?" "don't know. i've seen only one, the fat fellow across the hall. there must be quite a lot of them, because she says she has all the rooms rented, and there are four rooms on each floor." "nine rooms altogether," nead corrected. "there's one on the ground floor at the back that she rents. it's behind the spring-water place. i suppose there are two in some rooms. must be twelve or fourteen fellows in this dive, eh?" "maybe," agreed ira, pushing away from the walnut table on which the breakfast tray had been placed. "do you know any fellows in school?" "no, do you?" "only one, a fellow named johnston. i ran across him yesterday and he told me about this place. they call it 'maggy's.' i'd been to about six before that and couldn't find anything i liked. well, i'll go down and-hold on, though! i must write a note first." he got a tablet and pulled a chair to the desk, and after wrinkling his forehead a moment, wrote: "mr. eugene goodloe, parkinson school, warne, mass. dear sir: i have a room at mrs. magoon's, 200 main street, third floor back on the left. a note addressed to me here will find me and i shall be glad to meet any appointment you care to make. respectfully, ira rowland." then he enclosed it, stamped the envelope and dropped it in his pocket. "that's what i must do, i suppose," remarked nead. "i told my folks i'd write last night, but i forgot it. guess i'll scribble a note while you're talking to the old girl downstairs. let me use your pen, will you? mine's in the trunk." "sorry, nead," replied ira, "but that's something i won't do. i'll lend you about anything but my fountain pen." "oh, all right," said the other haughtily. "i've got a better one of my own. just didn't want to look for it." the interview with mrs. magoon was a long-drawn-out ceremony. in the first place, she was not eager to have nead as a tenant. when she had finally agreed to it, she held out for four dollars and a half a week until ira informed her that they would each want breakfasts. four dollars a week was at last agreed on. in the matter of mattresses, however, she was adamant. more, she was even insulted. "that mattress has been on that bed for six years," she said indignantly, "and nobody's ever said anything against it before. anyhow, i ain't got any better one." "all right, ma'am. and how about another bed in there?" "you can keep that cot, i guess. i ain't got another bed." "but the cot's as hard as a board!" exclaimed ira. "it hasn't any mattress; just a--a sort of pad!" "well, i don't know what i can do," replied the lady. "i can't afford to go and buy a lot of new things. it's all i can do to get along as it is, with rents as low as they are. that room ought to fetch me six dollars a week, it should so. and i'm only getting four for it. and the price of everything a body has to buy is going up all the time. i don't know what we're coming to!" "suppose i buy a cheap single bed and mattress," suggested ira. "will you take it off my hands when i move out?" "i might. it wouldn't be worth full price, though, young man, after being used a year or more." "no, that's so. suppose you pay me half what it costs me? would that do?" "why, yes, i guess 'twould. but don't go and buy an expensive one. i wouldn't want to put much money into it." "well, i dare say i can get a bed for six dollars and a mattress for ten, can't i?" "land sakes! i should hope you could! you can get an iron bed for four dollars and a half that's plenty good enough and a mattress for six. you go to levinstein's on adams street. that's the cheapest place. ask for mr. levinstein and tell him i sent you. i buy a lot from him. leastways, i used to. i ain't bought much lately, what with times so hard and rents what they are and everything a body has to have getting to cost more every day. i mind the time when----" but ira had flown, and mrs. magoon's reminiscences were muttered to herself as she made her way down to the mysterious realms of the basement. nead flatly refused to spend any money for bed or mattress, but agreed to go halves on the furniture that ira had already purchased and on anything it might be necessary to buy later. "you see," he explained, "it will be your bed, and i won't get anything out of it. maybe i might swap mattresses with you if i like yours better, though," he concluded with a laugh. "you just try it!" said ira grimly. he purchased the bed and mattress before first recitation hour, paying, however, more than mrs. magoon had advised. after testing the six-dollar mattresses ira concluded that there was such a thing as mistaken economy! after leaving levinstein's he remembered the letter in his pocket and dropped it into a pillar box and then hustled for school. he was somewhat awed by the magnificence of parkinson hall as he made his way up the steps and entered the rotunda. it still lacked ten minutes of first hour, which was nine o'clock, and the entrance and the big, glass-domed hall were filled with groups of waiting fellows. he found a place out of the way and looked about him interestedly. the rotunda was a chamber of spaciousness and soft, white light. the stone walls held, here and there, latin inscriptions--ira tried his hand at one of them and floundered ingloriously--and there were several statues placed at intervals. a wide doorway admitted at each side to the wings, and into one of the corridors he presently ventured. there were three doors to his right and as many to his left, each opened and showing a cheerfully bright and totally empty classroom, and at the end of the corridor was a stairway leading to the floor above. about that time a gong clanged and, with a hurried and surreptitious glance at the schedule card in his pocket, ira began a search for room l. a small youth in short trousers came to his assistance and he found it at the end of the opposite wing. he had rather hoped to run across mart johnston, but it was not until he had taken a seat in the recitation room that he saw that youth several rows nearer the front. mart didn't see him, however, for he was busily engaged in whispering to a good-looking, dark-complexioned fellow beside him whom ira surmised to be "brad." the whispering, which was general, suddenly died away and the occupants of the seats, fully a half-hundred in number, ira judged, arose to their feet and began to clap loudly. ira followed suit without knowing the reason for the demonstration until he caught sight of a tall, thin figure in black making its way up the side aisle toward the platform. then he clapped louder, for the figure was that of professor addicks, and ira already had a soft spot in his heart for the pleasant-voiced man who had spoken so kindly to him the day before. professor addicks bowed and smiled, standing very straight on the platform with one gnarled hand on the top of the desk. "it gives me much pleasure to see you young gentlemen all back here again and all looking so well," said he. "i trust you have spent a pleasant summer and that you have returned eager for work--and play. someone--was it not our own mark twain?--said that play is what we like to do, work what we have to do. but he didn't say that we can't make play of our work, young gentlemen. i can think of nothing that would please me more than to overhear you say a few years from now: 'i had a good time at parkinson. there was football, you know, and baseball and tennis; and then there was old addicks' greek class!'" a roar of laughter greeted that, laughter in which the professor joined gently. "oh, i know what you call me," he went on smilingly. "but i like to think that the term 'old' is applied with some degree of--may i say affection?" clapping then, and cries of "yes, sir!" "age, young gentlemen, has its advantages as well as its disadvantages, and amongst them is the accumulation of experiences, which are things from which we gain knowledge. i am old enough to have had many experiences, and i trust that i have gained some slight degree of knowledge. i make no boast as to that, however. in fact, i find that i am considerably less certain of my wisdom now than i was when i was many years younger. looking back, i see that the zenith of my erudition was reached shortly after i had attained the age of the oldest of you, that is, at about the age of twenty-one years. today i am far more humble as to my attainments. but, young gentlemen, there is one thing that i have learned and learned well, and that is this: each of us can make his work what he pleases, a task or a pleasure. some of you won't believe that now, but you'll all learn eventually that it is so. and if you make your work a task you are putting difficulties in your own way, whereas if you make it a pleasure you are automatically increasing your power for work. if it is a pleasure you want to do it, and what we want to do we do with a will. therefore, young gentlemen, bring sufficient of the element of play to your studies to make them agreeable. you go through hard and difficult exertions for the exercise of your bodies and call it fun. why, then, pull a long face when you approach the matter of exercising your minds? if one is play, why not the other? a word to the wise is sufficient. i have given you many words. let us consider the pleasures before us." there was no class work that day, and after they had had the morrow's lessons indicated and had listed the books required for the courses in greek and latin the fellows departed to gather again in another room before another instructor. by noon ira had faced all his instructors, his head was swimming with a mass of information as to hours, courses of reading and so on, and he had made quite a formidable list of books and stationery to be purchased. he returned to mrs. magoon's and spent a half-hour filling in a schedule card, and then, as nead hadn't returned, set off by himself to the eggery for dinner. now that the big school dining room was open in alumni hall, the eggery was rather deserted as to students. the bulk of the patrons today were clerks and shopkeepers. after dinner he made various purchases of scratch-pads, blue-books, pencils and similar articles, bought several books at a second-hand store and paid a visit to the first national bank of warne. there he made a deposit of all the money he had with him save enough change to meet immediate demands, signed his name where the teller pointed and emerged the proud possessor of his first check book. by that time it was nearly three, and, having nothing especial to interest him, he crossed the campus, made his way around parkinson hall and past the little laboratory building and found himself facing the broad expanse of level and still verdant turf known as the playfield. there was some twelve acres here, in shape a rectangle, with one corner cut off by apple street, which began at the end of linden street and proceeded at a tangent to the cumner road, the latter forming the northern boundary of the field. directly in front of ira were the tennis courts, a dozen in all, of which half were clay and half turf. to the right of the courts was a quarter-mile running track enclosing the gridiron and beyond that were the baseball diamonds, three in number. a sizeable grandstand flanked the gridiron and a smaller one stood behind the home-plate of the 'varsity diamond. already the playfield was well sprinkled with fellows. several white-clad youths were practising flights over the high-hurdles, another was jogging around the farther turn of the track, the tennis courts were fairly well occupied and the football candidates were beginning to emerge from the nearby gymnasium and gather in front of the stand. ira stopped and watched the tennis for awhile and then gave his attention to the hurdlers. he had never seen hurdlers in action before and he looked on with interest while one after another went springing by with long strides and queer steps; stride, stride, stride, step and over; stride, stride, stride, step and over! ira wondered what would happen if he ran up to one of those barriers and tried to stick one leg across and double the other one behind him. he chuckled at the mental picture he got! one of the hurdlers interested him particularly. he was a much shorter and chunkier lad than the others; in age probably seventeen. there was no useless flesh on him, but he was very solidly built and had more weight than the usual boy of his age. as a hurdler he was persevering rather than brilliant. he struck four hurdles out of the ten invariably, each time throwing himself out of his stride and just saving himself from a fall, but he finished through with a fine, dogged patience, rested and went at it again. "if," thought ira, "i was selecting a fellow to win one of these hurdle races i wouldn't pick him, but if i was choosing a chap to--to hunt for the south pole or take on a hard job and finish it i guess he'd be the one!" when the hurdlers had picked up their sweaters and gone panting back to the gymnasium ira turned toward the grandstand. by this time a half-hundred boys in football togs were assembled on the field, while twice that number were seated in the stand to watch the first practice of the year. ira found a seat a little removed from the throng and viewed the gathering. even as he turned his eyes toward the candidates their number was increased by the arrival of some eighteen or twenty others accompanied by a man of perhaps thirty years whose air of authority plainly stamped him as the coach. by his side was a strapping youth with broad shoulders, a slim waist and sturdy legs who was quite as plainly the captain. he had tawny hair, light eyes and a lean, sun-browned face that, without being handsome, was striking. he looked, ira decided, like a born leader. and those shoulders and that deep chest and the powerful legs under the brown-and-white ringed stockings suggested that he was as capable physically as any other way. a rotund man in brown denim overalls pushed a wheelbarrow around the corner of the stand and from it unloaded a surprising amount of paraphernalia; a canvas bag containing a half-dozen scuffed footballs, many grey blankets, a water bucket and several shining new tin dippers, head-guards, several pairs of shoes, a bunch of leather laces, a nickel-plated horn with a rubber bulb attached and a leather case whose contents were not divulged that afternoon but which ira later discovered to hold adhesive tape, bandages, phials and similar first-aid requisites. a tall, immaculate youth in street attire joined coach and captain. he carried a square of light board to which were held by a clamp a number of sheets of paper. ira surmised correctly that he was the team manager. a short conference ensued between the trio and then things awoke to action. "first squad down the field," called the coach. "new candidates this way, please!" the knot of players who had accompanied him on the field went off with a couple of the worn footballs, while the balance of the fellows gathered around. they represented all ages from fifteen to twenty, although there were but two or three who looked more than eighteen; and were of assorted sizes and of various builds. there were slim boys there and dumpy boys; undersized boys and overgrown boys; fat boys and lean boys; and boys who weren't anything in particular. all wore football togs of some description, many new, more old. here and there ira caught sight of a brown sweater with the white p followed by the insignia "2nd," and here and there a white sweater bearing the letters "p.b.b.c." in brown. but for the most part the candidates, perhaps sixty-odd in number, appeared to be tyros. what the coach said to them ira was too far distant to hear, but he spoke for several minutes amidst respectful silence. then the group broke up and a minute later the candidates had formed three groups at different parts of the field and were passing balls to each other. it wasn't an exciting sight, and after a half-hour ira pulled himself from his sun-smitten plank and made his way homeward across the campus, loitering a little in the grateful shade of the buildings. he passed three or four groups of fellows studying, or at least making a pretence of studying, under the lindens, and always he was followed by curious and faintly amused looks. he didn't know it, however, and wouldn't have been troubled if he had known it. it certainly didn't occur to him that anyone could find anything unusual in his appearance now that he was wearing his blue serge. he had bought that suit in bangor and he had the salesman's word for it that it was absolutely the last cry in fashionable attire and that it fitted him perfectly. perhaps, however, the salesman had been nearsighted. let us be charitable and think so; for the fact is that that blue serge suit was too short as to trousers, leaving a painful lapse between the edge of each cuff and ira's low shoes--a lapse rather startlingly occupied by faded brown socks--and the coat was ungracefully long and fell away at the back of his neck. possibly the waistcoat fitted as well as the salesman had asserted, but ira wasn't wearing the waistcoat today. there is no gainsaying that, judged by the standard of the flannel-garbed youths under the trees, ira's appearance was somewhat unusual at parkinson. as he crossed washington avenue from the centre gate and entered school street he found himself hoping a trifle wistfully that he would find nead in the room, for he was beginning to feel a bit lonesome and out of it. but he was destined to disappointment, for when he opened the door the room was quite empty. there were, however, evidences of recent occupation, evidences both olfactive and optical. first, there was a distinct odour of cigarette smoke, and, second, there was a note propped up against the lamp on the desk. chapter vi the enemy calls the note proved to be from mart johnston. "where do you keep yourself? [he read] come over to 16 goss about five and play with us. eternally and indestructibly yours, m. j." ira smiled over the message as he crumpled it up and dropped it into a waste basket. the temptation to accept mart's invitation was strong, but he knew that he ought to at least get acquainted with some of the books piled there beside him. it wouldn't do to leave all the studying until evening. anyhow, five o'clock was still three-quarters of an hour away, and---and just then the odour of stale cigarette smoke assailed his nostrils again and he frowned. of course, if mart wanted to smoke cigarettes it was no one's business; at least, not ira rowland's; but ira didn't hold with smoking for boys and he guessed he and mart weren't destined to continue that acquaintance after all. he wasn't afraid that mart would corrupt him, of course, but he didn't see any advantage to be gained by becoming intimate with fellows who smoked. doubtless mart was one of the "smart class" at parkinson, and ira wasn't "smart" and didn't want to be. no, on the whole he guessed he'd let mart johnston slide. he was a little bit sorry, for the gay-hearted chap with his queer phrases and ready laughter was certainly likable, and an existence containing only nead as an intimate didn't look enticing. he didn't even know nead's first name yet, he reflected--as he settled himself for study--and, in any case, he didn't believe that he could ever grow fond of that rather unpleasant youth. he supposed, though, that he'd get acquainted with other fellows after awhile. amongst nearly five hundred there were surely some to become friendly with! after which encouraging conclusion he opened his greek reader, settled his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands and resolutely began his task. ten minutes later footsteps sounded outside and a knock came at the door. ira marked his place with a finger and called "come in!" for a moment ira failed to recognize the boy who entered, although he knew that he had seen him. he was a finely built chap of eighteen or so, of middle height and with rather an engaging countenance. it wasn't until the visitor had nodded smilingly, closed the door behind him and greeted ira with a careless "hello!" that the latter recognised him as eugene goodloe. today he was wearing tennis flannels and carrying a racket in his hand. ira arose from his chair a trifle warily. "how do you do?" he responded gravely. "better than when you saw me last," answered the caller, his smile deepening. "mind if i sit down? i've had three sets of tennis and i've been leading a lazy life of late. i'm about all in, rowland." "of course! have a chair!" said ira, trying not to sound surprised. "i--er--did you get my note?" "yes, a little while ago. that's why i'm here. i thought i might as well drop around and talk things over. say, where did you learn to punch like that, rowland? you nearly broke my jaw!" "why, in the woods, i guess. sorry if i hurt you much. maybe i hit harder than i needed to, goodloe." "oh, that's all right. i had it coming to me. what do you mean by the woods, though? oh, i know! you said you lived in a lumber camp, didn't you?" "not exactly," replied ira, seating himself on a corner of the desk. "i don't live in a lumber camp, but i've spent some time in them. the lumbermen are mostly pretty handy with their fists. you sort of pick up fighting when you're around with the drive." "guess i'd better spend a few months in the maine woods," said gene goodloe ruefully. "well, what's your idea, rowland? want to try it again?" "any time you say, thanks." "suits me. we'd better not advertise, though. faculty's a bit down on scraps. i don't see why you and i can't just take a walk, say, tomorrow morning early, eh? do you know where the brick-yards are, over across apple street? they aren't used nowadays and the fellows generally pull off their scraps there." "i don't know where you mean," said ira, "but i can find the place all right." "sure! or you might meet me at the west gate. it's on our way. any time you say after six-thirty." "six-thirty will suit me. the west gate's the one over that way, to the left, isn't it?" "yes. of course, if you'd rather bring some fellow with you, i don't mind. i'll do the same, if you like. only i don't see any use in having a crowd, what?" "n-no; and i don't think i know anyone who would go with me." he did think of nead, but somehow nead didn't appeal to him in the rã´le of second. "we can get along without help, i guess," he added. "sure! you may have to carry me home, or i may have to lug you back," chuckled goodloe, "and i hope it'll be the latter way. no use in fighting rounds, is there? just dig in and keep at it until we've had enough, what?" "i think so." "good! and now that that's settled," said goodloe, "i'd like to say that--well, i guess i want to apologise, rowland, for anything i said yesterday that wasn't decent. i had a sort of a grouch, i guess." "all right," assented ira. "maybe i was sort of flarey, too." "no, you weren't," goodloe laughed. "you were about as cool as they make 'em. do you ever lose your head and get rattled?" ira smiled slowly. "i guess so--sometimes. i did yesterday." "no one would have known it! rather jolly room you've got here. all alone? oh, i see you're not." "no, there's a fellow named nead in with me." "nead? don't know him, i guess. but i thought you said you didn't know any fellow who'd act as second for you." "well, i did think of nead, but--he doesn't--" ira hesitated and his visitor laughed understandingly. "not the sort you want in a pinch, eh? well, we won't nead him. rotten pun, wasn't it? so long, rowland. i must be getting back to hall. much obliged for that note, you know. glad we got together so nicely, too. i guess there won't be any hard feelings, no matter who pulls down the purse! six-thirty at the west gate then. i'll be there." gene goodloe nodded affably and took his departure, leaving ira looking perplexedly at the door that had closed behind him. "i wonder," thought ira, "what there is to fight for? he says he was in the wrong and has apologised. i'm certainly satisfied. then what do we scrap about in the morning?" but there was no satisfactory answer to that conundrum and he went back to his books. when, just before six o'clock, nead came in, he had conquered his greek lesson and had dipped into algebra. nead viewed him contemptuously as he skimmed his hat across the room to his bed. "gee," he said in disgust, "i hope you're not going to be a 'grind,' rowland. that would be the limit." "hope not myself," replied ira. "by the way, nead, what's your other name, if you have one?" "humphrey." "thanks. mine's ira." "there's not much choice between them, is there?" laughed nead. "i was named for an uncle, my mother's brother. how did yours happen?" "i don't know, i'm sure. i guess father or mother liked the name. i confess i'm not fond of it, but it might be worse. what have you been doing this afternoon?" "oh, moseying around. it's rather a dull hole. played some pool over on green street with a fellow, for one thing." "who was he?" asked ira. "search me. i ran across him there and he wanted to play and i took him on. he was a shark, too. i only got three games out of ten. had perfectly rotten luck." "one of the school fellows, was he?" "great scott, no! he was a real player. guess i could handle any of the school chaps at pool without much trouble. say, there's a reception or something tonight at the principal's. sort of a shindig for the new chaps. you going?" "i think so. one of the instructors said we ought to. by the way, who's your adviser?" "hale, physics man. he looks like a pill. i've got a date with him at seven-thirty. who's yours?" "mr. mccreedy, the mathematics instructor. i'm to confer tomorrow at eleven-thirty. where do we eat tonight?" "let's try the owl grill. this guy i played pool with says it's swell." "where is it?" "a block this side of the station, on maple street. want to start along pretty soon? i'm starved." "i'm ready now," responded ira, marking his place and closing his book. "done any studying yet?" "me? no, i'll take a fall out of it tonight. it looks like a cinch. the algebra's review stuff. i've had it already. and the latin's easy, too. guess german's the only thing i'll mind much. how about you?" "looks stiff," acknowledged ira. "i didn't expect to have to take french until next year. languages were always hard for me. i've elected greek instead of german. i don't see why a fellow needs much german, do you?" "i don't see why he needs any. or french, either, for that matter. latin's enough, i think." "really? but french is different from german. i mean, it's a sort of universal language----" "sure. i know. but why not learn it in college? that's time enough. my idea is that they try to teach you too blamed much at these big prep schools." "a good many fellows don't go to college," said ira. "i'm not certain that i shall." "gee, i wouldn't miss it! if it wasn't for going to college i wouldn't ever waste time at a prep school, believe me. college is fun, old man. you take my advice and go. get a move on and let's start along. i could eat bent nails!" the food at the owl grill proved excellent, but the prices were dismayingly high and the atmosphere of the place didn't please ira. they ate in one of the little booths that lined the walls of the restaurant, which was a bright and attractive place of many lights and black-oak panelling and cheerful pictures of hunting and coaching scenes. but after the room had filled up ira had an uncomfortable feeling of being in the wrong place. his modest order brought an expression of disdain to the waiter's face, and when he glanced out into the room and saw what most of the diners were surrounding themselves with he understood it. humphrey nead ordered as if quite familiar with that style of restaurant and bought far more food than he was able to eat and paid his check later with a lordly air. "some place for a one-horse town like this, eh?" he asked, looking approvingly around. "i guess it beats eating in hall, what? sometime i'm going to have one of those planked steaks like the fat guy over there has. bet they cost about two dollars. they ought to have music here, though. we've got a place in buffalo you ought to see, rowland. it's got this beat a mile. going to drink anything?" "i guess not. i don't like tea much, and coffee at night keeps me awake." "gee, you're a greenie!" jeered nead. "i meant a real drink, a glass of beer or something." "i don't drink beer," replied ira shortly. "and if you take my advice you won't, either." "piffle! i often have a glass of beer with my dinner. don't be a pill!" "what you do at home is different, nead. you're not allowed to do it here, and if faculty found it out----" "what faculty doesn't know won't hurt it," returned nead flippantly. but ira observed that he didn't order the beer. when they had finished, nead wanted to sit there awhile and talk, but ira wasn't comfortable and nead grumblingly consented to leave. when ira handed the waiter fifteen cents, which was the change from the dollar he had placed on his check, nead looked even more disgusted than the waiter and ostentatiously tossed a fifty-cent piece on the cloth. "did you see his look when you slipped him that tip?" he asked as they passed out. "it was a study. it doesn't do to be a piker in a place like that, rowland. they remember it, and the next time you go there you don't get any sort of attention. it pays to loosen up sometimes." "there won't be any next time for me," answered the other untroubledly. "i don't like the place. and, anyway, i wouldn't have tipped him more than fifteen cents. that's more than enough." "oh, sure! you don't _have_ to give anything, but they expect it, you know, and they think you're a tightwad if you don't come across." "what that waiter thinks of me doesn't worry me a bit," replied ira, smiling. "it isn't a patch on what i think of him!" "oh, he didn't do so badly," said the other carelessly. "i think it's a pretty decent dive for a town like this. they do know how to charge, though. a fellow couldn't eat there more than a couple of times a week, i guess." "i couldn't. suppose we look around and find a good boarding house, nead?" "not on your tintype! no boarding house for yours truly! guess i'll go to alumni after a week or so. i'll be busted by that time," he chuckled, "and you can chalk it up at alumni until the end of the term. it's nearly seven-thirty and i'll have to hustle over to goss and keep that date with hale. see you at the party, eh?" "all right. i'll be there about a quarter past eight. bye!" humphrey nead turned into school street in the direction of the campus and ira kept on until he reached number 200. as usual, the little tailor was hard at work under a flaring gas jet as ira pushed open the outer door, and was humming a queer tune as he trundled the steaming goose up and down the pressing board. ira fumbled his way up the dark staircase to the floor above and then went along the hall with more certainty in the dim radiance of the single bracket. as he passed the door of a room on the front of the house it opened suddenly and a tall form in a blanket dressing gown stood revealed in the light. "the peloponnesian war was 430, wasn't it? or was it 431?" ira, already startled by the sudden apparition, drew back in surprise. "i--what did you say?" he gasped. "the peloponnesian war," repeated the stranger in the doorway impatiently. "what was the date?" "i'm afraid i don't remember," replied ira apologetically. "but it was somewhere around there." "rather indefinite," said the other drily. "thought you might know. much obliged." he was gone and the door was closed before ira could reply, leaving the dim impression of a thin, earnest face and a pair of big spectacles. ira smiled as he climbed the next stairway. from the room across the corridor came the muffled strains of "boola" punctuated by a sound that suggested the beating of a book with a ruler. ira's smile became a grin. evidently "maggy's" was inhabited by some queer characters, he thought. there was barely time for a letter before eight o'clock and he lighted the gas and set to work. but after writing "dear dad" at the top of the sheet he leaned back and began to think of that encounter with goodloe in the morning. he found that he entertained a sentiment of cordiality toward goodloe and the idea of standing up to him and trying to flatten his nose for him seemed somewhat ridiculous. "if only he hadn't come around and called," thought ira. "he seemed such a decent chap, and apologised so nicely! wonder why he wants to fight. i'm sure i don't. well, i suppose i'll have to go through with it. i guess i can lick him, all right, but i haven't got much enthusiasm for it. still, if i don't make a fight of it he will probably mess me up considerable. i guess he's the sort that'll bore in and take a lot of punishment, too. bother him, i wish he was in halifax!" after that there was not time left for the home letter, and he spruced up a bit and trudged through school street and then along washington avenue, in front of what was known as faculty row, and found the principal's residence, at the corner of the grounds, quite gay with lights within and coloured lanterns without. a thin stream of more or less embarrassed first class fellows was ascending the steps and edging in to be greeted by dr. and mrs. lane at the door of the big library. ira liked dr. lane's looks and his hearty handshake and his deep and pleasant voice. the principal was a man still slightly under thirty, of medium height and build, clean-shaven, with rather more of the executive than the pedagog in his appearance. he held ira in conversation a few moments and then passed him over to mrs. lane, a rotund, cheerful little woman who invited him to tea on friday next at half-past four and asked him what church he attended. ira was afterward in doubt whether he had accepted the invitation or not, but concluded that it didn't matter. he met professor addicks a minute later and was flattered to discover that the professor remembered him. the professor, although ira didn't know it, always remembered everyone and everything. after that he met many other members of the faculty, many of whose names he promptly forgot, and talked, without being introduced, to a number of lonesome looking fellows whom he found standing around in corners or flattened against walls. most of the guests were, of course, first year students, and ira and some eight or nine others were the only older boys there. one small chap of fourteen whom ira discovered in a niche between a door and a mantel in a back room mistook him for an instructor or something official, a misapprehension flattering but embarrassing. he caught sight of nead once for a moment, but that youth was hobnobbing with a freshman in the hall and didn't see him. refreshments were served in the garden at nine, and after demolishing a helping of ice cream and a slice of cake ira slipped quietly away. it wouldn't do to stay up very late, since he had an important engagement at half-past six at the west gate, and he had still to do some studying. what time nead returned he didn't know, for he was fast asleep at half-past ten. chapter vii the fight when ira awoke the next morning an expression of mart johnston's came to him. "you've got a good day for it!" it certainly was a good day, for the early morning sky was cloudless and swept by a crisp breeze that held enough tingle as it came through the window to make him hurry a bit with his dressing. he managed to get through his ablutions and put his clothes on without disturbing nead, and at twenty minutes past six he closed the door quietly behind him and went cautiously down the dim stairways. main street was for the most part still asleep, although a few yawning persons were opening stores for the day's trade. he found himself whistling a tune as he turned into linden street and realised that it was rather an incongruous thing to do under the circumstances. he ought, he told himself, to plan his battle and keep his mind on feints and leads. but the morning was too fine for that and he didn't feel in the least sanguinary. he would much have preferred a long walk into the country. there was no sign of goodloe when he reached the west gate, and he had begun to hope that that youth had overslept when he caught sight of him running down the steps of williams hall. goodloe waved a greeting as he hurried up, still buttoning his waistcoat. "sorry if i'm late," he said as he joined ira. "i came mighty near missing it. fred wouldn't let me set the alarm clock and i'm not much good at waking up myself. say, it's a peach of a morning, isn't it? if we cut through here it's nearer, rowland." he led the way down a sort of lane beside an old white house on apple street and they squeezed themselves between the bars of a gate. "i suppose you went to jud's reception last night?" asked goodloe. "i went last year. he asked a lot of us over to give the glad hand to the new boys, but halden--he was baseball captain last year--and a lot more of us made such inroads on the refreshments that we didn't get asked this time. i suppose mrs. jud asked you to tea?" "yes, she did. on friday, i think it was. i'm not sure whether i said i'd come or not." "it doesn't matter. she doesn't expect you. no one ever goes. not more than once, anyhow. she makes you do things: sing or recite or do card tricks. she means well; in fact she's a nice little person, mrs. jud; but it's a nuisance. ned mailman went the first time he was asked and recited casey at the bat with the aid of an umbrella out of the stand in the hall, and knocked about sixty-eleven dollars worth of bric-a-brac off the mantel! here we are!" they had crossed a field during goodloe's chatter and now were making their way past the old workings of a brick-yard, skirting a clay pit that was half full of water and a tumble-down shed littered with broken bricks. further on was a small building in a fair state of repair, save for the windows which had been practically denuded of glass, and to the back of this goodloe cheerfully led the way. "out of sight of the world," he announced. "there have been more scraps pulled off here than you can shake a stick at. it used to be a brick-yard, but now it's a scrap yard." goodloe removed his coat and waistcoat and hung them carefully from a nail against the side of the shed. "there's a nail for you," he said, pointing. "we don't get checks, but they'll be safe." he put his hat over his garments and drew his belt in another hole. certainly, reflected ira, the place was private enough. the shed cut off all sight of the school, the street and the nearer houses, while in other directions a young growth of birch and oak which had sprung up since the yard's activities had ceased effectually screened them. the morning sunshine fell warmly on the little space of hard-trodden clay and the side of the shed, turning the weathered, grey boards of the latter to pale gold. ira removed his coat and vest and hat and hung them beside goodloe's. he didn't cinch in his belt because he didn't wear one, but he did shorten his suspenders a little. "i needn't tell you, i guess," observed goodloe, "that it won't do to be seen around school with our faces messed up. after honour is satisfied we'd better look each other over and do the first-aid act. if faculty sees us with our eyes bruised it'll get to asking questions. all ready? shake hands, do we? fine! i suppose hitting in the clinches is barred, eh?" "just as you like," answered ira. "well, it's more shipshape to break away, i guess. we might as well act like gentlemen even if it hurts us! let her go, rowland!" goodloe had been smiling genially thus far, and the smile on his face still continued now, but his eyes narrowed a little as he stepped warily back and raised his guard. ira, for his part, experienced a strong desire to laugh, for the humour of the affair struck him harder than before. but he tried to look grave as he faced his antagonist and waited for the latter to begin. it soon became evident, though, that goodloe was also waiting. in the course of the first thirty seconds of that remarkable meeting they each completed one circuit of the "ring" without offering a blow. "come on!" said goodloe encouragingly. "come on yourself," replied ira grinning. goodloe grunted. "i suppose someone's got to start it," he muttered. he feinted with his right and landed a light tap on ira's shoulder and danced away before ira could reach him. he came back and they each sparred for an opening until ira landed a weak left to the neck. "short," said goodloe. "you're quick on your feet for a big chap. i'll have to watch you." he rushed in and managed to reach ira's chin, but the blow was half blocked and scarcely jarred the recipient, and ira landed twice on the body before goodloe retreated. more circling then, each watching the other warily, and then a half-hearted rush by goodloe that failed to beat down ira's guard. half a dozen quick blows were given by each, but the blocking was good and neither got home. [illustration: more circling then, each watching the other warily] "this is a perfect farce," declared goodloe mournfully. "you're not half fighting, confound you!" "neither are you," replied ira, laughing. they drew off by common consent, panting a little, but more from their circling than their sparring, and viewed each other. goodloe shook his head discouragedly. "you'll have to do better than you've been doing, rowland," he complained. "can't you hand me one on the face? i can't do it all, you know." "i don't see that you've done any of it yet," said ira indignantly. "if you want to fight go ahead and fight. i'm not stopping you." "well, but--hang it, rowland, i can't smash a fellow unless he does something to get me worked up! why don't you start something?" "why don't you?" "why, it isn't my row!" ira burst out laughing. "whose is it, then?" "yours, of course. you said you wanted to fight----" "_i_ said so! when?" "well, that note said so, then." "i said i'd meet you whenever you liked," protested ira. "you don't call that a--a challenge, do you?" "n-no, maybe not, but it sort of sounded as if you wanted to finish up the scrap we started, and i couldn't very well refuse, could i? if you didn't want to fight what the dickens did you get me out of bed for at this unearthly hour?" goodloe sounded pained and pathetic. "that was your suggestion," answered ira. "i wasn't crazy about scrapping before breakfast, or any other time." "then--then you don't want to fight?" demanded goodloe. "i'm not a bit keen about it," laughed ira. "i was only obliging you, goodloe." "well, i'll be blowed! what do you know about that? thunderation, i don't want to fight you! why should i? i made an ass of myself the other day and got knocked down, but i deserved it, and i've said so. you--you're quite sure you don't want to go ahead?" "quite, thanks. i'd rather have some breakfast." goodloe grinned. "so would i," he said heartily. "tell you what, rowland. we'll go down to the eggery and have some coffee and cakes and a few trimmings. what do you say? i don't believe i want to go to dining hall this morning." "all right. that suits me. let's get there. i'm as hungry as a bear!" "me, too! say, it looks to me as if we were a couple of silly chumps!" goodloe chuckled as he handed ira his hat. "for the love of pete, don't let this out or we'll be a regular laughing-stock! if fred lyons ever got onto this he'd never let up on me!" "is he the football captain?" asked ira as he pulled his vest on. "yes. we room together. you ought to know him, rowland. he's a dandy old scout. tell you what! you run around tonight and meet him, eh? i wish you would. you'd like him. come over about eight, will you?" "thanks, i'd like to. now which is the shortest way to the eggery?" ten minutes later they were seated at opposite sides of a small table in the restaurant and no one of the patrons would have suspected them of having lately met on the field of honour. for they were talking as amicably as though they were old friends while they consumed their buckwheat cakes with maple sirup and drank their piping hot coffee. and afterwards, when they had supplemented the main part of the repast with three doughnuts apiece and had ordered more coffee, they still sat there chatting and laughing. "i wish," said ira, at last approaching a question he had had on his mind to ask for some time, "i wish you'd tell me something." "will if i can," answered gene. "shoot." "well, it's about my--about that suit i had on the other day. i suppose it doesn't look just right, goodloe, but what's the trouble with it?" "why--er--if you want the truth, rowland, it's too small for you. it looks as if you'd grown about six inches since you got it." "oh! yes, i guess i have. i've had it two years, about. i realise that my things don't look like what you fellows wear. i dare say even these aren't--aren't quite right, eh?" "well, i wouldn't want to say that," responded gene cautiously. "well, are they? i thought they were yesterday morning, but they don't seem to look just--just proper." "perhaps they're a wee bit--er--skimpy," allowed gene, evidently anxious not to hurt the other's feelings. "did you have them made for you or--or just buy them?" "i bought them ready-made. i never had a suit made to order. you see, cheney falls is just a village and the only tailor there would probably die of fright if you asked him to make a suit of clothes for you! i got these in bangor. the man i got them of said they were fine; said they fitted perfectly. but i guess they don't, eh?" "well, n-no, they don't, rowland; not perfectly. if i were you i'd take them to a tailor here and let him take a fall out of them. if you want a suit built, try dodge, on adams street, next door to the music hall. he does a lot of work for the fellows and is pretty good, and he doesn't charge terribly much, either." "i guess i will," answered ira. "i mean, have these doctored. maybe i'll get me a new suit, too, later. how much does he charge?" "oh, he'll build you a mighty good one for thirty-five." "thirty-five!" exclaimed ira. "gee! these only cost eighteen!" "yes, but what dodge will turn out will outwear that suit two to one and, besides, it'll fit you, rowland. you won't have to pay the whole bill right away if you don't want to, only you mustn't tell faculty. it doesn't approve of the fellows running accounts." "oh, if i got it i'd pay cash, i guess." "it's best to," agreed gene. "i used to charge things all over the shop when i first came, but i was always scared that faculty would get on to it. besides, i had a fierce time getting my bills paid off at the end of the year. well, i must be starting back. put your money up, please. this is my treat." "oh, no! i'd rather not!" "can't help it, old man. as the challenged party i have the choice of weapons, and i choose to defeat you with cash." he had already seized ira's check and so the latter gave in, although a bit uncomfortably. still, the breakfasts had been only thirty cents apiece, so perhaps it didn't much matter. they parted outside, gene reminding ira of his agreement to call that evening, and went their separate ways. when ira got back to the room he found humphrey just starting out for breakfast. "well, what happened to you?" he demanded. "been catching worms?" "i got up early," replied ira. "i've had breakfast." "you have? what's the idea? didn't you have enough dinner last night to hold you for a while?" "yes, but--it was a fine morning and--say, we ought to get a cushion for that window seat today." "you get it," said humphrey. "i'm going to be busy this afternoon. i've got a date with a fellow." "all right. i'll try to get out of it cheap." "you'd better. i don't intend to spend much money on this dive. it isn't worth it." "why, i thought it was beginning to look pretty nice," replied ira. "when you get your pictures up----" "oh, it'll do, i suppose. well, i'm off to feed. don't want to come along, do you?" "no, thanks. i'm going to do a little studying before first hour." "i wish you'd do some for me. i haven't looked into a book yet. so long!" ira had plenty to keep him busy until three that day. he had a consultation at half-past eleven with mr. mccreedy, his adviser, and in consequence made one or two alterations in his elective courses. the mathematics instructor was a youngish man with a sort of cut-and-dried manner that ira found unsympathetic. but the advice was good and mr. mccreedy begged ira to look him up frequently and not to hesitate to consult him on any matter at any time. in the afternoon--studies went easily enough as yet--ira found himself at a loose end, although one could, of course, always "grind." but "grinding" didn't appeal to him on such a day, and he wandered around to the playfield again and looked on at football practice for awhile. several fellows nodded to him, and some spoke, for he had made acquaintances in classroom and at the principal's reception. but he met no one he knew well enough to talk to, and about four he returned to his lodging to get the measurements for the window-seat cushion. when he opened the door he was surprised to find that the odour of stale cigarette smoke still lingered, in spite of wide-open windows. there was a brief note from humphrey asking him to meet him there at six for supper. he arranged at a furniture store for the cushion and then went back and finished that letter to his father. as he had a good deal to write, it was six o'clock before he had reached the last of the twelve pages. he waited until half-past for humphrey and then, as that youth was still absent, sallied forth alone. he was quite as well satisfied, for humphrey was inclined to eat bigger suppers than he needed, and ira, after buying an evening paper, sought the eggery and did very well at an expense of twenty cents. at half-past seven, having brushed his blue suit and his shoes and his hair, and changed his tie for one more after the fashion of those affected at parkinson, he started out for gene goodloe's room. chapter viii ira declines an invitation goodloe roomed in number 30, williams hall, the dormitory nest to parkinson on the left, and ira wandered around for several minutes before he discovered that there were two entrances and that he had selected the wrong one. finally, a boy whom he encountered in the corridor set him right and number 30 was eventually located on the second floor at the west end of the building. the door was ajar and his rap went unheard at first. then someone called "come in if you're good-looking!" and ira entered to find the big room seemingly full of boys. as a matter of fact, though, there were only seven there, as ira discovered presently when, having been welcomed by gene and introduced off-handedly to the rest, he found a seat and an opportunity to look around. his entrance proved the signal for a general withdrawal, and all the visitors but one left, nodding carelessly to him from the door on their way out. the fellow who remained was the tall, dark-haired boy who had so kindly and readily interpreted the mystic "r & b" the day of ira's arrival. he had, however, shown no sign of recollection on being introduced, and ira had concluded that he had failed to recognise him. but when fred lyons had closed the door on the heels of the final departing caller, white--his was one of the few names ira had remembered--turned to him with a smile and remarked: "how are you getting on with the rats, rowland? hope they're giving you your money's worth at maggy's." "what's the joke about rats?" inquired fred lyons before ira could reply. "oh, we tried to put one over on rowland the other day," replied gene goodloe. "he wanted to know what 'r & b' stood for on the list of rooming houses they give you and ray told him it stood for 'rats and bugs.' we thought we'd got away with it at first, but now i'm not sure rowland fell for it at all. did you?" "he did at first, didn't you?" asked raymond white. "say you did, rowland, anyhow. let us down easy." "yes, i did--at first," answered ira. "you all looked so sober and--and truthful, you see." "truthful! gee!" exclaimed white. "i guess you didn't take a good look at gene!" "oh, that was when gene got the lovely knockout, was it?" asked the football captain. "i'd like to have seen that. it would do me a lot of good to see gene get what's coming to him." "why don't you try to give it to me, you big bluff?" demanded gene, truculently. "why depend on--on outside talent?" he doubled up his fists and frowned formidably until his roommate stirred as though to get out of his chair. then he put the table between them, and fred lyons grunted contemptuously. "you see what a coward he is, rowland," he said. "hit him any time you like. he'll stand for it." "not from you, i won't! just one more crack like that, you old stiff, and i'll come around there and put you over my knee!" even ira had to smile at the idea of gene spanking his chum, who was a good three inches taller and bigger all around, and white laughed amusedly and asked: "why don't you flay him some time, fred? it would do him good." "i'm going to. i'm saving it up for him," answered lyons. then he turned to ira and asked: "how are you getting on, rowland? things breaking all right for you?" "oh, yes, thanks. it's sort of strange yet, but i'm learning." "that's good. take my advice, though, and choose your companions carefully. avoid questionable company." ira nodded politely, secretly a little surprised until he caught the amused look on white's countenance. then he, too, smiled doubtfully as gene said: "oh, rowland's able to look after himself. if he wasn't i wouldn't have asked him around here to meet you chaps. i might as well explain, rowland, that you're quite at liberty to cut these fellows dead the next time you see them. i only wanted to show them to you so you'd know whom to avoid." "where are you hanging out?" asked lyons. "mrs. magoon's, on main street." "maggy's, eh? not a bad place. she lets you do about as you like, anyway, so long as you pay your bills. they said last year that faculty was sort of frowning on maggy's and weren't going to let the fellows go there any more. who's in the house with you?" "i don't know. i haven't met any of them yet. at least, not exactly. one of them gave me a scare last night, though." he told about the boy who had asked the date of the peloponnesian war, and the rest laughed. "that was 'old earnest,'" said white. "he's been at maggy's ever since he came here." "and he will be there awhile yet if he doesn't stick to his courses," said lyons. "he took up so many extras last year that he didn't have time for the required studies and flunked in a couple of them. he's a wonder! you'll find him amusing, rowland, when you get to know him. he's our prize 'grind,' i guess." "rather handy having him around," observed white. "if you ever want to know anything all you've got to do is run down and ask ernest hicks." "yes," agreed gene, "it's like the signs you see: 'ask hicks: he knows!'" "he didn't know about the what-you-may-call-it war, though," said fred lyons. "i hope you were able to tell him, rowland." "i wasn't, though," laughed ira. "i told him it was about the time he said, but he seemed to think that was too indefinite." "i'll bet he did!" said gene. "'old earnest' would have to know not only the year but the day of the month, and whether it was in the morning or the afternoon." "wonder why he didn't look it up," remarked white. "he has a library of encyclopedias and reference books about a mile long." "maybe he'd forgot how to spell the word," suggested gene. "i have!" "absolutely no criterion," said lyons. "'old earnest' has forgotten more than you ever knew or ever will know, you ignoramus." "is that so? i'll bet you you don't know who the peloponnesians were." "don't i? they were inhabitants of peloponnesia. ask me a hard one." "well, where was peloponnesia, then?" "oh, about half-way between cumner and springfield," replied lyons without hesitation. "anybody knows that! by the way, rowland, i don't remember seeing you out." "out?" asked ira. "out for football, i mean. you're trying, of course." "no, i'm not. i've never played football. i'd be no good, i guess." "great jumping jehosaphat, man!" ejaculated lyons. "that'll never do! we've got to have you, rowland. why, if driscoll knew there was a chap of your build who hadn't showed up he'd be after you with a gun. seriously, though, rowland, i wish you'd come out and have a try. we really do need husky chaps like you. you're built for a guard if any fellow ever was, isn't he, ray?" "he certainly is," replied white. "what do you weigh, rowland?" "i don't know. i haven't weighed for a long time. about a hundred and forty-one or -two, i guess." "a hundred and fifty-one or -two, more likely," said lyons. "but you'll drop some of that. you're a bit soft, i'd say. haven't you ever tried football at all?" "no, and i've never seen it played but once. i never thought i'd care for it." "oh, but you will," replied lyons confidently. "you're bound to, once you get a taste of it. i wish you'd promise to report tomorrow, rowland. i'm not exaggerating a bit when i say that we need men the worst way. these chaps will tell you the same thing." "we never needed them more," said white. "i could easily be a pessimist on the football situation, fred. we've never started off with a bigger handicap." "oh, the fellows will turn out when they know they're really needed," said gene comfortably. "you always have to coax them a bit." "i wasn't thinking so much of getting material," answered white gravely. "what's bothering me--or would bother me if i let it--is the indifference. no one, except a dozen or two of us who play, cares much this year whether we have a team or don't have one." "you'll see them begin to sit up when you get started," said gene. "i'll grant that football has rather soured at parkinson, but any sort of a fairly decent team will find support." "we've got to find support," said captain lyons grimly. "we haven't enough money to print tickets for next week's game. we need at least two hundred and fifty dollars to get to the kenwood game. after that we'll be able to clear up our debts." "can't you get tick for things until then?" asked gene. "yes, but if we do we end the season the way we did last year. there were only twelve hundred and odd admissions to the game last year and our share was a bit over five hundred after expenses were paid. and when we had settled all our bills, most of which had run all season, we had ninety-something left. spring expenses took about sixty and we began this fall with about thirty dollars in the treasury. we've already spent it and a few dollars more. lowell is advancing money from his own pocket for next week's tickets. i've dug down once myself. the worst of it was that everything had given out together. usually we start the season with half a dozen good balls and head harnesses and so on, but this year we were short on every blessed thing. the balls we're using now aren't fit to play with. i tried to get the athletic association to make us a donation, but mr. tasser said there was almost no money on hand, and what there was would be needed for other sports. i suppose he's right, but when you consider that until last year football has always paid for itself and everything else, except baseball, it seems sort of tough." "wouldn't the students stand a small assessment?" asked ira. "they'd have to if they were assessed," replied lyons, "but faculty won't allow it. the best we can do is ask for contributions, and that's what we will have to do. lowell wanted to do it last year, but simpson--he was manager--was certain that the kenwood game would go big and we'd have enough to settle everything up and leave a start for this year. you see, rowland, the trouble is that we've had four perfectly punk football years running. it's human nature, i suppose, to cheer for a winning team and turn your back on one that loses. well, we've lost the kenwood game three years out of four and tied it the other time, which was three seasons ago. last year we started out nicely and won five or six games without a hitch. after that we had trouble. our captain couldn't get along with the coach and it came to a show-down and faculty supported the captain, which, to my thinking, it shouldn't have, and emerson left us about the first of november. fortunately, we got mr. driscoll right away, but the fat was in the fire then, and ten coaches couldn't have pulled things together in time for kenwood. so we lost again. and now the school is soured on football. it's tired of seeing the team beaten, naturally. i don't blame it altogether." "i do," said gene warmly. "when a team's in trouble is when the school ought to stand back of it." "well, they stood back of us three years," said lyons pessimistically, "and it didn't seem to do much good. there's a fine, healthy 'jinx' doing business around here, i guess." "when does the meeting come off?" asked ray white. "it isn't decided. we thought we'd better wait until we'd won a game or two--if we do. i'm glad we've got mapleton and country day to start with. they ought to be easy." "another thing," remarked white, "is that we've got a punk schedule this year. we've dropped two of our best opponents." "they dropped us, didn't they?" asked gene. "you mean harper's and poly-tech?" "they didn't exactly drop us," said lyons. "they wanted a guarantee bigger than we could promise. we simply had to let them go. lowell wants to put down the season ticket price to two dollars so as to get more fellows to buy them, but i don't believe taking off a half dollar would make much difference. what we've got to do some way or other is get the school warmed up again. of course one way to do it is to turn out a winning team, but--well, sometimes i wish someone else had the job. i can play football, after a fashion, but this thing of financing the team and worrying about the money end of it is too much for me!" "it's hard luck, fred," said gene sympathetically. "but just you stick it out, old horse." "oh, i'm not going to quit. don't worry about that. i'll still be playing football on the twenty-second of november if i'm playing it all alone. only it does bother a fellow to have to wonder where the next batch of tickets is coming from and whether there'll be enough money at the end of the year to pay off the coach. driscoll, by the way, has been bully about the salary business. we're supposed to pay him five hundred at the beginning of the season and five hundred at the end, you know, but he says we can let it all go until november. that'll help some!" "what gets me," observed white, "is why tod driscoll wants to fuss with a job like this, anyway. he ought to get three thousand dollars any day. he's good, driscoll is!" "i don't believe he will be back here next fall," said lyons. "not at a thousand dollars, anyway; and it isn't likely we can pay more. i guess it will be a case of graduate coaching for us. then--good night!" "aren't graduate coaches satisfactory?" asked ira. "they are if they know their business," replied lyons, "but the ones that do are either drawing down good salaries coaching somewhere else, like tom nutting and howard lane, or they're too busy to give more than a fortnight to the team. you can't expect a man who is getting started in business to throw it up for two months to coach a football team. and you can't expect a man who is getting twenty-five hundred or three thousand coaching some other team to leave his job and come here for a thousand. unfortunately, rowland, the fellows who would come for a thousand aren't worth it. good football players are plentiful, but good football coaches are as scarce as hens' teeth." "i wonder," mused gene, "what would happen if every school coached itself. i mean, suppose it was agreed that no graduate was to have anything to do with the teams. what would it be like?" "we'd all play punk football," responded white, "but we'd have just as much sport. and a heap less trouble." "schools wouldn't stick to the agreement," said lyons. "they'd begin to sneak in fellows who weren't real students so they could take hold of the teams." "oh, come, fred! there are some honest folks in the world," protested gene. "a heap of them, son, but when it comes to winning at games there's something a bit yellow about us. fellows who wouldn't crib at an exam, will do all sorts of shady tricks to put it over a rival team. i guess it's because we want to win too hard. still i'd like to see it tried out, that 'no graduate need apply' idea." "so would i," said white, "but i'd rather some other school started it." "i'd certainly hate to see the scheme applied to track athletics," said gene, shaking his head dubiously. "it wouldn't work there." "wouldn't work anywhere," declared lyons. "not nowadays. wait for the millennium. i guess we've bored rowland stiff with all this serious guff. we aren't always as dull as we are tonight, rowland." "you haven't bored me," answered ira, smiling. "i've been interested. care to know what i've been thinking, lyons?" "why, yes." "well, i've been thinking that you're pretty lucky." "lucky! who, me?" "yes. you see, you've got a fine, big man's-size job, and if you manage to make--what do you say?--turn out a good team and get the school to support it you've really done something worth doing, haven't you?" "gosh! rowland's a regular little sunbeam," laughed gene. "i'll bet you never thought of it in that way, fred." "i never did." lyons smiled and shook his head. "but there's something in it, rowland. there's a lot in it, by jove! only thing is, you know, you've got to keep that in mind. if you don't you're likely to consider yourself in hard luck. i'll try to see the bright side of it, rowland." "i suppose that sounded cheeky," said ira. "i didn't mean it to." "not a bit! and i wasn't sarcastic. i really do mean that i'll try to keep in mind that it _is_ a big job and that it's worth doing. and," he added warmly, "i'm mighty glad you said it. it's going to help. but there's another way you can help, rowland, if you will." "how is that?" "come out and try for the team tomorrow. will you?" ira hesitated. "i'd like awfully much to oblige you, lyons, but i don't want to do it. i'm quite certain that i'd never be any good at football. i guess it takes some quality i haven't got. i don't believe a fellow ever makes much of a success at a thing he hasn't any--any inclination for. if you don't mind, lyons, i'd much prefer not to." "if it's only not liking the game," said lyons, "you can take my word for it that you will like it after you get to know it better, and----" "it isn't that altogether. i'm not a very brilliant fellow at studying, and, of course i did come here to learn. i don't expect to go to college and so i want to make the most of this school. and i'm afraid that playing football would raise hob with studying. it does, doesn't it?" "not necessarily," answered white. "fred manages to keep his end up without trouble, and so do a lot of others." "don't lie to him," said lyons. "football does play hob with your studies, rowland. the only thing is that it lasts but a short while and it leaves you in mighty good shape to buckle down and get caught up. but it's piffle to say that the two things mix well. they don't. i've always managed to keep up fairly well in my classes, but how it will be this year i don't know. luckily, i've got a fairly easy term ahead of me. you do just as you think best about trying for the team, old man. we'd like mighty well to have you, and i think you'd make good, but if you think you'd better not, why, that's your affair. only, if you change your mind in the next fortnight and see your way to giving us a chance to use you, come on out. we need men--i mean likely ones: we've got a raft of the other sort--and we can find a place for you somewhere or i miss my guess." "seems to me," observed ray white, "rowland is rather losing sight of the question of duty." "i don't think so," answered ira, before gene could interpose. "seems to me my duty is toward my dad, who is paying for my schooling. after that to myself. then to the school." "right," said lyons heartily. "it's a good thing every fellow doesn't look at it that way, then," grumbled white. "if i thought i could help on the football team and still keep up my studies as i ought to i guess i'd join," said ira. "i'd like to do anything i could to help. but i don't. still, it's all pretty new to me yet and maybe after i've been here another week i'll have a better line on what's going to happen. maybe i can tell then how much work i'll have to do." he got up, smiling apologetically at them. "i'm sorry if i seem unpatriotic," he added. "oh, don't mind ray," said gene. "he's a sorehead. and don't hurry off. the night is still extremely young." "thanks, but i ought to be going. i'm glad to have met you all. good night." "good night, rowland," answered the football captain. "don't let anything we've said bother you. do as you think best. only remember there's a trial awaiting you any time inside the next fortnight and help us out if you can." ray white got up and followed ira to the door. "sorry if i was peevish," he said, holding out his hand. "forget it, rowland. get gene to bring you up to my room some night, will you?" chapter ix an ultimatum several days passed without incidents worth recording here. life at parkinson settled down into the groove that it was to follow for the next nine months and ira found that his studies looked far less formidable on close acquaintance than they had at first. ira had declared that he was not a brilliant fellow at studying, and he wasn't, but he had the gift of application and an excellent memory, which, combined, are half the battle. the courses he had feared most, greek and french, were proving easier than english, which he had not troubled about. but third year english at parkinson was a stiff course and ira's grammar school preparation had not been very thorough. greek he took to avidly, possibly because professor addicks was a very sympathetic teacher and managed to make his courses interesting. mathematics came easily to him and his other studies--he was taking nineteen hours in all--were not troublesome. on the whole, he felt himself quite able to cope with his work, and wondered if he was not in duty bound to go out and save the destinies of the football team. of course, putting it that way he had to smile, for he couldn't imagine himself of any more use on the gridiron than nothing at all! only, he reflected, if it would give captain lyons any satisfaction to have him there, perhaps, since it seemed quite possible to play football without flunking at recitations, he ought to put in an appearance. at all events, he would, he decided, wait a few days longer. there was no hurry. for want of a better confidant, he put the case up to humphrey nead one evening. humphrey told him he was silly not to grab the chance. "i wish," he said, "they'd beg me to come out for the football team. you couldn't see me, for dust! you're in luck, rowly." "rowly" was nead's compromise between "say!" and "rowland" at this time. ira didn't like it overmuch as a nickname, but entered no protest. he was determined to make the best of humphrey nead as a roommate, and during the first week was careful to make no criticisms. when, however, he did criticise he did it effectively. the occasion was just a week after that first chance meeting with nead. the latter had formed a habit of eating his dinners in the evenings downtown in the company of various "jimmies" and "billies" whose last names ira never heard, or, hearing, forgot. usually humphrey didn't return to the room until nearly ten o'clock. sometimes it was nearer midnight, although, to do him justice, those occasions were few. on this particular evening, ira, returning at half-past seven from mrs. trainor's boarding house, where he had lately become a "regular" for dinners and suppers, found humphrey stretched out on his bed, a book face-open on his chest and a dead cigarette between the fingers of a hand that hung over the edge. he was asleep. although both windows were open the tobacco smoke still lingered. ira frowned thoughtfully as he hung up his cap in the closet. then, after a moment's indecision, he walked across to the bed and shook the sleeper awake. "eh? hello!" muttered humphrey. "must have fallen asleep." he yawned widely, blinked and stretched himself. "what time is it? had your dinner?" "i've had my supper," answered ira. "oh, the dickens! i was going to get you to stand me a feed." "sorry. look here, nead, you'll have to stop that." "stop what?" asked the other blankly. ira pointed to the cigarette still clutched in humphrey's fingers. humphrey brought his hand up and looked. a brief expression of dismay changed to a grin. "caught in the act, eh? 'flagrante--' what's the latin of it, rowly?" "never mind the latin," replied ira grimly. "the english of it is that you've got to quit it in this room." "who says so?" demanded humphrey, scowling. "i say so. faculty says so, too." "oh, piffle! look here, faculty says you can smoke in your room if you're a fourth year man. if a fourth year man can smoke, i can. it's my own affair." "faculty allows fourth year fellows to smoke pipes in their rooms if they have the written consent of their parents. you're not a fourth year fellow, you haven't the consent of your parents and that isn't a pipe; it's a cigarette." "well, don't lecture about it. there's no harm in a cigarette now and then. half the fellows in school smoke on the sly." "i don't believe it," denied ira stoutly. "i don't know one who does it." "huh! you don't know very many, anyhow, do you? and you're such a nice, proper sort of chump that they wouldn't do it when you were around, i guess." "never mind that, nead. this is as much my room as it is yours, and i don't like cigarettes and won't stand for them. we might as well understand each other now. then there won't be any further rowing." "suppose i choose to smoke?" drawled humphrey. "then you'll have to find another room." "yes, i will! like fun! i suppose you'd go and tell faculty, eh?" "i might, if i couldn't stop it any other way," returned ira calmly. "but i don't think it would be necessary." he viewed humphrey very steadily and the latter, after an instant of defiant glaring, dropped his gaze uncertainly. "rough-stuff, eh?" he sneered. "well, you're a heap bigger than i am, and i guess you could get away with it. anyway, i don't care enough about smoking to fight." "then i think i'd quit," said ira. "what's the idea, anyway, nead?" "oh, just for fun," answered the other airily. "haven't you ever done it?" "once," said ira, with a fleeting and reminiscent smile. "i guess every fellow tries it once. i didn't like it, though." "of course not. you have to keep at it." humphrey laughed. "gee, i was a wreck after my first attempt!" "seems to me that anything that has that effect on you can't be especially good for you," said ira. "oh, a fellow doesn't want to just do the things that are good for him. there's no fun in that. smoking cigarettes is like--like playing hookey when you're a kid. you do it because it--it's a sort of adventure, eh?" "i suppose so," agreed ira. "well, you've had your adventure, haven't you? you've got all the fun out of it. what's the use of keeping it up?" humphrey gazed at ira thoughtfully. "gee, that's a new idea," he chuckled. "never thought of that! maybe you're right, old scout. guess i'll quit cigarettes and try something else. burglary or--or murder, maybe." "well, don't practise at home," laughed ira. then soberly: "i wish you'd agree to call it off on the cigarettes, though, nead." "oh, when you ask me nicely like that," answered the other, "i don't mind, i guess. but i won't stand being bullied." he blustered a bit. "you can't scare me into doing things, rowland, and you might as well learn that first as last." "i don't want to scare you or bully you," answered ira. "sorry if i went at it wrong." "well, you did," grumbled the other. he sat up and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. then: "tell you how you can square yourself, rowly," he said. "lend me a quarter, like a good chap, will you? i'm stony." "of course. but you don't mean, really, that you've got no money?" "sorry to say i mean that exactly," replied humphrey with a grin. "but--but you've been here only a week! what have you done----" "with my wealth?" prompted humphrey as the other hesitated. "well i've dropped about six dollars playing pool with those sharks down at the central, and i've bought a lot of food and i've paid for a year's subscription to the 'leader'--didn't want the silly paper, but a fellow cornered me--, and i've--oh, i don't know! money never sticks around me very long. but you needn't worry about your quarter, because i've written home for more. i told mother i was taking an extra course in poolology and it was expensive!" he chuckled. "she'll understand and come across." "i wasn't worrying about my quarter," answered ira. "i was wondering what you expected to do for meals until the letter comes." "well, i sort of intended going around to mrs. thingamabob's with you tonight and signing on there until--for awhile. but you didn't show up and i fell asleep." "unless you arrange for regular board," said ira, "mrs. trainor will make you pay at every meal. you'd better let me lend you enough to see you through until you hear from your folks. how much will it take?" humphrey looked vastly surprised and a trifle embarrassed. "why, that's mighty decent of you, old scout!" he exclaimed. "but can you--i mean----" "i can let you have five dollars," said ira, "if that will do." "honest? it won't make you short? but i'll give it back to you by saturday. i wrote yesterday." "i can't do it tonight," said ira. "i'll have to get it out of the bank. but here's thirty-five cents you can have." "right-o! thanks awfully, rowly! you're a brick. sorry if i talked nasty." he got up from the bed, viewing the cigarette stub whimsically. then he scratched a match, lighted the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the room. "good-bye forever!" he exclaimed tremulously, and, turning to the window, flicked the cigarette out into the night. "now for burglary!" whereupon he picked up the coins ira had put on the table, planted his cap rakishly over one ear, winked expressively and hurried out. ira, arranging his books for study, wished somewhat ruefully that he hadn't jumped to conclusions by connecting the cigarette odour with mart johnston that time. he had met mart two days before and that youth had passed him with a very cool and careless nod, evidently resentful because ira had not accepted the invitation to call. "i guess, though," thought ira, as he seated himself at the desk and sucked the end of a pencil, "he doesn't care very much." gene goodloe he saw every day, sometimes only long enough to exchange greetings with, sometimes long enough for a chat. but he hadn't been back to number 30 williams yet, nor had gene, in spite of promises, called at "maggy's." captain lyons and raymond white were always genial when he met them, but it didn't look much as if the acquaintances with those fellows were likely to expand. several times ira watched football practice, and, while he failed to discover anything about the game to captivate him, he viewed it with more interest since meeting fred lyons and learning what a difficult task the latter was undertaking. that lyons had not exaggerated the attitude of the school toward the football team was made plain to ira by the comments he heard at practice. it seemed the popular thing to speak with laughing contempt of the team and the football situation. the "forlorn hopes" was a favourite name for the players, while it seemed to be a generally accepted conclusion that parkinson would go down in defeat again in november. all this made coach driscoll's efforts to get additional candidates doubly difficult. some fellows did go out, from a sense of duty, and at the end of the first week of school there were nearly eighty candidates on the field. that number looked large to ira until he overheard one of the instructors remark to another one afternoon: "a most discouraging situation, isn't it? why, four years ago we used to turn out a hundred and twenty to a hundred and fifty boys, i'm afraid it will be the same old story again this fall!" the first game took place saturday afternoon and ira paid his quarter and went to see it. it wasn't much of a contest, and even he, as ignorant of the game as he was, could discern that neither team covered itself with glory during those two twenty-minute halves. it seemed to him that had all the parkinson players done as well as captain lyons or the fellow who played full-back or the one who was at quarter during the first half the story might have been different. but those three stood out as bright, particular stars, and the rest didn't average up to them by a long shot. ira, by the way, was interested to find that the quarter-back--inquiry divulged his name to be dannis--was none other than the youth who had so earnestly and unsuccessfully practised hurdling that day. dannis ran the team in much the same spirit, but with far more success. he was not very big, and he looked rather heavy, but he had a remarkable head on his shoulders, and was quite light enough to make several startling runs and was a live-wire all the time that he remained in the contest. when, in the second half, another candidate for the position took his place the difference was at once discernible in the slowing down of the game. while most of the fellows turned out to look on, enthusiasm, when there was any, was distinctly perfunctory. still, that might have been laid to the game itself, for interesting features were few and far between. dannis got away several times for good gains and showed himself a remarkably elusive object in a broken field, but as nothing much depended on his success or non-success there was scant reason to enthuse. mapleton was outclassed from the first and that parkinson did not score more than the twenty points that made up her final total was less to mapleton's credit than to the home team's discredit. a game in which one contestant takes the lead in the first five minutes of play and is never headed is not very exciting at best, and ira walked back to the campus after the game with his estimate of football as a diversion not a bit enhanced. if parkinson deserved any credit for winning from her adversary by a score of 20 to 0, she certainly didn't get it. "just the way we started off last year," ira heard a fellow remark on the way back to the yard. "ran up about half as many points as we should have on cumner high school and then played worse every game for the rest of the season." "we ought to have scored forty on that team today," replied his companion. "a team with any sort of an attack could have torn our line to fragments. why, as it was our centre just fell apart every time anyone looked at it!" "lyons didn't do so badly," said the other. "and neither did wirt. but 'the' dannis was the whole shooting match, pretty nearly. i don't see why they wanted to put basker in in the last half. he isn't a patch on 'the.'" "i suppose driscoll wants to bring him around for second-string man. you'll see all sorts of combinations tried out for the next month. and they'll all be about equally punk, too, i guess. what the dickens is the matter with the team nowadays, anyway? is it the coaching or the leading or what, steve?" "search me! all i know is that it's rotten. has been for three years. i don't think it's the coaching. this chap driscoll looks like a good one. everyone says that. and fred lyons is all right, too. there isn't a fellow in school that can boss a job better than lyons. i guess it's a plain case of chronic slump!" ira wanted very much to speak out and tell them that possibly some of the fault for the team's lack of success was due to them. "if," he said to himself as he watched the two boys turn off toward sohmer hall, "you'd stop thinking the team was poor maybe it wouldn't be. no team, i guess, can do much if no one believes in it. what is needed here is a change of heart! i suppose every fellow connected with the team realises that the school is laughing at him, and i guess that doesn't help much. seems to me there ought to be a way to change things, to get the fellows back of the team again. but--i wonder how!" chapter x on the fourth squad "how much does a football suit cost, humphrey, and where do you buy it?" humphrey looked up from his book and smiled quizzically across at the enquirer. "hello!" he said. "going to the rescue of the dear old school after all, rowly?" ira nodded slowly. "it sounds sort of silly, i guess," he replied, "but i've decided to have a try at it. i don't believe for a minute that they'll keep me more than one day, but lyons wanted me to try it, and--well, i guess that's the least i can do. someone ought to do something for the team besides 'knock' it. where do you get these things you wear?" "wherever they sell 'em. there's a store a block or so over towards the common where they have footballs and things in the window. don't remember the name, but you can't miss it." "how much do you have to pay for a regular outfit?" "never bought one, rowly. the only time i played football it was just kid stuff, and we wore whatever we had. you might ask our fat friend next door. he's on the team--or trying for it." "duff? i don't know him well enough, i guess. do you think ten dollars would do it?" "well, hardly, rowly! why, shoes cost four, i suppose. and then you have to have trousers and stockings and jacket and sweater----" "i've got a sweater," interrupted ira. "i wish i knew someone who had some things they weren't using. i hate to spend a lot of money for something i may not need after two or three days!" "you don't seem to think very well of your chances," laughed humphrey. "but, say, why don't you ask someone? i'll bet there are plenty of outfits you could buy or borrow. how about that chap goodloe? he might know of someone." "that's so. i think i'll ask him." "the only trouble," chuckled humphrey, "is that another fellow's togs will probably be too small for you. maybe you could have them let out, though." "i sort of wish i'd stop growing so fast," said ira sorrowfully. "everything i get is too small for me after a few months. the tailor is fixing both my other suits, but i dare say by the time he gets them done he will have to start over again!" this conversation took place on the sunday evening succeeding the mapleton game. that it was sunday explained humphrey's presence at home, for he spent most of his evenings in or around the central billiard palace, so far as ira could make out. humphrey had heard from home and was once more in funds. he had promptly returned ira's loans and paid his share of the furnishings, laughingly explaining that he wanted to keep his credit good as he would probably have to borrow again soon. ira wished that he would spend less time in the town and more in the third floor back room at maggy's, for there were already indications of impending trouble between humphrey and various instructors. but ira decided that humphrey had better learn his own lesson from experience. humphrey was not the sort one could offer suggestions to, no matter how excellent or well-meant they might be. of late the roommates had got on very well. ira was certain that there had been no more cigarette smoking in the house and was fairly sure that humphrey had given up the habit entirely. perhaps it was because ira was getting used to the other, but it seemed to him that he could detect an improvement both in humphrey's manners and appearance. when the latter wanted to be pleasant he could be very pleasant, and at such times he was rather a likable sort. ira went across to williams as soon as breakfast was over the next morning and found both gene goodloe and fred lyons at home. when he had explained his mission both fellows dived into closets and trunks and in about three minutes ira was outfitted. fortunately, the pair of well-worn trousers were fred's, for had they been gene's they would never have answered. the jacket was practically new, one that gene had purchased two years before with visions in mind of making his class team. it didn't lace quite close across the chest, but answered well enough for the present. the shoes were fred's, and save that each had one or more cleats missing, were in very good shape. the brown jersey, with leather pads at elbows and shoulders, was gene's, and, while it fitted a bit too soon, promised to conform in time to the physical proportions of the new wearer. a pair of stockings alone was wanting. fred found some, but after exposing the heels he discarded them. however, stockings were a small item, and as for a sweater, ira had a perfectly good one that had never been worn. it wasn't brown, but fred said that wouldn't matter a bit. the only trouble obtruded when ira broached the subject of price. neither boy wanted to consider payment. "why, the things aren't worth ten cents," declared gene. "i'd never use mine, and fred's got more togs at the gym than he can wear!" "but i can't just--just walk off in them," protested ira. "i'd rather buy them, if you don't mind." "but we do mind!" said gene. "we'd blush to take money for them. look at fred. he's blushing already!" ira couldn't detect it, however, and resolutely draped the garments over the back of a chair as he took them off. "i guess i'll have to buy them at the store then," he said regretfully. "i'm awfully much obliged to you, but i can't take them unless you let me pay for them." "oh, don't be a silly chump!" begged gene. but fred interposed. "if you feel that way about it, rowland, why, we'll take your money, of course. a couple of dollars will settle with me and i guess gene won't want more than a dollar." "a dollar!" jeered his roommate. "he can have them for fifty cents." "i guess i'd better make an offer," said ira soberly. "the trousers aren't so new as the other things. i'll give you a dollar for them. and i'll give two dollars for the shoes, fifty cents for the shirt and fifty cents for the jacket. will that do?" "suits me," said fred. "me, too," answered gene. "and, say, rowland, i've got a lot of other things i wish you'd look at. need a nice winter overcoat? or a few pairs of shoes? or--say, what'll you give for the furniture just as it stands?" "dry up, gene," growled fred. "i'm glad you're coming out, rowland. practice is at three-thirty. if you don't find time to get stockings don't bother about them. we'll find some for you at the gym." "thanks, but i'll get a pair this morning. what shall i do when i get there this afternoon?" "report to me, please, and i'll look after you. and, say, rowland, don't get discouraged if it seems a good deal like drudgery at first. stick it out, will you? there is a good deal of hard work in it, and coming out a week late will make it a bit harder. but you'll like it as soon as you get used to it." "yes, just as soon as you've broken an arm or a leg," said gene cheerfully, "you'll positively love it, rowland!" when ira had gone out, his purchases draped over his arm, fred said mildly: "what's the good of trying to make him feel uncomfortable, gene? he wanted to buy the things, so why not let him do it if it was going to make him any happier?" "i'll bet he didn't feel as uncomfortable as i did," answered the other. "i felt like a second-hand clothes dealer. i didn't want his old dollar. besides, he hasn't much money, i guess, and it seemed a shame to take it." "folks who don't have money, gene, are the ones who are touchiest about accepting presents," observed fred wisely. "i hope we can do something with that chap," he added as he gathered his books together. "if he can be taught he'll be a prize." "why can't he be taught? if you think he's stupid you're dead wrong, frederick dear. he's got a heap of horse sense, that kid." "i know. i don't mean that he's stupid. only--well, some fellows can learn about everything except football. i don't know why it is, but it's so. maybe football requires a certain sort of instinct----" "oh, piffle! you football fellows think the game's something sort of--of different from everything else there is! you make me tired! it's a sight harder to run the half-mile than it is to play a dozen football games!" "it might be for you," answered fred, dryly. "to the limited intellect an easy task always seems the harder. good morning!" "listen, you big galoot! you use rowland right. hear me? if you don't i'll lick you!" "what you say goes, gene," answered fred airily from the doorway. "i'll wrap him in cotton wool the very first thing!" "yes, take the stuffing out of your head," retorted gene triumphantly. that afternoon, feeling queer and conspicuous in his unfamiliar attire, ira slipped out of the gymnasium and joined the stream trickling to the gridiron. that the football togs made a difference in him was proved when he passed raymond white near the grandstand. ray viewed him carelessly and looked away without recognition. then, dimly conscious of a likeness to someone he knew, ray looked again and turned back. "hello, rowland!" he exclaimed, laughing. "by jove, i didn't know you! so you're out, eh? i'm awfully glad. i sort of thought you'd get the fever after watching a game or two. well, you'll like it. see if you don't." ira didn't think it worth while to explain that instead of having acquired the football fever, he had, on the contrary, decided that his first opinion of the game was the correct one and was there that afternoon more because of a sense of duty than anything else. "are you looking for lowell?" continued ray. "he isn't out yet, i guess. what are you trying for? or don't you know that?" "no, i don't. what i think i'd rather do is hold one of those iron rods along the side," laughed ira. "i was told to report to lyons, but i don't see him around." "no, he isn't here yet. pick up one of those balls back of you and we'll pass a minute." after two attempts to catch and throw the erratically behaving pigskin it dawned on ira that he had even more to learn than he had suspected. however, following ray white's instructions, he presently learned to stop the ball with both hands and body instead of treating it like a baseball, and to wrap his fingers about it so he could throw it within a few yards of where he meant it to land. there wasn't much time for passing, however, as coach, captain and manager arrived together very shortly, and ira, rather conscious of his strange togs, approached the group. "oh, here you are!" greeted fred lyons. "coach, this is rowland, the chap i was telling you about. shake hands with coach driscoll, rowland. and manager lowell. you might give lowell your name and so on. he's full of questions." ira shook hands and, while de wolf lowell put down his name, age, class and so on, was conscious of the coach's intent regard. when lowell was satisfied ira turned inquiringly to captain lyons, but it was the coach who took him in hand. "you've had no experience at all, rowland?" asked mr. driscoll in a somewhat sceptical tone. "no, sir." "funny! a chap with your build ought to be playing long before this. what have you done? baseball? track? what?" "i've played baseball a little. that's about all." the coach reached out and closed his fingers inquiringly over ira's forearm and then pressed his knuckles against the boy's chest. "where'd you get those muscles, then?" he demanded. "i don't know, sir. maybe in the woods. i've swung an ax sometimes, and i've ridden a saw." "ridden a saw? what's that?" "why," replied ira, smiling, "when a kid like me, or a new hand, takes hold of a cross-saw they say he 'rides' it. 'just you keep your feet off the ground, sonny, and i'll ride you' is what the old hands tell you." his audience laughed, and coach driscoll remarked: "well, i guess you got down and walked sometimes, rowland! you've got some fat on you that you don't need, but we'll work that off. put him on the scales after practice, lowell, and see that he doesn't come down too fast. have you had your examination?" ira shook his head. "for what, sir?" he asked. "for football--or anything else. i guess it's all right for today, but you'll have to see mr. tasser tomorrow and he will fill out a card. if he finds you all right for football--as he will, i guess--show your card to lowell. now, then, let's see. you'd better join that fourth squad over there. learn to handle the ball the first thing, rowland. it'll take you two or three days to get acquainted with it, i guess. don't be in a hurry to get on. i'll look you up again in a day or two." "i'll take you over," said fred lyons. "do we scrimmage today, coach?" "oh, i think so. you fellows didn't work very hard saturday from what i saw!" fred smiled as he crossed the field with ira in tow. "we worked hard, all right," he said, "but we worked rotten, too! did you see saturday's game, rowland?" "yes. i suppose you wouldn't call it a very good one, would you?" "punk! here we are. oh, cheap! will you take rowland in your squad, please? he's new at it, but willing to learn. how's it going?" "fair," replied the boy addressed. "some of these fellows think that thing's an egg, though. they hate to be rough with it for fear it'll break. fall in there beyond webster, rowland, will you? hug the ball when it comes to you. you can't bust it!" a tall youth sidled along to make room for ira and during the next twenty minutes he learned a lot about the uncertain disposition of a football. they passed it in a circle and then in a line, and after that cheap, a freckle-faced, tow-haired youth with a short temper and a fine command of sarcasm, stood in front of them and tossed the ball to the ground and it was their duty to fall on hip and elbow and secure it. falling on a dribbling ball is not the easiest thing in the world for a novice, for the ball does the most unexpected things, such as bounding to the right when you think it is going to jump to the left, or stopping short when you think it will come on. on the whole, ira comforted himself with the reflection that he met with more success than many of the squad even if he didn't do as well as a select few. practice at starting followed, and for ten minutes they raced from a mark at the instant that cheap snapped the ball. then they were coached in picking the ball up without stopping and in catching it on the bound as it was tossed in front of them. by that time ira was drenched in perspiration and was extremely short of breath. finally, they were formed again into a ring and the ball was passed from one to the other as before, the boy at the right throwing it at the next fellow's stomach and the next fellow making a "basket" for it by raising one leg, bending his body forward at the waist and holding has hands apart. if he was successful the ball thumped against his stomach and his hands closed about it. if he wasn't, it leaped away to the ground and he had to fall on it. ira discovered that day why his brown jersey was padded at elbow and shoulder! cheap strolled off to the side line, leaving them to continue the exercise without him, whereupon conversation went around with the ball. "i'm getting sick of this," said the fellow at ira's right as he gave the pigskin a more than ordinarily vicious drive at ira's stomach. "we were at it five minutes before you came." "i guess i'll dream of it tonight," laughed ira breathlessly, passing the pigskin along to his left-hand neighbour. "if you don't it'll be a wonder," growled the other. "i did for two or three nights. cheap makes me tired, anyway. he's a regular slave-driver. if we don't get something else tomorrow i'm going to quit." "you said that last week," remarked a small youth beyond him. "so did i. but we're still here. change!" he started the ball around in the other direction and the fellows shifted to meet the new order. presently cheap returned, watched disapprovingly for a minute and then called: "that'll do, squad! you're fine and rotten! on the run to the bench, and put your blankets on!" trotting half the length and width of the field seemed to ira the final insult, but he managed to reach the substitutes' bench without falling by the way and sank on to it with a deep sigh of gratitude. the rest of the practice time was spent by his squad and one other in watching the half-hour scrimmage. then came the return to the gymnasium, showers and a leisurely dressing, during which nearly every muscle in ira's body ached protestingly. but after he had eaten his dinner he felt, in spite of his soreness, particularly fit, and found himself looking forward to the next day's work with a sort of eagerness. it wasn't so much that he expected to enjoy it as that he was curious to know whether he would survive it! he did survive it, however, although when he rolled out of bed in the morning he had to groan as his stiff muscles responded to the demands put on them. he underwent an examination at the hands of the physical director, mr. tasser, at noon, and was put to all sorts of novel tests. mr. tasser was not very communicative. his conversation consisted entirely of directions and non-commital grunts. while ira donned his clothes again the director filled out a card with mysterious figures and symbols, and it was when he handed the card to ira that he attained the zenith of his loquacity. "very good," he said. then he grunted. and after that he added: "better than the average. lower leg muscles weak, though. twelve pounds overweight, too. good morning." practice that afternoon, which was no different from the day before except that it contained a strenuous session of dummy tackling, left ira lamer than ever, so lame that he couldn't go to sleep for some time after he was in bed. and the next morning he groaned louder than before when he tumbled out. he wondered what they would say or think if he begged off for that one day's practice! but when he had been up and about awhile he found that the lameness had miraculously disappeared, or most of it had, and it didn't come back again that fall! he was given easier work that afternoon, for billy goode, the trainer, informed him that he was losing too fast. "'tain't good to drop your weight too suddenly, boy. you do some handling today and run the field a couple o' times at a fast trot and come in. that'll do for you." oddly, ira somehow resented being pampered and was inclined to grumble when, having had thirty minutes of kindergarten work and trotted twice around the oval, he was remorselessly despatched to the showers. that, having dressed, he did not return to the gridiron to watch his companions disport themselves shows that so far as football fever is concerned ira was still free from contagion. instead, he went to his room and put in an extra hour of study which shortened his evening's duty by that much and allowed him to do something that he had had in mind to do for some time, which was to call on mart johnston. chapter xi ira renews an acquaintance martin johnston and dwight bradford occupied what at parkinson was known as an alcove study. to be correct, it was not the study that formed an alcove, but the bedroom. there were only a few of such apartments in goss hall and those who had them were considered fortunate. number 16 proved to be rather a luxurious place. there was a good deal of furniture, most of it black-oak, the chairs having red-leather cushions and the study table being adorned with a square of the same brilliant material. one side of the room was lined with bookcases to a height of about five feet and the shelves were filled and a row of books overflowed to the top. many pictures were on the walls, a deep window seat, covered in red denim, was piled with pillows and there was a dark-brown wool rug with a red border on the floor. the alcove, just big enough for two single beds and a night stand between, was partly hidden by red portiã¨res. at first sight, as ira paused in the doorway after being bidden to enter, the room was disconcertingly, almost alarmingly, colourful. "evening and everything!" said a voice from beyond the light on the table, and a chair was pushed back. then mart's form emerged from the white glare. "hello!" he said. "how are you, rowland? glad to see you. meet mr. bradford, rowland. brad, you remember my speaking of rowland?" a second youth, who had been lying on the window seat, arose and came forward to shake hands. he was a nice-looking fellow of eighteen, broad of shoulder and deep of chest. ira recognised him as one of the substitute ends he had seen in practice. he had a pleasant, deep voice, a jolly smile and a firm, quick way of shaking hands. ira fell victim to bradford's charms then and there. "awfully glad to meet you, rowland. yes, i remember you said a lot about this chap, mart. it was rowland you landed in maggy's, wasn't it?" "yes. sit down, rowland. how's everything going?" "very well, thanks." "that's good. toss your cap anywhere. brad won't like it, but never mind." mart's words were amiable enough, but it was evident to the caller that he was not forgiven for his indifference, and so, as he thrust his cap into a pocket, he decided to make an explanation. "i guess you thought it was funny i didn't look you up," he began. but mart waved carelessly. "not a bit! not a bit, rowland! i never thought of it." ira, glancing at bradford to include him in the conversation, saw a flicker of amusement cross that youth's face. "i'd like to tell you why," he went on. "it--it makes me out rather a chump, i guess, but--well, anyway, it was like this." and ira told about finding mart's note and the odour of cigarettes at the same time and of connecting both with mart. "of course," he concluded, "any fellow has a right to smoke, but i don't believe in it, and i sort of thought that if--you were that kind--i mean----" "got you!" exclaimed mart. "say no more, rowland! all is understood and all is forgiven! brad, we're going to like this frank and unspotted child of nature, aren't we?" brad laughed softly. "i certainly admire rowland's decision," he replied. "and his courage in explaining. it's always so much easier not to explain, rowland." "i'm afraid i haven't done it very well," said ira doubtfully. "you have, old man!" declared mart. "beautifully! and you have covered me with confusion and filled me with remorse. brad," he added gravely, "from this time forth tempt me not. i'm through with the filthy weed. i shall empty my cigarette case into the fire. and if you take my advice you'll do the same." "oh!" exclaimed ira. "i didn't know--i'm awfully sorry----" but mart waved again grandly. "not a word, rowland! we quite understand. you have convinced me of the error of my way. and i sincerely hope and pray that brad, too, will see the light." but brad was smiling broadly and ira concluded relievedly that mart was only joking. "i might have put my foot into it horribly," he said, with a sigh of relief. "well, you didn't, so don't worry," replied mart. "we don't smoke much here. of course, brad's a senior and enjoys his pipe after dinner--you doubtless noticed the odour--and i sometimes puff a cigar in the evening. i find it soothes me and aids digestion. i smoke two on fridays, on account of having fish for dinner. i never could digest fish very well." "oh, dry up, mart," laughed brad. "rowland will believe you. he's looking shocked." "not he! you can't shock him. i tried it. i say, rowland, how's the funny window seat?" "it isn't so funny now. i put the desk against one end of it and it looks quite fine." "you spoiled the effect. i'm sorry. what's this fellow like, your roommate? the one who contaminates the air with cigarette smoke?" "nead? oh, he's all right. he doesn't do it any more." "really? what did you say to him?" "i just--just told him he mustn't. he was very decent about it." "i'll bet he was!" laughed mart. "i can see you." he jumped up, folded his arms across his chest and bent a stern look on ira. "'smead, this must cease. i cannot have the pure atmosphere of this apartment polluted with your vile cigarettes. do you realise that it is a dirty and unhealthful habit? let me beg of you to have done with it. think of your future, smead, of your unsuspecting family at home, of your own welfare, and pause on the brink of destruction. and i may add, smead, that if you don't pause, i'll knock your block off!' wasn't that about it, rowland?" "not quite," laughed ira. "i didn't have to offer to fight him, because he was very nice about it." "irrefutably! _but_ if he hadn't been i can guess what would have happened to smead," chuckled mart. "his name is nead," ira corrected. "need? well, a friend in need is a friend indeed. asterisk. see footnote. 'vide bartlett's familiar quotations.' what are you doing to pass the long winter evenings, rowland?" "i went out for the football team the other day," was the reply. "of course!" exclaimed brad. "i knew i'd seen you around somewhere, rowland. if you'd been in togs i'd have recognised you. how is it going?" "i don't know much about it. they've had me in the awkward squad for several days and i guess i'm no more awkward than when i began." "that's something," said mart. "now brad here is much worse after three years than he was when he started. aren't you, brad?" "sometimes i think i am! what are you trying for, rowland?" "me? oh, i don't know. whatever they say, i guess. i wasn't keen about doing it, but fred lyons said i ought to try, and so i did. things don't look very easy for lyons and the others and i thought that if they really could find a use for me i might as well go out." "wish there were more like you," said brad. "i've been trying to get mart started, but he hasn't your sense of duty." "duty!" scoffed mart. "that isn't duty, that's rowland's fine, old new england conscience. he comes from vermont----" "maine, please," said ira. "i mean maine, and that's where they make them. i come from new jersey, you see, and we don't have consciences." "haven't you ever tried it?" asked ira. "football?" mart shook his head. "no, i never felt reckless enough. i play a little baseball and some tennis and a bit of hockey and can swing a golf stick, but beyond that i don't participate in athletics." "they don't allow us to take part in more than three sports," explained brad, "and that's mart's difficulty. if he went in for football he'd have to give up either baseball, hockey or tennis. and as he thinks he is needed on those teams he hesitates." "i do more than hesitate," replied mart. "i stand immovable. there are plenty of fellows who can play football. let them go out and save the country. i'm busy." "i don't see how you could play football, too," said ira. "but i guess there are plenty of fellows who could and won't. i don't know much about things here yet, but it seems a pity to me that the school doesn't take more interest in the team." "no one can blame you," said mart flippantly. "football at parkinson, rowland, is one of the lost arts. it's like dragon's blood vases and--and tyrian purple and rembrandt paintings. we live in the past, as it were. football vanished from parkinson about the time the battle of bunker hill took place on breed's hill. that's a funny thing, by the way. why do you suppose they fought the bunker hill battle where they did? my idea is that mr. breed offered them more money and fifty per cent of the moving picture rights. mr. bunker must have been frightfully peeved, though, what?" "football is in a bad way here, rowland, and that's a fact," said brad, "but it only needs one successful season to put it on its feet again. and i'm hoping hard that this season will do it. we've got a pretty fair start as far as material goes. i mean, we've got quite a bunch of last year's fellows back. the trouble is we can't seem to get out new material. they just won't come. fred has fits and talks about calling a mass meeting and all that, but driscoll says he can build a team of what he's got; that he'd rather have fifty fellows who want to play than a hundred who don't. and i think driscoll's dead right." "yes, you think anything driscoll says or does is right," jeered mart. "if he told you to stand on your head for an hour in the middle of the field and wave your legs you'd do it." "perhaps. anyway, he's a good coach. he showed that last year." "by letting kenwood lick us?" "by not letting her lick us worse than she did, son. when driscoll took hold everything was at sixes and sevens. the other coach had gone off in a huff and half the team were for him and half for the captain and there was the dickens to pay generally. well, driscoll stepped in and paid no attention to anything that had happened. when the captain tried to tell him about the fuss he just said: 'i don't want to hear anything about it. i'm here to turn out a football team. what happened last week or yesterday doesn't concern me in the least. i'm beginning today. now then, let's get at it.'" "well," said mart, "i hope he justifies your belief in him, old chap. personally, i don't like the way he brushes his hair. i never yet saw a fellow with a cowlick who amounted to a hill of beans. did you, rowland?" "i don't think i ever noticed." "well, you study it and you'll find i'm right. who do you know? met many of the fellows yet?" "not a great many. i guess i know twenty or thirty." "twenty or thirty! geewhillikins! i'd say that was going some. you're a good mixer, rowland. i'll bet i didn't know ten when i'd been here a month." "who were the other nine?" asked brad, drily. "i was one." "you! i didn't count you at all! you said you knew gene goodloe, i remember, rowland. he's a good sort. and of course you know fred lyons." "yes, a little. i've been pretty busy so far and haven't been around much." "busy? what do you find to do?" "study, for one thing," said ira smiling. "my fault! i forgot you had a conscience. well, a certain amount of study does help one. that's what i tell brad, but he won't listen. advice with brad is like water on a duck's back, in one ear and out the other." "i guess i'd better go back and do some more of it," said ira, pulling his cap from his pocket. "walk around! it's early yet. well, if you must go----" "i hope you'll come and see us again," said brad. "come some time when mart's out so we can have a chat." "i like that!" cried his chum. "gee, i never get a word in edgeways when you're around. i'll leave it to you, rowland. who's done most of the talking here this evening?" "i'm afraid i have," laughed ira. "good night. i--if you'd care to come and see me some time i'd be glad to have you. my place isn't very much, though. still, if you'd care to--and i'd like you to meet nead." "very glad to," replied brad. "we'll drop around some evening. good night, rowland. don't forget your way here." "good night," said mart. "i'm sorry you must go, rowland, but at least i can smoke my cigarette now. come again and bring your dog!" when ira reached the first landing at maggy's a sudden glare of light shot across the dim hall and he saw the tall form of "old earnest" silhouetted in his doorway. "do you know--" began a voice. "oh, yes: b.c. 431 to 404," said ira. "eh? what are you talking about?" exclaimed the voice startledly. "why, the peloponnesian war!" "pelop--huh! who cares about----!" the door was slammed irately and ira stumbled his way up in the gloom, chuckling. chapter xii in the line-up country day school came saturday and put up a good fight, but was defeated by the score of 7 to 3. ira witnessed that contest from the bench and found more interest in it than in the mapleton battle because he wanted very much to have parkinson win. he felt certain that a defeat would make much more difficult the already discouraging task ahead of captain and coach. then, too, there was a personal side to it. he was, to a limited extent, a member of that brown-legged team, and, naturally enough, he preferred to be associated with success. but he just couldn't get up any real excitement, even when, in the third period, country day scored that field-goal and took the lead, or when, ten minutes later, parkinson, with dannis back to yelp and drive, marched from the enemy's forty-yard line to her nine and then tossed a forward-pass over to ray white. of course, now that he knew what it was all about--or some of it!--and realised how hard the brown team was working on that thirty-yard march, he found more interest, but, unlike some of the others around him, he was able to sit quietly on the bench without squirming, didn't make funny noises in his throat when wells fumbled a pass and, in brief, kept his heart beating away at its normal speed. but he _was_ glad when it was over and parkinson had won, and he said as much to logan, a substitute end, with whom he walked back to the gymnasium. "i'm glad we won it," he said in a quietly satisfied tone. "aren't you?" logan turned and viewed him quizzically. "are you really?" he asked. "just like that, eh? well, if i were you i'd try to restrain my enthusiasm, rowland. over-excitement is bad for the heart!" "over-exci--oh, well, i guess i haven't been here long enough to get very excited about it. i was just thinking that maybe the school would be pleased and be more--feel better disposed toward the team." "the school!" scoffed logan. "who cares what the school does? we play our own game." with which somewhat cryptic remark he kicked open the door and hurried in to get undressed before the showers were all occupied. the next monday ira was taken from the seclusion of the fourth squad and handed over to the none too tender mercies of a large, red-faced youth of nineteen named neely. dave neely looked ira up and down almost, as ira felt, compassionately. "oh, all right," said neely as though disclaiming further responsibility, "get in with that gang there and see what you can do. you can't be worse than most of them, i suppose. what's your name?" "rowland." "what makes you think you want to play guard, rowland?" "nothing. i mean, i don't want to play guard, especially." "you don't!" growled neely. "then what are you doing here?" "coach driscoll told me to report to you. he didn't tell me what i was to do. but i'd just as lief be guard as anything." "suffering cats!" groaned neely. "and this is what happens to a peace-loving citizen like me! have you ever played guard?" "no." ira shook his head, smiling a little in sympathy with neely's outraged feelings. "i haven't played anywhere. i'm just beginning." "fine! i can see that you're going to be a huge success. well, all right." neely waved a hand weariedly. "cut across to that gang and do what you see them do. only for the love of mike, try to do it better!" the "gang" alluded to consisted of some ten or a dozen boys who were divided into two lines. they faced each other and, when one of their number stooped down and trickled a ball back between his wide-spread legs immediately crashed together and lunged and pushed and shoved and gave a good imitation of a small riot. most of the linesmen were older than ira, and several of them were larger. he couldn't find a place to station himself and was still hesitating when neely arrived, almost on his heels. "move up one, buffum, and let this man in there. you're a guard, rowland. the other side has the ball. now get through." the man nearly opposite ira grunted and trickled the pigskin away. ira was watching him intently and would have continued to watch had not the youth in front of him plunged into him and sent him reeling back. dave neely's face became apoplectic. "didn't you see you were in the gentleman's way, rowland?" he demanded with heavy sarcasm. "why didn't you lie down and let him go over you?" ira regarded him doubtfully. "should i have stopped him!" he asked. a roar of laughter arose from the panting players and neely's countenance became even redder. "should you have--oh, no! oh, dear, no! not if it's too much trouble, rowland! this is just a little light exercise, you know. nothing of consequence. we're just whiling away an idle hour. why, you--you--look here, don't you know anything about the duties of a linesman?" "i'm afraid not, but if you'll tell me----" "oh, i'll tell you! listen now. that brown oblate spheroid, or whatever the scientific name of it is, is a football. those fellows in front of you are attacking. when you see that football snapped you want to get through and go after it. you have other duties, but that's enough for now. get through! get through! try it now." away trickled the ball, the lines crashed together and--ira was lying on the ground four yards behind the opposing line with the ball snuggled to his chest! neely stared a moment. then, seeing the grins on the faces of the others, he chuckled. "all right, rowland," he called. "let him up. you needn't bother to fall on the ball just now, but that _is_ the way i want you to get through. that was all right. now, then, tooker, what happened to you?" tooker looked puzzled and shook his head vaguely. "i guess he caught me napping," he replied. "you _guess_ he did! you _know_ he did! try it again." ira didn't get by the next time, for his opponent was prepared, but he gave tooker all the work he could stand, and neely grunted approval. they kept at it for some twenty minutes longer, one side playing on defence and then the other. ira discovered things from watching the rest and neely instructed between each charge. after that they had ten minutes with the machine, a wooden platform having a padded rail on one side and four small and absolutely inadequate iron wheels beneath. having loaded the platform with half the squad, neely set the rest at pushing it ahead with their shoulders set against the rail. it was punishing work for the chargers, only partly compensated for when it became their part to ride and watch the others push. work with the linesmen continued for a week without much variety. always the afternoon started with tackling practice on the dummy and ended with a jog around the field. ira made progress and neely no longer viewed him with an air of patient fortitude. in fact, neely was rather pleased with him and more than once said so. almost anyone save ira would have been all perked up by that commendation, and would have had hard work concealing the fact. but ira only looked mildly gratified and said simply that he was "glad if he was any use, thanks!" the cumner high school game went to parkinson, 18 to 7, and was quite an exciting event if only because of the numerous fumbles and misplays which were about evenly divided between the contending teams. cumner was light and fast and parkinson heavier and decidedly slower. a wet field aided the home team by handicapping cumner's speedy backfield. all three of parkinson's touchdowns resulted from steady line-plunging--diversified by fumbles of the wet ball--and cumner scored by the overhead route, tossing a long forward-pass across the line in the third quarter. cumner kicked her goal, while cole, of parkinson, missed each attempt. the brown team suffered several injuries that afternoon, for a slippery field invariably takes its toll of the players. donovan, left guard, sprained his knee badly, french, a tackle, pulled a tendon in his leg and cole, first-string right half, got a nasty bruise on his head. cumner, too, sustained injuries, but none were serious. ira went back with gene goodloe to williams that evening after a lecture in the auditorium and found lyons and several football fellows present. he had entertained the notion that the afternoon's victory was something to be mildly proud of, but after listening, in silence for the most part, to the conversation he saw that he had been far too optimistic. parkinson had committed every sin in the football category. everyone agreed on that. the line had been slow and had played too high, the backfield had lacked punch and the ends--well, the least said of the ends the better! everyone was inclined to be very gloomy, and the injury to donovan didn't seem to cheer them up any! ira went home at ten o'clock realising that football was not merely the pastime he had believed it to be, but something terribly earnest and important, a little more important, evidently, than mid-year examinations or--or a presidential election! he shook his head and sighed as he climbed the stairs at maggy's. it was beyond his comprehension, he concluded. they put him in a line-up one afternoon the next week and he struggled for some ten or twelve minutes in a perfectly hopeless effort to outplay brackett, of the first squad. perhaps he shouldn't have expected to get the best of a veteran like brackett, but he was, at all events, rather disappointed when he was taken out and sent hobbling off to the showers. he hobbled because someone had ruthlessly stamped on his foot and he had a suspicion that one or two of his toes were crushed and broken beyond repair. also, his head was still ringing from the hearty impact of someone's shoe. he was relieved to find that, although red and swollen, the toes were apparently intact, while, as for his head, that responded to cold water and rest. "football," said ira to himself as he limped down the steps on his way to the town, "is a funny sort of game. you work like the dickens five days a week so you'll be able to 'play' on the sixth. only i don't call it playing exactly, at that. well, if i don't get killed i suppose i'll manage to get through the season. unless, that is, they realise, as i do, that i'm no earthly use to them. i sort of hope they'll let me go before i break something worse than a couple of toes!" but it didn't seem to be their plan to let him go, for two days later, when the first real cut came and the fourth squad ceased to exist, ira was still kicking his heels on the bench during scrimmage. it seemed to him that coach driscoll had let many a better player depart in peace, and he wondered why he was retained. the second team had been made up for nearly a fortnight and ira had been rather relieved at not being relegated to it. if, he argued, they put him on the second he might prove just good enough to be kept there for the balance of the season, while, if they kept him out for the first it was very likely that after awhile they would recognise his deficiencies and let him off. he was willing to stay there and do what they asked him to do just as long as he was wanted, but he always entertained the hope that some fine day captain lyons would gently and kindly inform him that they had decided to worry along without him. he was given instruction in catching punts, something at which he failed to distinguish himself, and was glad to find that the course was merely a sort of "extra" and intended to qualify him for an emergency rather than to fit him to play in the backfield. of course, if driscoll had said: "you go in for dannis, at quarter, rowland," he would have nodded and gone, just as he would have done had he been nonchalantly informed that he was to play right end or centre. but he did secretly hope that, failing to drop him, they would let him continue to play in a guard position. without flattering himself, he felt that he could play guard fairly well if he wasn't opposed to some wonder like brackett or donovan. ira's estimate of himself as a football player was modest those days, for, although he frequently received commendation, he concluded that folks were just being nice to him and "letting him down easy." once when fred lyons said warmly: "rowland, you're certainly shaping, old man, wonderfully!" ira looked mildly gratified and said "thank you" and secretly liked fred better for being gracious to a "dub" like he. after that first cut ira could count on playing a few minutes every afternoon. sometimes he was opposed to the first squad men and sometimes he was lined up with the first against the second team. when the latter event happened he usually gave a fairly good account of himself, always, in fact, when he played at left of centre, for then he was opposed to a rather light and seedy chap named faulkner, and he could do about as he liked with faulkner. if they played him at right guard--and they didn't seem to care much which side of the line they put him--he had his work cut out, for johns was a hard, fast fellow to stand up to. as the days went by ira began, rather to his own surprise, to look forward to those more or less brief periods of play. after all, there was something exciting about a physical encounter like that, something very interesting in matching his wit and brawn against the wit and brawn of another. such times as he gave a good account of himself, ira went back to the gymnasium and, later, to his room, in quite a glow of satisfaction. the glow didn't last long, however, and he always ended by laughing at himself for caring whether he or johns had emerged victor in the struggle. parkinson met her first reverse when she went away and played phillipsburg academy. phillipsburg had won from kenwood by one score the week before and parkinson was anxious to defeat her. perhaps fred lyons was more anxious than anyone else, for it seemed to him that a victory over a team which had lately defeated parkinson's special rival would convince the school at large that the brown team was worthy of support. but it was not to be. with donovan out of the game, the left side of the parkinson line was unbelievably weak. buffum did the best he could, doubtless, but buffum was not a donovan and never would be. cole was not called on until the beginning of the third quarter, by which time phillipsburg had a lead that parkinson couldn't wear down. coach driscoll thrust a veritable army of substitutes into the fray in the final ten minutes, but all to no purpose. ira had his baptism by fire that chilly, blowy october afternoon, and did neither better nor worse than the player he succeeded. phillipsburg already had the game on ice by a score of 19 to 9, and as she played entirely on the defensive during most of the final period, ira had little chance to distinguish himself. he played through six minutes, most of which was spent by him, or so he thought afterwards, in running up and down the field. phillipsburg punted every time she got the ball, with the one thought of keeping the adversary outside her twenty-five-yard line. parkinson nearly forced another score on her in the last three minutes when a forward pass from wirt went to a phillipsburg player and he had almost a clear field ahead of him. dannis, however, managed to pull him to earth just short of the ten-yard line and when the home team had exhausted two downs in a vain attempt to puncture the brown line, her try-at-goal went a few inches wide of the upright. in the end 19 to 9 was the result, and parkinson went home with trailing banners. chapter xiii a conference as it happened, an unusually large number of fellows had accompanied the team that day, and in consequence a great many disappointed and disgruntled youths returned to warne and a late supper and recited discouraging stories of the contest. those who had remained at home shrugged their shoulders and said: "well, what did you go for? you might have known!" fred lyons was too downcast to make an effort to put a good face on the matter. as for coach driscoll, it was hard to say what his feelings were, for he looked and acted the same in success or failure. de wolf lowell, the manager, declared that driscoll was beastly unsatisfactory, since he "always looked untroubled and you never could tell whether he wanted to kiss you or kick you!" the defeat could not have come at a more inopportune time, for the _leader_, which appeared on fridays, held that week an appeal for funds for the football team. it was a well-worded appeal, signed by the four class presidents and manager lowell, but it failed of its purpose very largely. in the course of the next week or so enough small contributions materialised to enable the team to struggle along for the moment, but the amount donated was only a drop in the bucket when viewed with the season's expenses in mind. there was a consultation sunday evening in coach driscoll's room attended by coach, captain and manager. the coach's attitude was one of polite indifference when the matter of finances was reached. "it isn't in my province," he explained calmly. "that may sound heartless, fellows, but if i have to worry about money i can't give the undivided attention to my real business that it requires. i'm here to turn out a good team, and i mean to do it if it's any way possible. i can't do it if my mind is disturbed by questions of receipts and expenditures. whatever you decide i'll agree to, and i'll do anything in reason to carry the play through, but you mustn't look to me for schemes." "if we don't get some money," said lowell dismally, "there won't be any use for a team." "that's up to you," replied the coach, smiling. lowell looked doubtfully at fred, and the latter nodded agreement. "the coach is right, old man. it isn't his funeral. we've got to find a way out ourselves." "then, for the love of lemons, let's get something started," said lowell impatiently. "canvas the school, go through it with a fine-tooth comb. there's no other way. if we called a meeting it would end in a farce." "i don't think so," said fred. "we'd have the class leaders with us and a good many others. we could get them on the platform and have them speak. whatever we do, though, we must wait until we've won a game." "that's all very well, but suppose, we lose again saturday!" "we won't," replied fred confidently. "we can beat high school without trouble. the only thing is that it won't be much of a victory when we get it! i wish it was musket hill next saturday instead of high school." "we can't wait much longer," protested the manager. "we need coin, fred. we owe so many bills now that i'm ashamed to walk through town! hang it, the money's here. why can't we get hold of it? if it was the baseball team that needed it the fellows would fall all over themselves passing it out!" "we're not popular," said fred, with a grimace. coach driscoll, who had listened tranquilly to the discussion, took his pipe from his mouth and viewed it thoughtfully. "i wouldn't count too much on a win next week," he said. "i'm planning to use a good many second-string fellows saturday." the pipe went back again and he viewed fred untroubledly. "great scott!" exclaimed lowell. "that'll never do, coach!" "is it necessary?" asked fred dubiously. the coach nodded. "very," he answered. "the subs have got to taste blood if they're going to be any use. just putting them in for a few minutes at the end of a game doesn't do much good. i want to start with practically a substitute line-up saturday; bradford, french, buffum, conlon maybe, and so on. you can start if you like and dannis had better run them: and we'll keep wirt in the backfield. i don't say that we won't win even with that bunch. i don't know much about the high school team. but i wouldn't consider it a foregone conclusion, fellows." "that means waiting another week," said lowell disgustedly. "no, we'll go ahead whatever happens," said fred. "look here, we'll start things up tomorrow. call a mass meeting for next saturday night in the auditorium. i'll see knowles and hodges. you get after sterner and young lane. tell them we'll want them to sign the notices and to say something at the meeting. who else can we count on?" "you'll speak; and mr. driscoll?" lowell looked inquiringly across at the coach and the latter nodded. "and i will, too, if you want me to. perhaps i'd better. i can tell them facts, give them figures and so on. how about gene? he's track captain. wouldn't he count?" "gene can't talk much," replied fred. "i mean he isn't much of a speaker in public. still, he will do his best if we ask him. i wish we knew of someone who really had the gift of the gab, someone who could get them started." "how about you, coach?" asked lowell. but mr. driscoll shook his head. "i'm no spellbinder," he replied. "i'll talk, but don't expect eloquence, lowell." "well, we'll just do the best we can," said fred. "what time can you come around tomorrow? we'll have to draw up some notices to post and another to put in the _leader_." "i'll see my men in the morning and meet you at your room at half-past one," answered lowell. "i'm glad we're going to get something started at last. i'm getting white-headed over it!" "through?" asked mr. driscoll. the others nodded. "then let's take up another subject." he reached to the table and lifted a notebook to him. "we've got forty-odd men out now and we don't want them all much longer. i think we'd better make a final cut a week from monday. we can tell how some of the green ones size up in the high school game. i wish i'd asked billy goode to come around here tonight. he's got dope on some of these chaps that i don't know." "how many shall we keep?" asked fred. "twenty-eight or thirty are enough. run your eye over that list and see how it strikes you. i've crossed the names i mean to drop." "sumner?" asked fred doubtfully as he went down the list. "don't need him. we've got five half-backs without him. he will be better next year, but he isn't 'varsity material yet." fred nodded and went on. presently: "rowland?" he questioned. "y-yes," answered the coach hesitantly. "i wasn't certain about him, though. if i were certain crane would keep coming i'd drop rowland, but crane's pretty poor sometimes. what do you think?" "i'd keep him," said fred. "rowland's a mighty steady player, and considering that he didn't know a football from a ham sandwich three weeks ago i think he's done remarkably." "yes, he has. i only questioned him because we don't want a lot of deadwood around. cross him off, lyons. if donovan doesn't come around we may need him." "al? isn't he going to? i thought he was coming back tomorrow." "so he is, as far as i know, but a fellow who gets hurt once is twice as likely to get it again. i'm always leery of them after they once come a cropper. i've seen it happen so often. we'll keep rowland and be on the safe side. the boy is a worker and would make a corking guard if he put his mind on his work. the trouble with him is that he acts as if he was attending a tea-fight instead of football practice!" fred laughed. "he's too good-natured, i guess." "it doesn't do to be too good-natured in football," replied the coach drily. "but i don't think it's that so much, as it is that he doesn't take it seriously. i watched him the other day in practice and he smiled the whole time!" fred handed the list back. "the others are all right, i think," he said. "maybe we'll want to make changes after saturday's game, though. is there anything more tonight, coach?" "not a thing. you fellows go ahead with your meeting and try to make a hit with it. let lowell attend to as much of it as he can. that's his business, i guess. if you get it on your mind too much you will be falling off in your play. and we don't want that. save him all you can, lowell. we may need him." beginning on monday, ira's services were constantly in demand. donovan returned to his position at left guard on the first team, but he was used very carefully and most of the time tom buffum had his place. that brought ira into the substitute squad and he and crane alternated opposite to buffum, or, in the usual scrimmage, against johns after donovan and buffum had had their chances. ira played hard and fast and used his head, but in the final analysis there was something lacking, and not even coach driscoll could put his finger on that something. one day he called ira to him on the side line and questioned him. "well, what do you think of it, rowland?" he asked pleasantly. "of what, sir?" "football work. find it interesting?" "oh, yes, sir, quite. i like it better than i expected to. but i'm still pretty green at it, i guess." "why, i don't know," replied the coach slowly. "you've come pretty fast for a beginner. do you feel yourself that you're still green?" "well, i--realise that i don't know as much about the game as i should. the other fellows seem to always know just what to do. i sort of--sort of blunder along, i guess." "what is it you think you don't know?" asked the coach. "i can't say exactly. i suppose it's lack of experience that i mean. there's so much more in it than i realised, sir; in the game, i mean." "yes, there's a lot in it, but all you need to know is how to play the guard position, rowland. don't worry yourself too much about the game as a whole. play your own position as well as you can and leave the rest to the others. which of the fellows are you most afraid of?" "oh, i'm not afraid of any of them," replied ira placidly. "i didn't mean it just that way," corrected the coach, hiding a smile. "i meant which one do you find it hardest to play against?" "johns," was the prompt reply. "johns?" the coach's voice contained surprise. "but johns isn't the player that buffum is." "no, i guess not, sir, but johns--well, i don't know; i think he plays _harder_ than buffum." the coach looked mystified. "harder, eh? look here, isn't it just that you yourself don't play as hard against johns as you do against buffum or donovan? maybe johns has got you scared." "it might be that," answered ira. "anyway, i'd rather tackle johns." "but you just said you found him harder!" "that's the reason, i guess," laughed ira. "hm. well, you go in there now and see what you can do to johns. hold on! wait till the play's over. just forget that johns is johns and see if you can't put it over on him, rowland." but ira didn't put it over on johns. for the ensuing ten or twelve minutes they played each other to a standstill and neither could have fairly claimed supremacy. coach driscoll, watching at intervals from the side line--he had a way of absenting himself from the field for long periods before jumping in and reading the riot-act--frowned in puzzlement. "i wonder," he muttered once, "what the result would be if johns handed him a jolt under the chin! what that boy needs is to get warmed up to his work. he's too calm!" the announcement of the mass meeting appeared on the different bulletin boards on tuesday and occasioned plenty of interest but small enthusiasm. "'football mass meeting,' eh?" ira heard one fellow remark in front of the board in parkinson. "suppose they want us to shell out. not for mine, thank you. let them win a game once." "oh, a dollar won't hurt us," observed his companion carelessly. "i guess they're pretty hard up." "i paid perfectly good money for a season ticket," answered the first speaker, "and that's enough. i haven't had my money's worth so far and don't expect to. they'll have to tie me and take it away by force if they get any dollar from me!" "where's your patriotism?" jeered the other. "you're a nice piker, you are!" "patriotism be blowed! where's their football team, if it comes to that? why should i give good money to support a bunch of losers and quitters?" "oh, pshaw, if they'll beat kenwood i don't care how many games they lose." "if!" sneered his companion. "well, they won't. not that bunch. i'd give them _two_ dollars if they would." "they'd fall dead if you did," laughed the other boy. "you never gave two dollars to anyone in your life, you tightwad!" the secondand third-string players had the call all that week and on thursday it became rumoured about that coach driscoll was to start the game with the warne high school team with a substitute line-up and a deal of speculation ensued among the substitutes. ira was interested, but not greatly. buffum would play right guard, of course, and brackett left. if substitutes were needed there were tooker and crane. he couldn't conceive of getting into the battle save, perhaps, for a scant five minutes after the result had been determined. on friday there was only signal work for the subs, but the first-string players and the second held scrimmage as usual. to his surprise, ira was not called on when donovan was released, fuller, a third-string tackle, falling heir to the position, and, very naturally, playing it badly. it was not until half-past two on saturday that the line-up was given out. the squad was getting into togs in the locker-room of the gymnasium when coach driscoll arrived, a little earlier than usual, and proved the rumour correct. "we're going to make a cut next week," he announced, "and some of you fellows are going to leave us. which of you stay and which go depends largely on how you show up this afternoon. you'll all have a chance to play before the game's over. any of you who want to keep on must show something. it's your last chance. we're going to beat high school and we're going to do it with the subs." and then he read the line-up, and ira's surprise was considerable when he found himself slated in brackett's place at right guard. of the regulars only captain lyons and quarter-back dannis were to start. "don't," added the coach, "fool yourselves with the idea that if you get in trouble i'll put the first-string men in to pull you out. it isn't being done this season. you'll win this game or lose it on your own merits. now go ahead and show that you're just as good as the regulars. take them out, captain lyons!" high school was already at work when the brown-stockinged players reached the field and the stands were filling with an audience that threatened to test their capacity, for high school had plenty of friends and admirers, many of them of the gentler sex. the light dresses of the girls, together with a multitude of red-and-blue pennants and arm-bands, made the scene unusually bright and colourful, and for the first time ira felt something very much like stage fright. but there wasn't much time to indulge it, for they were at once hustled out of blankets and sweaters and set to work at warming up, and almost before ira had limbered his muscles decently a whistle called them back to the bench. and then, three minutes later, while high school cheered mightily, fred lyons kicked off. chapter xiv hard knocks high school had the advantage of a longer preliminary season than her opponent, having already taken part in six contests, and in consequence what she lacked in weight--for she was a light team--was made up to her in experience. the first period resulted in a good deal of wasteful effort on both sides. high school yielded the ball soon after the kick-off and parkinson started with line-plunging plays that took her from her own twenty-nine yards past the middle of the field and well into the opponent's territory. hodges, little and pearson, the substitute backs, showed good ability and were hard to stop. it was a fumble that finally cost them the ball and high school started back from her thirty-six-yard line with a series of running plays that for awhile fooled the parkinson ends and backs and put the ball on the home team's forty-yard line. during the rest of the twelve-minute quarter the pigskin passed back and forth across the fifty yards with slight advantage to either side. the parkinson supporters grumbled because the team didn't open up and try the high school ends instead of invariably yielding the ball after an unsuccessful fourth down plunge. but dannis was in command, and dannis generally knew what he was up to. during that first period ira found the going rather easy, for his opponent played a stupid game. it was only when, on attack, he had to try conclusions with the opposing centre that he had difficulty. that centre, although a comparative youngster, was, as everyone agreed afterwards, "some player!" he had no trouble standing the parkinson centre, conlon, on his head, to use the phrase, and it was his ability to do that that led to the first score which came a few minutes after the teams had changed places. dannis had intercepted a forward-pass just behind his line and zigzagged to the enemy's thirty-eight. from there, in four rushes, little and pearson alternating, the pigskin had gone to the twenty-seven. hodges had failed to get away outside right tackle and had lost a yard. with eleven to go on second down, dannis had skirted the red-and-blue's left and, behind good interference, had placed the ball near the twenty-yard line just inside the boundary. the next play had gone out and gained a scant yard, and little, crashing through the right side of the high school defence, had just failed of the distance. then, with the ball nearly opposite the goal-posts and eighteen yards away from them, captain lyons had dropped back for a try-at-goal. conlon's pass had been rather poor, the ball almost going over the kicker's head, and possibly the knowledge of the fact had unsteadied him for a moment. at all events, the opposing centre had brushed him aside, avoided pearson and leaped straight into the path of the ball as it left lyons' foot. it had banged against his body and bounded back up the field, and a speedy back, who had followed through behind the centre, had gathered it into his arms on the second bound and raced almost unchallenged for some seventy-five yards and a touchdown from which high school had kicked an easy goal. perhaps that handicap was just what parkinson needed to make her show herself, for, after lyons had again kicked off and the opponents had been held for downs and had punted back to little, the brown team started with new determination. by that time ira's competitor had recovered from his slump, doubtless heartened by those seven points on the score board, and ira had his hands full. dannis thrust the backs at right and left of centre and ira was busy trying to make holes or to keep the left of the high school line from romping through. pearson was the best gainer through the line, and once he got almost clear and rushed twenty-two yards before he was brought down. little and hodges worked the ends for smaller gains and dannis pulled off a twelve-yard stunt straight through centre on a fake pass. parkinson was halted on high school's twenty-five and the red-and-blue recovered seven of the necessary ten yards before she was forced to punt. little caught near the side line and got back eight before he was run out of bounds. with the ball on the thirty-four, dannis attempted a quarter-back run, but lost two yards. hodges faked a forward and made six around right end and little got the rest of the distance off right tackle. near the fifteen yards, with four to go on third down, hodges threw across the lines and bradford caught on the eight. from there the ball was pushed over in three plays, little scoring the touchdown. lyons kicked the goal from a slight angle. high school was given the ball for the kick-off and a short lift dropped it into the arms of pearson near the twenty-yard line. the red-and-blue showed demoralisation then and her line went to pieces during the next dozen plays. parkinson crashed through almost at will and had reached the enemy's twenty-one when the whistle blew. there was some criticism in the locker-room between halves, but coach driscoll found little fault, on the whole. ira, who had been rather roughly used, had a piece of plaster applied to his nose and arnica rubbed into his right ankle. conlon was horribly messed up and was, besides, angry clear through. the knowledge that he had been outplayed disgruntled him badly, and he spent the time when he was not in the hands of the rubber or trainer in glowering by himself in a corner. both teams presented new talent when the third quarter started. for parkinson, basker had taken dannis's place, little and pearson had retired, crane was at left guard in place of buffum, and logan was at right end. high school had one new back and two new linesmen. ira's opponent was still on hand, however, and viewed him darkly as they lined up after the kick-off. ira was as yet unable to view the struggle as anything other than a somewhat rough amusement, and the other boy's evident ill-will puzzled him. he soon found, though, that his opponent held a different idea of the matter in hand. the high school left guard was not viewing the affair as a pastime, and the fact was brought home to ira very speedily. the other fellow did not actually transgress the rules, but he approached so close to the borderland between fair and unfair use of the hands that ira found himself at his wit's end to protect himself from punishment. almost anyone else would have lost his temper and fought back, but ira kept his smile and took his medicine. by the time parkinson had reached scoring distance once more he was pretty badly used up. he wondered what would happen if he called the umpire's attention to his opponent's tactics, and was tempted to see. but he didn't. it seemed too much like acting the baby. lyons, playing beside him at tackle, saw what was happening and hotly told ira to "give him what he's asking for, rowland!" and, as ira didn't, lyons took matters into his own hands on one occasion when the opportunity presented itself to him and considerably jarred the high school left guard by putting his shoulder under that youth's chin. fortunately for lyons, the umpire didn't see it. but the compliment didn't alter the left guard's tactics and ira was sniffing at a bloody nose and looking dimly through one eye when, after three plunges at high school's line had failed, lyons dropped back and put the pigskin over the bar for the third score. fred went out then, hodsdon taking his place, and james went in for hodges. high school kicked off to basker and the substitute quarter was run back for a loss of four yards. a fumble a minute later was recovered by mason, at left half, on parkinson's twelve yards. two attempts at the line gained but six and basker punted to midfield. a smash at the parkinson right side went through for five yards and ira, who had been mowed down in the proceeding, felt so comfortable on the ground that it didn't occur to him to get up until someone swashed a wet sponge over his face. when he did find his feet under him he was extremely glad of the support of the trainer, and when he found himself walking toward the bench he didn't even protest. there was, he felt subconsciously, something radically wrong with a game that allowed the other fellow to "rough" you at pleasure and forbade you to "rough" him back. someone lowered him to a bench and draped a blanket around his shoulders, and someone administered to his half-closed eye and added another piece of plaster to his already picturesque countenance. and after that he was sent off to the gymnasium, receiving as he went a scattered applause from the friendly stands. coach driscoll used twenty-four players that afternoon, and the score of the game in the next morning's warne _independent_ looked a good deal like a section of a city directory. but in spite of putting two whole teams into the field the coach failed to capture the game, for, in the last three or four minutes of play, high school performed a miracle with a sadly patched-up eleven and worked the ball down to parkinson's twenty-two yards and from there, plunging once, grounding a forward-pass once and trying an end run that was stopped, she lifted the pigskin across the bar and tied the score at 10 to 10! and fred lyons, dragging tired feet up the gymnasium steps, remarked sadly to de wolf lowell: "father was right!" lowell, himself downcast and disappointed, not knowing that fred had coach driscoll in mind, found the remark frivolous and senseless and only grunted. "well, what in the name of common sense has happened to you?" demanded humphrey nead as ira trailed into the room about five. ira smiled tiredly and gingerly lowered himself onto the erratic window seat. "i've been playing football," he answered. "didn't you see the game?" humphrey shook his head. "i did not," he answered. "but if they all look like you it must have been a fine one! who won?" "nobody. it was a tie. ten to ten." "great scott! do you mean that you tore your face into fragments and ended where you began?" "something like that. only, of course, we all had a pleasant time, nead, and got a lot of nice exercise. it's a remarkable game, football." "are you sure you've been playing football?" asked humphrey, grinning. "sure you haven't been in a train wreck, rowly?" "quite sure, thanks. i played opposite a fellow who probably invented the game. anyway, he knew a lot of stunts i didn't. he had more ways of using his hands without being seen than you can imagine." "oh, that was it!" humphrey frowned. "what did you do to him?" "nothing much. lyons said i ought to, but what's the good of having rules if you don't stick to them? i tried to keep from getting killed and barely got off with my life. i don't think he got through me more than three times, but he certainly made it difficult for me! the last time he came through very nicely, though, and when i came to i was on my back and the trainer was trying to drown me with a sponge full of water. after that they lugged me off and sent me home. i didn't see the rest of it, but i heard they tied up the game in the last quarter. i guess fred lyons is awfully disappointed. you see, there's the meeting tonight." "it'll be a frost," said humphrey. "i've heard a lot of the fellows say that they weren't going. here, you'd better let me doctor you a bit, rowly. that eye's a sight! who stuck the plaster all over you?" "billy goode. i do look sort of funny, don't i?" ira observed himself in the wavy mirror above the bureau. "i'd laugh," he added, "only it hurts my mouth!" "you were a silly ass not to go after that butcher," growled humphrey. "i wish i'd been playing against him! what was his name?" "i don't think i heard it. hold on, don't take that plaster off!" "shut up and stand still! you don't need half a yard of the stuff there. where are those scissors of yours? there, that's something like. oh, hang it, it's bleeding again! reach me the towel. are you going to the meeting?" "i don't know. yes, i suppose so. lyons wouldn't like it if we didn't all go. that eye looks bad, though, doesn't it? guess i'll get some hot water and bathe it." "hot water be blowed! cold water is what you want. here, i'll pour some out in the basin and you get to work." "why didn't you go to the game?" asked ira, as he sopped a dripping wash cloth to his eye. "oh, i had something better to do." "pool, i suppose," sniffed ira. "you do too much of that, nead." "well, you miss your guess, old top. i was out with jimmy fallon on his motorcycle. say, that's sport, all right, rowly! sixty-five miles an hour sometimes, and everything whizzing past so quick you couldn't see it! i wish i could afford one of the things." "you'll break your neck if you go rampaging around on one of those contraptions," said ira. "it isn't safe, nead." "huh! that sounds fine from a fellow whose face looks like a beefsteak! you don't see any black eyes or broken noses on me, do you?" ira laughed. "you've got the best of the argument," he replied. "but some day you'll come home with a broken neck if you're not careful. where'd you go?" "springfield. took us forty minutes to go and less than that to get back. a motor cop tried to chase us once, but never had a chance. we left him standing." "who is jimmy fallon?" "he works in benton's cigar store. he's a corker, jimmy is." "he must be if he spends his time racing policemen. i suppose you think you're going to play pool tonight." "surest thing you know, sport!" "well, you're not. you're coming with me to the mass meeting. and you're going to----" "yes, i am! like fun!" jeered humphrey. "and you're going to clap your hands at the right moment and pull for the football team," continued ira, regardless of the interruption. "also, nead, you're going to subscribe liberally to the cause." "nothing doing, rowly! i've got a date with some of the fellows downtown. anyway, i couldn't subscribe to the cause, as you call it, having but about a dollar and a half to my name and needing that for more important things, old top." "broke again?" asked ira. "pretty nearly. i've got a dollar and sixty-two cents, or something like that. want to borrow a hundred, rowly?" "no, thanks. but i'll stake you to a couple of dollars so you can put in your coin when they pass the hat." "all right. you put in a dollar for me and let me have the other now." "you can put it in yourself. you'll be there." "nothing doing!" "this is something special, nead," said ira, seriously, speaking through the folds of the towel. "i want you to go with me. it won't matter if you miss one evening at the billiard place." "but i don't want to go to your old meeting," expostulated humphrey. "it's nothing in my young life! you give them a dollar for me and tell them i wish them well." "no, we want all the fellows we can get. you'll be wanting to borrow in two or three days, nead, and i shan't want to loan to a fellow who won't do a little thing like this to oblige me." "oh, don't you worry, old top. there are other places to make a raise." "maybe, but i don't believe you want to try them. i'll be back here about half-past seven and the meeting's at eight. we'd better start fairly early so as to get good seats." "gee, a fellow would think you were going to the movies," scoffed humphrey. "what fun is there in listening to a lot of idiots talk about the football team? are you going to speak, too?" "me?" asked ira startledly. "thunder, no! i couldn't speak a piece!" "then i won't go," laughed humphrey. "if you'll make a speech, rowly, i'll take a chance." "guess i'm the one who'd be taking a chance," replied ira. "how does this eye look now?" "dissipated, old top, dissipated! but it's a bit better. well, i guess i'll run along and feed. want to donate that dollar now, rowly?" "n-no, i don't believe so." humphrey frowned and paused irresolutely by the table, hat in hand. "you're not in earnest about that, are you?" he asked. "i mean about holding out on me if i don't go to the meeting." "yes, i am, nead. you're wanted at the meeting and i'm asking you to go as a personal favour to me." "rot! i don't see how it affects you any, whether i go or don't go. it isn't your picnic." "why not? i'm on the team, fighting and bleeding for the cause." ira felt tentatively of his nose. "bleeding, anyhow. naturally, i want the thing to be a success. besides, nead, they've got to raise some money if they're going to last the season out. shall we say about twenty minutes to eight?" "say what you like," laughed humphrey, "but don't look for me, rowly. i've got something to do tonight. bye!" "bye," answered ira. when the door had closed he smiled gently. "if he doesn't go with me i miss my guess," he murmured as he donned his vest and coat and slicked his hair down with a wet brush. "i suppose it's a poor business, buying him like that, but you've got to suit your method to your man." with which bit of philosophy he observed his disfigured countenance dubiously and turned out the light. chapter xv parkinson has a change of heart humphrey was waiting when ira returned from supper. "thought i might as well go along and see the fun," he observed carelessly. they reached the auditorium, on the second floor of parkinson hall, in good time but found it already half-full. a dozen rather conscious-looking fellows stood or sat about the stage: fred lyons, de wolf lowell, gene goodloe, the four class presidents, steve crocker, baseball captain, and several whom ira didn't know. mr. driscoll, followed by billy goode, the trainer, came in a few minutes later and joined the assemblage on the stage. there was a good deal of noise in the hall, for everyone was talking or laughing. it was evident not only that about every fellow in school was to be on hand but that they were here principally with the idea of finding amusement. ira and humphrey found seats on the left about midway between the stage and the green swinging doors with the oval lights at the other end of the auditorium. by five minutes to eight all the seats were occupied and a fringe of boys lined the wall at the back. ira saw several of the faculty in the audience: mr. morgan, mr. talbot and mr. tasser. their presence was easily explained since they were the faculty members of the athletic committee. at eight by the big, round clock over the stage, hodges, fourth class president, who had evidently accepted the office of chairman, arose and the noise quieted to furtive scraping of feet or coughing. hodges explained unemotionally the purpose of the meeting and introduced lowell. the best feature of hodges' introduction was its brevity, and the best feature of the manager's talk was doubtless its strict attention to facts and figures. he undoubtedly showed conclusively that the football association was sadly in need of funds; the figures which he paraded proved it; but figures and facts are dull things and by the time he had finished the quiet had gone. many fellows were whispering behind their hands and many others were frankly yawning. ira knew that they needed stirring up and hoped that the next speaker would do it. but the next was fred lyons, and although fred wanted very much to make an appeal that would reach his audience, he failed most dismally. perhaps it was because he wanted to do it too hard that he couldn't. his earnestness was convincing enough, but it so closely approached solemnity that it was better calculated to produce tears than enthusiasm. fred apologised for the poor showing made by the team in recent years and made the mistake, possibly, of placing a share of the blame on the lack of support supplied by the school. no audience cares to listen to a recital of its shortcomings unless it is in a particularly sympathetic mood, and this one wasn't. fred asked the school to get behind the team, to believe in it and to aid it. "it's your team and it will do what you want it to if you will give it support. it can't win without that support. we've got good players and a fine coach, and we're all eager to do our best, fellows. but we need your help, moral and financial. manager lowell has told you how we stand regarding money. last season was a poor one financially and we started this year with a practically empty treasury. so far we have managed to worry along from one game to the next, but we need a lot of supplies, we owe money for printing and we owe mr. driscoll half his salary. what lowell didn't tell you is that he has dug into his own pocket several times, just as i have, for that matter, in order to keep going. comparatively few season tickets have been taken this year, nearly eighty less than last, and the attendance at the games, with one exception, has been poor. we need money, fellows, quite a lot of money, and i'm hoping you will give it to us. and we need even more; to feel that you are behind us and want us to come through. if you will do your part we'll do ours, every one of us, players, coach, management and trainer. i think that's all i have to say. thank you." fred sat down amidst a salvo of applause, but ira somehow knew that his address had not carried conviction and that the applause was for fred personally rather than for his appeal. and fred's countenance said that he realised the fact. coach driscoll spoke briefly, dwelling on the ability of the team and the spirit of it and paying a tribute to captain lyons that again brought applause. he ended by echoing fred's request for support and stepped back to a hearty clapping of hands. gene goodloe did his best, but gene was sadly out of his element. his embarrassment was so evident that it brought a ripple of laughter, and ira had hopes. but gene made the mistake of resenting it and finished his remarks amidst a deep and discouraging silence. others followed, but the first speakers had, so to say, sounded the tone of the meeting and each succeeding speaker seemed more lugubrious than the last. feet shuffled impatiently and many eyes were fixed longingly on the doors. a few of those near the entrance had already slipped away. the meeting was proving long-drawn-out and dismal to a degree. audible remarks began to be heard, such as: "pass the hat and call it a day!" "question, mr. speaker! question!" "let's have a song!" it was hodges who, recognising the attitude of the audience, tried to induce billy goode to say something. but billy resolutely refused to be dragged from his chair, even though the audience, scenting possible relief from the dead solemnity of the proceedings, clapped loudly and demanded a speech. in the end, hodges gave the trainer up and took the floor himself. "well, you've heard us all, fellows. you know what is wanted of you. so let's get down to business. we've got some slips here and some pencils and some of us are going to pass them around to you in a minute. i hope every fellow will contribute. the association needs about three hundred dollars to get to the kenwood game with. that means that some of us must give liberally. but before we start the collection perhaps there's someone that would like to say something. if there is let's hear from him. debate is open." no one, however, seemed to have any message to deliver, although there was plenty of whispering and subdued laughter. finally, though, a tall, lean youth with an earnest manner arose at one side of the hall and cleared his throat nervously. hodges recognised him and sat down. "who's the giraffe?" whispered humphrey. ira shook his head. "mr. president--er--chairman, and fellow students," began the earnest one. "i've listened carefully to what has been said and as near as i can see it doesn't amount to much." some applause and a good deal of laughter rewarded him. "this football team of ours needs money to go on with, they tell us," continued the speaker, encouraged by the applause, "but i ask them: why? this is an age of efficiency, gentlemen, and when something is proven inefficient it is discarded. seems to me this football team has proved itself about as inefficient as anything could be. seems to me a football team's excuse for existence is--er--is winning games. if that's so, this football team of ours stopped being efficient three years ago. i ask you what use there is in contributing money for the benefit of something that has outlived its usefulness. i claim that it's poor business, gentlemen. i maintain----" but he didn't get any further, for the audience was laughing and shouting its applause by that time. at last someone had waked them up! the idea of discarding the team appealed to their sense of humour and while the tall youth went on making faces and waving his hands the audience gave way to hilarity. "good scheme! discharge the team!" "pay 'em off and let 'em go!" "no wins, no wages! how about it, fred?" on the stage the fellows were smiling, but not very comfortably. fred lyons was whispering to lowell, and the latter was shaking his head helplessly. somewhere in the back of the hall a second speaker was demanding recognition and there was a general craning of necks as hodges rapped for order. someone pulled the long-necked youth to his chair, still talking and gesticulating. "mr. chairman!" began the new speaker, "i want to say that most of us fellows would support the football team if it would show itself worth supporting. isn't that so, fellows?" laughing agreement arose about him. "that team hasn't won anything worth winning for so long that no one remembers what it was they won. they talk about wanting three hundred dollars. well, maybe they do. but i say let them show something first. this school is just as loyal to its teams as any school, but it wants something for its money. i say let's give the team a hundred dollars now and tell them to earn the rest!" "that's right!" someone called. "we're from missouri!" a young, second class fellow jumped up and declared in a thin, high voice that he "seconded the motion." hodges rapped for silence. "no motion has been put. if you want to put a motion we will vote on it. but i must say that many of you are wrong when you think this is a vaudeville show. please try to talk sense. are there any more remarks?" there were several, but they weren't serious and the speakers didn't stand up. hodges looked slowly around the hall and then turned toward the table beside him. "if there aren't," he announced, "we will proceed with the purpose of the meeting." "mr. chairman!" "mister--" the chairman paused, at a loss, and fred lyons whispered across to him--"mr. rowland?" ira, on his feet, conscious of humphrey's wide-open mouth and of the four hundred and more curious gazes, moistened his lips and took a deep breath. he had acted quite on impulse, which was something he seldom did do, and he was still a bit surprised to find himself standing there facing the meeting. "shoot!" called someone, and many laughed. "mr. chairman and--and fellows," began ira slowly, "i----" "louder!" came a demand from the back of the auditorium. ira made a new start, facing so that he could make himself heard at the back of the hall. "i want to tell a story," he said. [illustration: "i want to tell a story," he said] "naughty! naughty!" cried a facetious youth. ira smiled. "it's about a horse race. down in maine, where i come from, there was an old man who owned a horse." there was a nasal twang in his voice that brought chuckles from many and smiles of anticipated amusement from more. "she wasn't much of a horse, fellows. she was about fourteen years old, and her front knees sorter knocked together and she had the spring-halt in the left hind leg and she was blind in one eye and couldn't see any too well outer the other. and she was fat and she was lazy because this man i'm telling about didn't use her except to drive to the village once a week in an old rattletrap buckboard to get a pound of coffee and a sack of flour and so on. well, one time when he was in the village he saw a notice about a trotting meeting to be held at the fair grounds a week or so later. so all the way home that day he talked it over with old bess and she switched her tail and flicked her ears and between them they decided to enter the race. so he went in to the village again and put down his entry fee and borrowed an old sulky of peters, the blacksmith. it wasn't a very good sulky to look at, but peters put a new rim on one wheel and tied some baling wire around it here and there and the old man hitched it on back of the buckboard and fetched it home. and every day after that you'd see him and old bess jogging along the turnpike. "well, it came the day of the meeting and the old man and bess went to the fair grounds. there was a heap of betting going on and the old man he strolled around and strolled around and pretty soon he'd met about everyone he knew and he didn't have a red cent left in his pockets, and he calculated that if old bess won he'd be about fifteen hundred dollars to the good, because everyone he laid a bet with gave him perfectly scandalous odds. when it came old bess's time he drove out on the track and everyone howled and the judges got down out of the stand and asked him to go away and keep the peace. but he wouldn't listen to 'em and so they had to let old bess start. and that's about all she did do. once on a time she'd been a pretty good trotter, but that was a long way off, and maybe the old man didn't realise it. there was just the one heat for old bess. when the other horses started she switched her tail once or twice, looked around over her shoulder and jogged away. pretty soon they met the other horses coming back, but old bess didn't take any notice of 'em. she just jogged on. and after awhile a man came running up to them and asked wouldn't they please get off the track because they were starting the next heat. and so the old man he turned old bess around and she jogged back. and that's all there was to it. but one of the men that had laid a bet with the old man was sorter sorry for him, guessing he was just about cleaned out, and he said: 'old man, ain't you got nary sense at all? didn't you know that horse o' yourn had spring-halt and epizootics and was knock-kneed in front and fallin' away behind?' 'why, yes,' replied the old man, 'i knowed that, i guess.' 'an' you knew she was fourteen or fifteen years old, didn't you?' 'ought to, i lived right with her all the time.' 'an' you knew she was stone-blind in one eye, didn't you?' 'yes, i knowed that, too.' 'an' you knew she was too fat, anyway, didn't you?' 'i sorter suspected it.' 'well, then why in tarnation did you bet on her for?' 'well, i'll tell you,' says the old man. 'she's _my_ horse, an' what's mine i stands back of. an' win or not win, she's the finest horse an' the fastest trotter in the state o' maine! get ap, bess!'" ira sat down. the clapping and stamping and laughter might have been heard across on faculty row. it went on and on, and hodges, smiling broadly as he pounded his gavel, might just as well have been hitting a feather bed with a broom-straw! "get up!" urged humphrey. "go on! they want more!" "there isn't any more," said ira, smiling. "and they don't need any more." and maybe they didn't, for it was a vastly different gathering that scrambled for the slips of paper and put down figures and names. perhaps tomorrow or still later some of them would regret the size of the figures, but just now they were in the mood to be generous, for ira's story had succeeded where all the rest of the oratory had failed. they still chuckled as they passed the slips along and were still smiling when the pledges were dumped on the table. among them was one which bore the inscription "$2.00--humphrey nead." the meeting broke up then, but most of the audience waited until those on the stage had hurriedly reckoned up the pledges, and when hodges held up his hand for silence and announced the total to be three hundred and forty-one dollars they cheered loudly and long. and when steve crocker pushed past hodges and called for "a regular cheer for the team, fellows, and make it good!" the result indicated that parkinson school had experienced a change of heart! chapter xvi ira plans ira escaped that night from the gratitude of those in charge of the meeting, but he had to face it next day. fred lyons was almost tearful and gene slapped him on the back repeatedly and manager lowell shook hands with him earnestly on three separate occasions. and at least three of the class presidents if not all of them--ira became a bit confused eventually--congratulated him and told him he had saved the meeting. later, between recitations, he was waylaid on the steps of parkinson by a youth with glasses and a long, thin nose and asked to join the debating society. "but i couldn't make a speech to save my life," declared ira. "you'd learn very soon, rowland. any fellow who can tell a story as you did last night has the making of a public speaker. in my own experience--" and the president of the debating society managed to give the impression that he had spent a lifetime on the rostrum--"i have found it much more difficult to tell a story or anecdote effectively than to deliver an argument." ira managed to escape by agreeing to "think it over" and let the other know his decision when the football season was done. for several days he experienced the treatment that falls to one who becomes suddenly prominent. he had the feeling that fellows looked after him as he passed and spoke his name in lowered tones. it wasn't unpleasant, but it made him a little self-conscious, and ira didn't exactly like to feel self-conscious. fellows who usually nodded to him on campus or gridiron now fell into casual conversations, during which mention was generally made of the football meeting, if not of his share in it. at the field, too, there were signs of a new consideration, or else ira imagined them. coach driscoll, who never referred to the meeting in ira's hearing, nevertheless gave more attention to the substitute guard, and the same was true of fred lyons. it seemed to ira that one or the other always had an eye on him, was always offering criticisms or suggestions. it was flattering, no doubt, but it made him a little nervous at first, and his playing suffered a bit. even billy goode got the habit of hovering over him like a fussy old mother hen, just as he hovered over such celebrities as captain lyons or "the" dannis or billy wells or numerous others whose welfare might be considered a matter of importance. several times ira was "pulled" from play merely because he was a little short of breath or had developed a momentary limp. he usually protested weakly, but billy never listened to protests. he was an extremely decided trainer. another event traceable to ira's participation in the football meeting occurred the tuesday evening following. neither fred nor gene had so far accepted ira's invitation to his room at maggy's, nor had mart johnston repeated his visit, but on the evening mentioned fred, gene, mart and brad turned up, and, as humphrey was also at home for some inexplicable reason, the room's seating accommodations were severely tested. mart displayed the famous window seat and told humourously of their bewilderment when, on putting it together, they had discovered that it formed a right angle. ira saw that the visitors viewed humphrey both curiously and, perhaps, a trifle dubiously at first, but humphrey was quite at his best tonight and by the time gene had disappeared down the stairs and subsequently returned with a supply of rye bread sandwiches and hot frankfurter sausages the entente cordial was firmly established. they had a very merry evening, and talked of more subjects than could be set down here. once gene asked ira about the story of old bess, and ira explained that he had heard it told several times in a lumber camp. "'fritzy' smart used to tell it," he said. "'fritzy' is about seven feet tall and all angles, and he talks out of one side of his mouth--like this." ira mimicked him. "'fritzy' could make that story last a quarter of an hour and used to get up and give an imitation of old bess trotting down the track so you could almost see her. i was afraid i strung it out too much, although, at that, i left out most of the details that 'fritzy' gets in." "it wasn't a bit too long," said fred. "you had us sitting on the edges of our chairs. i guess as a story it doesn't amount to so much, rowland, but it was certainly corking the way you told it." "half of the fun," chuckled brad, "was the way he hit off the down-east dialect. the fellows around me were doubled up half the time." "anyway, it did the business," declared mart. "it was just the thing for the moment. i had a nice little speech all framed up myself, but----" "you!" scoffed brad. "you couldn't make a speech if your worthless life depended on it!" "run around! run around! i taught cicero and billy sunday all they ever knew! william jennings bryan was one of my first pupils!" "making a speech is no fun, anyway," sighed fred. "i made a awful mess of it the other night, and i knew it all the time and couldn't seem to help it." "well, you did sound a bit sepulchral," agreed gene. "i wanted to stick a pin into you or something." "you made a nice little address," said mart kindly. "i liked your speech, gene. it was so short." "it would have been shorter if i'd had my way," gene grumbled. "for that matter, every fellow that spoke sounded as though he was just back from a funeral and didn't expect to live long himself! we were a merry lot!" "if those slips had been passed around before rowland here leaped nimbly into the breeches--i mean the breach--you'd have collected the munificent sum of nine dollars and thirty-seven cents," said mart. "i already had my hand on the seven cents." "and i'll bet you kept it there," laughed brad. "you guess again! i subscribed for such a vast sum that i won't get square with my allowance until spring. and it was all your fault, rowland. you and your old bess! if i run short i'll be around here to borrow, so keep a little something handy." "seen any more of 'old earnest,' rowland?" asked fred. ira replied that he hadn't, and mart was for inviting him up. "he's a good old scout, hicks is, and he'd love to sit in and listen to our enlightening discourse i should think." but the others vetoed the proposal and shortly after the party broke up. humphrey was somewhat impressed with the visitors, although he pretended to make fun of them when they had gone. "that fellow johnston is a regular village cut-up, isn't he?" he asked. "i guess a fellow would get fed up with him pretty quick. does bradford room with him?" "yes, in goss. they have a corking room. we'll go around some night, if you like." "oh, i haven't time for those 'screamers,' thanks." "screamers" was a word evidently of humphrey's own devising and was used by him to indicate anyone who "put on side." "i don't think you can call those chaps 'screamers,'" said ira mildly. "they aren't snobs, anyway." "lyons acts as if he wanted to be," humphrey sniffed. then, after a few moments of silence, he said: "i don't see how you got acquainted with that bunch, anyway. i don't. i never meet up with anyone at school except pills!" "want to know the real reason?" "yes," answered humphrey, with a trace of suspicion, however. "well, you don't give yourself a chance, nead. you train with that bunch of loafers in the town and it takes all your time." "loafers! don't call my friends names, please. they aren't loafers. every one of them has a steady, respectable job, rowland." "y-yes, when they work, but it seems to me they're a lot like a fellow who used to live in my town. he sat in front of the grocery most all day, or, if it was winter, he sat inside. he had a steady, respectable job, too, but he didn't work at it much. he was a maker of wooden shoes." "oh, piffle," grunted humphrey. "the fellows i know work just as hard as anyone." "all right, but they always seem to be able to get away for a game of pool," answered ira drily. "if you'll cut loose from them, nead, and get acquainted with fellows of your own age and--and class, you'll be a lot better off. why, thunderation, you might as well be a day scholar for all the school life you get!" "i get all the school life i need," answered humphrey grumpily. "all those fellows like lyons and johnston and goodloe talk about is football and baseball and rot like that. they make me tired." "no, they don't, and you know it," replied ira calmly. "you'd be glad to know a dozen fellows like them. and you're going to, too." "how am i?" "why, you're going to cut down your evenings at the central billiard palace, or whatever it's called, to two a week, for one thing. and you're going to keep away from there entirely in the daytime, for another thing. and you're going to pay a few visits with me for a third thing." "like fun i am!" but humphrey couldn't disguise the fact that the programme held attraction for him. "i don't talk their sort of baby talk," he added sourly. "you'll learn. it isn't hard. we'll run over tomorrow evening and see johnston and bradford." humphrey was silent a minute. then: "i promised to do something tomorrow night," he said doubtfully. "all right, we'll make it thursday, then. one night's as good as another for me. by the way, how did it happen you were around here tonight?" "oh, i thought i'd stay at home." then, after a moment: "fact is," he went on, "i'm broke, and there's no fun going down there and just looking on." ira pushed himself back from the table, crossed his legs and observed his roommate thoughtfully, drumming gently on his teeth with the pen in his hand. humphrey grinned back a trifle defiantly. "know what i think?" asked ira finally. "i think you need a financial agent, nead, a sort of guardian to look after your money affairs. how much do you get a month?" "fifteen dollars regularly. if i want more i usually get it. my mother ponies up now and then and dad is generally good for an extra fiver." "then you have at least twenty a month, eh? seems to me you ought to be able to scrape along on that." "it does, does it? well, it isn't so easy. food costs a lot, for one thing." "but you don't have to pay for your food out of your allowance, do you?" "some of it. i get seven a week for board, but eating around at restaurants costs a lot more than eating in hall or at a boarding house, you see." "then why not go to alumni or come with me to trainor's? that's what you'd better do, i guess. then, when you get your allowance you hand it across to me----" "help!" laughed humphrey. "i can see myself doing that!" "why not? i'll hand a quarter of it back to you every week. if you need more than that i'll advance it, but i'll take it out of the next month's allowance. then you won't have to write home for extra money every ten days or two weeks. yes, i guess that's what we'll have to do, nead. i'll put your money in bank with mine and you'll find that it will last twice as long. tomorrow you come around to the boarding house and i'll get you started." humphrey stared dubiously. at last: "oh, well, i'll try it," he said. "but if i don't like it i don't have to keep it up." "no, but you will like it. meanwhile, how much do you need?" chapter xvii through the enemy's line parkinson played musket hill academy the next saturday at north lebron and met her second defeat. as, however, musket hill was, with the possible exception of kenwood, the most formidable adversary on the season's schedule, the school was not much surprised nor greatly disappointed. of course, there had been a secret hope that the brown would triumph, but to have done that she would have had to play a far better game than she had so far exhibited, and coach driscoll was not ready to speed up the team for the sake of a single victory. parkinson played true to midseason form and so did musket hill, and as musket hill's midseason form was by far the better she took the contest. the score, 16 to 6, fairly represented the merits of the teams. parkinson was outplayed in three periods and held her own and no more in the fourth. by that time musket hill had accumulated a touchdown from which she had failed to kick goal and a field-goal, and had held her adversary scoreless although the latter had twice threatened to tally. once parkinson had reached the home team's twenty-two yards and had attempted a forward-pass across the line which had failed, and again, in the third inning, she had rushed the ball as far as musket hill's eighteen, where, held twice for downs, she had tried to put the ball over the bar from placement. instead of going between the uprights, though, the pigskin went into the mãªlã©e and was captured by the opponents. it was that failure of right half-back cole's that paved the way for musket hill's second score, for the fortunate youth who picked the ball from the ground got nearly to the centre of the field before he was stopped and from there it was rushed to the visitors' twenty-six and, when the brown line stiffened, was sent across the bar for three points. in the fourth quarter, parkinson went bravely at it to retrieve her fallen fortunes, but a fumble by basker, who had gone in for dannis a minute or two before, gave the ball to musket hill on parkinson's thirty-yard line and musket hill was not to be denied. she tore big holes in the brown line between tackles, favouring the centre for the last stage of the journey, and at last pushed her full-back over. she brought her score up to sixteen by kicking a pretty goal from a hard angle. parkinson wanted to give way to discouragement then, but coach driscoll sent back donovan and walker and replaced almy with conlon at centre, almy having been injured in the final play of the drive, and somehow the brown took on a new lease of life and acquitted herself rather heroically. and when, with some five minutes of playing time left, one of basker's punts went over the head of the musket hill's quarter, ray white dropped on it near the enemy's twenty-yards. then the brown pulled herself together in really superb style and showed an offence which, had it matured earlier in the game, might have written a different page in history. parkinson went over the immaculate musket hill goal line in just five plays, of which three were mighty rushes by wirt, one a delayed pass to billy wells for a slide off tackle and the fifth and last a straight plunge through the centre of the crumbling musket hill line by cole. that final rush met with so little opposition that cole went stumbling and falling half-way to the end line! but six points--lyons failed at goal by a mere inch or so--while comforting, didn't alter the fact of defeat, and parkinson went home through a cloudy, chilly evening with another dent in her shield. but the fact that the school had "come back" in its allegiance was proved well that afternoon, for the hundred-odd boys who had accompanied the team stood up in the stand after the battle was over and cheered again and again for "parkinson! _parkinson!_ parkinson!" as it turned out later, parkinson had sustained something more serious than a defeat that day. she had lost the services for most if not all of the balance of the season of bill almy, the centre. almy had borne the brunt of the last half-dozen rushes made by musket hill when on the way to her final score and he had paid for it. they had taken him off groaning and half fainting, but it wasn't known until the next morning that he had broken a collar bone in two places! the attending physician seemed highly elated over that second break, but his enthusiasm was shared by no one else. there was hopeful talk of a pad later on and of almy getting into the kenwood game at least, but coach driscoll didn't deceive himself. on monday afternoon he moved conlon into almy's place and looked around for a likely substitute for conlon. his choice fell on tooker, a guard, and tooker was put through a course of sprouts that almost ruined an excellent disposition but failed to satisfy mr. driscoll. crane, too, was given a chance to demonstrate that he was intended for a centre rather than a guard, and crane failed quite as signally as tooker. there was a time when "any old man," provided he had weight, bulk and strength, did well enough for the centre position on a football team, but that time has long since passed. today the centre position is rightly called the pivotal position. a poor centre may do more to handicap a team than any other one player, and a good centre can do more to perfect it. he is the man that the team lines up about, and his spirit is, more frequently than is realised, the spirit of the whole eleven. in these days, instead of merely learning two passes, one to the quarter and another to the kicker, a centre must become accomplished in anywhere from six to a dozen, for each of the new formations requires its special sort of pass. instead of being guardian only of the little piece of territory on which he stands, the centre today must be "all over the lot." he goes down the field with the ends under a punt, plunges into the interference on mass plays or end runs and must do his part when a forward-pass is tried. nor is he less busy on the defensive, for he shares the responsibility for end runs and forward-passes and must help in blocking off the opponents going down the field under kicks. and, whether on offence or defence, he must handle the opposing centre and at all times use his head as well as his body. consequently, an ideal centre must combine a good many qualities, as many if not more than any other man on the team. he must be steady, fast, intuitive and high-spirited. if he has weight besides, so much the better but some of the weight should be inside his head and not all below the neck. ira had not been used in the musket hill game, but the following saturday, after a week of longer and harder practice than had fallen to the lot of the team all season, he found himself at right guard when the third quarter of the game with chancellor school began. chancellor had not come up to expectations and the brown had run up nineteen points in the first half and had the contest secure. brackett had played at right of centre during the first half and neely was supposed to be next in succession, but for some reason coach driscoll called ira's name. tooker had started at centre, but had lasted only through the first quarter and half of the second, and crane had taken his place. crane, while a fairly good substitute guard, was still quite at sea in the centre position and much of his work devolved on the guards. as chancellor school was not yet acknowledging defeat; had a slow-moving but heavy line and was relying on rushes between tackles for the most part, ira and tom buffum, the latter playing at the left of crane, had their hands pretty full. crane could be relied on to play his man on most occasions, but on the attack he was slow in recovering after the pass and it was usually ira or buffum who blocked the opposing centre. any save ordinary passes to quarter or kicker were beyond crane, and so most of the direct passes were eliminated. on getting the ball back to the kicker crane was inclined to be erratic, but so far had not sinned many times. he worked as hard as he knew how, perhaps twice as hard as he would have had to work had he known his position better. for most of the third quarter he got on well enough, with the two guards sharing his duties, but when the period was nearly over he began to weaken and chancellor discovered the fact very speedily. play after play came through the centre of the brown line, in spite of the efforts of the guards and the backfield, and had there not been a fumble by a chancellor half-back on the opponent's twenty-seven yards chancellor would surely have scored. she recovered the fumble for a twelve-yard loss and began her rushes again, but the distance was too great and an unsuccessful attempt at a field-goal from near the thirty-five yards gave the ball to parkinson. cole tore off four yards and wirt got two and then the latter was sent back to punt. crane had been pretty badly used and what might have happened earlier in the game happened then. the pigskin flew away from him at least two feet above wirt's upstretched hands and went rolling and bobbing toward the goal line. it was merely a question of whether a chancellor end would get to it before it could be recovered. something told ira that the pass had gone wrong almost as soon as he had seen it vanish from crane's hands, and he was tearing back nearly on the heels of the ball before his own backfield had more than sensed the catastrophe. chancellor came piling through and her ends fought desperately to get around. wirt was legging it back after the pigskin and several other parkinson players had begun pursuit. but ira's start had given him the advantage and he passed wirt at full speed. the ball was trickling toward the five-yard line. behind, pounded the feet of friend and foe as ira slackened, caught the ball up, stumbled, recovered his gait and swung to the long side of the field. he might have played it safe by taking it over the line for a touchback, but the idea didn't occur to him. instead, he pushed the ball into the crook of his left elbow as he had been taught to do, raised his right hand to ward off tacklers and plunged back the way he had come, circling, however, well over toward the further side of the field. hasty interference gathered to his aid, but the enemy was abreast of him and stretching toward him as he reached the twenty yards. he avoided one tackler by dodging. then two of the enemy faced him and escape looked impossible to the watchers. but he stopped short in his tracks, stopped for such a perceptible period that it seemed as if he was deliberatingly studying his chances, and then, just as the two pair of striped arms reached for him, he was off again, swinging on his heel, swerving to the left, leaving the enemy empty-handed as they staggered and rolled over the turf. after that only something approaching a miracle could account for ira's escape. in evading the last danger he had thrown himself straight into the centre of the enemy horde. his interference, never very effective, was scattered now and he had only his own wits to serve him. but serve him they did. and so did his weight and strength, for twice he literally tore himself loose from chancellor players when it looked from the side line as though he was stopped, and twice he bowled over an eager tackler by sheer weight and impetus. he deserved to carry the pigskin the remaining length of the field for a touchdown, after such an exhibition, but we don't always get what we deserve--when we deserve it. ira still had the chancellor quarter to reckon with, and that canny youth had refused to be drawn up to the line and was waiting just short of the centre of the field. eager shouts urged the runner on and behind him brown legs and striped legs sped desperately. ira changed his course a little toward the nearer side line and the quarter edged in to meet him. then they came together. the chancellor quarter tackled surely and ira's attempt to get past him failed. but then, with the quarter hanging to his hips, ira kept right on. the exclamations of dismay from the stands turned to shrieks of laughter, for the quarter-back, who, although smaller than the runner was of no mean size, dangled from ira like a sack of meal, squirming, dragging, pulling! five yards ira gained. then his plunging steps shortened, for the quarter had slipped his clutching arms lower until they were binding ira's legs together. but even then he managed to conquer another two yards, and perhaps he would have gone on and on to the far-off goal line had not a ponderous chancellor linesman reached the scene at the next moment and hurled himself on the runner. when they wrested the ball away it was just past the centre line and ira had made a good forty-five yards in that plucky run. fred lyons hugged him as he helped drag him to his feet, and basker shouted: "that's going some, rowland! that's going some, boy!" and thumped what little breath was left in his lungs away. that ended crane's session and conlon went in at his position. after that parkinson took the ball forty-eight yards without losing it and shot cole across for the fourth score. when the whistle shrilled billy goode summoned ira out and sent him trotting back to the gymnasium and neely came into his own. ira was not at all pained at being taken out, for he had had a pretty busy fifteen minutes and was glad enough to get under a shower. he was dressed and out of the building before the others returned and only heard the final score at supper time. coach driscoll had put in too many substitutes in the fourth period, he was told, and one of them--some said cheap and some said mason--had fumbled a pass near goal and a smart aleck chancellor youth had fallen on the ball. it had taken the full allowance of downs to get the ball over, but they had done it, and the final score stood 26 to 7. ira was something of a hero at mrs. trainor's table that evening, but he must have been a disappointing one, for his account of his achievement had to be dragged from him piecemeal and sounded extremely flat as he told it. to his credit, it may be stated that he didn't look on his feat as at all remarkable and didn't feel at all heroic. only rather tired. he fell asleep over his latin about nine and was in bed ten minutes later. when he wrote home the next morning--it was a rainy sunday and so eminently suited to the writing of letters and the balancing of bank books and the "getting up" on neglected studies--he did mention his part in the chancellor game, but he didn't make much of it, first, because he didn't think much of it and, second, because his father didn't know as much about a game of football as ira himself had known before coming to parkinson! on monday ira might have seen evidences of new respect in the looks and behaviour of his teammates, but he wasn't looking for them. it didn't occur to him that picking up a football and carrying it through the opposing team for a matter of forty-five yards could make any difference in his status. but there was a difference, and he was ultimately forced to perceive it. for awhile, however, he was far too busy. coach driscoll beckoned him from the bench before practice started. the coach had a quizzical smile on his face as ira approached. "rowland," he said, "that was a nice little piece of work of yours on saturday, and it seems too bad to find fault with you, but, my boy, you had no more business with that ball than a tramp with a cake of soap!" "oh!" murmured ira. "i'm sorry, sir." "your duty was to play your position, no matter what went on behind. as it turned out you got away with it, but you might not have. it was wirt's place to pick up that ball, or basker's, but not yours. when you left the line you left a hole open for half the opposing team to pile through. if you'd made a slip they'd have brushed you and wirt aside and had a touchdown in the shake of a lamb's tail. see it?" "yes, sir," agreed ira sheepishly. "i'm afraid i didn't think of that." "no, but those are the things you must think of, rowland. you must use your head every minute. you're not likely to do the same thing again and we'll say no more about it. aside from the fact that it was wrong at the start, rowland, that was as pretty a piece of running in a broken field as i ever saw. and i was mighty glad to see one thing in especial: you didn't stop when you were tackled. i liked that. you got a good seven yards after myers grabbed you, and when you did go down you went down the right way, toward the other fellow's goal. that may seem a small thing to you, rowland, but if you put together all the ground lost during a game by men who give in too soon when tackled and who don't 'stretch' when they're down you'd have a fairly respectable slice of territory. all right. now, here's something else. do you think you could play centre?" "centre?" ira stared blankly. "i don't know, sir." "well, we've got an opening for a bright, industrious lad like you," said the coach, with a smile. "you'd have to work like the very dickens, rowland, but i have a hunch that we can make a centre of you if you'll do your part. want to try it?" "why, yes, sir, if you want me to." "hm! your soul doesn't exactly crave it, i see." "i'd just as lief, mr. driscoll, but i don't know much about it. i'll be glad to try." "and try hard?" "hard as i know how, sir." "well, we can't expect more than that, i guess. anyway, we'll see in a few days how you shape up. today you'd better study conlon and try to see how it's done. keep your blanket on and follow scrimmage from behind the line. use your eyes, rowland. maybe we'll get you in for a minute or two at the end. have you ever tried to pass?" "no, sir, not as a centre." "well, it isn't hard if you put your mind on it. i'll turn you over to basker when he gets through signal work. if you make good, rowland, you stand a mighty good show of getting into the kenwood game. and if you do that you'll get your letter." "yes, sir." "hang it, rowland!" laughed the coach. "don't you ever get enthusiastic about anything? most fellows would be tickled to death at the idea of playing against kenwood." "i suppose i'd like it very much," replied ira in a slightly puzzled tone. "i hope i'll be good enough." "if you're not, you won't get a chance," said the coach drily. "all right now. join your squad. when you get through signal work report to me again." work like the very dickens ira did, not only that day but every practice day following during the next fortnight. he was taught his duties in the line and he was taught to pass the ball in all of seven different styles and angles. it was basker who did most of the coaching as to passing, although on one or two occasions dannis took him in charge. then bill almy, his shoulder and arm confined in a cast and a hundred yards of bandage--i'm accepting almy's estimate--appeared and went at ira unmercifully. there were half-hour sessions at odd times during the day and every afternoon he stayed on the field with the goal-kickers and, always with two, and frequently with three or even four, busy coaches about him, passed and passed and passed! or he stood up and was pushed about by coach driscoll or he hurled his weight against the charging machine to a chorus of "low, rowland, low! now! push up! harder, man! you're not working!" not working! ira decided that he had never even suspected before what the word meant! and what haunted him most of the time was the bothering conviction that a whole lot of persons, including himself, were wearing souls and bodies out for no important result! surely, if it came to all this bother it would be much more reasonable to let kenwood win the game. of course he realised that a victory for parkinson would be very nice and would please everyone around him, especially fred lyons and coach driscoll, but it didn't seem to him that the game was worth the candle. still, he kept his nose to the grindstone without a murmur, remained good-tempered in the face of many temptations to be otherwise and worked like a dray-horse. and, at last--it was the tuesday following the game with day and robins's school--he was told that he had made good. "you'll do, rowland," was what coach driscoll said briefly that day. "rest up tomorrow. thursday we'll give you a good try-out against the second." if he expected signs of delight, he was disappointed. for all that ira said was: "thank you, sir." chapter xviii "old earnest" humphrey was "breaking into society," to use his own half-contemptuous phrase. that is to say, he had made two visits with ira, had renewed acquaintances with fred lyons and gene goodloe and mart johnston and dwight bradford, and had shaken hands with perhaps a half-dozen others. he pretended to make fun of the proceedings, but was secretly very pleased. he was received politely by new acquaintances, more on ira's account than his own, for ira had become a person of prominence now, and with a fair degree of cordiality by those he had met before. he had sense enough to show his best side, and behaved quietly and even modestly and let the others do most of the talking. perhaps his best side was his real side. at any rate, ira began to hope so then, and later in the year he became convinced of it. humphrey didn't give up his friends at the central billiard palace all at once, but he did confine his visits to that place to two or three evenings a week. and ira heard a great deal less of "billy" and "jimmy" and the rest of the billiard-hall crowd. meanwhile, ira had taken possession of humphrey's november allowance and humphrey was having it doled out to him three dollars at a time. the first week he ran through his three dollars by wednesday and ira had to advance two more. but the next week humphrey got along with the three, and after that he seldom had to ask for more. boarding at mrs. trainor's was the real solution of his financial problem; that and wasting less money on pool. later in the year he became thoroughly interested in economising and eventually opened a banking account of his own. but that doesn't belong in the present narrative. with the end of the football season only about a fortnight away, parkinson school became rampantly patriotic, and no one could have sanely found fault with its attitude toward the team. it was now as enthusiastically supporting the eleven as even fred lyons could wish. there were cheer meetings about every other night and the one principal subject of conversation whenever two or more fellows met was: "will we beat 'em?" "'em," of course, were the kenwood team, for no one particularly cared what happened to day and robins' or st. luke's. fortunately for discussion, there were plenty who believed or pretended to believe that kenwood would repeat her last year's performance and tie another defeat to parkinson. those who held that view had excellent grounds for their conviction, for kenwood had passed, or, more correctly, was passing through a very successful season. so far the blue had met with but one defeat, had seven victories to her credit and had played a 0 to 0 game with the state college second team. in fact, kenwood had one of her big teams this season, if kenwood was to be believed, and was pretty confident of a victory over the brown. the kenwood school paper caused a spasm of indignation throughout parkinson by editorially calling on the football association to move the parkinson game up the next fall so that the blue team might meet in her final contest a foeman more worthy of her steel. _the leader_ replied scathingly to that impertinent reflection on the parkinson team and printed a page of letters to the editor from "patriot," "veritas," "indignant" and other well-known scribes. theoretically at least, ira had no time for interests or adventures outside football, for he was an extremely busy, hard-worked youth from the monday succeeding the chancellor game to the thursday before the contest with kenwood academy. nor, for that matter, did any other interests win his attention or other adventures befall him, if we except, in the first case, study--he had to do more or less of that--and, in the second case, a call from "old earnest." ernest hicks would probably have been much surprised if anyone had connected him in any way with an adventure, for adventures didn't lay within his scheme of life. but at a period when ira's days were made up of hearing, thinking and playing football, anything not connected with that all-absorbing subject possessed for him the attributes of an adventure. it was on a friday afternoon, the friday preceding the day and robins's game, between his last recitation and the practice hour, that someone knocked on his half-closed door. he had heard footsteps on the stairs, but usually such footsteps went on to one of the other doors and he hadn't looked up from the book he was studying. he said "come in!" and rather expected to be confronted by the freckle-faced youth who called for and, in the course of time, brought back the laundry. but when the door opened it was "old earnest" who stood there, and ira wonderingly slipped a pencil between the pages and arose. "have you got an encyclopedia?" inquired the visitor, his gaze, from behind the big, round lenses of his spectacles, roaming inquiringly about the room. "no, i haven't," answered ira. "at least, only a small, one-volume one. i'm afraid it wouldn't be of much use to you. i usually go over to the library." the visitor nodded. "yes, you can do that." he rubbed his chin reflectively with long, thin fingers and observed ira dubiously. he was quite the tallest youth ira had ever seen, and he was as thin and angular as he was tall. he had brown hair, which was worn rather too long and which looked sadly in need of brushing, grey eyes, a very sharp nose, a wide, thin mouth and a chin that came almost to a point. he looked to ira as if he needed a square meal, or, rather, a whole series of square meals, for his face was as narrow as his body and his queer, nondescript clothes hung about him as though they had been fashioned at some far-distant time when he had weighed about three times his present weight. his coat was a plaid lounging jacket from which depended by a few threads one remaining frog. the corresponding button had followed its companions into oblivion. his trousers were of grey flannel and his feet were encased in a pair of brown canvas "sneakers." ira had glimpsed him frequently about the corridors of parkinson hall, but this present costume was not what he wore at recitations, which, as ira reflected, was a fortunate thing for the sobriety of the classrooms! hicks finally removed his gaze slowly from ira, sighed and said dejectedly: "i'll have a look at it, i guess. it might give me what i'm after. where is it?" it lay in the centre of the desk, a cheap little limp-leather affair of infinitesimal print and a woeful lack of contents. hicks shook his head as he opened it and ran his long fingers over the edges of the leaves. ira saw, with a sort of fascination, that the tips of the fingers turned back almost at right angles under pressure. hicks regretfully closed the book and pushed it from him. "what do you know about the hamiltonian-system?" "not a thing," answered ira cheerfully. "what is it?" "it's a system of teaching languages. but who invented it? was it james or william? and if he did invent it how does it happen that john locke wrote about it a century before? explain that if you can." "i shouldn't want to try, thanks," laughed ira. "old earnest" sniffed. "you couldn't. but did locke himself originate it? take his _essay concerning human understanding_, now. all through that you'll find evidence pointing to the contrary. have you read it?" ira shook his head dumbly. "you'll want to some day. it's a wonderful work. he applies the baconian method to the study of the mind, you know." "really?" murmured ira. "of course, it's not startling nowadays, but it must have been then. that knowledge results from experience and not from innate ideas is no longer novel. in fact, the whole descartes theory can be knocked into a heap if you apply locke's philosophy. he doesn't stand for dualism, you know. nor do i. to say that the mind and body are heterogeneous substances is quite absurd. you agree with me, of course?" "i might if i knew what the dickens you were talking about," replied ira helplessly. "oh!" hicks looked both surprised and disappointed. "well--" he plunged his hands into the pockets of his cavernous trousers and looked about the room. "i used to visit a fellow up here two or three years ago. i forget what his name was. he was in my class, though, and he and i had a go at friesian. we didn't keep it up, for some reason. i don't know if you ever studied it?" "no, i never did. is it--did you like it?" "i think so. i rather forget. let me see, what was it i came for? oh, yes that hamiltonian-system! i'll have to go over to the library. it's a bother. i'm always having to go over to the library. it is was more central----" "i'd be glad to look it up for you, if you liked," offered ira. "but i'm afraid i wouldn't get it right." "you wouldn't," answered hicks calmly. "it doesn't matter. i do miss my own library, though. it was very complete." "what happened to it?" asked ira. "er--won't you sit down?" "old earnest" evidently didn't hear the invitation. at least, he paid no attention to it, but continued to stand there, hands in pockets, and ruminatively stared at the window. "i sold it," he said quite matter-of-factly. "over a hundred and twenty volumes." "but--but what for?" "why, i needed some money. you see, i had the misfortune to fail in the finals last spring, and i hadn't planned on another year. it costs a good deal here. food especially. i got sixty-two dollars for them. they were worth two hundred at least. there was a twelve-volume set of the universal encyclopedia and a copy of the first edition of fanning's _morals_. some others, too. valuable. he's still got most of them, and i'm hoping to get them back some day. i've bought five or six already. i wanted the encyclopedia, but he put an outrageous price on it. i miss it a great deal. well, i'm much obliged for your information." he turned abruptly toward the door and shuffled across the room. ira was tempted to remind him that he had obtained no information, but didn't. instead: "who buys books here?" he asked. "books? oh, there are several. all robbers, though. i sold mine to converse, on oak street. he will do as well for you as any of them. if you ever want to read that book of locke's, i've got it." "old earnest" passed out, closing the door behind him with a resounding crash. when he had gone ira smiled at the closed door. then he chuckled. then, quite suddenly, he became serious and, seating himself at the table again, picked holes in the blotter with the nib of a pen for quite five minutes. and finally he tossed the pen aside with the air of one who has reached a decision, seized his cap and clattered down the stairs. converse's second-hand book emporium--it seemed to ira that warne's merchants exhibited a marked and peculiar partiality to "emporiums" as opposed to mere "stores"--was not difficult to find, for the sidewalk in front was stacked with broken-backed books and old magazines. it was a dim and dingy place inside, and smelled of dust and old leather. the proprietor arose from an armchair before a small desk under a window and approached smilingly. he was a thin, stoop-shouldered little man in rusty black clothes and wearing a black skullcap. the smile was wonderfully benignant, but the little deep-set eyes looked crafty. "i just wanted to look around," said ira. "of course! certainly! help yourself, sir. is there any special subject you're interested in?" "n-no, i guess not." ira picked up a book from a shelf and examined it carelessly. "i might use a good dictionary, though." "i have a fine lot, sir. this way, please." the proprietor led the way down one of the two dim passages and snapped on an electric light at the end. "here we are! big and little, sir. you'll find the prices plainly marked in the front. here's a webster unabridged----" "n-no, i think a smaller one----" "then a student's, like this." he slapped the book on his hand and sent a cloud of dust into the air. "only a dollar and a quarter, sir." ira viewed it without enthusiasm. finally: "i might give you fifty cents for it," he said indifferently. "oh, dear, no, sir! i couldn't do it, i honestly couldn't! that's one of the best dictionaries there is. i sell a great many of them to the young gentlemen at the school. perhaps you are one of them?" "yes, but i couldn't pay a dollar and a quarter for that," said ira, laying it down. "ah, but if you're one of the young gentlemen from the school, sir, i'll make a discount. we'll say a dollar. shall i wrap it up?" "there's no hurry. perhaps seventy-five cents--what's this? an encyclopedia, eh? too bad it isn't in better condition." "but it's in very good condition indeed, sir," protested the little man. "i bought that not more than a month ago from a gentleman who is most particular with his books. in fact, i took his whole library, a matter of--hm--something under two hundred volumes. now if you wanted a rare bargain in a set of the universal----" "no, i guess not. i couldn't afford it." "you don't know, sir, you don't know," chuckled the man. "just wait till you hear the price i'm going to make. you can have that set for ex-act-ly twenty dollars! and it cost, when new----" "yes, but it isn't new," interrupted ira. "twenty dollars, eh? i'll wager you didn't pay more than ten for it." "ten! ten dollars for a perfect set of the encyclopedia universal! my dear sir!" "i might give twelve," said ira tentatively. the man held up his dusty hands in horror. "you're not serious!" he protested. "not very, because i don't specially want them," replied ira. "what else is there here?" "but--i tell you what i _will_ do, sir, i'll let you have the set for--let me see, let me see--eighteen-fifty! there, i can't offer better than that!" "oh, yes you can," answered the boy cheerfully. "you can say fifteen. but i'd rather you didn't, for i might take it, and i oughtn't to do it." "hm. you'd pay fifteen, you think?" "well, i might. yes, i guess i'd fall for it at fifteen. but----" "it's an awful thing to do, but times are hard and--well, take it!" "thanks," laughed ira, "but they're a little heavy to take with me. i guess you'll have to send them to me." "hm: i'd have to charge a little for delivering them." "suit yourself, but don't charge me," replied ira. "i'll write you a cheque if you'll show me where the ink is. oh, thanks. there you are, mr. converse. and the books are to go to 200 main street, mrs. magoon's house." "eh? you said 200 main street? why, that's where--hm--yes, of course! very well, sir. thank you. i hope you'll remember me whenever you want anything else, mr.--er--rowland. good afternoon." chapter xix callers ira had just time to get to the field before practice began. the work today was easy, consisting principally of signal drill in preparation for the game with day and robins's school on the morrow, and ira was put in basker's squad and trotted around the gridiron for a good half-hour. coach driscoll had given them four new plays to learn and they were still far from perfect in them when time was called. the others went off to the gymnasium, all save a few kickers and ira. ira had still a session of passing ahead of him. on the practice gridiron the second team was playing warne high school and, from the few brief glimpses ira caught of the contest, getting beaten. to his satisfaction, several of the quasi-official assistant coaches went off to watch the second team game, leaving only basker and almy to deal with him. coach driscoll was hard at work with the goal-kickers. ira did very well this afternoon, and even basker, who was a critical youth, said so. they kept him at it until it was almost too dark to see, by which time everyone else had departed and the second team field was deserted. "i guess driscoll will put you in tomorrow for awhile," observed basker, as they went back through the twilight. "if he does, just you keep your head and you'll get on all right." "the big thing to remember," said bill almy, "is to take all the time you want. don't let anyone hurry you in getting the ball away, rowland. and if the other side interferes with you, yell right out! make a big fuss about it. if you do the officials will watch the other side so close they won't dare to try it on again. in fact, it isn't a bad idea to claim interference, anyway, if you get half a chance." "we won't have much trouble with day and robins's," said basker. "it will be a good game to get some experience in, rowland. are you going to get back in time for kenwood, bill?" "not likely," replied the centre sadly. "this thing doesn't do much. doc says a double fracture is always slower work than a single one. he's as pleased as pickles about it, the silly chump. smiles all over his face whenever he looks at it. i wish he had it!" "i don't see then but that rowland has a pretty good chance to get in against kenwood." "chance? it's a dead sure thing. i'm not knocking terry conlon, but he won't last the game. you know that yourself. terry plays like a house on fire at first and then begins to let up. oh, rowland will get in all right. i hope he does, too. he's worked like a trojan." "i haven't minded it much," said ira. "all that's worrying me is the fear that mr. driscoll will change his mind about me again and try to make an end of me!" "look out that beadle doesn't make an end of you!" laughed basker. "who's beadle?" ira asked. "the kenwood centre. he's a peach of a player, isn't he, bill?" "beadle," replied almy slowly, "is about as good a centre rush as you'll find on a prep school team today. that's saying something, too. he's as pretty a player to watch as i ever saw. i'm sorry i'm not to try him again. i've been thinking i'd give him a better fight this time. last year he put it all over me, and i don't mind owning up to it. the man's as quick as greased lightning." "he's as strong as an elephant, too," added basker. "and he plays hard. you'll subscribe to that, eh, bill?" almy smiled. "well, next to a steam roller, beadle's the toughest thing to stop i know of. he isn't a dirty player, but he certainly can mess you up to the king's taste. i'll never forget my handsome phiz after he got through with it last fall!" "is that the fellow i'll have to play against?" asked ira. "yes, if you get in," assented almy. "like the sound of it?" "not a bit," replied ira. "i'm hoping that conlon will last all through the game!" when he got back to the room he found the encyclopedia piled up beside the door, twelve big, heavy volumes. it was a little after five and he was fairly certain that "old earnest" was still in his room downstairs. he left the door wide open and, during the next three-quarters of an hour, listened intently for sounds from below and several times crept to the banisters and peered over. it was not until nearly six, however, that hicks' door crashed shut--"old earnest" had an emphatic manner with doors--and ira caught sight of him starting down the first flight. giving him time to get clear of the house, ira gathered up four of the books and made his first trip. hicks' room was in darkness, but the bracket in the hall faintly illumined a patch near the door and ira set the volumes against the baseboard and returned for more. to his relief he completed the transfer before humphrey appeared, for humphrey would be sure to ask questions and ira didn't know that he could explain the affair to his roommate's satisfaction. humphrey clattered in shortly after he had returned from the final trip and they went over to supper together. afterwards humphrey announced in tones that held a queer mixture of pride and apology that he was going over to see a fellow in goss. "you know him, i guess," he added carelessly. "sterner. he's a second year fellow. president of the class, i think. he spoke at the meeting that night." "no, i don't know him except by sight," answered ira. "where did you meet him!" "oh, he was with brad this afternoon. he comes from tonawanda. that's near my home, you know." "as mart says, no one can blame him," laughed ira. "i'd come away, too, if i lived in a place with such a name." "tonawanda? what's the matter with the name?" demanded humphrey. "it isn't half as bad as some of the names in your part of the country. what's that one you sprung the other night? chemquat----" "chemquasabamticook? oh, that's just a river. our towns have pretty names, like skowhegan and norridgewock and pattagumpus," replied ira gravely. "well, see you later." he found mart johnston in possession when he reached the room. mart explained that brad had tried to get him to go to a meeting of the debating society and that he had had to run off after dinner to escape that horrible fate. "they all talk," he said, "and no one says anything. and they get most frightfully excited and tear their hair and froth at the mouth and beat on the table, and all they're fussed up about is whether daniel webster was a greater man than john l. sullivan or whether honesty is the best policy! they're a queer bunch, those debaters, i should think! but if i'm in the way here i can go somewhere else. i can't go home until after eight, because brad will get me if i do, but i can walk the streets or go to sleep in a doorway." "you're not in my way," laughed ira, "and humphrey is calling on mr. sterner of tonawanda." "who's he?" "sterner of the second," explained ira. "he comes from tonawanda, new york, and that makes a bond of sympathy between him and nead. nead hails from buffalo. from what he said i gathered that the two places were near each other." "no one can blame you. well, how's the battle going? are you a scientific centre rush yet? i heard fred say some nice things about you the other day. i guess he and driscoll are real proud of you." "i'm afraid they won't be when they see me play. basker says they'll put me in tomorrow. bet you anything i'll pass the ball over wirt's head or do something else perfectly awful!" "pull yourself together, old man. you can't do any worse than some of the others driscoll has had at centre. someone's at the door, i think. oh, _do_ you suppose it's brad? i won't go without a struggle!" it wasn't brad, however, but hicks, hicks looking oddly bewildered and embarrassed as he entered in response to ira's call. his embarrassment wasn't reduced any when he found mart there, and he started to retire, but thought better of it and slammed the door mightily behind him as one burning his bridges. ira, surmising his errand, tried to head him off. "you know johnston, don't you?" he asked. "how are you, hicks?" inquired mart. "how's the old boy?" "how do you do?" murmured hicks. "i--i wanted to ask----" "have a chair," interrupted ira. "did you--did you find out about the--er--the hamiltonian theory?" "hamiltonian-system," hicks corrected. "not all i want. there's a book in the catalogue that i couldn't find. they're very careless at the library about misplacing volumes, and--" hicks paused and frowned. "oh, yes," he resumed. "i want to ask you if--if you know anything about that encyclopedia universal. i came in awhile ago and----" "i've heard it was a very good encyclopedia," said ira hurriedly, winking desperately at hicks and all to no purpose. "don't you think so, mart?" "oh, yes! oh, yes! go ahead and rave! don't mind my presence on the scene. gibber away, you two!" "but, what i mean," resumed hicks, after a puzzled look at mart, "is how did it get there? i thought maybe--perhaps--you see, i hadn't mentioned it to anyone else----" "also, you wanted to know when they were and, if so, to what extent," rattled mart glibly. "and, while we are inquiring into the matter, let us also consider the other side of it. for instance, fellows: if it is as we say it is, then why not let them do it? or, failing that, and all other things being equal----" "oh, dry up!" laughed ira. "don't mind him, hicks. he's crazy. tell you what, i'll drop down to your room later and we'll--we'll talk it over." ira winked meaningly. hicks stared and shook his head. "what i'm getting at," he said carefully, "is this. when i got in from supper i found my encyclopedia piled up on the floor of my room. i didn't ask converse to send it, and i thought that possibly you--ah--knew something about it." ira sank into a chair and tried to look innocent. there was evidently no use in attempting to head "old earnest" off. "oh, i see," he said affably. "you--you've got it back, eh?" "yes. at least--yes, i've got it back. but what i wanted to know was----" "ah, now we're coming to it!" murmured mart. "go on! you interest me strangely, hicks!" "well, did you--i mean--" hicks's embarrassment was becoming painful and ira took pity on him. he nodded. "yes, i did, hicks," he said apologetically. "i hope you don't mind. you see, you needed the books and--and i happened to have the money, and converse sold them dirt cheap----" "someone," muttered mart, "has done something. but what? books--money--dirt cheap! the plot thickens. have patience, martin, have patience! all will be revealed to you in good time." "oh!" hicks swallowed once as though it hurt him and got up from his chair. "well--" he observed ira in a puzzled way. "i--i'm greatly obliged to you--er--what is your name, please?" "rowland," answered ira gravely. "i hope you won't think it was cheeky of me, hicks." "old earnest" shook his head slowly. "no, no, i--i don't. i'm so--so glad to have them, you see, rowland! it was--very good of you. of course i'll pay you for them. but i--you'll have to give me time. i'm much obliged. good evening." "old earnest" fairly bolted to the door and an instant later it crashed shut with a shock that made the walls shake. ira stole a glance at mart. that youth, his legs stretched far across the old brown carpet, his head back, was whistling softly and tunelessly. silence reigned for a long minute. then: "oh, don't be an ass!" exclaimed ira. "i beg your pardon?" mart turned and regarded him in polite surprise. "you spoke, i believe." "you heard what i said," laughed ira. "why shouldn't i buy his old books for him? he's dead-broke and----" "ira, my lad," said mart sternly, "what have you been and gone and done?" "what do you mean?" "i mean, what dreadful crime have you committed? when i do anything like that, anything--er--kind-hearted and noble--which is very, very seldom--it's because i've been naughty. that's how i square myself with what would be my conscience if i had one. isn't that the way with you?" "i got his books because i had the money and he didn't and he needed them. you heard him say he'd pay me back. it's merely a business arrangement." "oh, certainly, certainly! my fault!" "well, then, dry up," grumbled ira. "but i haven't said anything, have i?" "you've looked things, though." "have i? well, i'll stop looking things, ira. i suppose you don't want me to say that you're a--a rather decent sort, eh?" "i do not," answered ira emphatically. "then i won't. i do wish, though, that you'd let me ask you one tiny little question. it's this. pardon me, i prithee, if it sounds impertinent. are you--that is, have you--oh, gosh! i'll try again. are you a wealthy citizen, ira?" "why, no, i guess not. i have enough money, of course." "i see. very nice. 'enough money, of course.' well, i only asked because i assumed--we all did, in fact,--that you were sort of hard-up." "hard-up? why?" asked ira, puzzled. "well, you see, you--you didn't spend much money on--things----" "meaning my clothes?" asked the other, smiling. mart nodded apologetically. "clothes for one thing. and then i--we got the idea that as your father was a lumberman you wouldn't be very well-off." "i see. well, dad isn't exactly a lumberman in the way you mean. he's president of the franklin lumber company and owns most of the stock. i dare say you could call him rather well-off. and of course he gives me all i need--and a bit more, i guess. as for spending, why, i don't know, mart. you see, i've lived in a small place all my life, and there's never been very much to spend money on. and, besides, folks up our way are sort of saving. you get the habit, i guess. i always buy whatever i want that seems worth while, but i like to see that i'm getting the value of my money when i do buy. i didn't know i was giving you the idea that i was poverty-stricken. i certainly didn't mean to, mart." "say no more. my fault! we sort of jumped to delusions, so to say. personally, i'm glad that you aren't in the pauper class. it makes it easier for me to get around to the real, bona fide reason of my visit. you thought i dropped in for a social call or to escape brad and his debating society, but i didn't, ira. my real reason--but i hardly like to broach it even now." "go ahead," ira laughed. "if it's a loan you can have it, you know." "well, it is," acknowledged the visitor, palpably embarrassed. "i--the fact is--oh, hang it, could you lend me fifty dollars?" ira nodded promptly. "i _could_," he replied. "well--er--will you?" ira shook his head. "no, i won't." "oh! why? i'll pay it back." "i know it, but you couldn't pay it back for a month of sundays, mart, and while you owed it you'd be no use to me as a friend. that's so, isn't it?" "how do you mean, no use?" "i mean that you'd have it on your mind and you'd be wondering whether i was getting impatient and you'd get so you'd dislike me because you owed me money. how would twenty dollars do?" mart laughed. "it wouldn't do, old mr. solomon. nor ten. nor five. but i will borrow a half if you've got it." "what's the idea?" asked ira. "were you fooling?" "sure! i just wanted to see what sort of a philanthropist you were. where's my fifty cents?" "in my pocket," answered ira grimly. "and that's where it's going to stay!" chapter xx before the game events rushed headlong past. ira played a round twenty minutes at centre in the day and robins' game and proved himself steady and dependable. he made mistakes, certainly, more than he liked to remember afterwards, but he never messed a pass and he held his position impregnable against the attack of a not very strong enemy. his sins were those of omission and were due to inexperience. on the whole, he put up a satisfactory game, and coach driscoll and the rest were secretly very pleased even if they didn't say so. the contest was not interesting from the point of view of the spectators except in that it showed the home team to have developed well during the last week. there were ragged moments and some loose handling of the ball by the backs, but the team showed fifty per cent more team play than it had shown before. the new plays, not all of which were used, went smoothly and gained ground. there was a noticeable improvement in kicking, also. wirt and captain lyons made some punts that brought applause and walter cole missed but one goal in six tries. two were drop-kicks from the field and the rest followed touchdowns. parkinson had no trouble running up twenty-three points in the first half and ten in the second, while her opponent failed to score until the last quarter when a field-goal saved her from whitewash. practice was hard on tuesday, wednesday and thursday of the next week, but monday was an easy day and friday held only a blackboard instruction in the gymnasium for the first team. the school was quite football-crazy by this time and meetings were held almost nightly. the old songs were sung and new ones tried and the cheer leaders went into training. twice a week the musical clubs supplied music, and always earnest, enthusiastic youths waved their arms and predicted victory for parkinson to a wild and approving chorus of cheers. ira no longer sought the field for strenuous half-hours of coaching. he practised with the first team substitutes and got as much and no more work than they did. sometimes, when he allowed himself to visualise the mighty beadle, he had qualms of stage fright and heartily wished himself back in private life. it wasn't that he was afraid of anything beadle might do to him in the way of punishment, for he didn't mind taking blows or giving them, but he was certain that beadle would, in the language of the gridiron, "put it all over him." and ira didn't like to come out second-best, even if it was only in playing centre rush in a football game! ernest hicks came again shortly after that second call and spent the better part of an hour bolt upright in one of the more uncomfortable chairs and talked far over ira's head, eventually arising and taking his departure as abruptly and noisily as usual. ira returned the visit and in the course of the next month a rather odd friendship sprang up between the two. "old earnest," while grateful to ira for the restoration of his encyclopedia, sympathised with his benefactor because of the latter's regrettable ignorance on so many important subjects, and ira was very sorry for hicks because that youth had stowed his brain so full of impractical knowledge! but they got on very well together, and ira had to acknowledge that "old earnest's" erudite conversation was an excellent antidote for an hour of mart johnston's persiflage. ira ordered himself a suit about this time from the tailor recommended by gene, and humphrey, not to be outshone, followed his example. humphrey had a little money in the keeping of his "financial agent" and it worried him until it was spent. ira's suit fitted him perfectly and was becoming, but gene, cordially commending it, was forced to the mental reservation that ira had somehow looked more like ira in his old duds! the st. luke's academy game aroused the school to new heights of football ardour, for it proved to be a see-saw, nerve-racking affair from kick-off to last whistle. st. luke's was theoretically an easy aggregation to subdue and had been given her location in the season's schedule for that reason, but something had happened since last year at st. luke's, and the big, rangy team that trotted onto parkinson field that saturday afternoon was quite a different proposition to that of last fall. coach, captain and players scented trouble at first sight of the purple-legged team and even the spectators had an inkling that the home team's "easy game" was to prove less simple than had been expected. parkinson received a bad fright in the first minute of play, when cole dropped st. luke's kick-off and recovered it on his six-yard. two attempts at the purple line netted but four yards and, amidst a tense and uneasy silence, wirt dropped well back of his goal line to punt. even after that parkinson was still in danger, for wirt's kick, purposely sent high to avoid blocking, was caught in a current of air and came down but thirty-odd yards from goal. st. luke's sprang a lateral pass from a wide formation and got seven yards, but when she attempted to repeat the play on the other side of the line brad managed to pierce the running interference and bring down the man with the ball for a three-yard loss. in the end st. luke's tried a goal from the thirty-four yards and kicked short. there was no scoring until the second quarter was almost over. then parkinson electrified the watchers by pulling off a forward-pass, wirt to price, that covered nearly thirty-five yards. from st. luke's twenty-six to her twelve, parkinson advanced by line plunging, wirt and wells alternating. then st. luke's braced and two tries availed little. wirt went back to kicking position and dannis broke through centre for five. on the fourth down, with four to go, wirt again dropped back, but again the play was a fake, for, after an interminable moment of suspense during which the parkinson backfield became seemingly inextricably mixed-up, cole was discovered sneaking around the enemy's left flank. when he was down the tape had to be used. parkinson had got her distance, though, by half the length of the ball, and from the two-yard line cole went over on the second attempt. lyons kicked an easy goal. st. luke's evened the score soon after the beginning of the second half. her big backs were fast and heavy, and got away quickly from a three-abreast formation close up to the line. parkinson failed to stop them after a lucky fumble had given the ball to the enemy near the centre of the field. st. luke's had to fight hard to win, but win she did, finally pushing her left half across the brown's goal line near a corner of the gridiron. a good punt-out put her in position to kick goal and a moment later the score stood at 7--7. in that advance both conlon and donovan were severely battered, and the latter was taken out then and conlon a few minutes later. conlon's withdrawal called on ira, and ira held the centre of the line fairly intact for a good twenty minutes. it was a far stiffer trial than he had had, and just at first the desperate plunges of the hard-fighting enemy quite took him off his feet, physically and mentally. but when he once discovered that no quarter was given or taken today he promptly revised his ideas and held his own on most occasions. parkinson dropped a field-goal over from the twenty-six-yard line just before the third quarter ended and st. luke's came back with a second touchdown soon after the beginning of the fourth. as she failed to kick goal, the score stood 13 to 10 when the last period was half gone. parkinson was showing her quality and no one was surprised, although many were vastly relieved, when, after a punting battle, dannis got away and eluded the enemy as far as its seventeen-yards. two tries at the tackles resulted in short gains and then wirt went back to kick. ira followed advice and took so much time that the impatient st. luke's players began to rage. but when the pass shot away it was straight and true and wirt would have had plenty of time to get the ball out had he tried. but he didn't try. he trotted out to the left, and, just as the enemy leaped at him, threw diagonally to ray white, and ray went over the line without challenge. lyons made the parkinson total 17 by kicking a clever goal, and the remaining three or four minutes failed to change it. the school was highly elated over that contest, and the elation was expressed in a monster meeting that night in the auditorium at which the team and first substitutes sat sheepishly on the stage and heard themselves cheered and praised. ira was glad he had managed to beat brackett to the last chair in the back row, for the whole proceeding seemed much too emotional. ira always rather resented having his emotions disturbed, and tonight the singing and the cheering had their effect. there was only light practice monday, but on tuesday they went back to the grind. there had been several mix-ups in signals on saturday and coach driscoll was after them today hot and heavy. more new plays were experimented with. eventually all but two were discarded and parkinson went into the kenwood game with fewer plays in her repertoire than any brown team in years. evening sessions began in the gymnasium at which the plays were diagrammed on the blackboard and afterwards walked through on the floor. each man had to know what to do in every play, and the coach was not satisfied until the lot were gone through with in perfect precision and smoothness. and that didn't happen until thursday evening. in the scrimmages, and there were hard ones on wednesday and thursday, ira found himself starting at centre each time, for conlon had been fairly badly used up in the st. luke's game and too much work might have put him stale. he got in for a few minutes, however, each afternoon, and ira couldn't see that he was any the worse for wear. during the final fortnight of the season the players were supposed to be in bed before ten o'clock and unnecessary noise in the dormitories was frowned on. ira obeyed the rule, but as his neighbour across the corridor had evidently not heard the request for silence, he didn't always get to sleep promptly. the stout youth knew more different ways to make a racket than a cage full of monkeys, ira decided! on friday there was a half-hour of signal work and some practice later for the kickers. then the regulars trotted off and the third-string men and the second team pushed each other around for fifteen minutes for the benefit of the school which had marched to the field with banners and songs and cheers. that contest ended the second team's activities for the year. the regulars were dressed and waiting for them on the gymnasium steps when they came back and there was a fine and heartening exchange of cheers. then the marchers arrived and cheered first and second, coach, trainer, rubbers, manager and school, and went off again, singing, to parade twice around the yard and once through the town. the final mass meeting came off that evening, but neither ira nor any other member of the team was there. they walked or trotted through the plays in the gymnasium, listened to a few words of final advice from mr. driscoll and then went home to bed and, in most cases, sleep. anyone who has lived through a night before the big game knows that one or two, at the least, didn't find slumber very speedily. saturday was cold, raw and cheerless at dawn, but in the middle of a long forenoon the sun peeped out for a few minutes. the wind peeped out too, however, and, unlike the sun, it stayed out. the football men had been excused from recitations and at ten o'clock they were taken in four big automobiles on a long ride that ate up most of the time remaining until the early lunch hour. when they returned they found town and campus in the hands of the enemy, for blue pennants were to be seen on every side. kenwood ate her dinner at the inn, just outside of town on the sturgis road, and came rolling up to the field at a little before two. at two-thirty to the second, captain lyons having won the toss and chosen the up-wind goal, kenwood kicked off. chapter xxi parkinson scores the sun broke forth at the very instant that the kenwood kicker's toe sent the pigskin hurtling from the tee, and a flood of wintry sunshine illumined the scene. but a chilling wind still blew from the northeast, snapping the big brown banner above the grandstand and eddying amidst the serried ranks of the onlookers. brown pennants flapped and blue pennants, fewer in number, waved back defiantly. on the parkinson side of the field the substitutes sat huddled in their sweaters and blankets on the bench or lay sprawled on the windrow of marsh hay that had covered the gridiron overnight and was now piled in the lee of the barrier. ira, cross-legged, his back to the boards, meditatively chewed at a grass blade as wells doubled himself over the ball, dug his cleats and went swinging off to the left behind his converging teammates. five yards, seven, and then he was down, the arms of a kenwood end wrapped about his thighs. dannis' voice piped shrilly across the wind-swept field: "line up, parkinson! signals!" a moment of suspense and then the brown-shirted backs lunged at the kenwood centre, faltered, stopped and came tumbling back. "nothing doing there," muttered brad, at ira's left. then came a try at left tackle and a short gain, with cole carrying the ball. a third attempt was hurled back by the right of the blue's line, and wirt dropped back. the ball went corkscrewing down the field, borne on a blast of the whistling wind, and the players sped under it. here and there a man went down, rolled over, found his feet again and sped on. the kenwood quarter signalled for a fair-catch and heeled the ball on his ten-yard line. "good work," commented brad. "they're taking no chances with the ball floating like that. ever try to catch in a high wind, rowland?" ira shook his head. "it's hard. you can't tell where the silly thing will come down until just before it gets to you. now we'll see what they've got in the way of an attack. hello!" kenwood was shifting her whole left side except the end. parkinson shuffled over to meet the attack, the ball was snapped and the quarter was running back with it, while, far off at the left, a blue-stockinged end was racing down the field with upraised arm. "not a soul with him!" groaned brad. the ball went streaking across, well above the heads of the players. cole, discerning the danger too late, was running hard and dannis was making toward the side line. but the pass was safe and the kenwood end plucked the ball from air, tucked it in the crook of his arm and started for the distant goal. cole's effort was late and only dannis stood in the path of the runner. but dannis got him and they went rolling together over and over into the hay, while the kenwood substitutes scattered right and left. "twenty yards easy," said brad drily. "if price gets fooled like that again it's good night to us! it was a peach of a throw, wasn't it?" "i guess we weren't looking for it," said ira. "i thought they'd rush." "so did i. they'll bear watching. no one saw that. they'll try our line now, though. there they go! you would, would you? well, you can stay where you are, kenwood! how much did they get? not more than a yard, eh?" "about two feet, i think," answered ira. "brackett was right there, that time." kenwood tried the centre and pushed through for two and a wide end run around the parkinson left gave her three more. then the blue was forced to punt and the pigskin settled into dannis' arms and he dodged one end and scampered over two white lines before he was pulled down. parkinson plugged at the centre, hurling wirt and cole into the blue wall, but kenwood stood fast and wirt again booted the ball far down the field. with that wind behind him it was no feat to kick fifty yards once he got the ball high enough and this time the opposing left half-back caught well over in a corner. it was a fair-catch again, which was fortunate, since both parkinson ends were by him when the ball came down. kenwood tried another long forward and again eluded the enemy, but the throw was short this time and the ball went back. a plunge at conlon got through for six and a skin-tackle play on the right added two more. but, with two to go on the fourth down, kenwood again punted, trying to keep the ball low and out of the wind with the result that it rolled out of bounds near the parkinson forty-yard line. parkinson was not yet satisfied that she couldn't dent the opposing line, and cole and wells were hurled against it, with the result that after three attempts the ball was not far from where it had started. "gee, they've got some line there," marvelled brad. "i suppose 'the' wanted to know what he's up again, but it looks to me as if he was silly not to kick while he's got this wind behind him. all right, lester! make it a good one! get down there, ray!" once more the pigskin sped toward the further goal and once more the brown and the blue scampered after it. this time the ball went askew and landed outside near kenwood's thirty. the blue made the first down of the game then. parkinson failed to diagnose a cross-buck play that slashed her line at left guard, and a big blue-legged back came fighting through and wasn't stopped until he had put eight yards behind him. two plunges gave kenwood the rest of her distance and the blue pennants waved and triumphant cheers crashed out. kenwood found encouragement and smashed savagely at the parkinson line. twice she made three yards. then fred lyons dived through and brought down the runner behind the line, and kenwood punted to the enemy's eighteen. and so it went for the rest of that quarter, kenwood plunging and punting only when she was forced to, parkinson plunging and punting regularly on third down. the wind tipped the scales in the home team's favour, and when but a scant three minutes remained it was parkinson's ball on her own forty-eight yards. the stand was cheering hopefully now. coach driscoll, hands in pockets, uncoated, walked slowly back and forth, his gaze always on the play, his expression always undisturbed. "if we can get to their thirty-five, walt can put it over the bar," said brad tensely. "wouldn't you think 'the' would try that split-line play, rowland? look where kenwood's playing her ends! man alive, we could get around that left easy! i believe he's going to. no, it's another line play. oh, tush!" "looks like a forward," observed ira. "unless we're really going to kick on first down!" "it's an end-around, that's what it is. i hope it's price. it is! here he comes! oh, rotten pass! got it, though! in, you idiot! in! got him! no, he's past! go it, chester! go it, you--wow! five--ten--twelve yards, old man! what do you know about that, fellows?" expressions of delight from the substitutes, however, were drowned in the roar that swept over their heads from the stand behind them. the cheer leaders were on their feet again, brown megaphones waving. brad leaned closer and shouted amidst the din: "it's square on their forty, rowland! and it's first down! we've got them going!" "there isn't much time," said ira doubtfully. "time enough! two more rushes and then a try-at-goal and first blood for old parkinson!" wirt back again and the ball to cole for a plunge at left guard. only a scant yard and a half gained. wirt still back and the ball to wells, and the backfield trailing to the right like a wall, with the runner scurrying along behind it. a break in the opposing line, a quick turn by wells. through! but only through, for a kenwood man is on him and half a dozen bodies pile together and the whistle blows. "four more!" cried brad. "now then, walter! put it over, old man. you can do it with this wind back of you!!" but it was still wirt back, and brad groaned and shook his head sadly as cole tucked the ball to his stomach and went head-on into a resolute defence for a scant half-yard gain. "oh, shucks! fourth down!" wailed brad. "why the dickens didn't they try for a goal? what's this? another end-around? no, it's wells outside tackle. watch it! by jove, he's done it! how much did we need? four? then we've got it! got to measure it, eh? who's that down? one of our fellows? no, he's a blue-leg." "kenwood left tackle," said ritter from further along. "how much time is there, brad?" "i don't know. about a minute, i think. we've got it! first down! we'll do it yet!" the linemen were trotting off, trailing the chain, and the referee had waved his arm toward the kenwood goal. the parkinson cheer leaders were dancing along the side line and a mighty volume of triumph rolled across the field. parkinson went back at the centre and was stopped short, wells squirmed outside tackle for two yards, cole smashed at the right guard and went spinning through for another two. now the pigskin lay almost on the twenty-five-yard line. the timekeeper was edging nearer and nearer. ira viewed him anxiously and chewed harder on that straw. a sudden lull in the wind allowed dannis' voice to reach them: "come on now, parkinson! let's have it! signals! lyons back!" "it's a place kick!" exclaimed brad. "go to it, fred! hold that line, parkinson!" dannis was on one knee and patting the turf. fred was walking back slowly. then he stopped, studied the distance and shortened it a stride. dannis crept further back and leaned an elbow on the ground. from the blue team came hoarse commands, implorations: "get through, kenwood! block this kick! block this kick!" a moment of silence, a brown streak from between conlon's legs, the ball settles in dannis' hands. very carefully he turns it, points it. fred lyons steps forward one step and his right foot swings in a long arc. the lines are battling fiercely. kenwood comes plunging, leaping through, arms upstretched. but the ball is sailing well above the eager fingers. now the wind has it and it veers to the right, still rising, turning lazily over in its flight, sailing nearer and nearer the further upright---an instant of silence and suspense and then a wild burst of acclaim from the brown stand, for the parkinson players are running back, thumping each other on the shoulders, capering, tossing their head-harnesses aloft! "goal!" shouted brad exultantly. "three for us! cheer, rowland, you wooden indian!" ira smiled. "it's bully, isn't it? i thought at first he'd missed it, though." "so did i. i guess it was pretty close. well, that'll do for a start. three points may look pretty big when this game's over!" chapter xxii coach driscoll apologises half a minute later the horn blew and the quarter ended. parkinson went back to line attacks, now that she was facing the wind, and soon yielded the ball. kenwood, profiting by her adversary's example, started a kicking game. history repeated herself and every exchange of punts gave the blue a good five yards of territory and before the period was many minutes old parkinson was digging her cleats into her thirty-yard line. dannis let the centre alone now and sent his backs outside of tackles and made gains of a sort. only once did she try a forward-pass, and then it was a short one over the middle of the line that gained her eight yards. slowly but irrevocably she was being forced back. when, from her twenty-five, wirt's punt was caught in a flurry of wind and blown almost back to him and captured by the enemy, it was evident that fortune meant to even her favours. the kenwood supporters cheered incessantly while the blue team tore at the brown line and, failing to gain the distance, again punted. this time it was parkinson's time to taste of luck, for dannis, cuddling the ball to him squarely on his goal line, leaped away, eluding both kenwood ends, and tore it past friend and enemy to his own forty-two yards amidst a perfect thunder of cheers. but three tries only netted six yards and wirt had to punt and the ball was kenwood's again on her fifteen yards. a penalty set her back five and then came another long forward-pass and the pigskin was back in midfield. price, right end, was hurt and ritter took his place. kenwood smashed the line once, skirted the left end once and tried a quarter-back run, all for a gain of five yards. back went her punter and the parkinson backfield scattered. but the ball didn't sail into the air this time. instead, it was borne straight through centre by the husky fullback for a good seven yards, and when the dust of battle had settled conlon and brackett were on their faces. "they got terry," said brad. "i saw it. it was their right guard. guess brackett's only winded, though." and to prove it, brackett was already climbing to his feet. but conlon was taking full time and billy goode was kneeling over him solicitously. coach driscoll was looking intently across the field, and billy had scarcely raised a beckoning hand before he had swung smartly on his heel and his eyes were searching the line of substitutes. "rowland! on the run!" he called sharply. ira, startledly disentangling himself from his blanket, stumbled to his feet, dimly aware of brad's cheerful and envious "good luck!", and hurried across. he expected the coach to give him instructions, but mr. driscoll only nodded sidewise toward the line-up. "go in at centre," he said. "here, leave your sweater behind!" ira stopped and struggled out of that garment, tossed it behind him and trotted on. they were carrying conlon off, his head sagging, and as ira paused to catch the head-harness tossed by billy goode he had a glimpse of the boy's pale face, dirt-streaked and drawn with pain, and something that was as near like fear as ira had ever felt came to him! then dannis was thumping his arm and the others were grinning tiredly at him and he was pulling his harness on. in front of him, inches wider of shoulder and inches taller, loomed the formidable beadle. he was a fine-looking youth, in spite of a swollen mouth and a greenish lump under one eye, and there was nothing savage in the steady look he gave ira. it was an appraising look, and as ira met it something very much like a smile flickered for an instant in the big centre's eyes. then the signals came and ira stepped back out of the line and the game went on. for the first few minutes ira had only a dim conception of what he was doing and of what was going on about him. he worked in a sort of haze, doing what he had been taught to do, blocking, breaking through, tripping, falling, racing here and there after the ball, passing now and then, always with his breath coming hard and every energy alert. kenwood came through time after time, but the gains were short. beadle was a terror at his job and ira's efforts to stop him were seldom more than half successful. beadle was quicker than anyone ira had ever played against, and he knew more tricks, and he was terribly hard to reach. ira worked like a trojan during that remaining six minutes, and sometimes he got the better of his man, but those times were few in number. toward the end of the half parkinson palpably played for time, and it was only that that saved her, for when the welcome whistle finally blew the enemy was raging about her fifteen yards. had kenwood been satisfied with a goal from the field she might easily have made it, for two chances were hers, but kenwood wanted a touchdown and kept after it, and only the timer's watch defeated her. as it was, parkinson trotted back to the gymnasium still leading by three points, but very doubtful of the outcome. ira was wondering how it would be possible for him to last another half-hour, for it seemed to him that he had already done a day's work. he had a bleeding nose--he couldn't remember where or how he had got it--and one of his wrists had been badly wrenched, but compared with some of the others he was in fine condition! the locker-room was a scene of wild confusion, with rubbers hard at word, a vile odour of liniment in the air, dozens of tired voices scolding, the sound of rushing water over all. mended and massaged, ira sank into a corner and tiredly looked on. fred lyons, pale-faced, agitated, was pushing billy goode aside in his effort to reach coach driscoll. "oh, let me alone, billy! i'm all right, i tell you! coach! coach! what are we going to do if they try that forward-passing again! we haven't a man who can stop it! it's rotten!" "it's up to the ends," answered mr. driscoll. "what's wrong with them? where were you, white? and you, price? haven't you been taught----" "it wasn't my end, sir!" denied ray warmly. "it's always your end! any end's your end in a forward-pass! you don't keep your eyes open! bradford! you go in at left end next half and see if you can cover your man. where's wells? look here, what sort of football have you been taught? can't you do anything but throw your head back and paw the air? you weren't much better, cole. someone's got to get through that line if we expect to win this game. slow starting and slow running! it's been awful! dannis, you've got to speed them up next half. they'll fall asleep in their tracks! lyons, for the love of mike, let billy get that bandage on you! what is it, lowell? oh, i don't know. yes, let them have it. well, rowland!" the coach paused in front of ira and looked down at him with a sneer. "you're a fine piece of work, aren't you? is that the best you can do?" ira, startled and surprised, looked back dumbly. surely this wasn't the mr. driscoll he knew, this snarling, contemptuous person with the flashing eyes! "can't you fight a little bit?" went on the coach. "clean yellow, are you? all you did was stand up there and take your punishment. let me tell you something, rowland. they're coming after you this next half. they're going to flay you if you don't show signs of life. they want a touchdown and they mean to have it and they'll be hitting the centre from now on. what do you intend to do about it, eh? speak up!" "why--why--" faltered ira, "i--i'm going to do the best i can!" "best you can be blowed! don't you know you're up against the best centre there is today on a school team? 'do the best you can!' great scott, man, you've got to do _better_ than you can! better than you ever dreamed of doing! you've got to _fight_! this isn't any sunday-school picnic. this is football. we're out to win. i was afraid all along you had a yellow streak, and now i know it. but you'll stay in there until you have to be carried off, like conlon. want to know what your trouble is?" ira was still too amazed to answer. "you're a coward! that's your trouble! you're afraid! you don't dare fight back! you're a plain squealer! i've got your measure, son!" ira felt the blood pouring into his cheeks as he jumped to his feet and faced the coach with clenched hands. "you take that back!" he said in a low voice that trembled in spite of him. "take it back!" sneered the coach. "yes, i'll take it back when you show i'm wrong. you can't bluff me, rowland. i see right through you." "you take it back now, or--" ira stopped and his arms fell at his sides. "you're coach now," he said hardly above a whisper, "but afterwards--if you aren't what you say i am--you'll--you'll answer for what--what----" but the tears, hot, angry tears, were no longer to be denied, and he ended in a sob and turned away blindly and stumbled his way to the door. outside, in the cold sunlight, he blinked the tears back and tried to get control of himself. coward, was he? then what was the coach? he had taken advantage of his authority! he knew well enough he wouldn't be called to account now. but afterwards! just wait until the game was over, until they had quit training! ira's hands clenched until they hurt. they'd see who was the coward. driscoll wouldn't be coach then, he'd be just--just a thing to strike! he-and then the door banged open and the players came trooping out, fred lyons in the lead, and ira fell in with them as they passed and went back to the field, his thoughts in a strange confusion and a red-hot anger at his heart. it was parkinson's kick-off and fred, no longer white and tremulous, but quiet and cheerful and composed, sent the ball skimming the heads of the charging enemy. then the battle began again, desperately. kenwood settled down to batter her way through the opposing line. forward-passes were not for them any longer. they wanted the six points a touchdown would give them and they meant to have them, and their way of getting them was to wear down the enemy and make weight and endurance tell. minutes passed and the slow, steady grind went on. twice kenwood made her distance through the opposing line, yet, once past midfield, her plunges failed. then came a punt, and it was parkinson's turn. there was little to choose between those rival teams today. offence and defence were evenly matched, and only when one side was favoured by the wind did that team's kicking excel. between the two thirty-yard lines the battle raged until the third period was nearly gone. then fortune favoured the visitors and a runner got away past fred lyons and reeled off twenty-odd yards before dannis brought him down. the enemy was on the brown's twenty-two-yards now and it was first down. plunge, plunge, plunge! two yards--three yards--one yard! four to go still and only one down left! a fake attack at centre and a back stealing off to the left, wells breaking through and bringing him crashing to earth, cheers and frenzied shrieks of joy and relief from the brown stand! back to midfield then under the ball, and the same thing to do all over again. no scoring in that first fifteen minutes. subs going in now for both teams. basker for dannis, pearson for wells, neely for brackett on the brown. parkinson works the ends for short gains and then wirt tears through the redoubtable beadle and goes on and on, dodging, turning, twisting, throwing off tackle after tackle! the ball is on the enemy's thirty-four-yards. pearson, fresh and eager, makes four through tackle on the left, cole adds two more, wirt is stopped. off goes the ball on a short kick and the kenwood quarter is thrown on his five-yard line. now the blue desperately tries a forward-pass again, faking a kick, but bradford has his man covered and the ball rolls into the hay. two attempts at the line and kenwood punts far down the field. basker fumbles, recovers and is thrown on his twenty-eight. pearson slips around the end for a yard, cole gets three through beadle, cole takes the ball for two more, wirt punts. and so it goes, and the minutes slip by. kenwood sees defeat staring at her now. eight minutes left and the ball again in midfield. kenwood tries desperate tactics. she pulls her line apart and opens her bag of tricks. sometimes she fools the enemy and gains, but for the most part she is forced to fall back on a punt on third down or fourth. five minutes left and parkinson well satisfied now to play on the defensive and hold what she has. and then, a sudden change in the fortunes of the game! it was basker's fault, for the punt was unmistakably pearson's. with both backs trying for it, the pigskin escaped and trickled past, and a flying kenwood end was on it. fortunately, basker got him in the act of finding his feet again and pulled him back to earth, but the pigskin was kenwood's on parkinson's twenty-seven-yards and there was time enough to turn a victory to a defeat! then it was that kenwood made her final, fiercest effort. straight at the centre she sent her backs. slowly but surely the brown gave way. play after play crashed at lyons and ira and donovan, sometimes gaining a yard, sometimes two, infrequently more. beadle worked like a wild man, but the holes weren't always there now. time and again he brought up against his opponent as against a stone wall. something--beadle could never guess what--had wrought a change in that smiling-faced adversary since the first inning. the smile was still there, but it was a different smile. this man rowland was playing him out, and he knew it well now. he couldn't fool him any longer, couldn't turn him in or pull him past as he had before. every inch had to be fought for desperately. back to her seventeen went parkinson, fighting hard but giving a little each time. kenwood might tie the game now if she chose to try a field-goal, but kenwood wanted a victory. still she aimed her plays at the centre, from guard to guard, though twice she attempted the ends and was stopped. two yards was her best gain, once past the fifteen, and after that the distances grew shorter each time. with five to go on fourth down and the ball just short of the ten-yard line, she sent her quarter sneaking out toward the left end and, somehow, he squirmed and wriggled through for the distance. parkinson's supporters were imploring wildly as the panting teams lined up on the seven-yards. it was now or never for the blue, while, if she got over that line, parkinson's lot would be defeat, for the minutes were nearly gone. kenwood sent her full-back straight at centre. the brown line bent, but held. a scant yard was gained. then an attack on lyons made two. third down now and four to go! kenwood shifted, thought better of it, changed her signals and shifted back. quarter and captain walked apart and whispered. then signals again, and once more the plunge came at ira. there was a moment of heaving, panting confusion, the charge faltered and stopped. another yard was gone! kenwood lined up quickly, put her backs in a tandem behind her left guard and the signals piped once more. but the tandem split and the ball went again to the big full-back and again he charged, head down, straight into the centre. cries, grunts, the rasping of canvas! a surge forward checked in the instant. a second surge as the kenwood linesmen turned in behind the attack. a yard gained! a sudden pause then and, somewhere, a faint voice grunting "_down!_" the whistle shrilled and the referee dived into the mass of squirming players. one by one they were thrust aside or pulled breathless to their feet until only two figures remained there on the trampled turf. one was the fullback with the ball clutched desperately under him, but a full yard from the line, and the other was the kenwood centre. above the latter stood a boy in a brown uniform who looked down at his vanquished foe with a queer, crooked smile on his lips. they lifted beadle to his uncertain feet presently and carried him away, and the game went on. but the time was practically up, for after wirt had punted from behind his goal and kenwood had made a fair-catch on the enemy's forty-five-yard line the final whistle blew and the parkinson hordes swept down from the stand and flooded over the field with waving pennants. ira, head hanging, feet dragging, climbed the gymnasium steps. he had fought off those who would have placed him aloft and borne him around the field--they had captured fully half the team--and made his escape. with him was a happy, dirty-visaged brad and an equally disreputable pearson, for substitutes will flock together even in the hour of triumph, and behind and in front were straggling groups of other heroes. brad found ira strangely taciturn on the way to the gymnasium, and marvelled. himself, he could have danced, as tired as he was! they burst riotously into the building, shouting mightily, and tore off soaking, dirt-grimed togs. ira, struggling grimly with his shirt, heard his name called above the din and saw coach driscoll standing in front of him. the shirt parted with a rip and ira stepped forward, free. "are we out of training yet, sir?" he asked. the coach nodded. he was smiling gravely. ira wondered at that smile even as he poised himself to strike. "wait a minute, rowland," said mr. driscoll quietly. "there's time enough." ira paused irresolutely. "what is it?" he demanded frowningly. "first, it's an apology," answered the coach. "don't you understand yet, rowland?" "understand? yes, i understand that you--you called me a coward a while ago, mr. driscoll. we're not in training now and you're going to answer for it!" "my dear fellow," laughed the coach, "i'm quite ready to answer for it. but listen to me first, will you? i suppose i played rather a mean trick on you, but i think the end justifies it. you weren't doing yourself justice. you weren't half playing the game you could play--and did play afterwards. and i knew there was only one way to wake you up, and that that was to make you angry. i'm sorry, rowland, if i hurt you, even for a half-hour, but--well, i wanted to win! we all did! even you did, though you didn't know it! rowland, if i hadn't insulted you you'd never have played beadle to a standstill, my boy! we won and you did a big share of the work. and you did it because you were mad clean through. now didn't you?" ira's look of amazement brought chuckles of amusement from the circle of listeners. "you mean that--that you said that just to--to make me play better?" gasped ira. the coach nodded. "just for that," he said. "and now i apologise. you're no coward, rowland, and i never believed you to be. want to shake hands and forget it?" a smile came slowly to ira's face and he shook his head hopelessly. "football," he murmured, "is a funny game!" but he stretched his hand out and clasped the coach's firmly. * * * * * * transcriber's note: --except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the illustration may not match the page number in the illustrations. --punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --the author's em-dash style has been retained. transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). full-back foster [illustration: _he felt that he was being discussed_] full-back foster by ralph henry barbour author of left end edwards, left guard gilbert, etc. illustrated by e. c. caswell [illustration] grosset & dunlap publishers new york copyright, 1919 by dodd, mead and company, inc. contents chapter page i myron arrives 1 ii so does joe dobbins 13 iii the "impossible fellow" 24 iv myron decides to stay 36 v on the gridiron 48 vi "a. t. merriman" 60 vii with the awkward squad 70 viii joe talks sense 82 ix myron loses his temper 96 x the challenge 110 xi myron misses an engagement 121 xii eldredge rejects a substitute 132 xiii myron changes his mind 145 xiv "chas" 157 xv the plan 173 xvi conspiracy 184 xvii a chance encounter 196 xviii myron gets his chance 211 xix doctor lane intervenes 226 xx andy takes a journey 236 xxi an early morning call 249 xxii myron comes back 259 xxiii reinstated 269 xxiv eddie applies the brake 279 xxv false colours 293 xxvi behind the stand 305 xxvii full-back foster 317 illustrations he felt that he was being discussed _frontispiece_ facing page "you let me up!" 142 the stranger was treated to quite a fund of information 200 straight across the last white line to victory 324 full-back foster chapter i myron arrives his name was myron warrenton foster, and he came from port foster, delaware. in age he was seventeen, but he looked more. he was large for his years, but, since he was well proportioned, the fact was not immediately apparent. what did strike you at once were good looks, good health and an air of well-being. the pleasing impression made by the boy's features was, however, somewhat marred by an expression of self-satisfaction, and it may be that the straight, well-knit figure carried itself with an air of surety that was almost complacent. so, at least, thought one who witnessed myron's descent from the new york train that september afternoon. "there's a promising-looking chap," said jud mellen, "but he somehow gives you the impression that he's bought warne and has come down to look the town over." harry cater laughed as he picked his trunk check from a handful of coins. "lots of 'em look that way when they first arrive, jud. i'm not sure you didn't yourself," he added slyly. "if i did, i soon got over it." the football captain smiled drily, his gaze following the subject of their remarks. "just as i suspected," he continued. "it's a taxi for his. four blocks is too far for the poor frail lad." "oh, come, jud, be fair. maybe he doesn't know whether the school's four blocks or forty. besides, he's much too beautifully got up to tramp it. he might get dust on that corking suit of his." "it is rather a good-looking outfit, and that's a fact. maybe if i was dolled up like that i'd want to ride, too. well, come on, katie, and let's get up there. practice is at three, and you've got only about forty minutes to find yourself in." harry cater, or "katie," as he was known at parkinson school, had been more charitable than correct in assuming that the new boy was uncertain of the distance between station and school, for the catalogue had definitely said four blocks. but had the distance been two short blocks instead of four long ones it is unlikely that myron foster would have walked. not that he had anything against walking; he recognised it as a healthful and beneficial form of exercise, as well as a pleasant occupation under some circumstances; but he was used to patronising automobiles when it was necessary to get from one place to another. at home there were two cars usually at his service, and when he was away from home a taxi-cab served as well. he couldn't remember when walking had been a necessity, for prior to the autos there had been carriages, and before the carriages--which had included a pony-cart for his especial use--there had been an english perambulator with easy springs and shining varnished leather top; and beyond that his memory didn't go. the vehicle that myron found himself in brought a smile of amused disdain to his face. it was cheap and small and none too clean, and it made more noise as it whisked over the cobbles than a boiler works. however, when it crossed adams street and reached the asphalt it quieted down considerably and its occupant was able to obtain a rather more distinct impression of the little town that was to have the honour of being his place of residence for the ensuing nine months. he rather liked what he could see of it, especially when, having bumped across the trolley tracks on main street, he found himself in what was evidently the residential part of warne. the shops had given way to neat, sometimes rather showy, dwellings on his right, set behind picket fences or lilac hedges, the latter looking sere and frowsy after a hot summer. on his left was a quaint, century-old burying ground in which mossy slate slabs leaned precariously under the cool, deep shadows of giant elms and maples. the church beyond, with its unlovely square steeple, peered through the trees in friendly fashion at the newcomer. at the next intersection the boy caught a glimpse of the inscription "washington ave." on a signboard, and in the next moment had his first view of the school. to his left the campus stretched for two long blocks, a level oblong of green turf intersected by gravel paths and shaded by linden trees. beyond the campus the school buildings ran in a straight line, or, to be exact, five of them did; there were several others out of position, so to speak, among them that to which he was being whisked. from maple street the taxi bounded on two wheels around a corner into a gravelled avenue, past the little brick administration building, turned again by the gymnasium and a moment later brought up with a squeaking of brakes in front of sohmer hall. sohmer was the most recent addition to the dormitories, and the most luxurious. although it followed the architectural style of the others and, at first glance, looked quite as old and quite as new england, it nevertheless possessed modifications that stood for a convenience and comfort that the other dormitories lacked. the driver of the taxi, a sandy-haired, gum-chewing young man with the cheap air of a village "sport," looked disdain as myron pointed to the brown leather kit-bag and remarked carelessly: "you might just fetch that along." "sure!" jeered the driver, pushing back a battered straw imitation of a panama hat from his heated brow and grinning widely. "and maybe you'd like me to unpack it for you, kid, and hang up your things? i ain't got nothing else to do, and a quarter's a lot of money, and----" "i haven't asked you what i owed yet, have i?" said myron. "if carrying that bag is worth another quarter why not carry it and get the money? i dare say i can scrape up a half somehow!" "oh, whyn't you say so?" muttered the other. "how'd i know you was john d. vanderbilt? where's it going?" "number 17, wherever that is. second floor, i think." "most of you guys," continued the driver affably as he led the way up the slate stairway, "expects us to lug trunks and everything and don't want to slip us anything extra. nothing doing! i'm willing to be obliging, see, but i ain't in business for my health, mister. here you are, sir. number 17, you said? door's unlocked. gee, some room, ain't it? what about your trunk, sir? want me to fetch it for you?" "no, it's coming by express. that's all, thanks. here you are. there's a quarter for the ride, a quarter for the bag and a quarter for a tip. all right?" "sure! you're a real gentleman, mister. say, any time you want a taxi or--or anything, see, you send for me. name's eddie moses. telephone to benton's cigar store and they'll give me the call." "all right, eddie. all doors open out." "that so? oh, all right. you can be sassy with me any time you like for a quarter!" and mr. eddie moses, chuckling at his wit, took himself away, leaving myron at leisure to look around his quarters. number 17 sohmer consisted of two rooms, a good-sized square study and a sleeping room off it. the study windows--there were two of them--overlooked the campus, although this afternoon, since the lindens still held their leaves, the view was restricted to so much of the campus as lay between the hall and the path that stretched from the gymnasium to the main gate on washington avenue. the bedroom also had a window with a similar outlook. this apartment was only large enough to hold the two single beds, the two chiffoniers and the two straight-backed chairs constituting its furnishing, and myron soon turned back from the doorway and removed his gaze to the study again. there were, he decided, possibilities in the study. of course he would get rid of the present junk, but it must serve until his furniture came from home, which ought to be in another three or four days. it had been his mother's idea to ship the things from his grey and yellow room at warrenton hall. she thought myron would be less homesick if surrounded by the familiar objects of home. myron's own idea had been to purchase a new outfit in philadelphia, but when he had seen how set his mother had been on her plan he had not insisted. the only thing that troubled him now was that, recalling the number and generous proportions of the articles on the way, he feared the study would be far too small to hold them! why, his couch alone would take up almost all of the end of the room where the windows were! well, he would just have to use what he could and store the other things somewhere: or send them home again. he had tossed his hat on the stained table that occupied the centre of the study--in shape that hat was not unlike the one worn by eddie moses, but all similarity ended right there--and now he removed his jacket of steel-grey, serge-like material, rolled up the sleeves of a pale yellow silk shirt and passed into the bedroom to wash. it may be well to state in passing that myron affected grey and yellow, both in his room furnishings and in his attire. it was a conceit of mrs. foster's. she was fond of colour combinations and, could she have had her way, would have prescribed for every member of her household. but myron was the only one who consented to be guided by her taste. he didn't care a rap whether his wallpaper was grey with yellow stripes or purple with pink daisies, only, having been told that grey-and-yellow suited him wonderfully he accepted it as a fact, said that it "looked all right, he supposed," and was soon a willing slave to the grey-and-yellow habit. mrs. foster's attempt to persuade her husband to pin his taste to brown-and-lilac, however, was a wretched failure. mr. foster snorted disgustedly and went right on buying green and magenta neckties and socks that made his wife shudder. having washed his hands and face and dried them on a handkerchief--a soft, pure-linen affair with a monogram worked in one corner in grey and yellow--myron opened his kit-bag and unpacked, stowing the things neatly and systematically in one of the chiffoniers. he would, he reflected, get them to take the other chiffonier and the other bed out. as he was to occupy number 17 alone there was no need of them. when the bag was unpacked and set in a corner of the closet he donned his jacket again and strolled to a window. the campus was livening up. although the foliage hid the other buildings very effectually he could hear the patter of feet on gravel and steps, voices in shouts or laughter and, from somewhere, the tuning of a banjo. as he looked down, leaning from the sill, two lads came across the grass and paused a little further along under a window. they were in flannels, and one carried a racket. they tilted their heads and hailed: "o jimmy! jimmy lynde! he-e-ey, jimmy! jimmy-y-y!" after a moment a voice answered from a neighbouring window: "hello, gus, you old rascal! 'lo, petey! how's everything?" "lovely. come and have a game. channing's over there, and he and pete'll play you and me. huh? oh, forget it! there's oodles of time for that. all right, hustle along. we'll go on over. get a move on!" the two waved and turned toward the gymnasium. myron felt a trifle lonesome when they had gone, for it came to him that he was a stranger in a strange land. he wondered how long it would be before fellows stopped under his window and called to him. it probably didn't take long to get acquainted, he decided, but still he sort of wished he knew at least one of his school-fellows as a starter. perhaps, after all, it would have been nicer to have had a room-mate. personally, he hadn't cared much one way or the other, but his mother had exclaimed in horror at the idea of his sharing his room with a strange boy. "why, you can't tell what sort of a person he might be, myron dear," she had protested. "of course we know that parkinson is one of the nicest schools and that some of the very best people send their sons there, but nowadays it's quite impossible to keep the wrong sort out of anywhere. it would be awful if you found yourself with some dreadful low kind of boy." so myron had said, "oh, all right, mater," and dismissed the notion. and maybe she was right, too, for it would be a frightful bore to have to live in such close quarters with some "roughneck." on the whole he guessed he was better off alone, even if he did feel rather lonely for a few days. he recalled the fact that he hadn't yet registered at the office, or wherever you did register, but he had until six to do that, and a glance at a handsome thin-case gold watch showed that the time was still short of three. but it was dull up here, and stuffy, too, and he guessed he'd go down and look the place over. as he turned from his window he became aware of the fact that the dormitory was no longer quiet. doors opened and closed, feet shuffled on the stairs and there were sounds of talking and singing and whistling. it certainly sounded more cheerful, he thought. the taxi driver had closed the door behind him, and now myron started across the study to open it. maybe if it was open some one might see him and drop in. he put his hat back on the table, deciding not to go out just yet. as he reached his hand toward the doorknob there were sounds of heavy footsteps outside. then something thumped against the door, a voice muttered---myron pulled the portal open. framed in the doorway stood a veritable giant of a boy, a battered valise in each hand, a ragged-edged stiff straw hat tilted far back from his perspiring countenance and a none too clean handkerchief dangling from inside a wilted collar. "atta boy!" said the stranger genially, and then, to myron's amazement, he piled into the study, fairly sweeping the other aside, dropped his bags with mighty thuds on the floor and mopped his broad face with the dangling handkerchief. "geewhillikins, but that's some tote, kiddo!" he observed with an all-encompassing grin. "i'm sweating like a horse!" "it is warm," replied myron in a voice that was quite otherwise. "but haven't you--er--made a mistake?" "watyer mean, mistake?" asked the other, puzzled. "in the room. this is seventeen." "sure! that's all right. i just came from the office. that hoyt guy said seventeen. and, say, kiddo, it's some swell dive, ain't it? guess you and i are lucky guys, all right, to get it, eh?" chapter ii so does joe dobbins myron didn't know who "that hoyt guy" might be, but he was sure that he or some one else had made a horrible mistake. why, this big, good-natured, badly-dressed boy was the roughest sort of a "roughneck," the identical type, doubtless, that his mother had spoken of so distastefully! myron viewed him during a moment of silence, at a loss for words. the newcomer had removed his tattered hat and was now struggling with a jacket that, far too tight in the sleeves, parted reluctantly from the moist garments beneath. but it came off finally and the boy tossed it carelessly to a chair and stretched a pair of long arms luxuriously ere he sank onto it. "that train was like a furnace all the way, and the ice-water gave out at hartford," he said. "well, here we are, though. what's your name? mine's dobbins; joe dobbins, only they generally call me 'whoa.'" "my name is foster," replied myron rather weakly. "foster, eh? that's all right. i know a fellow at home name of foster. drives for gandell and frye. they're the big dry-goods folks. he's an all-right guy, too, sam is. he and i used to be pretty thick before i came away. were you here last year, foster?" "no, i--this is my first year." "what class?" "third, i expect." "same here. i'm new, too. i was at st. michael's last year, until april. i beat it then. got in wrong with faculty, you know." he smiled and winked. "great little school, st. michael's, but sort of narrow. my old man said he guessed i needed more elbow-room. so i thought i'd try this place. looks all right so far; sort of pretty: plenty of trees. i like trees. grew up with 'em. maybe that's why. dad made his money out of trees." "indeed?" responded myron, coldly polite. "lumber, i suppose." "wrong, kiddo. spruce gum." "oh!" "maybe you've heard of him: tom dobbins: the spruce gum king, some call him." myron shook his head. for some absurd reason he felt slightly apologetic, and was angry with himself for it. "no? well, i guess you don't come from my part of the country. portland, maine's my home. we've been living there six or seven years. i missed the woods at first a heap, let me tell you. why, we used to live right in 'em: big trees all around: no town nearer than six miles. i was born there, in a log house. so were my three sisters. them was the happy days, as the guy says." "very--very interesting, i'm sure," said myron, "but about this room, dobbins: you're quite certain that they told you number 17?" "sure! why not? what's wrong with it?" dobbins gazed questioningly about the study and then leaned forward to peer through the open door of the bedroom. "looks all right. plumbing out o' order, or something? any one had smallpox here? what's the idea?" "the idea," replied myron a bit haughtily, "is that i am supposed to have this suite to myself. i particularly asked for a single suite. in fact, i am paying for one. so i presume that either you or i have made a mistake." dobbins whistled. then he laughed enjoyably. myron thought it was a particularly unpleasant laugh. "say, that's rich, ain't it?" asked dobbins finally. "no wonder you were sort of stand-offish, kiddo! gee, it's a wonder you didn't biff me a couple and throw me out on my bean! i'll say it is! butting in on your--er--privacy, like, eh? say, i'm sure that hoyt guy said seventeen, but he may have got his wires crossed. i'll mosey over and----" "don't bother. i haven't registered yet. i'll straighten it out. maybe he meant one of the other halls." "might be," said dobbins doubtfully, "but he sure said sohmer. this _is_ sohmer, ain't it?" "yes. well, i'll find out about it. meanwhile you might just--er--wait." "got you, kiddo. i'll come along, though, if you say so. i don't mind. i'm fine and cool now. maybe i'd better, eh?" "no, no," replied myron quickly. "you stay here." he repressed a shudder at the thought of being seen walking into the administration building with dobbins! for fear that the latter would insist on accompanying him, he seized his hat and fairly bolted, leaving the intruder in possession of the disputed premises. the administration building was but a few rods away, and myron, nursing his indignation, was soon there. but it was evident that he would have to wait a considerable time, for the space outside the railing that divided the secretary's office in half was well filled with returning students. there was nothing for myron to do save take his place in the line that wound from the secretary's desk across the room and back again. but the official, in spite of a nervous manner, handled the registrations efficiently, and after fifteen minutes or so, during which he was annoyedly aware of the amused stares and whisperings of a couple of fourth class youngsters, myron's turn came. he gave his name and answered the questions and then, when the secretary waved him on, "there's been a mistake made about my room, sir," he said. "i engaged a single suite nearly two months ago and you wrote that i was to have number 17 sohmer. now i find that you've put another fellow in with me, a fellow named dobbin or dobbins." the secretary rescued the card that he had a moment before consigned to the index at his elbow and glanced quickly over it. "oh, yes," he answered. "i recall it now. but i wrote to your father several days ago explaining that owing to the unexpectedly large number of students this year we'd be unable to give you a study to yourself. possibly you left before the letter reached your home in--ah, yes,--port foster, delaware. the school catalogue states distinctly that rooms are rented singly only when circumstances permit. the suite assigned you is a double one and we have had to fill it. very sorry, mr. foster, but perhaps you will find it an advantage to have a companion with you." "but my father is paying for a single room----" "that has been arranged. one-half of the first term rental has been refunded. that is all, mr. foster?" "why--why, i suppose so, but i don't like it, sir. you agreed to give me a room to myself. if i had known how it was to be, i--i think i'd have gone somewhere else!" "well, we'd be sorry to lose you, of course," replied the secretary politely, "but unfortunately there is no way of giving you the accommodations you want. if you care to communicate with your father by wire we will hold your registration open until the morning. now i shall have to ask you to let the next young gentleman----" "i guess you'd better do that," replied myron haughtily. "i'll telegraph my father right away." the secretary nodded, already busy with the next youth, and myron made his way out. as he went down the worn stone steps he saw the two fourth class boys adorning the top rail of the fence that bordered maple street, and as he passed them he heard a snicker and a voice asking "isn't he a _dur-ream_?" his first angry impulse was to turn back and scold, but second thoughts sent him on with an expression of contemptuous indifference. but the incident did not sweeten his disposition any, and when he strode into number 17 again it needed only the sight that met him to set him off. joe dobbins, minus coat and vest, his suspenders hanging, was sitting in the room's one easy chair with his stockinged feet on the table. myron, closing the door behind him, glared for an instant. then: "what do you think this is, dobbin?" he demanded angrily. "a--a stable?" dobbins' jaw dropped and he viewed myron with ludicrous surprise. "how do you mean, a stable?" he asked. "i mean that if you're going to stay here with me tonight you've got to act like a--a gentleman! sitting around with your suspenders down and your shoes off and your feet on the table----" "oh!" said joe, in vast relief. "that's it! i thought maybe you were going to crack some joke about me being a horse, on account of my name. don't gentlemen put their feet on the table and let their galluses down?" "no, they don't!" snapped myron. "and as long as you're rooming with me--which i hope won't be long--i'll ask you to cut out that 'roughneck' stuff." "sure," grinned joe. "anything to oblige, foster." he had already dropped his feet, and now he drew his suspenders over his shoulders again and slipped his feet back into his shoes. "don't guess i'll ever get on to the ways of the best circles, foster. i'm what you call an unspoiled child of nature. well, what did the guy in the office say? i'm betting i was right, kiddo." "and don't call me 'kiddo'! you know my name. use it." "gosh-all-hemlock!" murmured the other. "say, you must have one of those fiery southern temperaments i've read about. now i know how the civil war happened. i'll bet you're a direct descendant of general lee!" "i'm not a southerner," answered myron. "just where do you think delaware is?" "well, i didn't know you hailed from there," replied joe untroubledly, "but i'd say delaware was sort of southern. ain't it?" "no more than maine. look here, dobbin----" "dobbins, please; with an s." "dobbins, then," continued myron impatiently. "that fellow over there says the school's so full i can't have a room to myself. they promised me i could two months ago, and we've paid for one. well, i'm going to get out and go somewhere where--where they know how to treat you. but--but i can't leave until tomorrow, so we'll have to share this place tonight." "that'll be all right," replied joe affably. "i don't mind." myron stared. "i didn't suppose _you_ did," he said. "meaning _you_ do, eh?" joe laughed good-naturedly. "that it?" "i'm not used to sharing my room with others," answered myron stiffly. "and i'm afraid you and i haven't very much in common. so i guess we'll get on better if--if we keep to ourselves." "all right, kiddo--i mean foster. anything for a quiet life! suppose we draw a line down the middle of the room, eh? got a piece of chalk or something?" "i've taken the chiffonier nearest the window," said myron, disregarding the levity. "but i'll have my things out in the morning, in case you prefer it to the other." "chiff--oh, you mean the skinny bureau? doesn't make any difference to me which i have, ki--foster. say, you don't really mean that you're going to leave parkinson just because you can't have a room to yourself, do you?" "i do. i'm going out now to send a wire to my father." "gee, i wouldn't do that, honest! why, say, maybe i can find a room somewhere else. i don't mind. this place is too elegant for me, anyway. better let me have a talk with that guy over there before you do anything rash, foster. i'm sorry i upset your arrangements like this, but it isn't really my fault; now is it?" "i suppose not," replied myron grudgingly. "but i don't believe you can do anything with him. still, if you don't mind trying, i'll put off sending that telegram until you get back." "atta boy! where's my coat? just you sit tight till i tell that guy where he gets off. be right back, kiddo!" joe dobbins banged the door behind him and stamped away down the corridor. pending his return, myron found a piece of paper, drew his silver pencil from his pocket and frowningly set about the composition of that telegram. possibly, he thought, it would be better to address it to his mother. of the two, she was more likely to recognise the enormity of the offence committed by the school. still, she would see it in any case if he addressed it to the house and not to the office. when it was done, after several erasures, it read: "mr. john w. foster, warrenton hall, port foster, del. "arrived safely, but find that i cannot have room to myself as was agreed. must share suite with impossible fellow named dobbins. prefer some other school. not too late if you wire tonight. love. myron." putting dobbins' name into the message was, he considered, quite a masterly stroke. he imagined his mother's expression when she read it! chapter iii the "impossible fellow" dobbins was gone the better part of half an hour and when he finally returned his expression showed that he had met with failure. "still," he explained hopefully, "hoyt says he will give me the first vacancy that turns up. sometimes fellows have to drop out after school begins, he says. fail at exams or something. he says maybe he can put me somewhere else within a week. mind you, he doesn't promise, but i made a pretty good yarn of it, and i guess he will do it if he possibly can." joe dobbins chuckled reminiscently. "i told him that if he didn't separate us i wouldn't answer for what happened. said we'd already had two fights and were spoiling for another. said you'd pitched my things out the window and that i'd torn up all your yellow neckties. maybe he didn't believe all i told him: he's a foxy little guy: but i guess i got him thinkin', all right!" "you needn't have told him all that nonsense," demurred myron. "he will think i'm a--a----" "not for a minute! i told him you were a perfect gentleman. incompatibility of temperament is what i called it. he said why didn't i leave off the last two syllables. well, that's that, kiddo--i mean foster. better leave it lay until we see what happens, eh?" "not at all. i shall send this telegram, dobbins. i don't believe he has any idea of--of doing anything about it." "we-ell, you're the doctor, but--say, where'll you go if you leave this place?" "i don't know yet. there are plenty of other schools around here, though. there's one up the line a ways. i think it's called kenwood. or there's----" "kenwood? gee, boy, you don't want to go there! don't you read the crime column in the papers? why, kenwood is filled with thugs and hoboes and the scum of the earth. a feller on the train told me so coming down here. parkinson and kenwood are rivals: get it? you don't want to throw down this place and take up with the enemy, eh?" "i don't see what that has to do with it," myron objected. "i'm not a parkinson fellow. and i dare say that kenwood is quite as good a school as parkinson." but joe dobbins shook his head. "that feller on the train talked mighty straight. i wouldn't like to think he was lying to me. he said that kenwood was--was--now what was it he said? oh, i got it! he said it was an 'asylum for the mentally deficient.' sounds bad, eh?" "rot!" grunted myron. "i'm going over to the telegraph office." "all right. if the big boss drops in i'll tell him." when myron had gone joe promptly removed coat and vest once more, dropped his suspenders about his hips and kicked off his shoes. "might as well be comfortable when his majesty's away," he sighed. "gee, but he's the limit, now ain't he? i suppose i ought to have spanked him when he called me a stable--or whatever it was. but i dunno, he's sort of a classy guy. guess he isn't so worse if you hack into him. bark's a little punk, but the wood's all right underneath, likely. don't know if i could stand living with him regular, though. not much fun in life if you can't slip your shoes off when your feet hurt. well, i guess i'll get these satchels emptied. what was it he called those bureaus, now? chiff--chiff--i'll have to get him to tell me that again. one thing, joey: living with mr. foster'll teach you manners. only i'd hate to think i'd ever get to wearing a lemon-yellow necktie!" still feeling deeply wronged and out-of-sorts, myron made his way back to maple street and set out toward the business part of warne. the breeze that had made the late september afternoon fairly comfortable had died away and the maples that lined the broad, pleasant thoroughfare drooped their leaves listlessly and the asphalt radiated heat. myron wished that he had shed his waistcoat in the room. students were still arriving, for he passed a number on their way to the school, bags in hands, and several taxis and tumble-down carriages went by with hilarious occupants oozing forth from doors and windows. one of the taxi drivers honked brazenly as his clattering vehicle passed myron and the latter glanced up in time to receive a flatteringly friendly wave and shout from eddie moses. myron frowned. "folks here are a lot of savages," he muttered. the telegram despatched, he made his way to a nearby drug store, seated himself on a stool and asked for a "peach-and-cream." the freckle-faced, lanky youth behind the counter shook his head sadly. "ain't got no peach today. i can give you vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, rasp----" "i didn't mean syrup. haven't you any fruit? i want a peach-and-cream." "don't know what that is. anyway, we ain't got it. how about a chocolate sundae with puffed rice? lots of the fellers call for them." "no, thanks." myron descended from the stool and went out, more than ever assured of the undesirability of parkinson school as a place of sojourn. think of a town where you couldn't get a peach-and-cream! why, even the smallest shops in port foster knew what a peach-and-cream was! he cast contemptuous looks upon the modest stores and places of business along adams street, and even the new burton block over on the corner of school street, six stories high and glittering with broad glass windows, only drew a word of derision. "suppose they call that thing a skyscraper," he muttered. "huh! puffed rice!" returning, he went through school street to washington avenue. the south side of that shady thoroughfare, called faculty row, presented a pleasing vista, in each direction, of neat lawns and venerable elms and glowing beds of flowers. here and there a sprinkler tossed its spray into the sunlight. myron had to acknowledge, albeit grudgingly, that port foster had nothing prettier to offer. facing him, across the avenue, since school street ended there, was the main gate to the campus, and straight ahead a shady tunnel roofed with closely-set linden trees led the eyes to the gleaming faã§ade of parkinson hall, which, unlike the other school buildings, was of light-hued sandstone and was surmounted by an imposing dome. from the gate in front of him two other similar paths led diagonally away, and choosing the right-hand one myron found grateful relief from the sun. he removed his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with an immaculate handkerchief, and when he had finished returned the handkerchief to his breast pocket very carefully, allowing a corner--it happened to be the corner bearing the embroidered monogram--to protrude carelessly. as he neared sohmer he passed a group of four boys lying on the grass beneath the trees. their conversation dwindled as he approached, ceased entirely as he came abreast and then went on again subduedly after he had gone by. his former irritation returned. what was there about him to make fellows stare or giggle or smile? even down town he had noticed it, and now, although he could not hear what was being said behind him, he felt that he was being discussed. he was conscious of being better dressed than any of the boys he had seen yet, there was nothing unusual in his looks so far as he knew and he believed that he carried himself and walked in an ordinary manner. he decided again that they were all a lot of savages or "small town" gykes. he was glad he was leaving them tomorrow. back in number 17, he found that dobbins had gone out. in the bedroom that remarkable youth's suit of rough red-brown material--it was much too heavy for summer wear and reminded myron somewhat of a horse-blanket--that he had worn on his arrival lay carelessly tossed across a bed. it was the bed that myron had chosen for himself, and he distastefully removed the clothes to the other one. as he did so he looked for the maker's tag inside the collar and smiled ironically when he read "bon ton brand." "ready-made," he murmured. dobbins had decorated the top of his chiffonier with two photographs and myron examined them. one was a group picture of four persons; a woman rather thin and angular but with a kind and sweet face, a girl of some fourteen years, awkward and staring, and two younger girls, the littlest perhaps six. all were dressed in their finest and all, at least to myron's sophisticated sight, were dowdy. he concluded that the persons were dobbins' mother and sisters. the second photograph was a more ambitious affair and showed a man of about forty years. he had a square, much seamed face from which two keen eyes looked straight at the beholder. a funny little patch of beard adorned the chin and above it a wide mouth was drawn severely down at the corners. in the photograph the man looked stern and hard and even cross, myron thought, but there was something nice about the countenance in spite of that, something suggesting that behind the weathered face were clean thoughts and kindliness. "that's the spruce gum king," he reflected. "i guess if he hadn't been scared at the camera he'd have looked rather a fine old chap, in spite of the little bunch of whiskers. he looks something like dobbins, too: same sort of eyes and--and same expression about the chin. only dobbins is more lazy and good-natured, i guess." later, his trunks came--there were two of them--and he had the expressman set them behind the door, one atop the other. there was no sense in opening them, for his kit-bag provided all he needed for the night. by that time it was nearing the supper hour and there was a rustling in the leaves of the lindens and the air was cooler. he told himself that whether dobbins ever returned was nothing to him, and yet he found himself listening for the other's heavy tread in the corridor. he wondered where dobbins had gone, and rather resented his absence. the magazine which he had been reading beside the open window ceased to hold his attention and he glanced at his watch. a quarter to six. the supper hour was six o'clock. he had looked that up in his copy of the school catalogue. and you ate in alumni hall, which, as the plan of the school showed, was the building on the extreme left of the line. finally myron stripped to his waist and had a good splurge with soap and water. some kindly soul had supplied a towel and it wasn't until he was through using it that he saw the inscription "dobbins" on one end. "well, how was i to know?" he grumbled. "maybe i'd better dig into the trunk and get out a few of my own." but after supper would do, and just now he was feeling decidedly hungry, and washing up had refreshed him and made life look more pleasant. he hoped there would be something fit to eat, but he didn't expect it. he was getting back into his clothes when the approach of his temporary room-mate was announced from some distance down the hall by the _clump-clump_ of heavy shoes. dobbins was peculiarly ungentle with doors. he flung them open and didn't care what happened to them afterwards. in the present case the door crashed back against the trunks behind it with a most annoying _bang_, but dobbins didn't appear to have heard it. he was strangely attired, was dobbins, and myron, one arm in his shirt, gazed in astonishment and for a moment forgot to go on with his dressing. a faded yellowish-brown jersey with half of the left sleeve missing and the other torn and mended--and torn and not mended--was surmounted by a canvas football jacket held together down the front with a black shoe-lace and a piece of twine. the jacket was so old and stained that myron could easily believe it an heirloom, something handed down through generations of football-playing dobbinses! a pair of rather new khaki pants, woollen stockings of brown twice ringed with light blue that well matched the jersey in condition, and scuffed and scarred football shoes completed the costume. dobbins' hair was every which way and there was more or less dirt on his broad countenance through which the perspiration had flowed in little rivulets with interesting results. "hello, kiddo!" dobbins greeted jovially. "how's the grouch coming on? say, they've got a swell gridiron here; two or three of 'em, in fact. wonderful turf. it's a pleasure to fall on it, honest! hear from your old man yet?" "hardly," replied myron drily. "what have you been doing?" "me? sweating, son, mostly. practising football some, too." "oh! i didn't know you played." "me? that guy camp and i wrote the rules! looks like we had enough fellers to build forty teams. must have been 'most a thousand of 'em over there. every time i turned around i trod on some one. you didn't go over, eh?" "no, i--i was busy. besides, i didn't know they were holding practice today. i supposed they'd start tomorrow." "been at it three days already, i hear. got a coach here that looks like he knew his business, foster. ever try football?" "i've played some," answered myron, with a smile that seemed to combine patience and pity. "i expect to go out for it when i get settled somewhere." "still thinking of leaving, are you? you're going to lose a mighty good school, son. i sure do like this place. well, i've got a hunger like a river-boss. guess i'll get back to store clothes and find the trough. you going now?" "yes, i think so." "well, tell 'em to save a little of everything for me." dobbins' voice came muffled from above the basin in the bedroom, and myron, remembering the towel, hurried out. chapter iv myron decides to stay at dining hall it appeared that places had not yet been assigned and myron was conducted to a seat between a large, stout youth who seemed afflicted with asthma and a shy, red-cheeked boy who promptly upset his glass of milk when myron asked for the biscuits. rather to his surprise, the food was excellent and plentiful. there were many tables, each seating ten boys, and most of them were filled when myron reached the hall. there was a good deal of noise, as was natural when nearly four hundred normally healthy boys were being fed. at myron's table no one appeared to be acquainted with any one else and in consequence there was little conversation. the asthmatic youth wheezily ventured a remark, but myron's reply was not encouraging and the youth gave all his attention again to dropping bits of biscuit in his stewed pears and salvaging them noisily. myron was glad when the stout chap, finding nothing else to devour, sighed heavily and left the table. his place was filled again, however, a moment later by a clean-cut fellow of about nineteen years, a good-looking, neatly-dressed boy of what myron mentally called his own sort. conversation with him seemed natural and desirable, and myron broke the ice by offering the biscuits. the newcomer accepted one, said "thanks" politely and cast a brief and appraising glance over his neighbour. "they're not bad," said myron. "no, they never are," answered the other. "i wonder if you can reach the butter." myron could and did. "not up to the biscuits," he offered. "no? what seems to be wrong with it?" "too salty for me." "i see. well, you'd naturally like it fresh." myron shot a covert and suspicious glance at the other. it seemed to him that there had been a faint emphasis on the word "fresh." perhaps he had only imagined it, though, for his neighbour's expression was quite guileless. he was leisurely buttering a portion of the biscuit and appeared to have forgotten myron's existence. myron felt faintly uncomfortable and applied himself silently to his food. across the board another chair was pushed back and, almost before its occupant was out of it, again taken. myron observed rather annoyedly that the new occupant of the place was dobbins. he nodded across and dropped his eyes to his plate. he hoped that dobbins wouldn't try to converse. somehow, he didn't want the chap at his right to think him a friend of dobbins'. but dobbins, after an approving look about the table, did just what myron had hoped he wouldn't do. "how you making out, foster?" he inquired. "grub meeting your approval?" "yes, thanks," responded myron coldly. "that's good. i see you--hello!" "hello," said the boy at myron's right affably. "how do you feel now?" "great! it sure was hot, though. bet you i dropped five pounds this afternoon. but i'll get it back right now if they'll give me half a chance!" dobbins chuckled and myron's neighbour smiled responsively. myron wondered how dobbins and this chap beside him happened to be so chummy. he wondered still more when, a minute later, his neighbour changed his seat for one just vacated beside dobbins, and entered into an animated conversation with him. myron couldn't catch more than an occasional word above the noise of talking and clattering dishes, but he knew that the subject of their discourse was football. he was glad when he had finished his supper and could leave the table. there was a reception to the new students that evening at the principal's residence, but myron didn't go. what was the use, when by noon tomorrow he would have shaken the dust of warne from his shoes and departed for a school where fellows of his station and worth were understood and appreciated? joe dobbins, however, attended and didn't get back to the room in sohmer until nearly ten o'clock, by which time myron had exhausted all the reading matter he could find and, pyjama-clad, was sitting at a window and moodily looking out into the dimly lighted yard. joe entered in his usual crash-bang manner and breezily skimmed his hat toward the table. it missed the table and went to the floor, where, so far as its owner was concerned, it was allowed to stay. myron reflected that it wasn't hard to account for the battered condition of that hat. "heard from your old man yet?" asked joe, dropping into a chair and stretching his long legs across the floor. "meaning my father?" asked myron stiffly. "yep. has he telegraphed?" "no, unless he's sent a night message. he might. sometimes he doesn't get back from the yard until rather late." "yard? what sort of yard?" "shipyard. he builds boats." "oh, boatyard, you mean. i know a fellow in portland has a boatyard. makes some crackajack sloops." "we build ships," corrected myron patiently. "battleships, passenger ships, cargo carriers and such. some of them are whopping big ones: sixteen and eighteen thousand tons." "gosh! i'd like to see that place. i suppose you'll be going to work with him when you get through here." "not exactly. i shall go through college first, of course." "oh! well, say, honest injun, foster, do you think a college course cuts any ice with a fellow? the old man says i can go to a college--if i can get in,--but i don't know. i wouldn't get through until i was twenty-two or twenty-three, and seems to me that's wasting a lot of time. what do you think?" "depends, i suppose, on--on the individual case. if you feel that you want to get to work in the chewing-gum factory and can't afford to go through college----" "where do you get that chewing-gum factory stuff?" asked joe. "why, i thought you said your father made spruce gum." "no, the lord makes it. the old man gathers it and sells it. spruce gum is the resin of spruce trees, kiddo." "oh," said myron vaguely. "well, i dare say he will need you to help him gather it. in your case, dobbins, going through college might be wasting time." joe laughed. "what's the joke?" asked the other suspiciously. "well, i was having what you call a mind picture of the old man and me picking that gum. know how many tons of the stuff he handles in a year? nearly a hundred and thirty: about two hundred and fifty thousand pounds! he has over a hundred pickers employed, and buys a lot from fellows who pick on their own hook." "oh!" said myron. "well, how was i to know? you distinctly said the lord made it and your father gathered it, didn't you?" "that's right; my error, kiddo----" "kindly cut out that----" "sorry; i forgot. well, i don't have to worry about college just yet, do i? we'll see first if i can stick here long enough to get my time! i wouldn't mind playing football on a good college team, though: harvard or yale or dartmouth or one of those big 'uns." "probably not," replied myron drily. "nobody would. i wouldn't myself." somehow he managed to convey the impression that in his case such a thing was not only possible but probable, but that for joe to set his hopes so high was absurd. joe's greenish-grey eyes flickered once, but he made no comment. instead: "you played much?" he asked. "quite a bit," answered the other carelessly. "i captained the port foster high team last fall." "must have then! where'd you play?" "position? left half. end the year before that. what do you play?" "me? oh, most anything in the line. i'm not fussy. played tackle most of last year. like to play guard better, though. football's a great game, isn't it?" "not bad," acknowledged myron. "by the way, who was the fellow you were so thick with at supper tonight?" "him? name's keith or something. played on last year's team and was coaching the linemen today. nice guy. bet he can play, too." "looked rather light to me," commented myron. "think so? maybe. anyway, he knows how to drill the line, or i'm a dutchman. what time is it? i'm getting sleepy. you weren't over at the party, were you?" "no, it didn't interest me. as i'm not going to stay, why be bored by that sort of thing?" "hm," said joe. "what's 'hm' mean?" "nothing. just thinking. say, what's your objection to this place, foster? if it's just me, why, say, i'll get out gladly. fellow i met tonight told me he has a dandy room in the village. i'm not fussy about living on the campus." "oh, it isn't just that," said myron. "i don't like the--the atmosphere here." "well, it is sort of close tonight, but i guess it would be anywhere in this part of the country. september's likely to----" "i wasn't referring to the air," corrected the other loftily. "i used the word in its other sense." "didn't know it had another sense," said joe cheerfully. "all right. but i was just thinking that if you had to have this place to yourself i could beat it, and no hard feelings." "they'd stick some one else in here, i guess. besides, i wouldn't want to put you out. after all, you've got as much right here as i have, i suppose." that statement had a rather dubious sound, however, and again joe's eyes flickered and the very ghost of a smile hovered for an instant about the corners of his wide mouth. "yeah, but the next chap might be more your style, foster. i'm sort of rough-and-ready, i guess. don't run much to etiquette and wouldn't know what to do in one of those silk collars you wear. i should think they'd make your neck awfully warm." and joe ran a finger around inside his own very low linen collar apprehensively. "i hope i haven't said anything to make you think that i--that you----" "oh, no, you haven't _said_ anything: at least, not much: but i can see that i'd be _persona non compos_, or whatever the word is, around these diggings. you think it over and let me know. i guess that hoyt guy wouldn't mind if i got a room outside somewhere. well, here's where i hit the hay." "there's no sense in my thinking it over," answered myron a bit querulously, "as i tell you i'm not going to stay here." "don't think there's any doubt about it, eh?" "certainly not!" "all right. i was only thinking that if you _did_ stay----" "i haven't the least intention of staying. i wish you'd get that fixed in your mind, dobbins." "sure! i'll go to sleep and dream about it!" if myron dreamed of anything he had no recollection of having done so in the morning. he awoke in a far more cheerful frame of mind to find a cool and fragrant breeze flapping the curtain and a patch of golden sunlight lying across his bed. he had slept like a log. a glance at the neighbouring bed showed that joe dobbins was up, although myron's watch proved the time to be still short of seven-thirty. from across the campus a bell was ringing loudly. it was doubtless that sound that had awakened him. usually he turned over and had a nap before getting up, but this morning, although he buried his head in the pillow again, sleep didn't return to him. perhaps it was just as well, he reflected, for that telegram from his father ought to be along soon, and he would probably have a busy morning getting away. so far he had not considered what he would do in case they couldn't take him at kenwood. he rather hoped they could, though. it would be a big satisfaction, and an amusing one, too, to play on the kenwood eleven and show these unappreciative fellows at parkinson what they had missed! myron could play football and knew it, and knew as well that in losing his services parkinson was losing something worth while. it would be fun to say carelessly to some parkinson fellow after he had aided kenwood to beat her rival: "yes, i did think of going to your school: in fact, i actually spent a night there: but they treated me rather rotten and i got out. they promised me a room to myself, you know, and then tried to make me go in with another chap. it was rather coarse work, and i told them so before i left." whereupon the parkinson boy would tell it around and there'd be regrets galore. that was a pleasing dream, and under the exciting influence of it myron jumped out of bed and sought a bath. while he was shivering in the icy water he recalled the fact that there was such a thing as chapel or morning prayers or something, and he wondered if he was under obligations to attend that ceremony. he decided the question in the negative and, returning to his room, dressed leisurely, selecting a grey tie with a yellow figure and a yellow handkerchief with a narrow grey border. the bell had long since ceased its clamour and peace had settled over the yard. dressed, he went downstairs. in the corridor, close by the entrance, was a notice board and a letter rack. he didn't bother to peruse the few notices nor would he have paid any attention to the rack had his fleeting glance not been arrested by the sight of a buff envelope. he stopped and looked more closely. it was a telegram and, yes, it was addressed to myron w. foster, parkinson school, warne, mass. in blue pencil was "s 17." at last! he took it to the entrance and paused on the top step in the sunlight and tore off an end of the envelope very carefully. then he withdrew the folded sheet of buff paper and with a satisfied smile began to read it. but the smile vanished in the next instant and, although he read the message through a second and even a third time, he could not make the sense of it correspond with his expectation. "your mother and i very sorry about your room letter from school arrived after your departure explaining satisfactorily think you had better stay there however for the present and arrange for single suite when same can be had love from us both father." chapter v on the gridiron myron's connection with parkinson school began inauspiciously. after an eleventh-hour effort to get his studies scheduled, and the discovery that he was required to take two courses he didn't want to take and to omit one that he did, a summons came to him to visit the office. there mr. morgan, assistant to the principal, reminded him that attendance at chapel was compulsory and then announced that there appeared to be some doubt that he could enter the second class owing to the fact that his latin was not up to the requirements. that was disheartening, for myron had coached on latin during the summer and been pronounced fit for the third-year class at parkinson or any other preparatory school. yesterday he would have received the announcement with unconcern, but today, since the arrival of that disappointing telegram, he found cause in it for real alarm. at well past seventeen one doesn't like to be put in with fellows who average sixteen, myron held. as a matter of fact, the third class contained more students of his age than it did of fellows younger, and he would not have found himself out of place there. but he didn't know that, and as a result he pleaded very hard to be allowed to enter the class above. in the end, after much hesitation, and with no very good grace, mr. morgan consented. "but you'll have to do some hard work, foster, if you're to stay there. unless you're willing to, i'd advise you to go into the third." "i'll work, sir. maybe i could coach in latin." "yes, you could do that. if you like, i'll give you the address of a fellow who does a good deal of tutoring and gets excellent results." he wrote the address on a slip and myron tucked it in his pocket. "well, that's all, i think. i hope you will get on nicely, foster. let me see, your adviser is----" "mr. cooper, sir." "good. don't hesitate to consult him. he's a fine man and you'll like him immensely, i think. good morning." myron had a spare hour after dinner and spent it unpacking. when some of his things had been distributed around the study the place really looked fairly homelike and attractive, and he began to look forward to a year at parkinson with more equanimity. if only he wasn't handicapped with his latin, he thought, things wouldn't be so bad. with dobbins out of the way and the study and bedroom to himself, he guessed he could get along fairly comfortably. there was a half-hour of physics at three, and after that he was through for the day. he returned to sohmer and changed into his football togs, which, unlike the nondescript garments worn by joe dobbins, were fairly new and of the best materials. when he had examined himself critically and appreciatively in the glass he sauntered downstairs, skirted the end of the gymnasium building and had his first real look at the playfield. nearly twelve acres of still green turf stretched before him, his view uninterrupted save by the grandstand directly before him. to his left were the tennis courts, both clay and grass, and about them white-clad figures darted. nearer at hand, the blue-grey running track inclosed the first team gridiron. beyond that two more pairs of goal-posts met his sight, and then the baseball diamonds filled the balance of the field. track and gridirons and diamonds were already occupied, and the nearer grandstand held a handful of boys who had gathered in the warm sunlight to watch the activities. football practice was called for three-thirty, and it was nearly four when myron reached the field. he was in no hurry to join the panting and perspiring squads that trotted around over the turf, and so he perched himself on one of the lower seats of the stand and looked the situation over. not far away the manager and assistant manager, both earnest-looking youths, talked to a stout man in a faded brown sweater who later turned out to be the trainer, billy goode. myron wondered where the coach might be, but he couldn't find any one who much resembled his idea of what that gentleman should look like. however, with more than a hundred fellows at work out there it was easy enough to overlook him. a squad of advanced players trotted near, going through elementary signal work. rather to myron's surprise, joe dobbins was amongst them, sandwiched between two capable-looking youths in togs quite as disreputable as his. joe was acting as right guard, it seemed. myron's opinion of joe as a football player went up a peg, for it was fairly evident that this squad was made up of last-year fellows and probably contained the nucleus of what in a few days would be known as the first squad. about this time myron became aware that some of the fellows about him on the grandstand were viewing him curiously. doubtless they were wondering why, being in playing togs, he didn't get down there and go to work. of course it was none of their business, but maybe it was time he found the coach and reported. he made inquiry of the manager, a slim, very alert youth armed with a formidable notebook in which he was making entries when myron approached. "mr. driscoll? he's around here somewhere." the manager, whose name was farnsworth, looked frowningly about the field. "yes, there he is down there, the man with the blue sweater. are you just reporting for practice?" "yes," answered myron. "i wasn't out yesterday." "what's the name?" asked farnsworth briskly. "foster." "foster?" the manager fluttered the leaves of the big notebook until he found the f's. then: "what are the initials, foster?" "m. w." "class?" "third." "ever played before?" "naturally." farnsworth shot a quick glance. "where?" he asked. "port foster high school team, port foster, delaware. i played two years there." "line or backfield?" "backfield: before that at end." "had your physical exam yet?" "no, i didn't know about it. where do i take it?" "see mr. tasser, in the gym. any time between ten and twelve and four and six. better do it today. rules are rather strict, foster. all right. report to cummins. he's handling the new men. you'll find him down there by the east goal: ask any one." "i though i'd tell the coach----" "not necessary. cummins'll look after you." myron shrugged mentally and turned his steps toward the indicated location. "one of those smart alecks," he thought. "thinks he's the whole push. all right, it's not my business to tell him his. if they want me to waste my time with the beginners it's their funeral." cummins wasn't difficult to find. myron heard his bark long before he reached him. nearly thirty youths, most of them youngsters of fourteen and fifteen, although here and there an older boy was to be noticed, were learning to handle the ball. cummins appeared to be about eighteen, a heavily-built chap with a shock of reddish-brown hair and a round face liberally spattered with freckles. just now the face was scowling ferociously and cummins was sneering stridently at his charges. myron took an instant dislike to mr. charles cummins, and, or so it appeared, mr. charles cummins took an equal dislike to myron. "well, well, _well_, well!!" barked cummins as myron came up. "what do you fellows think this is? a lawn party or a sewing circle or what? maybe you're waiting for the ice-cream to be served? listen just one minute, will you? _stop that ball_, you long-legged fellow! now then, let's understand each other. this is football practice. get that? the idea is to learn to hold that ball without having it get away from you, and to catch it and to pass it. we aren't doing aesthetic dancing or--or acting in a pageant. this is _work_, w-o-r-k, work! any of you who are out here just to get the air or to tan your necks can quit right now. i'm here to show you hopeless ninnies how to handle a football, and i propose to do it if it takes from now to christmas, and the sooner you put your minds on what you're doing and _try_ a little, the sooner you'll get through. now start that ball around again and, for the love of limes, remember some of the things i've told you. when you catch it, grab it with both hands and hug it. it isn't an egg. it won't break. that's the idea, judson, or whatever your name is. go ahead, go ahead! get some ginger into it! pass it along! don't go to sleep. i said hug it, not fondle it, whittier! when you--hello, more trouble?" "the manager fellow told me to report to you," said myron as cummins turned a baleful gaze on him. "oh, the 'manager fellow' told you that, did he? what does the 'coach fellow' say?" "i haven't seen the coach yet," answered myron coldly. "haven't you? why, say, maybe you won't like him! don't you think you ought to look him over first? it would be fierce if you didn't happen to approve of him. what's your name?" "foster." "all right, foster, you push right in there and show me how you catch a football. something tells me that my troubles are all over now that you've joined this aggregation of stars!" myron suppressed the angry retort that sprang to his lips and took his place in the big circle. "bounder!" he muttered as he did so. the boy next to him on the left heard and snickered, and cummins guessed the reason. unseen of myron, he grinned. "when you can get 'em mad," he said to himself, "there's hope for 'em." when the ball was passed to myron he caught it deftly, bending his body over it, and then promptly sped it on to the youth who had snickered. the latter was unaccustomed to such speed and was not ready, and the ball bounded away. he lumbered after it and scooped it up, returning to his place with an accusing scowl for myron. "think you're smart, i suppose," he grumbled. "sorry," said myron, "but you ought to be ready for it." "is that so? well----" "cut out that talking!" barked cummins. "speed it up, fellows!" there was ten minutes more of the dreary work, during which myron mechanically received the pigskin and sent it on to the next in the circle without a hitch. if he expected to win commendation from cummins, however, he was disappointed. cummins was eloquent with criticism, but never once did he utter a word of approval. at last: "that'll do for that, fellows," he called. "you may rest a minute. maybe some of you'll get your strength back." he approached myron with an accusing scowl. "what are you doing in this bunch?" he demanded. "you don't belong here." "i was sent here," replied myron warmly. "didn't you have sense enough to tell farnsworth you weren't a greenie? think i've got nothing to do but waste my time?" "well, you're not the only one who's doing it, are you? what about my time?" "that's your affair. i didn't want you, believe me! you ought to have told him you knew something about a football. he's no mind-reader, you know." "i told him i'd played two years on a high school team----" "oh! that explains it. you high school ginks usually don't know enough football to make the first year team. guess farnsworth thought you were like the run of 'em." "maybe," replied myron indifferently, "but it's not my business to teach you fellows how to run your affairs." "hard luck for us, isn't it? well, say, mr. 'igh and 'aughty, you trek across there and tell farnsworth i say you're graduated from my bunch. get it? tell him to put you somewhere else, and tell him i don't care where it is!" "thanks," returned myron with deep sarcasm. "i'm horribly sorry to leave you, though. it's a real pleasure working under such a gentlemanly instructor, mr. cummins." cummins watched him for a long moment with his mouth open. "well, what do you know about that?" he murmured at last. "the cheeky beggar!" then he grinned again and, surprising amused and delighted expressions on the countenances of those of his squad who had been near enough to overhear the conversation, quickly changed the grin for a scowl. "all right now!" he barked. "line up along there. who's got the ball? let's see what you pin-heads know about starting." myron's message to farnsworth resulted in his finishing the practice with a group of fellows whose education had progressed beyond the rudimentary stage. toward the last of the period he was put to catching punts with a half-dozen other backfield candidates and performed to his own satisfaction at least. there was no scrimmage today, nor was there any for several days following, and at five o'clock coach driscoll sent them off to the showers. later myron went upstairs and found the physical director and underwent his examination, obtaining a chart filled with perplexing lines and puzzling figures and official permission to engage in "any form of athletics approved by the committee." after which he returned rather wearily to number 17 sohmer and joe dobbins. chapter vi "a. t. merriman" the next forenoon myron set off in a spare hour to find the tutor whose address mr. morgan had given him. if he had cherished the notion of possibly getting along without coaching in latin his experiences that morning had banished it. mr. addicks, or old addie, as he was called, was a likable sort and popular with the students, but he was capable of a gentle sarcasm that was horribly effective with any one whose skin was less thick than that of a rhinoceros, and an hour or so ago he had caused myron to heartily wish himself small enough to creep into a floor crack and pull some dust over him! no use talking, myron told himself as he set forth for mill street, he'd have to find this chap and get right to work. he wouldn't face that horrible addicks again until he had put in a solid week of being tutored. it would get him in bad at the office, maybe, if the instructor called on him very often in that week, for he would just say "not prepared," but anything was to be preferred to standing up there like a jay and letting addicks make fun of him! when he reached the head of school street he pulled the slip of paper again from his pocket and made sure of the address. "a. t. merriman, 109 mill street," was what was written there. he asked his way at the next corner and was directed across the railroad. "mill street runs at right angles to the track," said the citizen who was directing him. "you'll see a granite building after you pass the crossing. that's whitwell's mill. the street you want runs along the farther side of it." myron thanked him and went on down school street. the obliging citizen gazed after him in mingled surprise and admiration. "well, he's certainly a dressy boy," he murmured. "must be old john w. croesus's son!" mill street wasn't far and 109 was soon found, but the character of the district wasn't at all to myron's liking. ragged and dirty children overflowed the sidewalks and played in the cobbled roadway, slatternly women gossiped from open windows, dejected-looking men lounged at the corners, stray cats rummaged the gutters. the houses, frame structures whose dingy clapboards were flush with the street, had apparently seen far better days. now dust and grime lay thick on them and many a window was wanting a pane of glass. the prospect of penetrating to such a place every day was revolting, and, having found the numerals "109" above a sagging porch, myron was strongly inclined to turn back. but he didn't, and a tinkle that followed his pull at the rusty knob beside the door brought a stout and frowsy woman who wiped her hands on her apron as she pulled the portal open. "mr. merriman?" inquired myron. "i don't know is he in, sir. one flight up and you'll see his name on the door. if you come again, sir, just you step right in. the door ain't never locked in the daytime." myron mounted a creaky stairway guiltless of carpet and found himself in a narrow hall from which four doors opened. in spite of dinginess and want of repairs, the interior of 109 was, he had to acknowledge, astonishingly clean. one of the doors did present a card to the inquiring gaze, but in the gloom its inscription was not decipherable and so myron chanced it and knocked. a voice answered from beyond the portal and nearly simultaneously a dog barked sharply. myron entered. the room was large and well lighted from two sides. it was also particularly devoid of furniture, or so it looked to the visitor. a large deal table strewn with papers and piled with books stood near the centre of the apartment where the cross light from the two pairs of windows fell on it. the floor was carpetless, but two scraps of straw matting saved it from utter bareness. there was a bench under the windows on one side and a flattened cushion and two faded pillows adorned it. what seemed to myron the narrowest bed in the whole wide world, an unlovely thing of black iron rails, was pushed into a corner, and beside it was a box from which overflowed a grey blanket. three chairs, one a decrepit armchair from whose leather covering the horsehair stuffing protruded in many places, stood about. there was also a bureau and a washstand. on the end of the former stood a small gas-stove and various pans and cooking utensils. books, mostly sober-sided, dry-looking volumes, lay everywhere, on table, bureau, window-seat, chair and even on the floor. between the several articles of furniture lay broad and arid expanses of unpainted flooring. at first glance the room appeared to be inhabited only by a tall, thin but prepossessing youth of perhaps twenty years and a scottish terrier whose age was a matter for conjecture since her countenance was fairly well hidden by sandy hair. the youth was seated at the deal table and the terrier was halfway between box and door, growling inquiringly at the intruder. at myron's entry merriman tilted back in his chair, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and said "good morning" in a deep, pleasant voice. then he added mildly: "shut up, tess, or i'll murder you." the terrier gave a last growl and retired to the box. as she settled down in it a series of astonishing squeaks emerged. myron looked across startledly and merriman laughed. "puppies," he explained. "six of them. that's why she's so ferocious. seems to think every one who comes upstairs is a kidnapper. i tell her the silly things are too ugly to tempt any one, but she doesn't believe me." "will she let me see them?" asked myron eagerly. "oh, yes." merriman drew his long length from the chair and led the way to the box. "now then, old lady, pile out of here and let the gentleman have a look at your ugly ducklings." the terrier made no objection to being removed, but the puppies cried dismally at the parting. myron chuckled. "funny things!" he exclaimed. "why, they haven't got their eyes open yet!" "no, they're only six days old. how's this one for a butter-ball? isn't he a fat rascal? all right, tess, we won't hurt them. i vouch for the gentleman. he never stole a puppy in all his innocent young life." "i never did," myron corroborated, "but i'd like to start right now!" "like dogs, eh?" asked the host. "yes, indeed. funny thing is, though, that i've never owned one." "no? how does that happen?" "i don't know. my mother thinks they're rather a nuisance around the house. still, i dare say she'd have let me kept one if i'd insisted. i don't suppose you--you'd care to sell one of those?" "oh, yes, i would. i'll have to either sell them or give them: unless i send them off to the happy hunting ground." "really? how much would they be?" "the lot?" asked merriman, a twinkle in his eye. "gee, no! one!" "five dollars. tess is good stock, and the father is a thoroughbred belonging to terrill, the stableman on centre street. got a place to keep him?" "i'd forgot about that," owned myron. "i'm afraid not. they wouldn't let me have him in sohmer, would they?" "scarcely!" laughed the other. "all right, old lady, back you go. sit down--ah--what's the name, please?" "foster. mr. morgan gave me your address. i want some tutoring in latin, and he said he thought you could take me on." "possibly. just dump those books on the seat there. what hours do you have free, foster?" "this hour in the morning and any time in the evening." "what about afternoon?" "i'm trying for the football team and that doesn't leave me much time afternoons. still, i guess we're usually through by five." merriman shook his head. "i'd rather not waste my time and yours, foster. football practice doesn't leave a fellow in very good trim for tutoring. better say the evening, i guess. how would seven to nine do?" "two hours?" asked myron startledly. "yes, you can't accomplish much in less. i can't, anyhow." "very well. seven to nine. shall i come here or----" "i'll come to you. what's the number in sohmer? seventeen? all right. we'll begin tomorrow. my terms are a dollar an hour. you pay for the time it takes me to get to you, usually about ten minutes. can you arrange with your room-mate to let us have the place to ourselves at that time?" "oh, yes," replied myron confidently. "good. now pull your chair over here, please, and we'll see what the job is." merriman had a lean face from which two dark brown eyes looked keenly forth. his mouth was broad and his nose straight and long. a high forehead, a deep upper lip and a firmly pointed chin added to the general effect of length. you couldn't have called him handsome, by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something attractive in his homeliness. perhaps it was the expression of the eyes or perhaps the smile that hovered continuously about the wide mouth. he dressed, myron reflected, as wretchedly as joe dobbins: more wretchedly, in fact, for joe's clothes were at least new and good of their kind, whereas merriman's things were old, frayed, ill-fitting. his trousers, which bagged so at the knees that they made merriman look crooked, had been a positive shock to the visitor. but in spite of attire and surroundings, myron liked this new acquaintance. above all, he liked his voice. it was deep without being gruff and had a kind of--of pleasant kindliness in it, he thought. after all, it was no fault to be poor if you couldn't help it, he supposed; and he had known fellows back home--not intimately, of course, but well enough to talk to--who, while poor, were really splendid chaps. presently merriman finished his questions and finished jotting down little lines and twirls and pot-hooks on a scrap of paper. myron rather wished he knew shorthand too. it looked ridiculously easy the way merriman did it. "all right, thanks," said the latter as he laid his pencil down. "i think i know what we've got ahead of us. frankly, i don't see how they let you into the third with so little latin, foster. but we'll correct that. how are you at learning, by the way? does it come easy or do you have to grind hard?" "why, i think i learn things fairly easily," replied myron doubtfully. "of course, latin looks hard to me because i've never had much of it, but i think--i hope you won't find me too stupid." afterwards, recalling the visit, it struck him as odd that he should have said that. usually he didn't trouble greatly about whether folks found him one way or another. he was myron foster, take him or leave him! "i shan't," answered merriman. "i've had all sorts and i always manage to get results." "do you do much tutoring?" myron asked. "a good deal. not so much now as later. spring's my busy time." "i shouldn't think you'd have time for your own studies." "i'm not taking much this year. only four courses. i could have finished last spring, but i wasn't quite ready for college then. by the way, if you hear of any one wanting a nice puppy i wish you'd send them to me. i can't keep all that litter and i'd hate to kill the poor little tykes." "i will," myron assured him. "and--and i'm not sure i shan't buy one myself. i suppose i could find some one to keep him for me." "i think so. well, good morning. say good-bye to the gentleman, tess." the terrier barked twice as myron closed the door behind him. chapter vii with the awkward squad "sure! that's all right," said joe dobbins. "if i want to dig i can trot over to the library or somewhere. seven to nine, you said?" "yes, but it won't be for very long, i guess: maybe only a couple of weeks. merriman seemed an awfully clever sort of a chap." "must be if he can teach latin! i never did see the good of that stuff, anyway." joe fluttered the pages of the book he had been studying. after a moment he said: "say, foster, you're a sort of sartorial authority--how's that for language, eh?--and you know what's what in the line of clothes, i guess. now i wish you'd tell me honestly if there's anything wrong with the things i wear. they look all right to me, but i notice two or three of the fellows sort of piping 'em off like they were wondering about 'em. what's wrong with the duds?" and joe glanced over the grey suit, with the large green and blue threads running through it, that he was wearing. "why, they----" but myron paused. three days before he would not have hesitated to render a frank opinion of the clothes; would have welcomed the opportunity, in fact: but this afternoon he found that he didn't want to hurt joe's feelings. "spit it out, kiddo--i mean foster! let's know the worst." "well, i suppose they're good material and well made, dobbins, but the fact is they--they're different, if you see what i mean." "i don't. what _do_ you mean, just? style all wrong by fifth avenue standards?" "by any standard," replied myron firmly. "they look ready-made." "but, gee, they _are_ ready-made! i never had a suit made to order in my life. why should i? i'm not hump-backed or--or got one leg longer than the other!" "some ready-made clothes don't look it, though," explained myron. "yours do. did you get them in portland?" "sure. we've got some dandy stores in portland." "did that suit come from the best one?" asked myron drily. "n-no, it didn't, to tell the hideous truth." joe chuckled. "you see, the old man has a friend who runs a store and we've both got sort of used to dealing with this guy. he's a pretty square sort, too; a canuck. peter lafavour's his name. but i guess maybe peter doesn't know so much about style as he makes out to, eh? i always sort of liked these duds, though: they're sort of--er--snappy, eh?" myron smiled. "they're too snappy, dobbins. that's one out with them. then they don't fit anywhere. and they look cheap and badly cut." "aside from that they're all right, though?" asked joe hopefully. "perhaps, although gentlemen aren't wearing pockets put on at an angle or cuffs on the sleeves." "and peter swore that this suit was right as rain!" sighed joe. "ain't he the swine? how about my other one?" "well, it's better cut and hasn't so many queer folderols," answered myron, "but it looks a good deal like a grain-sack when you get it on, old man." "what do you know about that!" joe shook his head dismally, but myron caught the irrepressible twinkle in his room-mate's eyes. "guess i'll have to dig down in the old sock and buy me a new outfit," he continued. "i suppose those tony-looking duds you wear were made to order, eh? think your tailor could make me a suit if i wrote and told him what size collar i wear?" "i'm afraid not, but i saw a tailor shop in the village here today that looked pretty good. why not try there?" "blamed if i don't, kid--foster! i don't suppose you'd want to go along with me and see that i get what's right? i'd hate to find i had too many buttons on my vest--i mean waistcoat--when the things were done!" "i don't mind," answered myron after an imperceptible moment of hesitation, "although you really won't need me if the chap knows his business. no first-class tailor will turn you out anything that isn't correct." "yeah, but--well, i'd feel easier in my mind if i had you along. maybe tomorrow, eh? somehow these duds i've got on don't make such a hit with me as they did! coming over to the gym? it's mighty near time for practice." "in a minute," answered myron carelessly. "you run along." then he reflected that if he was to go with joe to the tailor's the next day he might just as well start in now and get used to being seen with him. "guess i'm ready, though," he corrected. "come on." the distance from sohmer to the gym was only a matter of yards, and it wasn't until the two reached the entrance of the latter building that they encountered any one. then, or so myron imagined, the three fellows who followed them through the big oak door looked curiously from joe's astounding attire to his own perfectly correct grey flannels. he was glad when the twilight of the corridor was reached, and all the way down the stairs to the locker-room below he was careful to avoid all suggestions of intimacy with joe. football was still in the first rather chaotic phase. an unusually large number of candidates had reported this fall, and, while in theory it was a fine thing to have so much material to select from, in reality it increased the work to be done tremendously. on the second day of school one hundred and twelve boys of all sizes and ages and all degrees of inexperience were on hand, and coach, captain and trainer viewed the gathering helplessly. today a handful of the original number had dropped out of their own accord, but there were still nearly a hundred left, and when myron, having changed to his togs, followed the dribble of late arrivals to the field he wondered what on earth would be done with them all. perhaps coach driscoll was wondering the same thing, for there was a perplexed frown on his face as he talked with billy goode and contemplatively trickled a football from one hand to the other. myron rather liked the looks of mr. driscoll. so far he had not even spoken to the coach and doubted if the latter so much as knew of his existence, but there was something in the coach's face and voice and quick, decisive movements that told myron that he knew his business. "tod" driscoll was about thirty, perhaps a year or two more, and had coached at parkinson for several seasons. he was a parkinson graduate, but his football reputation had been made at yale. he was immensely popular with the students, although he made no effort to gain popularity and was the strictest kind of a disciplinarian. today, while myron, pausing at the edge of the crowded gridiron a few yards distant, viewed him and speculated about him, the coach showed rather less decision than usual, for twice he gave instructions, once to billy and once to the manager, and each time changed his mind. "we've got to find more instructors," myron heard him say a trifle impatiently. "how about you, ken? know enough football to take a bunch of those beginners over to the second team gridiron?" "i'm afraid not, coach," answered kenneth farnsworth. "you don't need to know much. what do you say, billy? who is there? i've got most of the veterans at work already, and there isn't one of them that shouldn't be learning instead of teaching." myron didn't hear the trainer's reply, for at that moment a well-built, light-haired, somewhat harassed youth of apparently nineteen strode up to the group. "look here, coach," he began before he was well within talking distance, "what about the backs? we've got to have some get-together work before saturday's game, haven't we? cater says you've got him in charge of a kindergarten class, brown's sewed up the same way, garrison hasn't shown up----" "i know, cap. but what are we going to do with this raft of talent? some one's got to take hold of them, and i can't take more than twenty. cummins is about ready to go on strike----" "it _is_ a mess, isn't it?" captain mellen turned and viewed the scene puzzledly. "the worst of it is that there probably aren't a dozen in the whole lot worth troubling with." "true, but we've got to find the dozen," answered mr. driscoll. "we can't afford to miss any bets this year, cap. we'll call the first-choice backs together at four. that'll give us half an hour for kindergarten stuff. but i want a couple more fellows to take hold. who are they?" "search me! why not double them up, sir?" "they've been doubled up--or pretty nearly. cummins has about thirty to look after and cater twenty-four or five. that's too many. sixteen's enough for a squad. how about garrison?" "he isn't here. i don't know what----" "he's cut," interposed farnsworth. "got a conference at four." "conference! gee, why couldn't he have that some other time?" asked jud mellen. "time to start, sir," said farnsworth, looking at his watch. "all right, let's get at it. but i wish i could think--who's that fellow there, mellen?" mr. driscoll dropped his voice. mellen turned and looked at myron and shook his head. "i don't know him, coach. who is he, ken?" "i think"--farnsworth turned the pages of his book until he had found the f's--"i think his name is forrest. no, foster. high school fellow. two years playing. passed a corking physical exam." "foster!" myron, who had been aware that he was under discussion, joined the group. "yes, sir?" he asked. "think you could take about twenty fellows over to the next field and show them how to handle the ball? you know the sort of stuff, don't you? passing, falling, starting and so on. want to try it?" "yes, sir, i can do it all right." "good! we've got such a mob here today that we're short-handed. stick to me a minute and i'll round you up a bunch." "you can't call him exactly modest, can you?" asked the manager of billy goode when the others had walked away. "'i can do it all right,' says he." "how do you know he can't?" asked billy. "and if he can there ain't any harm in his saying so, is there? say, if i was starting my life over again, my friend, i'd say yes to everything like that any one asked me. i missed a lot of good chances by being too modest." "and truthful?" laughed kenneth. "let it go at modest," said billy smiling. myron received eighteen boys as his portion and led them across to the second team gridiron and set to work. four other awkward squads adorned the field, the nearer one being under the care of charles cummins. myron smiled secretly when he saw the surprised stare with which cummins regarded him. when their glances met cummins nodded shortly. to put his class through the third lesson was no trick for myron, but it was dreary and tiresome work. it seemed to him that coach driscoll must have deliberately apportioned to him the stupidest boys on the field, for of all the awkward squads myron had ever had anything to do with his was the awkwardest. but some few presently began to respond to treatment and by the time they were jumping out of the line and digging knees and elbows and shoulders into the turf in the effort to land on the trickling pigskin he felt that he hadn't done so badly with them. he didn't say much to them, for his own experience had shown him that too much instruction and criticism only confused the pupil, and neither did he try to impress them with their stupidity. as a result, most of them eventually forgot to be self-conscious and tried to follow instructions. watching, myron heard a voice at his elbow and looked around into the face of cummins, who, giving his own charges a moment of rest, had walked across unnoticed. "how do _you_ like it?" cummins inquired shortly. "there are other things i'd rather be doing," replied myron. he didn't feel particularly friendly toward this chap who had badgered him so a day or two before, and his tone showed it. a smile flickered around the corners of cummins' mouth. "main thing," he said gravely, "is to be patient with them. i find that pays best." myron turned and looked at him wonderingly. "that sounds well," he replied sarcastically. cummins grinned. "got it in for me, haven't you?" he said. "don't blame you--er--whatever your name is. i was never cut out for a teacher. besides, i want to get to work myself. what's your line? tackle?" "i don't know. whatever i get, i suppose. try that again, you chap. get started quicker. i played half-back last year." "guard's my game. well, i guess i'd better go back and hound those fellows some more. see you again, foster, if i live." myron wondered why cummins had pretended not to recall his name at first. "just to be as disagreeable as possible, i guess," he concluded. cummins' hectoring voice floated across the field just then: "all right, my hearties! line up again and, for the love of limes, look intelligent if you can't act so!" ten minutes later the awkward squads were called to the bench and myron went to work on squad d or e, he didn't know which it was, and trotted around the field behind a shrill-voiced quarterback, practising a handful of elementary plays that he already knew by heart. he wondered how long it would be before some one in authority discovered that they were wasting the time of a first-class half-back! chapter viii joe talks sense parkinson played mapleton the first saturday after the opening of school and had no difficulty in scoring as she pleased, confining herself mainly to old-style line-bucking attack. mapleton was not, however, a strong opponent, and the final score of 18 to 0 was not particularly complimentary to the home team. there was much ragged playing on both sides, for neither team had had more than a week of preparation. parkinson started with four of last year's players in the line and two behind it. the substitutes, of whom many were used before the contest was over, were not notably brilliant, with the possible exception of a lad named keene, who went in as left end in the final five minutes, and of joe dobbins who played a steady game at right tackle for the entire fourth period. myron, watching from the bench with half a hundred others, viewed joe's success with mingled emotions. he was rather surprised at joe's skill, but he was not a little disgruntled at the ease with which that raw youth had attained his success. here was he, myron, still kicking his heels with the fourth or fifth squad, while joe, who played no better and knew no more football, was already chosen as possible school team material. myron secretly thought it a "raw deal." he had become fairly reconciled to remaining at parkinson, but this afternoon he again began to suspect that his talents and merits were not to receive the consideration they deserved and to wish that he had been able to go elsewhere. they had worked him off on the kindergarten class as instructor two afternoons and he had received no thanks for his labours. aside from that, he had received no sort of recognition. he might just as well be one of the raw recruits! he suspected that it might pay him to push himself forward a little: he believed that joe had done that. but then joe was just the sort of chap who would see nothing out of the way in self-advertisement. although myron held a very good opinion of himself as a football player he considered it beneath his dignity to beg for favours. if coach driscoll couldn't discover talent for himself then he could do without it. "i'll give them another week or so," decided myron, "and then if they haven't given me a show i'll quit." he was rather chilly toward joe that evening. the latin was progressing well. merriman saw that it did. he arrived like clockwork every evening save sunday at exactly ten minutes past seven, spread his books and papers without the loss of a minute and had no breath for extraneous matters. "good evening" was the extent of his small-talk. after that it was business with him. when, on the occasion of his first appearance in 17 sohmer, myron asked him how the puppies were getting along, merriman frowned and said: "you aren't paying me to talk puppies, foster. have you found the page?" having finished the two-hour session, merriman dropped his books into a green-cloth bag, took up his hat, said "good-night, foster," and went. that, at least, was the usual procedure, but this saturday night he varied it. when he had pulled the string of that green bag close he laid it beside his hat and asked: "doing anything?" "doing--oh, no, not a thing," answered myron. "then i'll stick around a few minutes." merriman pulled a chair toward him and settled his feet on it and sighed luxuriously. "i suppose you saw the game this afternoon. you told me you were out for the team, didn't you?" "yes." myron's voice may have sounded disgruntled, for merriman smiled faintly and asked: "what's the matter? working you too hard?" "no, they aren't working me at all," replied myron bitterly. "i mean, all i'm doing is going through a lot of stunts i learned two years ago. i guess things are sort of balled up this year. they've got so many candidates out there that they can't begin to handle them all, and i dare say i'll be just where i am in november--if i stay." "cheer up," said the other. "they'll let you go before that." "but, hang it, merriman, i've played the game for two years: more than that, counting when i was a kid: and i was captain of my team last year. that may not mean much to these fellows here, but at least it ought to secure me a chance to show what i can do." "seems so. doesn't it? i mean, aren't you getting a chance?" "no, i'm not," answered myron warmly. "i'm fuddling around with about fifteen or sixteen other fellows, most of whom never saw a football until a week ago, and getting nowhere. no one pays any attention to you here. they just say 'report to jones or smith or some one' and forget all about you." "hm. why not tell driscoll you want a real try-out?" "why can't he see that i deserve one? it isn't my place to select his players for him!" "n-no, but if there are so many candidates that he's likely to overlook you----" merriman was interrupted by the entrance of joe dobbins. it was well after nine and joe thought he was privileged to return home. finding merriman still there, however, he hesitated at the door. "hello! i thought you were through, foster. i'll beat it." "we are through," said merriman. "i'm going myself in a minute." "oh, all right. don't let me scare you away, though." myron performed the introduction and the two boys shook hands. "glad to know you," said joe heartily. "any guy who knows enough latin to teach it to others can have my vote every time!" myron frowned. he wished that joe wouldn't talk so much like a rowdy, and he glanced at merriman to see how that youth had taken his room-mate's breeziness. apparently merriman was neither pained nor surprised. instead, he was regarding joe with smiling interest. "thanks," he said, "but being able to teach latin to others doesn't amount to much, dobbins. when the other fellow knows a little less about any subject than you do you can trust a lot to bluff." "ain't that the truth?" exclaimed joe, flinging himself into a chair. "look at foster there. he's been teaching a lot of poor dubs how to catch a football, and i dare say they think he invented the game!" he winked at the visitor and grinned at myron. the latter, however, was not feeling kindly enough toward joe to take the joke gracefully. he flushed and scowled. "i dare say i know as much football as some fellows who played this afternoon," he said huffily. "right you are, kiddo! but that isn't saying a whole lot. some of those guys were pretty green, i thought. did you see the game?" he looked at merriman and the latter shook his head. "no, i would have liked to, for, although i never played, i'm a regular football fan. but i don't have much time for the games. i take it that you played today." "me? a little. they put me in for the last quarter. guess they didn't have any one else." "where do you play?" asked merriman. "tackle, guard, anywhere around there. it's a great game, football. i'd rather play it than--than study latin! say, you're the guy that has the puppies, aren't you? foster was telling me. i'd like to see 'em. i'm crazy about dogs." "come around some day," replied merriman cordially. "you'll find me in usually between nine and ten and one and two." "i'll just do that little thing," joe agreed. "gee, if i had a place to keep one of 'em i'd fall for it. maybe if i find a room outside i'll buy one off you." "glad to sell you one, dobbins. i've got five that i don't need. well, i must be getting back. by the way, i'm home all the morning tomorrow. if you like to drop around i'll be glad to show you my children." "it's a go," said joe heartily. "have 'em all dressed up for company, eh? i'll be there." "nice guy," observed joe when merriman had taken his departure. "i sure do like a fellow that looks cheerful. ever notice how many of the chaps here look like they'd just eaten a sour pickle, foster? it doesn't cost a cent more to look cheerful, either." "your idea of looking cheerful is to grin like a codfish all the time," growled myron. "i'd rather look the other way." "huh! ever have a good look at a codfish, kiddo? he looks as sour as--as you do this minute! has his mouth all drawn down, you know. maybe he's a real merry sort of a guy when he's in the water, but he sure doesn't look that way when he's out of it!" "never mind how i look," said myron sharply. "and cut out that 'kiddo.' i've spoken about that often enough." "oh, all right. my error." joe winked gravely at the lamp. after a moment he asked: "when's that furniture of yours coming?" "i don't know. it should have been here before this. why?" "nothing. i was just wondering. i was looking at a room on union street this afternoon. a fellow's got it now, but the dame says he's going to move out next week. i'd have to furnish it myself, of course. i suppose furniture costs a good bit, eh?" "some of it," answered myron. "maybe i could get some second-hand things, though. i wouldn't need much. the trouble with the dive is that it has only one window and that looks out on a back yard full of washing. there's something sort of--of dejecting about a lot of clothes on a line. don't know why, either. how'd you like the game?" "all right, i guess." "how did i do?" "you know as well as i, don't you? i wasn't watching you particularly." "that's funny," chuckled joe. "i thought every one was watching me hard. anyway, the guy i played opposite was! that was an easy bunch, though. their backs weren't on the job at all. maybe i wouldn't rip them up if i was their coach! they say next saturday's game will be a real one, though. hope they let me in again. how are you coming on, by the way?" "i'm not coming on," said myron. "i'm getting a bit sick of it, and if they think i'm going to stand much more of their silly nonsense they're mistaken. i'm all right to coach a lot of greenies, it seems, but after that i can whistle. i wouldn't mind if i couldn't play as well as half the fellows that were in the game today." "i guess your time's coming," said joe consolingly. "they'll be weeding them out next week, and when they've got rid of about forty of them they'll be able to see what's left." "if they don't hurry i won't be one of those left," said myron grumpily, "and that's flat. i wish i'd stuck to my first scheme and gone to kenwood. there are fewer fellows there and maybe a chap might have a chance to get somewhere." joe shook his head disapprovingly. "i'm glad you didn't do that," he said. "sort of sounds like treason or something. say, how'd you happen to change your mind, anyway? old man kick at it?" myron had not gone into particulars regarding his decision to remain at parkinson but had told joe that "he guessed he'd try to stick it out." if joe had surmised the real reason for the overnight change of heart he had kept the fact to himself. now myron hesitated. he didn't want the real reason known nor did he want to tell joe a lie. so he answered: "there wasn't any kick, but as you spoke of going to the village i thought--that is--my father thought----" "oh, he knew about that, eh?" "who? about what?" "your father: about me thinking of getting a room outside." "not exactly, only he thought i might get a place to myself later." "you're a punk liar, foster," laughed joe. "the old man put your little scheme on the blink when he telegraphed to you. now didn't he?" "about that," confessed myron a bit sheepishly. "sure! i knew it all the time. and he was dead right, too. i'm going to talk sense to you, foster, whether you get sore or not. the trouble with you is that folks have made you think you're something a little bit better than the common run of fellows. you've always had everything you've wanted and you've been kept pretty close to the old million dollar hut, and i guess when you were a youngster you didn't have many fellows to play around with because your folks thought they might be sort of rough and teach you to throw snowballs and wrestle and all those vulgar things. and you're the only kid, too, aren't you?" "yes," said myron loftily, "but if you'll kindly mind your own business----" "shan't," said joe unruffledly. "you listen a minute. what i'm telling you's for your own good, just like everything nasty. being an only kid with rich parents and servants to tuck your napkin around your neck and everything is mighty hard on a fellow. it--it mighty near ruins him, foster! you aren't exactly a ruin--yet, but you're sure headed that way. why, doggone you, why ain't i good enough to room with? what you got that counts that i ain't got! same number of arms and legs, eh? wear about the same size hat, don't we? some fellows would have punched your head if you'd lorded it over 'em the way you did over me that first day. why----" "you try it!" said myron wrathfully. "well, you look like a fair scrapper, but i don't believe you ever had a good fight in your life. anyway, that's not the question. what i want to know is where you got your license to act like you're better than the next guy. money don't make you that way, nor classy clothes, nor knowing how to get into a limousine without falling over your feet. hang it, foster, you'd be all right if you'd just forget that your old man owns a ship-yard and get it into your bean that other fellows are human even if they wear hand-me-downs and would try to shake hands with the butler! think it over, old horse, and see if i ain't right." "i don't have to think it over. you 'ain't' right." myron laughed contemptuously. "you think----" "yeah, i'm likely to say 'ain't' when i get excited," replied joe, "but i'll get over that in time." "you think that just because i wear decent clothes i'm stuck-up," protested myron hotly. "i've never said or pretended that i am better than--than any one else! as for rooming with you, i explained that. i was to have a room to myself. that was understood." "all right," said joe soothingly. "but when you found you couldn't be by yourself why didn't you face it like a sport! and why turn up your nose as if they'd asked you to bunk in with the wild man of borneo?" "i'd just as lief," sputtered myron. "he wouldn't be any wilder than you are!" "yeah, but wait till you see me in those new duds we ordered," said joe pleasantly. "maybe you'll be real proud of me then. wouldn't wonder if you'd almost speak to me when there's other fellows looking!" myron flushed and his eyes fell. "that's a rotten thing to say, dobbins," he muttered. "true, though, ain't--isn't it?" "no, it isn't!" "my mistake then. sorry. well, i'm for the old bed. i suppose i might have kept my mouth shut and minded my own business, like you said, but that mess of talk's been sort of accumulating ever since we came together and i feel better for getting rid of it, whether you do or not! sorry if i said anything to hurt your feelings, foster." "don't worry. you didn't. what you say doesn't cut any ice with me." "then there's no harm done, eh? nor good either. it may make you happier to know that i've decided to take that room i told you about, though. the guy that's in it now moves out next friday and faculty's given me leave to change. that ought to give you sweet dreams, eh?" "it will," replied myron acidly. chapter ix myron loses his temper the next morning joe was as cheerful and smiling and good-natured as ever, but myron wasn't yet ready to forget, and his responses to his room-mate's overtures were brief and chilling. after breakfast, which on sundays was a half-hour later, joe suggested that myron walk over to the village with him and visit merriman and see the puppies. myron wanted to go, for the day was chill and cloudy and generally depressing, but his pride wouldn't let him and so he answered shortly that he had seen the puppies and he guessed they hadn't changed much. when joe had taken himself off myron felt horribly out-of-sorts and was heartily glad when church time came and, immaculately but soberly attired, he could set forth across the campus. dinner was at one o'clock, a more hearty repast than most of the fellows needed after a morning spent in comparative idleness. however, no one skimped it. myron went right through from soup to ice-cream, becoming more and more heavy and gloomy under the effects of an overloaded stomach. he had been placed at a table near the serving-room doors, and, while some of his companions declared that you got your things quicker and hotter by being so close to the source of supplies, myron disliked having the doors flap back and forth directly behind his back and detested the bursts of noise and aroma that issued forth at such times. today he resented those annoyances more than ever and found the conversation about him more than ordinarily puerile. there were a good many third class boys at his table, fellows of fourteen and fifteen, whose deportment was anything but staid. they were much given to playing practical jokes on each other, such as surreptitiously salting a neighbour's milk or sprinkling pepper in his napkin. and they were not above flicking pellets of bread when the nearest faculty member was not looking. each table had a "head" whose duty it was to see that proper decorum was observed. in some cases the head was one of the faculty, in other cases he was an older boy. the head at myron's table was a second class chap named rogers, a stoutish, easy-going fellow who was generally so busy eating everything he could lay hands to that he had no time for correcting his charges. it was unfortunate that young tinkham, the pink-cheeked, sandy-haired little cherub who sat almost opposite myron, should have selected today for his experiment with the bread pellet. tinkham had longed for days to see if he could lodge a pellet against myron's nose. to tinkham that nose looked supercilious and contemptuous and seemed to fairly challenge assault. until now tinkham had never been able to summon sufficient courage to dare the sacrilege, but today there was a demoralising atmosphere about and so when, having eaten his ice-cream and having nothing further to live for anyway, he saw myron's gaze wander toward the further end of the hall tinkham drew ammunition from under the edge of his butter dish and with an accuracy born of long practice let fly. his aim proved perfect. myron dropped his spoon and sped a hand to his outraged nose. before him, perched on the remains of his ice-cream, was the incriminating missile, and of all those who had witnessed the deed only one remained unsmiling, demure and innocent, and that one was the cherubic, fair-haired tinkham. myron lost his temper instantly and completely. "that was you, tinkham! i saw you!" the latter statement was hardly truthful, but tinkham didn't challenge it. he only looked surprised and pained. "you try that again and i'll box your silly little ears for you! remember that, too!" myron flicked the bread pellet disgustedly aside and glowered at the offender. "_boo!_" said one of tinkham's friends, and the younger element became convulsed with laughter. at that, rogers, who had been bending absorbedly over his dessert, looked up. "cut that out, fellows," he remonstrated feebly. "we're only laughing," giggled one of the boys. "wake up, sam," said eldredge, who was rogers' age and had viewed the proceedings with unconcealed amusement. "you're missing all the fun. if you didn't eat so much----" "if he didn't eat so much he might keep order at the table," said myron. rogers was too surprised to reply, but eldredge took up the cudgels in his behalf. "oh, don't be a grouch, foster," he sneered. "the kid didn't hurt you. it was only fun." "i don't like the kind, then," answered myron haughtily. "after this he can leave me out of his 'fun.'" "oh, piffle! come back to earth! if i'd been tinkham i'd have shied the whole loaf at you. then you'd have had something to kick about." "the something would have been you, then," retorted myron. "would it? is that so?" eldredge glared angrily across the table. "think you're man enough to kick me, do you? why, say----" "dry up, paul!" begged rogers. "tasser's got his eye on you." "i won't dry up," retorted the insulted eldredge. nevertheless he dropped his voice beyond the hearing of the neighbouring instructor. "if that stuck-up mollycoddle thinks he can talk about kicking me and get away with it he's all wrong, believe me!" the younger boys were listening in open delight and tinkham was fairly squirming with excitement. "get that, foster?" "i heard you," replied myron indifferently. "you did, eh? well, any time you feel like----" "rogers, what's wrong at your table?" it was mr. tasser's voice, and eldredge stopped suddenly and gulped back the rest of his remark. "i--i--that is, nothing, sir," stammered the head. then, to eldredge in an imploring whisper: "shut up, will you?" he begged. "want to get me in wrong?" eldredge muttered and shot venomous looks at myron while the youngsters sighed their disappointment. myron folded his napkin and arose leisurely, aware of the unsympathetic regard of his companions, and walked out. in the corridor he waited for a minute or two. he had no desire to carry matters any further with paul eldredge, but he felt that if he hurried away that youth might misconstrue the action. however, eldredge didn't appear and so myron went across to sohmer, still sore and irritated, to find an empty study. eldredge's failure to follow myron out of the dining hall had been due entirely to discretion. with mr. tasser's penetrant and suspicious gaze on him, he decided that it would be wise to avoid all seeming interest in myron. joe failed to return to the room, and after trying to do some studying and finding that he simply couldn't keep his mind on his task, myron pulled a cap on and sallied forth again. it was misting by then, and a chilling suggestion of autumn was in the air. when he had mooned along the country road that led toward cumner for a mile or so without finding anything of interest he turned back toward the town. a hot chocolate in a corner drug store restored his spirits somewhat and, having no better place to go, he crossed the railroad and made his way through the dreary quarter that held the residence of merriman. he didn't suppose merriman would be in, but it was something to do. recalling former instructions, he didn't bother to ring the bell this time, but opened the door and climbed the dark stairway to the second floor. that merriman was in became known to him before he had groped his way to the room, for from beyond the closed portal came the sound of voices. for a moment myron hesitated. he hadn't bargained on finding visitors there. but the loneliness of number 17 sohmer on this sunday afternoon decided him, and he knocked. merriman's voice bade him enter and he opened the door on a surprising scene. on the decrepit window-seat reclined joe dobbins. close by, in the room's one armchair, with his feet on a second chair, was merriman. between the two was a corner of the deal table, dragged from its accustomed place, and on the table was the remains of a meal: some greasy plates, a coffee pot, cups, bits of bread, about a third of a pie, a half-eaten banana, a jar of milk. the room, in spite of a wide-open window, smelled of sausages. on joe's chest reposed tess, the terrier, evidently too full of food and contentment to bark, and in merriman's lap was a squirming bunch of puppies. "come in, foster," called the host genially. "pardon me if i don't get up, but just now i am weighted with family cares. find a chair and draw up to our cosy circle. have you had food? there's some pie left, and i can heat some coffee for you in a second." "i've had dinner, thanks, a good while ago." he carefully lifted a dozen or so books from a chair and took it across to the window. he felt rather intrusive. and there was joe grinning at him from the seat, and he was supposed to have a grouch against joe. "well, have a piece of pie, won't you?" begged merriman hospitably. "sure? we were sort of late with our feed. what time is it, anyway? great scott, dobbins, it's nearly four! how long have we been sitting here?" "i've been here ever since i worried down that last piece of pie," said joe, "and i guess that was about an hour and a half ago. you ought to have showed up earlier, foster. you missed a swell feed!" "sausages and potatoes and pie," laughed merriman. "still, we managed to nearly kill ourselves: at least, i did." joe groaned and shifted the terrier to a new position. "been for a walk, foster?" "yes. it's a rotten day, isn't it?" "is it?" merriman glanced through the window in faint surprise. "i hadn't noticed. sort of cloudy i see. by the way, i've sold one of these little beggars." "have you? they've got their eyes open, haven't they?" "sort of half open," chuckled merriman. "maybe they're too fat to open them any wider. this is the one that's sold. his name is--what was it you named him, dobbins?" "zephaniah," answered joe gravely, "zephaniah q. dobbins." "what's the q for?" laughed merriman. "haven't decided yet. i just put that in for the sound. you see, foster, i'm calling him zephaniah after an old codger who used to live near us up at hecker's falls, maine. zephaniah binney was his name. he used to be a cook in the logging camps, but he got so fat tasting the things he cooked that he had to quit. after that he used to sit in front of his shack all day, tilted back in a chair, and look for work." "look for work?" laughed merriman. "yeah, he was always on the look-out for a job. 'most strained his eyes looking. but somehow he never found one; leastways, he hadn't when i saw him last. funny old codger. warren wilson, who was postmaster and ran the store and one thing and another, used to bring the bangor paper to zeph every day and zeph would study the advertisements mighty carefully. guess he knew more about the bangor labour market than any man alive. 'i was readin' where one o' them big dry-goods houses is wantin' a sales manager,' zeph would tell you. 'it don't say how much they're willin' to pay, though. if i knew that i'd certain'y communicate with 'em, i would so. maybe they'll make mention o' the salary tomorrow. i'll just wait an' see.'" "and he's still waiting?" chuckled merriman. "as far as i know." "what does he live on?" asked myron. "has he got money saved?" "no, he's got something better; he's got an up-and-coming wife who works just as hard as zeph--looks. she's a wonderful woman, too, mrs. binney is. she's lived with zeph thirty years or more and she ain't--hasn't found him out yet. or, if she has, she don't let on. if you ask her has zeph got a job yet she'll tell you, 'no, not yet, but he's considerin' acceptin' a position with a firm o' commission merchants down to boston.' and all the considering zeph has done is read an advertisement in the bangor paper where it says the boston folks want a few carloads of potatoes!" "it's sort of tough on the puppy, though," murmured myron. "well, there's a strong resemblance between him and zephaniah," said joe. "i've been watching him. he doesn't push and shove for his food like the rest of them. he just waits, and first thing you know he's getting the best there is. if that ain't like zeph i'll eat my hat." "where are you going to keep him?" inquired myron. "in my room--when i get it. he won't want any better than i have, i guess. i don't suppose he's going to kick because there isn't much of a view." merriman asked about the new quarters and joe supplied a drily humorous description of them. the room began to grow dark and the boy's faces became only lighter blurs in the twilight. tess went to sleep and snored loudly. myron listened more than he talked, conscious of the comfortable, home-like atmosphere of the queer, illy-furnished room and putting off from minute to minute the return to school. but at last the town clock struck six and joe lifted the terrier from his stomach, in spite of protests, and swung his feet to the floor. "i've got to be going," he announced. "haven't peeked into a book since friday." he yawned cavernously. "you coming along, foster?" "yes, i guess so." myron was glad to be asked, but he was careful to keep any trace of cordiality from his voice. "well, come again," said merriman heartily. "both of you. sunday's an off-day with me and you'll usually find me in about noon." "me? i'll be back," declared joe. "i haven't enjoyed a meal since i left home like i enjoyed that dinner. brother, you sure can cook sausages!" "i like that guy," said joe when he and myron were traversing the poorly-lighted street that led toward school. "he don't have any too easy a time of it, either, foster." "no, i guess coaching isn't much fun," myron agreed. "well, he told me he liked it. maybe he has to. he says he's put himself clean through school that way. his father and mother are both dead and the only kin he's got is an old aunt who lives out west somewhere. he says she's got a right smart lot of money, but the only thing she ever does for him is send him six handkerchiefs every christmas. says it's a big help, though, because he doesn't have to buy any. he's a cheerful guy, all right, and the fellows hit on a swell name for him." "what's that?" asked myron. "why, his name is andrew merriman, you know, and so they call him 'merry andrew.' cute, ain't it? he works hard every summer, too. last summer he was a waiter at a hotel and did some tutoring besides. he's a hustler. doggone it, foster, you've got to hand it to a guy like that!" "yes," myron agreed. mentally he wondered that merriman didn't choose a less menial task than waiting on table. it seemed rather demeaning, he thought. joe was silent until they had reached the end of school street and were entering the campus gate. then: "say, i'd like to do something for him," he said earnestly. "only i suppose he wouldn't let me." "do something? what do you mean?" asked myron. "well, help him along somehow. fix it so's he wouldn't have to work all the time like he does. the guy's got a great bean on him. bet you he knows more than the principal and the rest of the faculty put together. a fellow like that ought to be able to go ahead and--and develop himself. see what i mean? he's too--too valuable to waste his time serving soup and fish in a summer hotel. if i did it it wouldn't hurt none, but he's different. if i had my way i'd fix him up in a couple of nice rooms with plenty of books and things and tell him to go to it." "but i don't just see how you could do anything much for him," said myron. "no, i guess he wouldn't let me." "maybe not. anyway, it would take a good deal of money, wouldn't it?" "yeah, i guess so. well, i'm just talking. no harm in that, eh? i'm not going over to supper. i couldn't eat anything more if i was paid for it. see you later, kiddo." for once myron failed to resent that form of address. in fact, he scarcely noticed it. going across to alumni hall, he found himself looking forward with something akin to dismay to the time when dobbins should have left him to the undisputed possession of number 17! chapter x the challenge myron had quite forgotten paul eldredge and the incident of the bread pellet and only remembered when he seated himself at table and caught eldredge's unfriendly stare. as he was late, eldredge and the others were nearly through the rather modest repast, and smiles and whispers across the board appraised him of the unpleasant fact that he was suspected of having delayed his arrival in order to avoid encountering his table companions. being far from the truth, this displeased him greatly and as a result he bore himself more haughtily than ever, thereby increasing the disfavour into which he had fallen at noon. young tinkham raised a snigger amongst his cronies by ostentatiously rolling a bit of biscuit into a pellet, but he didn't throw it. presently myron was left alone, to his satisfaction, eldredge passing him with a challenging look that would have given him cause for thought had he seen it. at the moment, however, myron was looking into the bottom of his cup and so had no forewarning of what was to occur. if eldredge was in the corridor when he came out ten minutes later myron didn't see him. it was not until he was half-way along the walk toward sohmer that he again recalled eldredge's existence. then he heard his name spoken and turned. two fellows came toward him, the lights of goss hall behind them so that it was not until they had reached him that he recognised them as eldredge and rogers. it was eldredge who had called and who now spoke. "been looking for you ever since dinner, foster," said eldredge accusingly. "kept sort of scarce, haven't you?" rogers laughed softly, nervously. myron stiffened. "you couldn't have looked very hard, eldredge. i was in my room----" "oh, no you weren't!" interrupted eldredge triumphantly. "i looked there." "until half-past three--or three." "or half-past two--or two," mocked the other. "well, what of it?" asked myron coldly. he knew now that eldredge intended trouble. "what did you want me for?" "oh, nothing much. i just wanted to give you something." "i don't want it, thanks," replied myron. he turned to go on, but eldredge stepped in front of him. "don't, eh? wait till you know what it is, mister smug!" eldredge's arm shot out. although he had not guessed the other's intention, myron caught sight of the movement and instinctively stepped back. the blow, aimed at his face, landed lightly on his chest. prompted by a rage as sudden as eldredge's attack, myron's right hand swept swiftly up from his side and caught his opponent fairly on the side of the face with open palm. the sound of the slap and eldredge's snarl of mingled surprise and pain came close together. staggered by the blow, eldredge fell back a pace. then he sprang forward again. "you--you----" he stammered wildly. but rogers, stout and unwieldy, threw himself between in a panic of entreaty. "don't, paul! not here! some one's coming! you'll get the very dickens! you crazy dub, will you quit? _paul_----" "no, i won't!" grunted eldredge, trying to shove rogers aside. "he can't hit me and get away with it! i'll show him----" "let him alone," said myron. "no! aw, quit, paul! honest, some one's coming down the line. it won't hurt you to wait a minute, will it?" rogers was panting now from the double exertion of being a human barrier and a suppliant. but he won, for eldredge, almost as angry with his friend for delaying revenge as with his enemy, but utterly unable to get past him, stopped his efforts in despair. "what do you mean, wait a minute?" he demanded, alternately glaring at rogers and myron. "well, wait until tomorrow," panted rogers. "you know what'll happen if you fight here. do it regular, paul." "tomorrow! where'll he be by that time?" asked eldredge scathingly. "shut up!" cautioned rogers hoarsely. "you'll have a crowd here in a minute!" already a group of three fellows had paused a little way off and were peering curiously through the darkness. "listen, will you? you fellows can settle this just as well tomorrow as you can now. fix it up for the brickyard at--at what time do you say, foster?" "any time he likes!" answered myron obligingly. then, remembering that there were such things as recitations, he added: "before breakfast: say a quarter to seven." "you won't want any breakfast when i get through with you," growled eldredge. "that all right for you, paul?" asked rogers. by this time he was leading the others by force of example along the walk. "sure." "good! a quarter to seven, then, at the brickyard. come on, paul. so long, foster!" myron made no answer as he strode on toward sohmer. his pulses were still pounding, although he had managed to control his voice fairly well, and he was experiencing a sort of breathlessness that was novel and not altogether unpleasant. but, to be truthful, contemplation of tomorrow morning's engagement with eldredge at the brickyard, wherever that might be, did not fill him with unalloyed bliss. in fact, as excitement dwindled something very much like nervousness took its place. myron was not a coward, but, as he climbed the stairs in sohmer, he found himself wishing that he had kept his temper and his tongue under control yesterday noon! joe dobbins, with both lean, sinewy hands desperately clutching his tousled hair, was bent over a book at the study table. joe's method of studying was almost spectacular. first he removed his coat, then his collar and tie. after that he seated himself on the edge of his chair, twined his ankles about the legs of it, tilted it forward until his elbows were on the table, got a fine, firm grip on his hair with each hand, took a long agonised breath--and plunged in! studying was just as hard for him as it looked, and it is greatly to his credit that he succeeded at it as well as he did. just now he looked up at myron's entrance. for a moment he stared vacantly. then his hands dropped from his head, the chair thumped back into normal position and he came out of his trance. "hello," he said vaguely. "latin?" asked myron. "math," was the sad response. then, sensing something unusual about his room-mate, he asked: "what's up?" "nothing. why?" "you look like some one had dropped a firecracker down your neck, or something. what's disturbed your wonted calm? say, how's that? 'wonted calm!' gee, that's going some, ain't it? i mean, is it not?" "great," said myron absently. he went into the bedroom and methodically changed coat and vest for a grey house jacket. when he emerged joe was still unsatisfied. "going to study?" asked the latter. "yes--no--i don't know. i ought to." but myron seated himself at the window instead of at the table and took one leg into his interlaced hands. joe watched him solicitously. after a minute myron asked with elaborate unconcern: "did you ever fight any one, dobbins?" "me?" joe chuckled. "well, i've been in a couple of scraps in my time. why?" "just wondered. what--how do you go at it?" "me?" joe leaned precariously back in his chair. "well, i ain't got but one rule, foster, and that's: hit 'em first and often." "oh! i--i suppose boxing is--quite an art." "don't know much about boxing, kiddo. where i come from they don't go in for rules and regulations. when you fight--you fight: and about the only thing that's barred is kicking the other fellow in the head when he's down! a real earnest scrap between a couple of lumber-jacks is about the nearest thing to battle, murder and sudden death that you're likely to see outside the movies!" "i didn't mean that sort of fighting," said myron distastefully. "fellows at--well, say, at school don't fight like that, of course." "no, i don't suppose so. i guess they stick to their fists. anyway, they did where i went to school. we used to have some lively little scraps, too," added joe with a reminiscent chuckle. "i remember--but, say, what's your trouble, foster? why are you so interested in fighting?" "oh, i was just wondering," answered myron evasively. "yeah, i know all about that. who you been fighting?" "no one." "who you going to fight?" "i haven't said i was going to fight, have i? i was just asking about it. maybe i might have to fight some time, and----" "sure, that's so. you might. you can't ever tell, can you?" joe picked up a pencil and beat a thoughtful tattoo on the blotter for a moment. then: "who is he? do i know him?" he asked. "know who?" faltered myron. "this guy that's after you. come on, kiddo, open up! come across! let's hear the story." so finally myron told the whole thing, secretly very glad to do it, and joe listened silently, save for an occasional grunt. when myron had finished joe asked: "so that's it, eh? tomorrow morning at a quarter to seven at the brickyard. where's this brickyard located?" "i don't know. i must ask some one." "yeah. now tell me this, kid--i mean foster: what do you know about fighting?" "not much," owned myron ruefully. "i saw a couple of fellows at high school fight once, but that's about all." "never fought yourself?" myron shook his head almost apologetically. "no, i never had occasion to." joe snorted. "you mean you never had a chance to find an occasion," he said derisively. "you were kept tied up to the grand piano in the drawing-room, i guess. think of a husky guy like you getting to be seventeen years old and never having any fun at all! gee, it's criminal! your folks have got a lot to answer for, foster, believe me! here, stand up here and put your fists up and show me what you know--or don't know." myron obeyed and faced the other awkwardly. joe groaned. "gee, ain't you the poor fish? stick that foot out so you can move about. that's it. now i'm going to tap you on the shoulder, the left shoulder. don't let me!" but myron did let him, although he thrashed both his arms about fearsomely. "rotten! watch me, not my hands. now look out for your face!" a minute later joe dropped his hands, shook his head and leaned dejectedly against a corner of the table. "it's no use, kiddo, it's no use! you'll be the lamb going to the slaughter tomorrow. ain't any one ever taken the least interest in your education? what are you going to do when that eldredge guy comes at you?" myron smiled wanly. "i guess i'll just have to do the best i can," he said. "maybe he isn't much better than i am." "don't kid yourself. when a guy picks a quarrel the way he did it means he knows a bit. still, at that----" joe stopped and stared thoughtfully at the wall. then: "what's his full name?" he asked. "paul eldredge is all i know of it." "that'll do. i'll be back in a few minutes." joe picked up his cap and made for the door. "nothing like knowing what you're up against," he said. "sit tight, brother, and leave this to me. if i was you i'd do a bit of studying, eh?" myron followed the advice. just at first it was hard to get his mind on lessons, for his thoughts kept recurring to the coming encounter and when they did he squirmed uneasily in his chair and felt a kind of tingling sensation at the end of his spine. on the football field myron had often taken blows and given them in the excitement of the game. he had had some hard knocks and had seen plenty of rough playing. he couldn't remember ever having been afraid of an opponent, although he had more than once entered a contest with the knowledge that the enemy was "laying for him." but, somehow, this was different. what resentment he had felt against paul eldredge had passed, and so even the spur of anger was lacking. he would have to stand up there tomorrow morning and be knocked around at eldredge's pleasure, it seemed, for no very good reason that he could think of. it was rather silly, when you came to consider it calmly. eldredge had been rude to him, he had been rude to eldredge, eldredge had struck him, he had struck eldredge. now when things were nicely evened up he must take a licking! well, he supposed there was no way out of it short of acting like a coward. he would have to take what was coming to him, getting off as easily as he could, and try to like it! well, he had taken punishment before and could again. having reached that conclusion, he managed to get his thoughts back to his studies and was going very well when joe returned. chapter xi myron misses an engagement "well, i've got his number," announced joe, discarding his cap and dropping into a chair. "he's a scrapper. he's had three or four mix-ups since he has been here, usually, as near as i can make out, with fellows who didn't know much fighting. he's got a quick temper and is ugly when he's started. he's a second class fellow and plays hockey and baseball. had a fuss with the baseball coach last spring and was laid off for awhile. apologised and got back again finally. i didn't hear any one say he was liked much. the main thing, though, is that he can scrap. keith says he's quite a foxy youth with his fists; says he thinks he's taken lessons. so now we know where we are, eh?" "yes, it seems so," answered myron. "well, there's no use talking about it, is there? did you find out where this brickyard is?" "yeah, it's just across the street at the far side of the campus, back from the road a bit. i've been thinking, foster. there's no sense in you going up against a fellow who knows how to fight, is there?" "no, but it doesn't seem to be a question of sense," replied myron, smiling. "what i mean is, it isn't a fair proposition for a chap who can't even keep his guard up to try to fight a guy who knows all the ropes. might as well expect one of merriman's puppies to fight a bull-dog. that's so, ain't it?" "well, it isn't quite that bad," said myron. "at least, i hope not!" "mighty near. so here's my plan, kiddo. you stay right in your downy couch tomorrow morning and i'll see this guy eldredge myself." "_what?_" "sure! why not? he wants a scrap, don't he? well, he wouldn't get any if you were to go. it wouldn't be worth his trouble getting out of bed. but me, i can show him a real good time, likely. i don't say i can lick him, for they tell me he's a right shifty guy and has some punch, but i can keep him interested until he's ready to call it a day. besides, i ain't had a real good scrap since last winter and i'm getting soft. so that's what we'll do, eh?" myron laughed. then, perplexedly, he asked: "you aren't in earnest, dobbins?" "sure, i'm in earnest? what's the joke?" "i guess it would be on eldredge," chuckled myron. "that's so." joe smiled too. "he will be a bit surprised, won't he? maybe he will be peeved, too. i wouldn't wonder. well, that's nothing in our young lives, eh? we're doing the best we can for him." "but--but do you really think i'd agree to that?" asked myron. "you're joking, of course!" "what do you mean, joking?" demanded the other indignantly. "and why wouldn't you agree? ain't it the sensible thing to do?" "maybe, but i can't do it, of course, dobbins. you must see that. why, hang it, if i challenge another fellow to fight i don't expect him to send a substitute!" "what you expect don't cut any ice, kiddo. if the guy you challenge can't fight a little bit he's a plain idiot to let you whang him around, ain't he? and if he knows another guy who doesn't mind taking his place why ain't it all right and fair for him to send him along? tell me those!" "why, because--because it isn't!" answered myron impatiently. "eldredge hasn't anything against you. his quarrel is with me. what would he say about me if i stayed away and let you go instead?" "him? what could he say? i'll tell him you're no scrapper. that'll fix that in his mind, won't it? mind you, foster, i ain't saying he's going to be pleased at running up against a guy who knows a thing or two about the game, but it don't seem to me that we need to worry about whether he's pleased or not. he wants a scrap and we're giving him one. that's enough, ain't it?" "it's the craziest thing i ever heard of," said myron. "of course, i'm awfully much obliged, dobbins. i appreciate it, honest. i don't know why you should offer to do it, either. but it's absolutely out of the question. so let's not talk about it any more." joe frowned, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking and fell to studying his hands. after a moment myron asked: "what do i do when i get there, dobbins? do we shake hands or--or just start in?" "start in," answered the other absently. "look here, foster," he continued earnestly, "you're going to act like a plumb fool. why, that guy'll paste you all over your face and leave you looking like a raw beefsteak! then faculty'll want to know what you've been doing and there'll be all sorts of trouble on tap. what you going to do when he begins lamming you?" myron shrugged. "stand him off the best way i can. lamm him back if i can. maybe i'll get on to the game after awhile. i'm going to try. i thought maybe you could show me a few things tonight, just so's i wouldn't look too green tomorrow. it isn't late, is it?" "no, it isn't late." joe brightened perceptibly for an instant, but then his face fell again and he shook his head. "it wouldn't be any use, kiddo. you'd forget it all in the morning. i guess if you won't do like i said the best thing'll be to let him knock you down as soon as possible. when you're down, stay down. if he asks have you had enough, you tell him yes. then you can shake hands and get through without getting all beat up." "is that what you'd do?" asked myron sharply. "me? well, i--i don't know as i would, just." "then why should you think i'd do it? who told you i was a coward? i can't fight, and i know it, but i don't intend to lie down!" "whoa, bill! i ain't said you were a coward. i know better, of course. if you were a coward you'd try to squirm out of meeting the fellow, wouldn't you? all right, have it your own way, kiddo. only don't worry about it, see? you get a good sleep and leave tomorrow look after itself." "thanks. i'm going to do that, dobbins. guess i'll turn in now and dream i'm jess willard or one of those guys--fellows. are you going to study some more?" joe nodded. "yeah, i'm going to study some. good night." "good night," answered myron. a few minutes later he spoke again from the bedroom. "i say, dobbins!" "yeah?" "i'm awfully much obliged. you've been mighty kind, you know." "that's all right, kiddo," growled dobbins. "go to sleep." whether myron dreamed that he was a prizefighter, or dreamed at all, he didn't remember when he awoke. that he had slept restfully, however, he realised the instant he was in possession of his faculties. he told himself that he felt fine. and when, a second later, he remembered the engagement at the brickyard the empty feeling at the pit of his stomach lasted but a moment. he turned his head and glanced at the clock on top of his dresser. then he stared at it. it said twenty-eight minutes after six! it wasn't like that clock to go wrong. it had been all right last evening when he had wound it, too. suppose it was still right! suppose he had overslept! he looked quickly at joe's bed. it was empty. great scott! he'd have to hurry if he was to get to that brickyard in seventeen minutes! he started to throw the covers aside, but he didn't. he couldn't! he couldn't move his arm! why, he couldn't move any part of him except his head! something awful had happened to him! fright gripped him and in a panic he strove to get command of his limbs. horrible thoughts of paralysis came to him. the bed creaked, but he remained flat on his back! and then it dawned on him that the reason he couldn't move was because he was tied down! for a moment he was so relieved to discover that the fault was not with him that he didn't realise his situation. it was only when he remembered the time again that he understood. this was joe dobbins' doing! joe had tied him down to his bed, though how he had done it without awakening him myron couldn't imagine, and had himself gone to meet eldredge! surprise gave way to anger and mortification. what would eldredge think of him? all joe's explanations would fail to convince eldredge that myron had not purposely stayed away. of all the crazy, meddlesome fools in the world, dobbins was the craziest! wait until he found him! wait until he told him what he thought of him! wait---but just then myron realised that waiting was the one thing he couldn't afford. the clock had ticked off two minutes of the precious time remaining to him and the long hand was moving past the half-hour already. he studied his predicament. joe had, it appeared, used his own sheets and quilt and, probably, other things as well, and myron was as securely fastened down as gulliver by the lilliputians! he could move each leg about an inch and each arm the same. by arching his back he could lift his body just off the bed: something, possibly a sheet, crossed his chest and was tied fast to the side rails. he squirmed until he was exhausted, and the only apparent result was to give himself the fraction of an inch more freedom. he subsided, panting, and his anger found room for grudging admiration of joe's work. how that idiot had managed to swathe and bind him as he had done without waking him up was both a marvel and a mystery! "gee," muttered myron, "i knew i was a sound sleeper, but----" words failed him. presently, despairing of success, he tried to free his right hand. something that felt like a strap--he discovered afterwards that it was one of his neckties--was wound about the wrist, and his efforts were of no avail. the other hand was quite as securely tied. tugging his feet against similar bonds was equally unprofitable. when the hands of the clock on the dresser indicated seventeen minutes to seven he gave up and tried to find consolation in arranging the eloquent remarks he meant to deliver to joe dobbins when that offensive youth returned. meanwhile, history was in the making on the trampled field of battle. at a few minutes before the half-hour after six, a large, wide-shouldered youth attired in a pair of old trousers, a faded brown sweater that lacked part of one sleeve and a cloth cap of a violent green-and-brown plaid might have been seen ambling leisurely across the campus in the direction of the west gate. in fact, he was seen, for from an open window on the front of leonard hall a pyjama-clad boy thrust his head forth and hailed softly. "hi, joe! joe dobbins!" he called. joe paused and searched the front of the building until a spot of pale lavender against the expanse of sunlit brick supplied the clue. then: "hello, keith," he answered. "can't you sleep?" leighton keith chuckled. "where are you going?" he asked. "just for a stroll," replied joe carelessly. "wait a minute and i'll come along." joe shook his head. "got a date, keith, with a guy named eldredge." keith nodded and waved, but, after joe had passed from sight around the corner of the building, he pursed his lips thoughtfully and stared out into the early morning world. gradually a smile curved his mouth. "paul eldredge," he murmured. "guess we'll look into this." he donned a dressing-gown and passed into the corridor and along it until he reached a window that overlooked linden street. joe was just sauntering through the gate, hands in pockets, nonchalance expressed in every motion. but keith noted with satisfaction that he turned to the right into apple street and presently crossed that thoroughfare and disappeared into the lane that led toward the abandoned brickyard. keith whistled expressively if subduedly and went quickly back to his room and aroused harry cater by the simple method of pulling the clothes from him. "katie," as he was called, groaned, clutched ineffectually for the bedding and opened one eye. "wake up, katie," said keith. "joe dobbins has a scrap on with eldredge at the brickyard. come on!" "howjuno?" muttered katie. "he just told me." that was near enough the truth, keith considered. katie opened the other eye, stared around the room and slung one foot over the edge of the bed. "all right," he said briskly. "wait till i get a shower and i'll be with you." "shower? nothing doing!" keith was piling rapidly into his clothes. "there isn't time. this is something a little bit choice, old man, and we don't want to miss it. get a move on!" chapter xii eldredge rejects a substitute joe made his leisurely way along the lane, his feet rustling the leaves that littered the grassy path. there had been a frost during the night and in shaded places it still glistened. when he had left the lane and was making his way between the old tumbledown shed with its piles of crumbling bricks and one of the clay pits he saw that there was a skim of ice on the water below him. it was a morning that induced a fine feeling of well-being, that made the blood course quickly and would have put a song on joe's lips had he been able to sing a note. as it was, he whistled instead. ahead of him was a smallish shed, perhaps at one time the office. some rusted barrows and pieces of machinery lay about it. as it presented the only place of concealment in sight, joe concluded that it was the place of appointment. eldredge, however, had not arrived. joe made sure of that by looking on all sides of the building and peering into the interior through a paneless window. so he seated himself in the sunlight and philosophically waited. some ten minutes passed and then he heard footsteps and presently around the corner appeared paul eldredge and sam rogers. joe frowned. eldredge shouldn't have brought a second fellow without telling myron of his intention. the newcomers stopped in surprise when they saw joe, and after an instant eldredge said: "hello! have you seen--is foster here?" "hello," replied joe. "foster? no, he isn't coming." "isn't coming!" exclaimed eldredge. then he laughed. "what do you know about that? what did i tell you, sam?" rogers nodded. "i know. you said he wouldn't." "fact is," said joe, "he can't." "can't, eh? i suppose he's sick," sneered eldredge. joe shook his head gently and pulled himself to his feet. "no, he ain't sick, he's--he's confined to his bed." he chuckled, much to the mystification of the others. eldredge scowled. "what is this, a silly joke?" he demanded peevishly. "no, oh, no, it ain't any joke," answered joe gravely. "it's this way, eldredge. foster's no scrapper. doesn't know the first thing about it. of course you didn't know that when you arranged this party. you wanted a nice little fight. foster couldn't give it to you. why, he doesn't know how to even block. you wouldn't have had any sport at all. it would have been all over in a wag of a duck's tail. i told him that, but he wouldn't see it. i said: 'this guy eldredge wants a scrap, kiddo. he doesn't want to get up at that time of day just to see you topple over every time he reaches out. give him a chance,' i said. 'you stay in bed and i'll take the job off your hands.' course, i'm no professional, eldredge, but i know enough to give you a bit of fun. but foster wouldn't see it. insisted that he had to come himself." "say, for the love of mike," broke in eldredge, "are you crazy?" "me? no, i don't believe so," answered joe mildly. "anyway, i couldn't get him to look at it right, and so this morning i just woke up a bit early and tied him up in bed." he chuckled. "i'll bet he's spouting blue murder right now!" "that's a likely yarn!" sneered eldredge. "tied up in bed! yes, he is--not! he got you to come and tell that story to save his face!" "well, i sort of came to save his face," answered joe genially, "but not just the way you mean: and he didn't have anything to do with it. he's tied right down to his bed this minute." "if he is," said rogers, "he helped do it." "no." joe shook his head patiently. "he was asleep. i'd like you guys to believe that. it always sort of disgruntles me when folks don't believe what i tell 'em, and i'm likely to get real mad." rogers blinked. "well--well, then there's nothing doing, paul," he said very mildly. "nothing doing?" echoed joe in surprise. "what do you mean, nothing doing? ain't i here? sure, there's something doing. him and me--i mean he and i are going to have a real good time." "we are not," replied eldredge disgustedly. "it's the plainest sort of a frame-up, sam. i knew all along foster didn't have any sand. i told you he'd duck." "say, you must have got me wrong," said joe earnestly. "foster wanted to come, but i wouldn't let him. it wasn't fair to him or you, kiddo. don't you see? he'd have got all messed up and you'd have been downright disappointed. that's why i took it over. you and me are about of a size and weight and i'll bet we can have a right good scrap." "i don't care to fight you," said eldredge disdainfully. "why should i? i don't even know you!" "well, i don't know you, either," replied joe calmly. "so we're all-square there, eh? listen, brother: if you're holding back on my account, don't do it. i don't mind a scrap. fact is, i'd be mighty disappointed if i didn't have it, after coming away over here like this. and so would you, of course. you're like me; get sort of low-spirited if you don't have a little set-to now and then. ain't that right?" eldredge was viewing joe in mingled astonishment and uneasiness. this big, raw-boned chap didn't look good to him as an opponent. his arms were discouragingly long and the shoulders hinted at a muscular development quite unusual. also, there was a quiet gleam in the greenish-grey eyes that made eldredge feel a bit creepy along his spine. he laughed nervously. "don't be a chump," he begged. "of course i'm not going to fight you. i had a row with foster, but if you say he doesn't know how to fight, why, all right. we'll call it off. i don't want to fight any fellow that's no match for me----" "that's just what i told him," said joe delightedly. "i said, 'that guy's going to be tickled to death when i show up instead of you.'" "come on," said rogers, tugging at his friend's sleeve. "of course," went on eldredge, "if foster wants to go on with it later, i'm ready for him, but--but as far as i'm concerned i'm willing to call quits." "atta boy!" said joe approvingly. "well, now that's settled and you and me can go ahead." joe began to peel off his sweater. eldredge frowned and shot an anxious look at rogers. "i've told you i wouldn't fight you," he said, "and i won't." "why not?" demanded joe. "ain't i good enough for you? trying to insult me, eh?" he scowled darkly. "is that it?" "of course not! i haven't any row with you. besides, it's nearly time for chapel and i don't intend to get in wrong at the office just to please you!" "that don't go, kiddo. i've offered to fight you and you've insulted me by refusing. that's enough. now you pull that coat off and stand up here." "you're crazy! i won't be forced into a fight like this. you haven't any right to----" joe gave a howl. "haven't any rights, haven't i? we'll see. no guy can tell me i haven't any rights and not fight! now then, come on!" "i said you hadn't any right to make me fight," protested eldredge. "you're just----" "i heard you!" answered joe ominously. "don't repeat it! it's something no guy can say to me and not answer for! by jiminy, you've got a cheek! no rights, eh? ain't i a free-born american citizen?" joe slung his sweater aside, slipped his suspenders down and knotted them about his waist and advanced on the embarrassed enemy. "what about the declaration of independence?" he demanded wrathfully. "you know well enough what i mean," declared eldredge somewhat shrilly. "i refuse to fight you! i haven't----" "insulted again!" roared joe fearsomely. "put up your fists!" eldredge was backing away toward the corner of the shed, rogers a good two yards in the lead. "i won't! i've told you! you can't bully me into fighting when--when i've got nothing to fight about!" "call me a bully now, do you?" growled joe in ominous calm. he cast an outraged look to the heavens. "brother, you've gone the limit. look out for yourself!" he swung his right arm up and out. the blow, had it connected, would have lifted eldredge off his feet and deposited him yards away. but it was woefully short, suggesting that joe was a poor judge of distance. nevertheless it so alarmed eldredge that he trod on his friend's toes in his hurried retreat, and a wail of pain and protest arose from rogers, a wail that, mingling with peals of laughter that seemed to come from overhead, made a weird confusion of sound. the group on the ground abruptly paused in their careers and bewilderedly searched the sky for that jovian laughter. they hadn't far to seek. atop the shed roof, their convulsed countenances showing above the peak, were stretched leighton keith and harry cater. joe, after a surprised recognition, grinned and unknotted his suspenders. eldredge grew red where he had been inclined to pallor and looked unutterably foolish. rogers smiled in a sickly fashion and dug embarrassed hands into his pockets. on the roof the unsuspected guests conquered their laughter, and keith said to joe: "sorry if we--spoiled your--fun--dobbins, but we couldn't--hold in any longer!" "well, i didn't know i was amusing an audience," replied joe, "but it don't matter." he picked up his sweater as keith and cater slid to the edge and dropped over. "guess we'll have to postpone this, eldredge," he continued. "too many folks around, eh? i'll fix another date with you." katie chuckled. "i fancy eldredge is satisfied," he said. "eh, paul?" eldredge glowered. "i didn't have any quarrel with him," he muttered. "he--he's crazy!" katie and keith seemed to find this most amusing, but after a moment of laughter keith recovered his gravity and said: "i guess you can be trusted to keep this business quiet, eldredge. how about you, rogers?" rogers nodded, his countenance expressing a relief equal to eldredge's. "good. i know dobbins won't talk, and neither will we. so there's no reason why the thing should get out. in a way, it's a pity to keep it to ourselves, for the fellows would certainly enjoy it, but some jokes are too good to be told. if you want to lead a happy life hereafter, eldredge, you'd better keep mum! and, by the way, if i ever hear of you scrapping any more i'll be tempted to tell what happened this morning. you're much too blood-thirsty, eldredge, you really are. restrain yourself, my boy, restrain yourself." eldredge muttered something as he moved away. "what was that?" asked keith sharply. "did i hear a bad word?" "no," replied eldredge aggrievedly, "you didn't. i said, 'all right.'" "hm: i'll try to believe you: but you'd better beat it before i begin to have doubts!" rogers had already melted around the corner of the shed and eldredge, pausing only long enough to send a last vindictive glance at joe, followed. alone, the three looked at each other in amused silence. then katie helped joe into his sweater and together they turned toward school. it was only when the forms of eldredge and rogers were seen hurrying into the lane that keith's risibilities again got the better of him and he began to chuckle. whereupon joe and katie joined. it was getting dangerously close to chapel time when myron, smouldering with anger, heard the study door open and the heavy tread of joe approaching. when the latter appeared myron was more than ready for him. "you--you----" he stammered, "you big--big----" it was maddening! his nicely arranged flow of invective, his long list of insulting adjectives were gone! he couldn't get his tongue around a single word that satisfied his requirements. all he could do was glare and sputter and strain at his bonds. and joe stood at the foot of the bed and viewed him mildly and patiently. "you let me loose!" cried myron. "you untie me this minute! you'll see what'll happen to you, you big--big _boob_!" myron groaned at the utter inadequacy of that appellation and gave up the attempt to do justice to his feelings. joe blinked. "got to have your promise not to start any ructions first," he announced. "it's pretty near chapel time, foster, and if you try scrapping with me you'll be late. so'll i. better dress quietly and let me explain things." "i'm going to punch your ugly face!" fumed myron. "i don't care a hang who's late to what! you can't spring your silly tricks on me like this, dobbins! you can't----" "then i'll have to let you stay where you are," said joe regretfully. "you let me up!" [illustration: "_you let me up!_"] "promise not to start anything?" "no!" "then you don't get up. you stay right here until i tell you all about it." joe seated himself at the foot of the bed and glanced at the clock on the chiffonier. "you see, foster, it was like this." "i don't want to hear it! i want to get up!" "then give me your word to behave." myron studied joe's unperturbed face, hesitated and gave in. "all right," he growled. "but i'll--i'll get even with you yet." "sure! now then we'll do some hustling." for two minutes joe was very busy with knots. "hope these things didn't hurt," he said apologetically. "i tried to fix 'em so you'd be comfortable." "thanks, i'm sure," said myron in deep sarcasm. "i can't tell you how much i appreciate your thoughtfulness!" joe grinned. "well, anyway, i didn't wake you up, kiddo, did i? didn't do you out of any sleep, eh? say, the sleeping quince, or whatever the guy in the fairy story was called, hasn't a thing on you, foster. you're the soundest little slumberer that ever pounded an ear! there you are. now, then, slip into some duds and let's beat it. we've just got time." chapter xiii myron changes his mind the fact that the incident would never become known and make him look ridiculous made it much easier for myron to forgive joe for the trick. and the latter's account of the meeting with eldredge--myron got it piecemeal before and after chapel--was so funny that he had to smile more than once in spite of his determination to be haughty and unrelenting. in the end he said grudgingly: "we-ell, i suppose you meant it all right, dobbins, but it wasn't fair. now was it?" and dobbins obligingly shook his head very soberly and allowed that it wasn't. in such fashion amity was restored and peace prevailed again. that afternoon, encountering harry cater on the field before practice, myron regarded that youth keenly, looking for signs of amusement and ready to resent them. but katie's countenance suggested no secret diversion. perhaps he regarded myron with just a fraction more interest than usual, but it was quite respectful interest. there was a big cut in the football candidates that afternoon and when coach driscoll had sheathed his knife again their number had been reduced to sixty-odd. myron survived, as he deserved to, and so, naturally, did joe. joe was already being talked about and more than once had heard his playing discussed and praised. good linemen are always in demand, and this year, at parkinson, they were more than ever welcome, for graduation had deprived the eleven of several stars since last fall. the squads were reduced to four now, and myron had slipped into a half-back position on the third. there was nothing certain about that position. some days he went into practice at right half and some days at left, and sometimes he sat on the bench most of the time when scrimmaging began. he was rather resentful because his work wasn't getting recognition. as a matter of fact, however, he was showing up no more cleverly than half a dozen other candidates for the positions. he handled the ball well, remembered signals, ran hard and fast, dodged fairly and caught punts nicely. so did meldrum, brown, brounker, vance, robbins and one or two more. myron's mistake was in supposing that, because none praised him, his work wasn't appreciated. he had an idea that neither coach nor captain really knew of his existence, when, as a matter of fact, he was more than once under discussion during the nightly conferences in mr. driscoll's quarters. "promising," was the coach's comment one evening when the subject of half-backs was before the meeting. "plays a nice, clean-cut game. lacks judgment, though." "handles punts well," said captain mellen. "made a corking catch yesterday. remember when kearns punted down to the twenty yards? that was a peach of a punt, by the way: all of fifty, wasn't it, ken?" "forty-six," answered farnsworth. "that all? anyway, this foster chap made a heady catch, with two ends almost on him and the ball nearly over his head. he'll round out nicely for next year, i guess." it was myron's misfortune that he had elected to try for a half-back position at a time when there was much excellent half-back material on hand. probably he didn't realise the fact, for he began to get more disgruntled by the end of that week and secretly accused mr. driscoll and jud mellen of "playing favourites." not altogether secretly, either, for he once aired his suspicions for joe's benefit. "there's no chance for a chap here unless he's known," he said bitterly. "maybe if i stay here two or three years longer driscoll will discover that i'm alive. as it is, if it wasn't for farnsworth keeping tabs on the fellows, i could cut practice and no one would ever know it." "well, i don't know," answered joe judicially. "it looks to me like you were getting the same treatment the rest of 'em are getting. some day you'll show 'em what you can do and they'll wake up. i guess your trouble is that you're bucking against a lot of good backs. take fellows like brown and meldrum and vance, now. they're _good_. you've got to hand it to them, kiddo. corking halves, all of them. hard to beat. but that don't mean that you can't beat 'em. buckle down and go hard, foster. the season's young yet." "i'm not anxious enough," answered myron, "to kill myself. i dare say i can get along without playing on the team this year. and next year i'll go somewhere where they give a fellow a fair chance, by george!" "well, if that's your idea you won't get far," said joe drily. "if you don't care yourself no one's going to care for you. a guy's got to hustle and be in earnest to get anywhere in this world. i know that!" "you fell into it pretty soft," answered myron, with a laugh that sounded none too agreeable. "there's nothing like getting in with the right crowd, eh?" joe regarded him with a frown, started to speak, thought better of it and merely grunted. but after a moment he said dispassionately: "don't be a sore-head, foster. it don't get you anything but hard looks." "i'm no sore-head," laughed the other carelessly. "gee, it doesn't mean anything in my young life to play with their old football team. i've captained a better team than this school will ever turn out!" "if i was you," replied joe earnestly, "i'd forget about being captain of that team, kiddo, and see if i couldn't make a first-class private of myself." myron flushed. "it's all well enough for you to--to give advice and say cute things, dobbins, but you've made yourself solid with the fellows who have the say in football matters and you're pretty sure of a place. i haven't, and i don't intend to. if mellen and cater and some of those fellows think i'm going to kow-tow to them, they're mightily mistaken." "meaning i got my chance by--what do you call it?--cultivating those fellows?" asked joe. "you made that crack before and i let it pass, foster, but it don't go this time. if i'm playing on the second squad it's because i got out there and worked like a horse, and you know it, brother!" myron dropped his eyes and a long moment of silence followed. then he said: "i was a rotter, dobbins. i'm sorry. i guess i am a sore-head, like you said. i guess--i guess i'll just quit and have done with it." joe laughed. "all right, kiddo! we'll start fresh. but why don't you cut out the grouching and just play the game? what's it to you if you don't get into the lime-light? ain't it something to do what you're put at and do it well? say, there's about sixty guys out there every afternoon, ain't there? well, how many of them do you suppose will get places on the first team? not more than twenty-six, probably. and about twenty more will go into the scrub team. and the others will beat it and try again next year, likely. every one can't be a hero, foster. some of us have got to lug water!" "there's no fun in lugging water, though," myron objected. "who says so? there's fun in doing anything if you set out to like it, kiddo. the guys who miss the fun are those who get it into their heads that the job isn't good enough for 'em, or that some one's imposing on 'em. what sort of a fellow would merriman be if he got that dope to working in his bean? he's lugging water, all right, believe me! living on a couple of dollars a week and working about sixteen hours a day! but he gets fun out of it, don't he? he's about the happiest guy around these parts, ain't he? mind you, foster, i ain't saying that a fellow's got to be _satisfied_ with just lugging water. he oughtn't to be. he ought to be thinking about the time when he can chuck the pail and do something better. but while he is lugging water he wants to do it well and whistle at it!" "all right," laughed myron, good temper restored, "i'll keep on with the pail a while longer. say, dobbins, you ought to prepare for the ministry or the lecture platform. you're going to waste yourself shovelling spruce gum!" joe smiled. "i'm not going to shovel spruce gum, kiddo. i'm going to be a lawyer. how's that hit you?" "if i'm ever arrested for murder i'll certainly send for you!" answered myron emphatically. two days later myron received notice that his overdue furniture had arrived. for some reason he was not nearly so keen about it as he had been a week or more ago. and when, accompanied by joe--he had felt the need of a practical mind in the matter of getting the things off the car and up to the dormitory and had begged joe's assistance--he saw how many pieces of furniture there were he was, to use his own word, flabbergasted. for his part, joe just stared and blinked. every piece was carefully and enormously crated, and the staring address on each was a horrible challenge. for the things were much larger than he remembered them and when he thought of the limited area of number 17 sohmer he gasped. the services of the warne warehouse company had been called on, and three husky men were soon emptying the car while myron and joe sat on a baggage truck and looked on. myron felt somewhat apologetic and shot occasional inquiring glances at his companion. but joe was silent and seemingly unmoved after the first survey. myron ventured at last: "i don't see where all the stuff is going, do you?" joe shook his head. "no, i don't. maybe they'll let you put about half of it in the corridor." "it's nothing to joke about," myron grumbled. "we won't be able to move without barking our shins. i'd like to know how big mother thinks those rooms are!" "i'm not worrying about my shins," said joe placidly, adding when myron looked a question: "i won't be there, you know." "oh!" said the other. silence again prevailed. the trucks trundled from box-car to platform and a nearby engine let off steam with disconcerting suddenness. finally: "i shouldn't think you'd want to live in that room if it's like you say it is," observed myron. "only one window and--and all." "oh, it ain't so worse. merriman wants me to go over and take half his place, but that part of town's pretty fierce." "great scott! why, that's an awful hole he's in!" "well, with something more in it, it wouldn't be bad." "i don't see----" myron paused and was busy for a moment detaching a splinter from beside him. "i don't see," he continued, "why you want to move anyhow." joe turned slowly and observed him in mild surprise. "well, considering that you invited me to," he answered, "that's a funny crack to make." "maybe they wouldn't let me have the rooms by myself, anyhow," said myron. "and i'd rather have you with me than--than some fellow i didn't know at all." "thanks, but i guess i'd better light out. i'm sort of backwoodsy for you, foster. maybe the next guy will be more your style, see? besides----" "besides what?" demanded myron with a frown. joe chuckled and nodded toward the furniture. "i couldn't live up to that," he said. myron's gaze followed his companion's and he viewed the crated monstrosities distastefully. "i don't see why you need to keep rubbing it in about my--my 'style,'" he said crossly. "just because i have more than two suits of clothes you needn't always try to make out that i'm a--a----" "i don't," answered joe calmly. "besides, i've got four suits myself now: and an extra pair of trousers!" "then--then it's just that stuff?" asked myron, waving toward the furniture. "oh, i don't know. maybe. you see, kiddo--i mean foster----" "oh, dry up," muttered myron. "you see, i've been used to simple things. the old man and me--i--me--whatever it is--lived pretty plain for a long time. lately we've stayed in a hotel in portland most of the time. i ain't used to chiffoniers and enamelled tables and all those gimcracks. i'd feel sort of--of low in my mind if i had to live in a place all dolled up with ribbons and lace and mirrors and things." "there aren't any ribbons and----" "well, you get my idea," continued joe untroubledly. "me, i sort of feel freer and more contented in a log-cabin. i suppose it's all what you're used to, eh?" myron made no reply for a minute. they were loading the big moving-van now and he watched them morosely. he half wished they'd drop that grey-enamelled bookcase over the side. at last he said desperately: "look here, joe! if i dump all that truck into the warehouse will you stay?" it was the first time he had ever called joe by his first name and that youth looked almost startled. "why--why, you don't want to do that!" he stammered. "yes, i do," replied myron doggedly. "that's just what i do want. it was a mistake, sending it. i sort of felt so when mother suggested it, but she set her heart on it, you know: thought i'd be more comfortable and all if i had my own things. but they'd look awfully silly, all those light grey tables and chairs and bookcases, and i don't want them there. so--so i'm going to let these folks store them until spring. there's no use hurting mother's feelings, and i'll just let her think that i'm using them; unless she asks me. when spring comes i'll ship them back. and you'll stay where you are, won't you?" "gosh! say, this is so sudden, kiddo! and it sure seems an awful shame to hide all those corking things. but--why, if you really don't want them and--and you don't mind me being sort of rough and--and all that, i'll stick around." "honest, joe?" "sure, kiddo!" myron drew a long breath of relief and turned to the man in charge of the job. "i've changed my mind," he said. "take those things to the warehouse, will you? and tell them i'll be around tomorrow and fix things up." chapter xiv "chas" only one thing troubled joe, which was that he couldn't have zephaniah with him. faculty strongly disapproved of dogs, even very young and very small dogs, in the dormitories. so he made arrangements with a good-hearted stableman to look after the puppy and himself rigged up a home for it in an unused stall behind a litter of brooms and old harness and buckets. puppy biscuit, which merriman sternly decreed was to be its only food, was laid in lavishly, a china drinking bowl was supplied and zephaniah, very unhappy at parting from his brothers and sisters and mother, was duly _installed_. the pun is not mine, but myron's. joe visited the stable at least once a day and was to be seen stalking along the streets accompanied by a silly, frisking little atom at the end of a magnificent leather leash. once away from the busy thoroughfares, the puppy was set free and had a glorious time. frequently myron went along on these excursions and the two boys often laughed themselves sick over the ridiculous antics of zephaniah q. dobbins. several times merriman also joined them and took along tess and her two remaining offspring, and at such times life was chock full of excitement and merriment. the weather was wonderful that autumn and those strolls about the outskirts of the town were events that remained in myron's memory long afterwards. they led to an ever-increasing intimacy between the three boys and myron began to find existence at parkinson really enjoyable. no one could fail to like joe dobbins or to admire his big-heartedness and sturdy honesty of purpose and deed, and myron least of all. he saw now the kindness that had underlaid the indignity joe had practised on him when he had been forcibly kept from meeting paul eldredge, and was grateful. he saw many other thoughtful and kindly acts as well. joe's rough ways, or ways that had seemed rough at first, were now only things to smile at. myron was learning that there were many things less to be desired in a friend and room-mate than uncouthness. new clothes, too, had made a difference in joe. under myron's guiding hand he had purchased two plain but well-fitting suits--as well as the extra pair of trousers that myron had advised and that joe was now so proud of--and, in a way, he was living up to those suits. he had been good-naturedly guyed by many of his friends and acquaintances, of which he had dozens a week after the beginning of school, for the change wrought in his appearance had been well-nigh startling, but he hadn't minded a bit: it took more than that to upset joe's equanimity. it was about the time that he first appeared in classroom in his new clothes that some fellow fell on the quite obvious nickname of "whoa," to which joe was already accustomed, and from that time on he was "whoa" dobbins to the whole school. only myron and andrew merriman stuck to "joe." merriman required more knowing than joe dobbins. although myron had liked him at first acquaintance and grew to like him more as time went on, he never felt that he knew him as thoroughly as he knew the other. "merry andrew" at first meeting seemed perfectly understandable. at the second meeting you realised that most of him was below the surface. at subsequent meetings you despaired of ever knowing him thoroughly. he was the happiest, cheerfulest fellow myron had ever encountered, and no one would have suspected that there was such a thing as a care in his life. and perhaps there weren't many, either, for a care doesn't become a care until you let it, and merriman's policy was not to let it. of friends, at least close friends, beyond joe and andrew, myron had none so far. he knew various fellows, most of them football chaps, but only casually. he didn't make friends easily. it is only fair to acknowledge that there was something in myron's attitude, although he didn't realise it, that warned fellows away. popularity such as joe might attain would never fall to his share. so a fortnight passed and parkinson played her second football game and began to find her stride. cumner high school proved less of an adversary than expected and went down to defeat, 12 to 0. myron didn't get into action: didn't expect to, for that matter: and neither did joe. joe, however, expected to, and was a little disappointed and decidedly restive while he and myron watched from the bench. inaction didn't suit joe a bit. garrison, who had played the position last season on the scrub eleven, stayed in at right guard until the last quarter and then mills, a recent discovery of coach driscoll's, was given a chance. mills, a big, yellow-haired infant of seventeen, proved willing and hard-working, but he was woefully inexperienced, and only the fact that cumner had already shot her bolt and was playing a strictly defensive game kept him in until the final whistle. joe's hero on the team was leighton keith, who played right tackle. joe expatiated for whole minutes at a time on keith's work and rather bored myron. "honest, joe," he protested, "i think he plays perfectly good ball and all that, but i don't see where he has anything on mellen, or even flay." joe shook his head. "you aren't watching him, myron. you've got to know the position, too. i've played tackle, kiddo, and i know what a guy's up against. i'll tell you about keith and mellen. mellen's a fair, average tackle, a heap better on attack than defence, i guess, but keith's more than that. he--look here, it's like this. know those dollar 'turnips'? well, they keep right good time, don't they?" "some of them," agreed myron. "most of them, brother. well, mellen's like a dollar watch. looks good outside and works all right inside. dependable and all that. all right! now did you ever cast your eye over a nice hundred and fifty dollar watch all dotted over inside with jewels and all glisteny with little wheels and dudads? sure! that's keith. he works just like the innards of that watch, kiddo. every move's exact. he never misses a tick. he's smooth-running and guaranteed. he--he's an artist! i'd just as lief see keith play tackle as see old josh reynolds paint one of his million-dollar portraits." "reynolds is dead," laughed myron. "all the more reason then," replied joe calmly. "keith isn't!" "all right," said myron, "you cheer for keith. to my mind the best player in that brown bunch is cater." "yeah, he's good, too," owned joe. "i call him a nice little quarter. nice fellow, too, cater. so's steve kearns. know him?" "playing full-back? no, only to nod to. i don't think he's as good a full-back as williams, though." "both of them will stand improving," said joe drily. "gee, i wish driscoll would let me in on this!" but, as has been said, he didn't, and when the game was over joe and myron trotted back to the gymnasium with a host of others equally unfortunate. after showers and a return to citizen's clothing they took zephaniah q. dobbins for a walk. or, it would be more exact to say, a romp. the latin coaching ended the last of the next week, by which time andrew merriman declared myron up with the class. myron wasn't so certain of it and would have continued the tutoring if andrew hadn't refused. "you're discharged," said andrew. "you know about as much as old addie himself now, and a lot more than i. all you have got to do is study." "is that all?" asked myron ironically. "it isn't anything if you say it quick, is it?" but andrew proved right about it, and myron found that as much work applied to latin as to other studies kept him on good terms with old addie. there was one thorn in myron's side at this time, and its name was charles cummins. cummins was a riddle to myron. ever since the time he had spent that unpleasant half-hour in cummins' awkward squad the freckle-faced, shock-haired giant had never let an opportunity pass to accost him. there was no harm in that, of course; the trouble was that cummins always made himself so disagreeable! it seemed to myron that the chap deliberately sought him out in order to rile him. and it wasn't so much what cummins said as the way he said it. it got so that myron only had to see the other approaching to feel huffy. long before cummins got within speaking distance myron had his back up, and cummins, knowing it, seemed to take delight in it. cummins was generally known as "chas," from his habit of signing himself "chas. l. cummins." he declared that charles was far too long to spell out. he played left guard and played it well if erratically. in a way, he was difficult to get along with, for he considered himself a law unto himself, and it was no unusual thing for him to veto a coach's instructions, which, up to a certain point, the coach stood for. the others were at outs with him half the time, but liked him through all. oddly enough, even the timidest youngster he ever bullied and brow-beat in practice was strong for him afterwards. it was no secret that he was holding his position on the first team by little more than an eyelash, for brodhead was hot on his trail and coach driscoll had put up with more of cummins' calm insurrection than was agreeable to him. in appearance "chas" was a broad, heavily-built giant with much red-brown hair that never was known to lie straight, eyes that nearly matched the hair and a round, freckled face that was seldom neutral. it was either scowling savagely or grinning broadly. for his part, myron preferred cummins' scowls to his smiles, for the smiles generally held mischief. usually the two encountered each other only on the playfield in the afternoon, but one morning a few days after the cumner game myron, walking back to the room after a chemistry class, sighted cummins coming out of goss hall. "gee, there's that pest!" he muttered, and, contrary to school regulations, started on a short cut across the grass in the hope of avoiding him. but it was not to be. cummins had sighted his prey. "o foster!" he called. myron nodded and kept on. "tarry, i prithee! i wouldst a word with thee, fair youth!" "go to thunder!" murmured myron. but cummins headed him off without difficulty. "s'pose you know," he said, "that we can both be shot at sunrise for walking cross-lots like this. where do you room?" "sohmer," answered myron briefly. "ho, with the swells, eh? lead on, reginald! i would visit thy fair abode in yon palace!" "not receiving today, thanks," said myron. "i've got some work to do." "work? didn't suppose you silk-stocking bunch in sohmer ever had to work! thought you had slaves to do that sort of thing. how little one half the school knows how t'other half lives! to think of you soiling your lily-white hands and getting calloused with labour! what sort of work are you going to do? clip coupons?" "oh, dry up!" exploded myron. "i'm sick to death of your chatter! and i'm sick of being guyed all the time, too! lay off, can't you?" to his surprise, "chas" chuckled and thumped him on the back. "a-a-ay!" he applauded. "that's the stuff, old chap! i was beginning to think you didn't have any pep in you. there's always hope for a fellow who can get mad!" "that isn't hard when you're around," answered myron, unappeased. "don't bang me on the back, either. i don't like it." "all right," answered chas, sobering. "i'll behave. mind if i come up for a few minutes?" myron looked at him suspiciously, but for once cummins was neither scowling nor grinning. "i guess not," he answered ungraciously. "fine! but don't embarrass me with your welcome, old chap," chuckled chas as they mounted the steps. "some dive this, isn't it? don't believe i ever hoped to get in here." joe was not in and when chas had looked around the study--a trifle disappointedly, myron thought--and seen the view from the window he seated himself on the window-seat, took one knee into his hands and viewed his host reflectively. myron, at the table, fussed with his books and fumed inwardly and wished cummins would get out. finally the latter said: "foster, you and i ought to be great pals." myron looked every bit of the astonishment he felt, and his guest chuckled again. "because we're as unlike as three peas, and the only things that can be more unlike than three peas is four peas. you've got coin and i'm the poor but proud scion of a fine old chap who made his living laying bricks. you're a swell and i'm a--well, i'm not. you're a sort of touch-me-not and i'd make friends with any one. probably we don't think alike on any two subjects under the sun. so we ought to hit it off great. get the idea?" "i'm afraid i don't," owned the other, interested and puzzled. "it's the old law of the attraction of opposites, or whatever it's called. now i took a shine to you right off"--myron sniffed, but chas only smiled and went on--"oh, i don't always hug a chap i take a fancy to. that's not my way. i try 'em out first. i tried you out, foster, old chap." "did you? well, much obliged, but----" "you'd rather i minded my own business, you mean? that's what i like about you, foster, that stand-offishness. i like the way you sort of turn your nose up and look haughty. you see, i'm not like that. if a stranger says 'howdy' to me i either say 'glad to know you' or i biff him one and pass on. i couldn't freeze him with a glance as you can to save my precious life." "i didn't know i was as bad as that," said myron, a trifle uncomfortable. "i don't think i mean to be." "course you don't. that's the beauty of it. it comes natural to you, just like liking artichokes and olives. i'll bet you anything you were eating olives when you were four, and i haven't got to really like the pesky things yet!" "you talk a lot of nonsense," said myron, smiling in spite of himself. "just what are you getting at?" "well, i'm not after a loan, anyway," laughed chas. "i was telling you that i tried you out. so i did. 'he looks like he was a nice sort under the shell,' says i to me. 'a terrapin isn't awfully jolly and friendly when he sticks his head out at you and hisses, but they tell me that when you get under the shell he's mighty good eating.' so, thinks i----" "the idea being that i've got to be dead to be nice?" asked myron drily. "no, not a bit. the--the simile was unfortunate. no, but i thought i'd get a peek under the shell and see what you were really like. so i set out to make you mad. if a fellow can't get mad he's no good. anyway, he's no good to me. and he's no good for football. i was just about giving you up, old chap. you frowned and grumbled and sputtered once or twice and looked haughty as anything, but you wouldn't get your dander up. not until today." "well," said myron, "now that i have got mad, what's the big idea?" "why, now we can be pals," answered chas unhesitatingly. "how does that strike you?" "why--why, i don't know!" myron faltered. "it sounds like some sort of a silly joke to me, cummins." "no joke at all." chas unclasped his hands and leaned back, his big, freckled face wreathed in smiles. "no hurry, though. think it over. anyway, there's something more important just now. i've watched you on the field, foster, ever since they dumped you on me that day. i've seen you play and i can tell you what i think of you, if you like." it's human to like flattery in moderation, and so myron said "go ahead," and prepared to look modest. "i think you're rotten," said chas. "wh-what?" gasped myron. "rotten, with a large capital r, foster." "thanks!" "don't get huffy, old chap. i don't say you can't play good football. i think you can. but you're not doing it now. if i didn't think you could play the game according to the old masters i wouldn't be talking about it to you. you play like a fellow who doesn't care. you don't try hard enough. you don't deliver the goods. you're soldiering. ever see a man laying a shingle roof? well, he could do the whole thing in a day, maybe, if he worked hard. but he belongs to the union and the union won't let him lay more than just so many shingles. so he has to slow down. that's like you. say, what union do you belong to?" "i guess the trouble is that i _don't_ belong," said myron. "i'm an outsider, and so i don't get a chance." "tell that to the marines! look here, old chap, you can make a real football player of yourself if you want to. i've watched you and i know. i've seen what you could have done lots of times when you didn't do it. now, just what is the row?" so myron told him his version of it and chas listened silently and even sympathetically. but at the end he shook his head. "you're all wrong, foster," he said. "i've been here two years now and i know how things go. the trouble with you, i guess, is that you came here with the idea that folks were going to fall all over themselves to shake hands with you and pull you into the football team. isn't that pretty near so?" it was, and myron for the first time realised it, but he couldn't quite get himself to acknowledge it to cummins. he tried to look hurt and made no answer. "sure!" said chas. "and when the coach and the captain didn't give a dinner in your honour and ask you to accept a place on the team and give them the benefit of your advice as to running same you got peeved. that's just what i'd have done if i'd been you, you see, so i know. if it was me i'd have either gone to the coach and made a big kick and told him how good i was or else i'd have gone out and played so hard that they'd have either had to take me on or chuck me to save the lives of the others! but you, being haughty harold, just froze them with a glance--which same they didn't happen to see--and went your way. and it's a rotten way, too. because it won't get you anywhere. driscoll won't fall for you until you show something and you won't show anything until driscoll pats you on the back. say, i'm talking a whole lot! what time is it? and you've got some digging to do! i'll beat it. think over my words of wisdom, foster, and drop around tonight and hear more. i've got a plan, old chap. i'm in 16 goss; first floor, on the right. bye-bye!" and before myron could agree or refuse the invitation cummins had hurried to the door and was clattering downstairs. myron went to the window and, in somewhat of a daze, watched cummins emerge below and disappear under the trees. then he sat himself down on the window-seat, plunged both hands into trousers pockets and frowned intently at his shoes. he didn't get much studying done that hour. chapter xv the plan there was hard practice that afternoon in preparation for the musket hill academy game, and the second squad, in process of becoming the second team, with a coach and signals of its own, was sent against the first for three long periods. myron found himself with the third squad, as usual, however, and ended practice with a half-hour scrimmage against the substitutes. perhaps cummins' words had made an impression, for he certainly played good, hard ball today and ran rings around the opposing ends and backs. as they played on the second team gridiron, while the first team was battling, his performance was not noted by the coach. but keene, an end who was off with a bad ankle and who refereed the scrimmage, saw and casually made mention of myron's work to jud mellen later. "that chap foster played a nifty game today," said keene. "he might bear watching, jud." "foster? yes, he's not half bad. if we didn't have so many good halves he might be useful. best we can do for him, though, is to carry him over for next year, i guess." "well, he's a pretty player. it seems too bad to waste him. how would he fit at end?" "looking for a chance to retire?" laughed jud. "what would we do with another end, larry? have a heart, man!" "well, but he ought to be tried somewhere, just the same, jud. he plays so blamed smooth!" "i wonder if he'd make a quarter." jud paused in the act of lacing a shoe and stared speculatively at a grated and dusty window. then he shook his head. "i guess we're good enough at quarter. we'll know better after saturday's game, though. how's the foot getting on? going to be able to play a bit?" "sure! it's coming on fine. i'll be good for the whole game." "yes, you will, son! a couple of quarters is about your stunt, i guess. driscoll wants to give o'curry a show, anyway. know what i think? well, i think musket hill's going to give us a tough old tussle. they've got almost every lineman they had last year and the same quarter; and you know what the score was last time." "twelve to ten, wasn't it?" "yes, and it ought to have been turned around, for they played us to a standstill in the second half. driscoll's firm for starting with a second-string line, but i don't like it. that musket hill coach is a fox. if they get a score on us in the first quarter we'll be lucky to pass them." "they play hard ball, and that's no joke," agreed keene. "i hope he pulls me out before grafton gets in." "what's the matter with graf?" "i don't know, but i can't seem to get on with him. i think he plays too much for the centre of the line. there's always a hole there and i get about two yards more of territory to look after. you keep your place, but grafton sort of wanders in." "glad you spoke of it," answered jud. "i'll watch him. going over?" up to a half-hour after supper myron was convinced that he had no intention of visiting cummins that evening. cummins was a lot more decent than he had thought him, in fact a rather likable fellow, but he had a disagreeable way of saying things that--well, didn't need to be said. besides, there was something almost indecent in telling another that you liked him and asking him to be pals! even if cummins had taken a fancy to him, as he declared, at least he might have kept it to himself. but when supper was over and myron had turned on the steam in number 17--the evenings were getting decidedly chilly now--and settled himself to write a letter home, cummins' freckled countenance insisted on obtruding itself between him and the sheet of grey, yellow-monogrammed paper. joe had not returned to the room and, when the letter was written and he had brushed up on latin and math., he would be pretty well bored, he supposed. he got as far as "dear mother and father: i didn't get this letter written yesterday because i was very busy----" then, after trying to recall what he had been busy with and fiddling with the self-filling device on his pen for a good ten minutes, he gave it up. he guessed he'd walk over and hear what cummins' plan was. not that it interested him any, but he didn't feel like writing just now. cummins himself answered myron's knock, although the battered door of number 16 bore not only his card but that of "guy henry brown," to the end of which name some facetious person had added the letters "d.d." brown, who played right half on the first team, was not at home, however, and cummins, stretched out along the window-seat, was the sole occupant of the room. the room served as study and chamber both, and a narrow, white-enamelled bed stood against the wall on each side. the rest of the furnishings were nondescript and had evidently seen long service. a few posters adorned the painted walls and the carpet was so threadbare in places that one had to guess at the original pattern and hue. nevertheless, there was a comfortable and home-like look to number 16 which myron acknowledged. cummins tore himself from the book he was reading with unflattering deliberateness and indicated a shabby automatic rocking-chair. "try the nerve dispeller," he invited. "so called because when used your own nerves leave you and go to the other chap, who has to watch you rock. it's all right; it won't go over; that's just its playful way." "what were you reading?" asked myron, by way of conversation. chas held the book up and the visitor was surprised to see that it was what he mentally called "a kid's story." "oh," he murmured. chas grinned. "i know, but i like them. they're easy to understand and there's generally something doing all through; and you can't say that for these novels some of the fellows pretend to read. i tried to wade through one last summer. nothing happened until i got to page 112, and then the hero changed his shoes. maybe he changed back again later, but i ducked. well, how are you tonight?" "me? all right, thanks." myron wondered why he had said "me," and then realised that he had caught the trick from joe. "i had a letter to write, but i couldn't seem to get at it, and so i thought i'd drop over and see--hear----" "that plan? well, it's a good one. put your feet up here, will you, and keep that thing still? do you mind? it pretty nearly sets me crazy to talk to any one who's bobbing back and forth like one of those china mandarins! i'd have chucked that chair long ago, only guy hates it worse than i do. do you know him, by the way? guy brown: plays right half on the first." "only to speak to. i'm not well acquainted amongst the ministry." "oh, that? some fresh youth wrote that and a couple of days afterwards hale called--do you have him in physics? he lives down the hall--and said it was sacrilegious. but i told him it stood for 'decent dub' and he calmed down. say, foster, can you keep a secret?" "yes, of course." "there's no 'of course' about it," said chas. "lot's of fellows can't. i'm not very good at it myself. but i guess you're one of the kind who can. well, here it is. i'm going to be captain next year." "are you? captain of what?" asked myron politely. "football, you chump! what did you think, the tennis team?" "oh!" myron stared, wondering whether the other was joking. but chas appeared to be quite in earnest and returned myron's gaze with an expression of bland inquiry. "does that interest you?" he asked. "it interests me to know how you know you are," said myron. "of course. remember that it's a secret. if you ever tell any one what i've just said i'll draw and quarter you and frizzle you crisp in boiling oil. i know it, old chap, because i'm after the job, and what i go after i get. unless some dark horse develops between now and the kenwood game i'm certain to get it. so we'll call that settled, shall we?" "just as you say," laughed myron. "if you want it, though, i hope you get it." "thanks. of course, i realise that it isn't usual to mention such matters. you're not supposed to know that there is such a thing as a captaincy. when you get it you nearly die of surprise. well, that's not me. i'm after it. mean to get it, too. i wouldn't say this to every fellow because most of them would be so shocked at my--my indelicacy they'd never get over it. besides which, they'd probably vote against me." chas chuckled. "so can you if you like, foster. i'm not making a bid for your vote." "i'm not likely to have one," replied myron drily. "you will have if my plan works out. now you listen. if i'm going to captain next year's team--and i am, old chap; don't you doubt it!--i want some players around me. i don't want to run up against kenwood and get licked. that might do when some other fellow's running things, but not when i am. no, i want some real players with me, foster. so i'm building my team this fall." myron laughed. "honest, cummins, you're the craziest chump i ever met! are you--are you in earnest?" "why not? good, practical scheme, isn't it? what's wrong with it?" "well, but--you're not captain! and how can you build up a team when you're not?" "how? you watch me. take your case, old chap. maybe you won't make good this year. mind, i say _maybe_. i think you will. but if you don't, what?" myron shook his head helplessly, signifying he gave it up and that no matter what the answer proved to be he was beyond surprise! "why, you'll be a1 material for next--_if_ you keep your head up. that's my game, to see that you keep going and learn all the football you can and don't drop out of training after the season's over. i think basket-ball will be a good thing for you to take up, foster. or you might go in for the gymnastic team. but i won't have you playing baseball, so don't get that bug in your bonnet. baseball's spoiled a lot of good football chaps. track's all right if you don't overdo it. we'll settle all that later, though." "very well," agreed myron docilely. "don't mind me." chas grinned. "not going to--much. but you see the idea, don't you? what do you think of it?" "i think," returned myron deliberately, "that it's one of the craziest schemes i ever heard of." chas looked much pleased. "all right. and then what?" "and i think it may work out beautifully." "sure it will! so that's why i went after you, old chap. you're a 'prospect.'" "oh," said myron demurely, "i thought it was because you had taken a violent fancy to me." "that too! don't make any mistake, old chap. i want fellows of the right sort, and i want fellows that i like and who like me. i can do things with that sort: they'll work for me. and i'll work for them: work my fingers off if necessary. now for the plan." "i'm listening," said myron. "how'd you like to get on the first this fall, foster?" "well, seeing that i'm black-and-blue pretty nearly all over, that seems sort of--of idle!" "just getting black-and-blue isn't enough, old chap. lots of dubs are purple-and-green that'll be dropped next week. now, look here. who told you you were a born half-back?" "no one, of course. i've played that position, though, and know it. i played end for a while too, but half seemed to be my place." "yes. well, we've got exactly five good to middling half-backs this year, foster, and you're no better than about two of them and not nearly so good as two more, brown and meldrum. so, you see, you're sort of up against it. see that, don't you?" "i suppose so. just the same, if i had a chance i might beat brounker and vance, and then, if brown or meldrum----" "broke his neck you'd get in?" asked chas impatiently. "what's the good of that sort of figuring? what you want to do, old chap, is to go after something that shows a chance of success. that other game's too much like waiting for dead men's shoes, as they say. you might get into the big game for five minutes, or you might not. and i'm not so dead sure that you could beat out those fellows. and, anyway, there's still robbins against you. yes, i know he isn't such a wonder now, but suppose he starts to come while you're coming? how do you know he won't come just as fast, or a little bit faster? no, that's rotten planning, foster. you're all wrong. forget that you're a half and go hard after a job that's open to you." "where'll i find it?" asked myron. "what other position is there?" "full-back," said chas. chapter xvi conspiracy "full-back!" exclaimed myron. "why, i never played it! i don't know it! i----" "piffle! what's the difference? any chap who can play half well can play full-back decently. besides, i've got a strong hunch that you'd make a good one, foster. you aren't as heavy as i'd like you, but you're fast and you start quick and you hit 'em hard. when it comes right down to it, i'm not sure i wouldn't as soon have a lighter man who can jump off quick as a heavier one who gets going slow. but the big idea about turning you into a full-back is that you'll have a fair show for that position. i like steve kearns, but he ought never to have been taken back from the line. he was a mighty promising tackle last year until desmond got damaged and we had to have a full-back in a hurry. as for williams and bob houghton, they aren't more than fair. there's a nice job waiting for a smart, steady full-back who'll live on the premises and be kind to the dogs, foster. and i nominate you." myron made no answer for a moment. this thing of having some one else arrange his affairs was a bit startling. finally he said, doubtfully: "aren't we forgetting that driscoll and mellen have something to say, cummins?" "not a bit of it. what we've got to do is show them that you are the fellow they want there. then they'll simply have to have you." "it would be learning a new game, though." "rot! the positions aren't very different. just think a minute." myron thought. then: "how about punting?" he asked dubiously. "i've seen you do thirty," answered chas. "you seem to have made a life study of me," laughed myron. "yes, i can do thirty, and better, too, i guess, but i've never had much of it to do and i don't believe that i can place my kicks, and i don't know how i'd get along if a bunch of wild indians was tearing down on me. i'd probably get frightfully rattled and try to put the ball down my neck, or something." "you'd need practice, of course," chas granted. "i could show you a few things myself, and if you went after the position driscoll would see that you got plenty of punting work. don't let that worry you. the thing to do, and it may not be so easy, is to persuade driscoll that you have the making of a good full-back." "ye-es." myron was silent a minute. "i'd like to ask you something, cummins," he said at last. "shoot!" "what other changes are you considering on the team?" chas chuckled. "none, just now. i had thought--but never mind that. you see, what i want to do, foster, is to fix things so that when next september rolls around i'll have the making of a good team. a lot of this year's bunch will graduate, you know. i've got to make sure that there'll be other chaps to take their places. for instance, steve kearns, even if he was a corking good full-back, wouldn't do me any good next fall because he won't be here. don't get it into your bean that i'm queering this year's team for the sake of next year's, though, because that's not the idea. i wouldn't do that if i could." "i begin to believe you could, all right," said myron. "i have a notion that if you thought it would be better to have some one else captain you'd talk mellen into resigning!" "well, i dare say i'd try it," laughed chas. "now what do you say?" "about this full-back business? why, i'm willing, cummins. i'm not getting anywhere as a half-back, and i guess i wouldn't do much worse at the other stunt. but what i don't see is how i'm to persuade the coach to let me change." "i know. i haven't got that quite doped out yet. i don't believe just asking for a chance to play full-back would do. he might fall for it, and he might not. you let me mull that over until tomorrow and i'll see if i can't hit on some scheme. meanwhile, if i were you i'd sort of put myself through an exam and see how much i knew about playing full. you might take a book that i have along with you and read what it says about it. it's not a very new book, but it's the best that's ever been written, and there isn't much difference in a full-back's job then and now. i'll see you at the field tomorrow. by the way, are you going with the team saturday?" "to north lebron? i don't know. i don't suppose driscoll will take me with the squad, but i might go along and see the game." "you'd better. it doesn't hurt a fellow to see all the football he can, even if he sees it from the stand. got to beat it? well, here's the book, old chap. and mind, not a word to any one about this business. it's between you and me, foster." myron found joe and andrew merriman in the room when he got back, and he took his part in the talk for a half-hour or so. when andrew went he pushed his school books aside and opened the little blue-bound volume that cummins had loaned him. joe, across the table, half-hidden by the drop-light, knotted his fingers in his hair and groaned at intervals. at ten both boys yawned and went to bed. myron was not a sparkling success in latin class the next forenoon. a three o'clock recitation made him somewhat late for practice and cummins was trotting about the gridiron in signal work when he arrived at the field. mr. driscoll sent him over to the second team gridiron to join the third squad and so, after all, he didn't learn from cummins whether the latter had found a solution to their problem. nor did he run across cummins again that day. the first team was let off early, all save the punters and goal-kickers, and cummins had left the gymnasium when myron got there at half-past five. he considered looking him up at his room after supper, but he had rather more than half promised joe to go over to merriman's and so decided not to. there was no practice for the first the next afternoon, but the other squads were put through a full day's work. to myron's surprise, cummins took command when scrimmage time came, coach driscoll disappearing from the field. myron found himself at left half on the second squad, with houghton at full-back. in that position he played for five minutes. then cummins, who was evidently very hard to please today, called a halt. "that'll do, bob," he told houghton. "o billy! got a full-back there?" "i have not," answered the trainer. "i've got a half here. want him?" "wait a minute." cummins ran his eye over the second squad backs. "foster, have you ever played full?" he growled. "no," answered myron. "want to try it? all right, fall back here. send your half in, billy." myron heartily wished that cummins hadn't shifted him, for while he had a very fair notion of a full-back's duties, he wasn't at all keen about displaying his knowledge under those circumstances. he was, he felt, bound to make a hash of the job, and there were several fellows within a few yards who would be tickled to death to have him do so. he was glad he had discounted his failure by acknowledging his inexperience. when cummins had asked him, he hadn't known whether the temporary coach had expected him to say yes or no. he didn't know yet, but he felt that his reply had certainly been the better one. cummins wasn't gentle with him. every mistake he made, and he made many, was pointed out to him in emphatic language. myron wanted to pinch himself to make certain that he wasn't dreaming. cummins had conspired with him to get him into the position of full-back and now he was snarling and growling at him quite as though myron had forced himself into the place on false pretences. myron thought that in consideration of the circumstances cummins might have dealt a little less harshly with his shortcomings. but, on the whole, myron didn't do so badly. he honestly believed that he was playing as well as the deposed houghton. cummins didn't let him punt, for which he was grateful, and he encouraged warren, who was playing at quarter, to use many end plays. outside of tackle, myron was usually successful whenever he received the pigskin, and he once or twice made good on plunges at the centre of the line. there, however, his lack of weight told somewhat. in the first twelve-minute period the second squad got one touchdown and goal and might have had a second score if cummins had not put them back from the eight yards to the eighteen on some whim of his own. third got the ball on downs six inches from the last white streak and punted out of danger, and the second was mad enough to rend cummins limb from limb! when a five-minute rest came cummins called myron from the bench and led him into the field. to those watching it was perfectly evident that chas was telling the green full-back how absolutely rotten he was. they would have been surprised had they heard the conversation out there. "you weren't half bad, old chap," said chas eagerly, yet scowling ferociously still. "you slowed up once or twice when you hit the line, though. try to keep going hard. a good way to do is to think of the other fellow's goal line instead of his players. sort of make yourself think that's where you're going. you'll get farther before you're stopped, if you are stopped. how do you like it?" "all right," answered myron, a bit grumpily. "but considering that i've never played it before it seems to me you might let up on me a bit. you go on as if i'd murdered my grandmother!" "why, sure," chuckled chas. "you don't want those fellows to think i'm pulling for you, do you? it's got to look like an accident, don't you see? i want to be able to tell driscoll tonight that you went in at full in an emergency and played a corking good game. then, if he has half the sense i think he has, he will put you in there himself the first of the week and look you over. by the way, want to try a little punting in the next period?" "i don't believe i'd better," answer myron. "i guess i'd rather not." "maybe you're right. if you made a mess of a punt it would sort of take off a few good marks. all right. now see if you can do a little better still this half. and don't mind my growls, old chap. you're getting no worse than any other fellow would get." twelve more minutes of hard playing followed in which the third turned the tables with a long run that netted a touchdown. but the try-at-goal failed and, after the second had battered its way to the enemy's twelve yards, warren's attempt at a drop-kick went wide and the referee, the assistant manager, blew his whistle. in that second period myron did a little better because he was learning his duties, but it would be an exaggeration to say that he showed phenomenal ability as a full-back. he made several good games, gains, was strong in defensive play and got off one very pretty forward pass to mistley that netted twenty yards. in short, chas had to show a little more enthusiasm than he actually felt when he spoke to coach driscoll that evening. there had been a final conference in the coach's room at half-past seven attended by the trainer, the managers and seven of the players, and the last problem of the morrow's game had been solved more or less satisfactorily. afterwards, chas remained behind with jud mellen and farnsworth and harry cater for a sociable chat. none of them meant to talk football, and none of them did for a full quarter of an hour, but it is difficult to keep the subject uppermost in the mind out of the conversation, and presently jud said thoughtfully: "i wish we had about three more good plays, coach." "we've got enough, cap," was the confident reply. "no use trying to remember too many at this time of the season. better know ten or twelve well than half know twenty. it isn't lack of plays that will beat us tomorrow, if we _are_ beaten----" "sure to be," interpolated katie cheerfully. "well, it'll be because we haven't got our attack working, then. musket hill is well ahead of us in development, and that's going to count, fellows. however, we may show them something, at that." "by the way, coach," said chas, "i ran out of full-backs this afternoon and used that fellow foster through most of two periods. he wasn't half rotten, if you ask me. he'd never played it in his life, either." "foster? what happened to houghton?" "it wasn't his day," said chas. "so i had to find some one else for the second squad." "houghton hasn't had a day for a good while," murmured farnsworth drily. "for the love of mike," exclaimed jud mellen, "if we can make a full-back of foster, let's do it, coach! it's the weakest position on the team right now." "i've been thinking that kearns would come on," said mr. driscoll, "but he doesn't seem to get the hang of it." "he works hard enough," said katie. "how did you happen to choose foster?" asked the coach of chas. "you had wiborg. he's played full." "don't think he was there. i asked billy and billy only offered me a half." "wiborg wasn't out today," explained the manager. "he's been having some trouble with the office. nothing serious, i believe, but he asked for a cut." "you say foster showed up pretty well, cummins?" "he really did, coach. of course, i don't know how he'd be at punting, but he made some mighty good gains from kicking formation and went into the third pretty hard from close in." "he could be taught enough punting to get by with," suggested captain mellen. "maybe he'll be a find, coach. i've said right along that he looked good." "no harm in trying him," mused mr. driscoll. "if kearns doesn't show something tomorrow we'll need a good full-back. much obliged for the tip, cummins. well, good night, fellows. get a good sleep and be ready with the punch tomorrow. we want that game if we can get it!" chapter xvii a chance encounter the team left for north lebron at eleven o'clock the next forenoon. the town that had the honour of containing musket hill academy was not so far away in distance, but those who had arranged the train service had not consulted the parkinson school football team, and as a result of this oversight there was an hour and a half to be spent at a junction that boasted, besides a decrepit station, only a blacksmith's shop, a general store and eight assorted dwellings. myron knew that there were eight dwellings because he counted them twice. there wasn't much of anything else to do. he was not journeying to north lebron in any official capacity, for his name had not been amongst those announced yesterday by manager farnsworth. he was going along, with some sixty other "fans," mostly because chas cummins had insisted on his doing so. privately, he had entertained the thought up to an hour after breakfast that, not having been invited to attend the contest as a member of the team, it would be the part of dignity to remain away. but chas wasn't greatly concerned with dignity, and he had a masterful way with him, and the result was that at a little before nine o'clock myron was in possession of the knowledge that he was going to north lebron at eleven-four. at twelve he was seated on an edge of the platform at the junction, juggling three pebbles in his hand and boredly wondering what it would be like to have to live in the fifth dwelling; the one with the blue-green blinds and the sagging porch and the discarded wagon-seat serving as a porch settle. the day was positively hot for october and few of the travellers had elected to remain inside the coaches. some of the school fellows were adorning the platform, like myron, others were strolling about the adjacent landscape in search of adventures, and a merry handful were exercising the baggage truck up and down the planks to the restrained displeasure of the sad-looking station agent. coming over, myron had shared a seat with a stranger, a lad of fourteen or so, and had managed to pass the time in conversation on various subjects, but now the youngster had disappeared and no one else appeared to care about taking his place. joe and chas were with the football crowd in the forward car, and myron had seen neither of them to speak to since leaving warne. andrew merriman had not been able to come. in consequence, myron had no one to talk to and was fast reaching the decision that he would have had more pleasure had he remained at home. even the assurance that he was irreproachably arrayed in a suit of cool grey flannel, with a cap to match, a cream-coloured shirt and patriotic brown tie and stockings didn't mitigate his boredom. of late he had been deriving less satisfaction than of yore from his attire. somehow, whether his tie and stockings matched or whether his trousers were smoothly pressed seemed of less consequence to him. several times of late he had forgotten his scarf-pin! his discontented musings were interrupted by the arrival beside him of a youth of perhaps nineteen. myron had glimpsed him once on the train and been struck by his good looks and by the good taste of his attire. he wore blue serge, but it was serge of an excellent quality and cut to perfection. and there was a knowing touch to the paler blue scarf with its modest moonstone pin and something pleasantly exceptional in the shape of the soft collar. myron felt a kindred interest in the tall, good-looking youth, and determined to speak to him. but the stranger forestalled him, for, as soon as he had seated himself nearby on the platform edge, he turned, glancing at myron and remarked: "hot, isn't it?" the stranger's tone held just the correct mixture of cordiality and restraint. myron, agreeing, felt flattered that the well-dressed youth had singled him out. the weather, as a subject of conversation, soon failed, but there were plenty of other things to discuss, and at the end of ten minutes the two were getting on famously. the stranger managed to inform myron without appearing to do so that he was interested in a sporting goods house in new haven, that he had been in hartford on business and that, having nothing better to do today, he had decided to run over to north lebron and see the game between musket hill and parkinson. "i fancy you're a parkinson fellow?" he said questioningly. and when myron acknowledged the fact: "a fine school, i've heard. i've never been there. warne's off my territory. i've been thinking, though, that some day i'd run over and see if i could do any business there. i suppose you chaps buy most of your athletic supplies in new york." "i think so. there's one store in warne that carries a pretty fair line of goods, though." "i think i'll have to try your town. parkinson's rather a big place, isn't it?" "we have over five hundred fellows this year." "is that so? why, there ought to be some business there for my house. i suppose you chaps go in for most everything: football, baseball, hockey, tennis? how about track athletics?" "there's a track team," answered myron, "but this is my first year and i don't know much about it yet." "i see." the other looked appraisingly and, myron thought, even admiringly over his new acquaintance. "i say, you look as if you ought to be playing football yourself, old man. or is baseball your game?" "football, but i'm not on the first. it's hard work breaking in at parkinson." "good guess of mine, wasn't it?" laughed the other. "thought you had the build for a good football man. i meet a good many of them, you see. how's this team you've got ahead there? going to lick musket hill this afternoon?" "i don't know. i hope so. i have an idea that our coach rather expects a hard game, though. i've heard that musket hill is further along than we are." "those fellows play good football," said the stranger. "i've seen them in action once or twice. i hope you chaps get away with the game, but my opinion is that you'll have to go some to do it. got some good men on your team?" myron was quite willing to sing the praises of parkinson, and during the ensuing half-hour the stranger was treated to quite a fund of information regarding the school, the football team and myron warrenton foster. football, though, seemed to interest the tall youth most of all, and several times myron was turned back to that subject by polite questions. when the train from the south pulled in the two were still conversing and it was but natural that they should share a seat for the remainder of the journey. the stranger could talk interestingly himself and the last part of the trip was occupied with absorbing and even startling adventures met with by him in his business trips. more than once myron's credulity was severely taxed, but a glance at the narrator's frank and pleasing countenance dispelled all suspicions of mendacity. myron found this chance acquaintance so interesting that he rather hoped they might witness the game together, but when north lebron was reached the stranger announced that he had one or two errands to attend to before going up to the field. [illustration: _the stranger was treated to quite a fund of information_] "maybe i'll run across you there--er--what's the name, by the way?" "foster." "mine's millard. i haven't a card with me. wish i had. but, i say, foster, if you don't mind i'd like to look you up if i get to warne. those little towns are dull holes if you don't know any one in them." "i wish you would!" said myron. "you'll find me in 17 sohmer hall. can you remember that?" "sohmer, you said? number 17? i'll remember, foster. awfully glad to have met you. it's jolly nice to run across a chap who's--well, a chap who has your own views on things, if you get me." he shook hands cordially, evidently regretfully. "i'll try to find you at the game, old man. if i don't, look for me in your burg before long. i'm going to have a go at that dealer you spoke of." "i'll try and save a seat for you if you think you're likely to find me," offered myron. but the other waved a hand. "don't bother. i can squeeze in. and i may be rather late in getting there. good-bye and good luck. hope you beat 'em!" that encounter restored both myron's self-esteem and good humour, and he enjoyed the sandwich and pie and milk which he ate in company with half a hundred other youths at the little lunch-room on the way uptown. later, wandering by himself through the leaf-strewn streets about the school campus, he came across joe and paxton cantrell, the latter a sturdy, wide-shouldered youth who was playing his second--and last--season at centre. cantrell left them a minute or two later to speak to an acquaintance and myron and joe walked on to the school gymnasium together. "they fed us at a hotel down there by the station," said joe sadly, "and i want to tell you that not one of us over-ate. everything came to us in bird baths and you needed a microscope to find the contents. norris lost his roast beef and didn't find it until he was through dinner, and where do you suppose it was?" "in his lap, i guess." "no, sir, it had slipped under his thumb-nail!" myron told of the stranger encountered at the junction and was quite full of his subject, but joe didn't seem to find it interesting and soon interrupted to point out a building. "what do you suppose that is?" he asked. "looks like a factory of some sort, don't it? only it ain't--hasn't got any chimneys, as far as i can see." "maybe it's a hospital or something," replied myron. "he says he's coming to warne pretty soon and will look me up. i'd like to have you meet him, joe." "who's this?" "why, millard, the chap i was speaking of," answered myron disgustedly. "oh! glad to know him. which street do we take now?" they parted at the gymnasium and myron joined the throng pressing toward the field, a short block away. he looked for millard, but didn't see him. later, during the intermission, he thought he caught sight of him in the throng behind the musket hill bench, but others intervened and he was not able to make certain. the game started at half-past two, by which time the morning heat had been somewhat abated by a fresh breeze that blew across the oval field and fluttered the big maroon banner above the covered stand that held the musket hill rooters. parkinson's sixty odd supporters, grouped together on the other side of the field, did valiant service with their voices, but to myron it seemed that their contribution to the din that prevailed as the two teams trotted on together was very slight. he was wedged in between a stout youth named hollis, whom he instinctively disliked because of his high-pitched voice, and a studious-appearing boy in spectacles whose name he didn't know. hollis had vindicated myron's verdict before the teams had finished warming up by showing himself to be one of those cock-sure, opinionated and loud-talking youths of which every school is possessed. his neighbour at his left elbow proved inoffensive and only once during the game uttered any sound that myron could hear. then, while every one else was on his feet, shouting and gesticulating, the spectacled youth smiled raptly and murmured, "oh, bully indeed!" myron purchased a score-card from a boy with a maroon band about his arm, exchanging a bright ten cent piece for a flimsy, smoochy slip of paper that, so far as the visiting team was concerned, was as untruthful as it was unlovely. the card declared that "mullen" would play left tackle for parkinson, that "sawtrell" was her centre and that "wildram" was the name of her left half-back. myron corrected these misstatements when captain mellen had trotted his warriors out on the field, and some others besides, for coach driscoll had sent five substitutes to the fray, four linemen and a back. when myron had got through making over his score-card it looked like one of his corrected english compositions and read as follows: stearns, l.e.; mellen, l.t.; brodhead, l.g.; cantrell, c.; dobbins, r.g.; flay, r.t.; grove, r.e.; cater, q.b.; brounker, l.h.; brown, r.h.; kearns, f.b. myron was glad that joe was to have his chance in a real game, and for the first period watched his room-mate so closely that the general aspect of the game was quite lost on him and he came to with a start when the teams changed fields, realising that however nicely joe had played--and he had played well: there was no question about that--the eleven as a whole had failed to show anything resembling real football. while neither team had found its gait, musket hill had already threatened the visitors' goal and only a sad fumble had held her away from it. and now, with the second ten-minute period beginning, the ball was again in the maroon's possession on parkinson's thirty-three yards. myron sat up and took notice, deciding to let joe play his game unaided by telepathic waves from the grandstand! musket hill was a heavy team, although her players got their weight from height rather than breadth. they were, almost without exception, tall, rangey youths with an extremely knowing manner of handling themselves. myron's brow clouded as he watched that first play after the whistle. musket hill used an open formation, with her backs side by side a full pace further distant than usual. from this formation, with the quarter frequently joining the line of backs at left or right, musket hill worked a variety of plays: straight plunges at centre, delayed passes sliding off tackle, quarter-back runs, even punts, the latter, thanks to a steady bunch of forwards, never threatened with disaster. the maroon played a shifty game, changing her plays often, seldom attacking the same place twice no matter what gains might result. toward the end the latter rule did not hold good, but for three full periods she observed it rigorously, even to the impatience and protests of her supporters. before that second period was three minutes old she had settled down into her stride and demonstrated the fact that, whatever favours of fortune might occur, on the basis of ability alone she was more than a match for her opponent. the maroon secured her first score less than three minutes from the start of the second quarter as unexpectedly as deftly, and myron and his companions on the west stand had scarcely recovered from their surprise by the time the goal was kicked! the ball had been on parkinson's forty-two yards, after musket hill had punted, caught again and carried the pigskin four yards in two downs. the maroon's trick of punting from that three-man formation, and close to the line, had got the enemy worried. the latter was never quite certain when an unexpected kick would go over a back's head, for musket hill punted without rule or reason, it seemed. to keep two men up the field at all times was impossible, and so parkinson compromised and put brown midway between the line and cater. as musket hill had netted but four yards in two downs, it was fair to assume that she was just as likely to kick on the third down as to rush, and brown edged further back at cater's call. but musket hill did the unexpected. there was a quick, dazzling movement behind her line and then the ball arched away to her left. somehow an end was under it when it came down and, although stearns almost foiled him, caught it and reached the five-yard line before he was seriously challenged by brodhead. he had kept close to the side-line, and brown, playing well back, was his nearest foe when the twenty-five-yard line was reached. but brown never had a chance, for a musket hill youth brought him low, while a second effectively disposed of cater a moment after. brodhead alone stood for an instant between the brown and disaster--none ever knew how he had managed to get back to the five yards--and for a heart-beat it seemed that the runner was doomed. but brodhead's tackle only spun the red-legged runner about and sent him across the final white line like a top in its last gyrations. a well-kicked goal added another point to the six, and the teams went back to the centre of the field once more. to myron it seemed then that parkinson realised defeat, for there was that in the attitudes and movements of the players that had not been there before. it was not dejection, but it might have been called the ghost of it. and yet for the remainder of the period parkinson took and held the upper hand and the half ended with the ball in her possession on her forty-eight yards. myron wanted to talk over the game very badly, but the youth with spectacles was doing what appeared to be an intricate problem in algebra on the back of his score-card, while as for the stout boy on his other side, he had heard enough of his conversation already. just now he was knowingly informing his companion that the trouble with parkinson was that she needed a decent coach. his brief glimpse of millard--if it really was millard--distracted him for a moment or two, and after that he listened to the joyful sounds from the musket hill side and felt rather disappointed and lonesome. chapter xviii myron gets his chance i should like to tell how parkinson found herself in the last half of the game and won the contest. but nothing of that sort happened. coach driscoll started the third period with all his regulars in the line, and, in consequence, musket hill found slower going. gains in the line were far less frequent, and only outside of tackles was the maroon likely to win territory. but the home team clearly out-punted the visitors, although, in the final period, garrison was pulled back from the line to swing his toe for parkinson. musket hill made but one long advance in the last twenty minutes, and, as before, a forward pass was the method chosen. keene, who had taken stearns' place at left end, was caught napping badly, and meldrum, the left half, who should have seen the signs and been on guard, found himself tied up with the enemy. the result was a fine thirty-seven yard gain that placed the pigskin on parkinson's nine yards. from a parkinson point of view, the most encouraging feature of the day developed then when the brown line, forced back to its six yards and then to its four, and finally retired to its two for being off-side, stood firm and took the ball away a foot from her goal-line. it was then that the west stand shouted and cheered and that myron, silent a moment for want of breath, heard his spectacled neighbour give vent to the enthusiastic remark already recorded. but no team can win who can't score, and parkinson couldn't score. on attack she was decidedly weak. the ability was there, but the team had not yet learned to make use of it. individually, nearly every fellow in the brown line played really excellent football, but teamwork was missing. for a brief four or five minutes at the beginning of the last quarter there came a semblance of it, and parkinson, securing the ball on a punt near her thirty yards, managed to work it down to the enemy's thirty. guy brown was the bright particular star, and, aided by meldrum, tore off gain after gain through a weakened left side of the enemy's ranks. but when musket hill brought in two substitutes to bolster the point of attack the advance petered out, and when brown had twice failed to gain and kearns had lost a yard on a wide end run, parkinson was forced to punt. that punt marked the end of parkinson's defiance. from then on she plugged away doggedly to avert a worse defeat and, aided by the over-zealousness of musket hill's several substitutes and by the sharp-eyed officials, succeeded. when the final whistle blew parkinson was down on her twelve yards, her back again to the wall, and only that whistle saved her. musket hill appeared more than satisfied with her score of 7 to 0. it was only her second victory over parkinson in many years of contest, although there had been ties and close scores, and myron, standing in his place with the other parkinsonians and cheering bravely, witnessed a hilarious celebration as musket hill overflowed the field and began a sinuous snake-dance from side to side and from goal to goal. then came a hurried scramble for the four-forty-eight train and a tedious and, for his part, dejected journey back to warne. he hoped that millard would show up, although that engaging youth hadn't spoken of returning by that train. he didn't, however, and myron had a dull time of it. the next afternoon, being sunday, he and joe visited andrew merriman, and later they rescued zephaniah from his box-stall and, accompanied by that joyous companion, took a long walk into the country. the afternoon was ideal, although too warm for brisk walking. andrew spied some butternut trees up a lane and they prospected. but the nuts were still green, for no hard frosts had visited them yet. the boys found a sunny spot nearby and stretched themselves out on a bank of ferns and zephaniah had a monstrous adventure with a cricket and got tangled in a blackberry vine and fell off a stone wall and, in short, spent the most glorious hour of his young life. andrew and joe did most of the talking that afternoon. myron was in a rather gloomy frame of mind, although he couldn't have found any explanation for the fact. andrew rallied him once on the score of his silence, and myron said he was tired. after that he really thought he was. joe was in high spirits. he had been pitted against a worthy adversary yesterday and, during the time he had faced him, had had a glorious time. every one said that he had outplayed his opponent, and joe knew it. he regretted that mr. driscoll had seen fit to put garrison in his place in the last half, however, earnestly assuring andrew and myron that if he had stayed in he would have had "that guy fraser eating out of my hand in the last quarter!" but a good tussle always cheered joe up wonderfully, and the effects of that strenuous twenty minutes lasted him for several days: just as a fine big vari-coloured lump under his left eye did! when myron returned to sohmer at dusk he found a scrawled note from chas cummins. "no one home!" he read. "looked for you on the train coming back, but couldn't find you. what do you know about us? looks like fortune favours the brave and all that sort of thing, doesn't it? watch for developments tomorrow! yours, c.c." myron found the note somewhat cryptic. for a minute he thought of going around to see chas in the evening, but then he decided that if chas had wanted to see him he would have said so. as a result, he stayed at home and did some much-needed studying. monday afternoon found a number of the regulars absent from practice. the game on saturday had been a strenuous one and several of the players had earned a rest. chas was on hand, however, although not in togs, and the same was true of jud mellen. cantrell and garrison and cater were absent, and one or two others, and the first squad had a sort of shot-to-pieces look. dummy practice started the proceedings, and, since much poor tackling had been shown in the musket hill contest, the drill was a long one. it seemed to myron that every one had nerves today, from coach driscoll down to the last and least important substitute. manager farnsworth, pulling the rope that shot the canvas dummy across the trolley, was short of speech and jerky of manner, jud mellen, watching grimly from beside the freshly-spaded pit, frowned and twisted his hands about in his uprolled sweater and made biting comments, and even billy goode, normally sweet-tempered as a cherub, looked and spoke as if some one had been casting aspersions on ireland! only chas, grinning like a catfish, appeared unaffected by the general epidemic. chas joked and jollied and got himself thoroughly hated by all. back on the gridiron, coach driscoll called myron from the bench and fixed him with a calculating eye. myron had visions of clearing out his locker and retiring from football affairs. but what the coach said was: "cummins tells me he had you at full-back the other day. ever played there?" "no, sir, not until friday." "you're a half, aren't you? well, we've got plenty of those, such as they are. think you could learn full-back? ever done any punting?" "some, yes, sir." "get a ball and show me." over on the second gridiron, with a substitute back to catch or chase, myron swung his foot and dropped the ball and saw it go off at a tangent, and heard the coach say: "take your time, foster; you've got all day." when the back had relayed the pigskin from the first team gridiron and myron had it again in his hands he decided to try to forget that the coach was watching. the result was much better, for the ball went straight toward the other goal and into the waiting arms of the back. the punt wasn't long, but it had been true, and mr. driscoll nodded hopefully. "try it again," he ordered, "and hold your leg straighter. lock your knee and keep it so." after the next attempt he called down the field. "where did you catch that, morton?" he asked. the back turned and counted the lines. "about the forty, sir," he shouted. "not bad," commented the coach. "we're on the twenty-five here. try a low one now. and follow through with your foot. don't stop when you strike the ball: keep your foot going right on up: there's plenty of room for it!" four more punts, varying in distance from a wretched twenty yards to a glorious forty-five, followed, myron seeking to profit by the coach's instructions. then: "i guess that's enough, foster," said mr. driscoll. "you'll stand a lot of practice, but you've got a good swing and i wouldn't be surprised if you could make a pretty fair punter. i'll give you a chance to show what you can do at full-back. if you buckle down and try hard you'll stand a chance of a place, for we need another man there. wish you had about ten more pounds on you, though. go around with warren's squad over there for a while and watch how houghton does it. i'll see you again." blanket-wrapped, for billy goode had sharp eyes for his charges and the weather had turned colder overnight, myron followed the first team substitutes in their signal practice for a good twenty minutes. now and then he caught chas cummins' eye as the squad trotted by, but that youth's expression was blank and innocent. finally the benches filled again, coach and captain and manager compared notes like three gentleman burglars meditating a midnight sortie, the trainer busied himself with blankets and the sparse audience on the stand kicked their feet against the boards to put warmth into them. then mr. driscoll faced the benches. "first and second squads," he called. "first will kick off. second, take this goal. who's playing right half for the second? you, robbins? well, we want you on the first. morton, you go to the second. all right now? what's that, grove? left tackle? oh, all right. simkins! go in on the first: left tackle. all right, hersey! start it up!" myron wondered if the coach had forgotten his promise, for williams was playing full-back on the first squad and houghton on the second and he, myron, was adorning the bench with some twenty-odd other subs. perhaps mr. driscoll had changed his mind, thought myron. at that moment chas called to him and led him down the side-line a ways. "drop your blanket, old chap," he said. "coach says i'm to pass you a few, though i'm blessed if i know how he expects me to work in a pair of trousers that are two inches too small for me! get over there by the end of the stand. if you miss them you won't have to chase them so far. now then, perhaps you know that in the modern game of football, the full-back is called on to take the snap-back straight from the centre on numerous occasions. well, i'm the gentlemanly centre for the nonce. that's a bully word, 'nonce.' now we will suppose"--chas' voice diminished to a murmur as he turned his back and placed the ball he had brought on the sod before him. myron spread his hands as he had seen houghton do, chas cast a backward glance at him and swept the ball toward him. by leaping two feet off the earth myron was just able to tip it with his fingers. chas laughed delightedly. "gee, that's just like cantrell does it!" he exulted. "in fact, i believe i got it two or three inches higher than he ever did. guess i'll get driscoll to let me play centre!" myron recovered the ball and tossed it back. "maybe i'd better get a soap-box or something to stand on," he suggested. "none of your lip, my lad! watch your step, now!" this time the ball came straight and shoulder high, and myron caught it, shifted it to the crook of his left arm and dived forward. "splendidly done, old chap!" applauded chas. "quite professional. any one can play full-back if he has a good centre like me to pass to him, though. now, then, here we go again!" chas kept it up until he was red in the face from stooping and myron was tired of it, and only stopped, as he said, because he had heard a suspicious ripping sound in the neighbourhood of his waist. "it's all right," he explained a trifle breathlessly, "to die for your school, but no one wants to bust his trousers for it!" on the way back to the bench myron said: "what did you mean in your note about fortune, cummins? i didn't get that. sorry i was out, by the way." "i meant that things were coming our way, old chap. didn't you observe what a mess of things steve kearns made saturday?" "not especially. i guess i wasn't watching kearns much." "and you grooming for his place! what do you know about you? well, poor old steve balled up everything he tried. every time he got the ball he lost a yard. if they'd turned him around he'd have won the game for us! between you and me and the bucket there, foster, you've got the chance of a life-time to land on all four feet right square behind the first team. all you've got to do is show horse-sense, old chap, and be willing to learn. by the way, you got off a couple of nice punts over there." "i don't see, though, why i couldn't have had a show at half," said myron dubiously. "i don't know enough about playing full-back, cummins. i may make an awful mess of it." "if you do," was the grim reply, "i'll knock the feathers off you. but you won't. you mustn't. doggone it, son, this is your big chance! you've just got to make good! remember there's another year coming!" "i'll try, of course, cummins, but----" "but me no buts! you keep in mind--there's driscoll calling you. go to it, old chap!" "go in on the second there at full-back, foster. you know the signals, don't you? all right. now show something. warren, give your full-back some work. come on, first! get into it! let's see some playing!" the whistle piped before myron had settled into position, however, and he went back to the bench with the rest and listened to criticism and instruction and moistened his throat with water and half wished that chas cummins had let him alone. but, back on the field presently, with the ball arching away overhead, he forgot his stage-fright and gripped his nose-guard with his teeth and piled into the play. warren, acting on instructions, gave him plenty of work, and he didn't do it so badly, all things considered. at least, he made three good gains and he got away two punts, one of which surprised him. on defence he showed up decidedly well, and warren, an earnest little shock-headed youth, gave him praise more than once. he had some bad moments, as when, ball in hand for a toss to o'curry across the line, he found himself besieged by two rampant first team forwards who had somehow broken through, and, unable to heave, let himself be forced back many yards. afterwards, he told himself aggrievedly that warren had no right to call on him for a forward-pass, that he had never had much of it to do and couldn't be expected to be proficient. besides, if your line let the whole opposing team through on top of you, what _could_ you do, anyway? how coach driscoll had been impressed, myron had no means of knowing. the coach made no comments. myron concluded that he had failed to make good, and he dressed himself and went back to sohmer in a rather depressed state of mind. but after supper chas breezed in and relieved him. "rotten? nothing of the sort!" declared chas. "you were positively good, old chap! i'll bet driscoll is scratching houghton this minute and writing 'foster' in his little red book. if you don't find yourself playing full-back again tomorrow i'll--i'll eat my hat. and i need it, too, having none other. you didn't see our young friend, did you, dobbins?" "no," answered joe. "i wasn't out." "well, he's the coming marvel. there's no doubt about it. all he's got to do is learn the position." joe and myron laughed, the former the more merrily. "that sounds sort of like a real job," he commented. "it isn't, really," answered chas earnestly. "you see, foster knows all the moves but he doesn't know where to fit them in. after all, playing football is playing football, whether you're in the line or back of it, dobbins. i'll bet that, if i had to, i could step into any position on the team tomorrow and get by with it. i don't say i'd be a wonder, but i'd do the trick fairly well. that may sound like conceited guff, but it's a fact, fellows. foster's played half, and a full-back's only a half with another name and a few different things to do. he'll learn in a week. i've got all my money on him to win. i'm tickled, too. when foster came to me and asked if i thought he could play full-back----" "when i _what_?" gasped myron. chas winked and frowned. "when he sprung that on me, dobbins, i had my doubts. but i said the right thing. i said, 'go to it, my boy, and good luck to you!' i'm glad i did. we surely need more full-backs than we've got, and i believe foster's going to be a good one. well, i'm off. by the way, dobbins, you played a pretty game saturday. i'll have to watch my step or you'll have me on the bench. good night!" chapter xix doctor lane intervenes chas cummins proved a good prophet. on the following day myron slipped into a niche in the first team, one of many hopeful, hard-working youths known as "first team subs." for a few days, indeed, until after the phillipsburg game, he was dazed by the sudden leap from obscurity to conspicuity, from what he termed neglect to what was extremely like solicitude. not that his arrival at the field for practice was the occasion for shouts of acclaim and a fanfare of trumpets, for those at the helm did not show their interest in promising candidates in any such manner, but at last he was quite certain that coach and captain, managers and trainer, were aware of his existence. there were times when he heartily wished that they knew less of it. some one was forever at his elbow, criticising, explaining, exhorting. coach driscoll and ned garrison oversaw his punting practice, snow lugged him to remote corners of the playfield to make him catch passes, katie drilled him in signals, every one, it seemed to myron, was having a finger in his pie. and when he was not being privately coached, as it were, he was legging it around the gridiron with the substitutes or tumbling about the dummy pit with a bundle of stuffed and dirty canvas clasped to his bosom. those were busy, confusing days. and yet no one outside the football "inner ring" appeared to be aware of the fact that a new light had arisen in the parkinson firmament. not unnaturally, perhaps, myron looked for signs of interest, even of awe, from his acquaintances, but he found none. at table in dining hall eldredge still glowered at him, rogers cringed and the pestiferous tinkham poked sly fun. only joe and andrew and chas, among his friends, showed him honour; and joe as a strewer of blossoms in his path was not an overwhelming success. joe seemed to think that his chum's leap to incipient fame was pleasing but not remarkable, while myron was absolutely certain that it was stupendous and unparalleled in the annals of preparatory school football. when you are watched and guided as myron was by those in command you are likely to think that. he wondered whether joe was not just a little bit envious. of course, joe's position was quite as assured as his own, but joe had not engaged the time and attention and solicitude of the entire coaching force. he hoped joe wasn't going to be disagreeable about it. phillipsburg came and went, defeated easily enough, 12 points to 3, and warne high school followed a week later. high school always put up a good fight against parkinson, and she made no exception this year. coach driscoll used many substitutes that afternoon and so high school found her work easier. myron had his baptism by fire in the second period and lasted until the end of the third. he was taken out then because high school had tied the score and it was necessary to add another touchdown or field-goal to the home team's side of the ledger. so kearns, who was still the most dependable full-back in sight, took myron's place. kearns gained and lost in his usual way, and had no great part in the securing of the third parkinson score. katie was mainly responsible for that, for he sneaked away from the opponent's thirty-two yards and landed the ball on her eight, from whence it was carried over on the fourth down by brounker. that made the figures 20 to 14, and there they remained for the rest of the contest. myron was huffy about being removed and every one who spoke to him discovered the fact. of course, he was huffy in a perfectly gentlemanly way. he didn't scold and he didn't sneer, but he indulged in irony and intimated that if football affairs continued to be managed as they had been that afternoon he would refuse to be held responsible if the season ended in defeat. oddly enough, no one appeared panic-stricken at the veiled threat. joe grinned, until myron looked haughty and insulted, and then became grave and spoke his mind. he had an annoying way of doing that, to myron's way of thinking. "kiddo," said joe, on this occasion, "if i was you i'd let driscoll and mellen run things their own way. maybe their way don't always look good to you, but you aren't in possession of all the--the facts, so to speak. when they put in kearns today they had a reason, believe me, brother. you attend to your knitting and let theirs alone. if they drop a stitch, it's their funeral, not yours. you've got just about all you can do to beat kearns and williams for full-back's position----" "i'm ahead of williams right now," said myron with asperity. "all right, kiddo; you stay there. don't get highfaluting and swell-headed. just as soon as you do you'll quit playing your best and williams'll slip past you. take an old man's advice, brother." "i wish you'd stop that 'brother,'" said myron pettishly. "i'm not your brother. and i'm not swell-headed, either. and i don't try to tell driscoll how to run the team. only, when i know my own--my own capabilities i naturally think something's sort of funny when things happen like what happened today!" "lots of funny things happen that we can't account for in this world," remarked joe philosophically as he bent over his book again. "best thing to do is let 'em happen." "oh, rats!" muttered the other. it was about this time that myron began to have fallings-out with old addie. old addie--he wasn't phenomenally old, by any means, but he seemed old in a faculty composed of young or youngish men--was well-liked, and kindly and just to a fault. but he had views on the importance of greek and latin not held by all members of his classes. he believed that herodotus was the greatest man who ever lived and horace the greatest poet, and held that an acquaintance with the writings of these and other departed masters was an essential part of every person's education. many disagreed with him. those who disagreed and kept the fact to themselves got on very nicely. those who were so misguided as to disagree and say so earned his pitying contempt; although contempt is perhaps too strong a word. myron in a rash moment confessed that latin didn't interest him. he had to think up on the spur of the moment some plausible excuse for being illy prepared, and that excuse seemed handy. the result was unfortunate. there was a meeting in mr. addicks' study in the evening, a meeting that lasted for an hour and a quarter and that included readings from the latin poets, essayists and historians, sometimes in translation, more often in the original. myron, bored to tears, at last capitulated. he owned that latin was indeed a beautiful language, that livy was a wonder, cicero a peach and horace a corker. he didn't use just those terms, but that's a detail. mr. addicks, suspicious of the sudden conversion, pledged him to a reformation in the matter of study and freed him. but the conversion was not real and old addie soon developed a most embarrassing habit of calling on myron in class. myron called it "picking on me." whatever it was called, it usually resulted disastrously to myron's pretences of having studied in the manner agreed on. old addie waxed sarcastic, myron assumed a haughty, contemptuous air. they became antagonistic and trouble brewed. myron didn't have enough time to do justice to all his courses, he declared to joe, and since latin was the least liked and the most troublesome it was latin that suffered. there is no doubt that two and a half hours--often more--of football leaves a chap more inclined for bed than study. not infrequently myron went to sleep with his head on a book and had to be forcibly wrested from slumber by joe at ten o'clock or thereabouts. so matters stood at the end of myron's first fortnight of what might be called intensive football training. so, in fact, they continued to stand, with slight changes, to the morning of the day on which parkinson played day and robins school. the team was to travel away from home for that contest and myron was to go with it, not as a spectator, but as a useful member of the force. he did not go, however. at chapel his name was among a list of seven others recited by the principal, and at eleven he was admitted to the inner sanctum, behind the room in which he had, a month and a half ago, held converse with mr. morgan. this time it was "jud" himself who received him. the principal's real name was judson, but at some earlier time in his incumbency of the office he had been dubbed jud, and in spite of the possible likelihood of getting him confused with the captain of the football team, he was still so called. doctor lane taught english, but his courses were advanced and myron had not reached them. in consequence he knew very little of jud; much less than jud knew of him; and he felt a certain amount of awe as he took the indicated chair at the left of the big mahogany desk. the doctor didn't beat about the bush any to speak of. he advanced at once to the matter in hand, which appeared to be: why wasn't myron keeping up in latin? myron said he thought it must be because he didn't have time enough to study it. he said it was his firm belief that he was taking too many courses. he thought that it would be better if he was allowed to drop one course, preferably latin, until the next term. doctor lane smiled wanly and wanted to know if myron was quite sure that he was making the most of what time he had. myron said he thought he was. he didn't say it very convincedly, however. doctor lane inquired how much time each day was devoted to latin. myron didn't seem to have a very clear impression; perhaps, though, an hour. jud delved into the boy's daily life and elicited the fact that something like two and a half hours were devoted to learning to play full-back and something less than three to learning his lessons. presented as jud presented it, the fact didn't look attractive even to myron. he felt dimly that something was wrong. he attempted to better his statement by explaining that very often he studied between hours--a little. doctor lane was not impressed. he twiddled a card that appeared to hold a record of myron's scholastic career for a moment and then pronounced a verdict. "foster, as i diagnose your case, you are too much interested in football and not sufficiently in your studies. also, football is claiming too much of your time. football is a splendid game and a beneficent form of exercise, but it is not the--what i may call the chief industry here, foster. we try to do other things besides play football. perhaps you have lost sight of that fact." jud let that sink in for a moment and returned the card to its place in an indexed cabinet, closing the drawer with a decisive _bang_ that made myron jump. "so," continued the principal drily, "i think it will be best if you detach yourself from football interests for--for awhile, foster." silence ensued. myron gulped. then he asked in a small voice: "how long, sir?" "oh, we won't decide that now." jud's voice and manner struck myron as being far too bright and flippant. "we'll see how it works out. i've known it to work very nicely in many cases. i shall expect to hear better--much better--accounts of you from mr. addicks, foster. good morning." and that is why myron didn't go bowling off to the station with the rest of the team, and why kearns and houghton played the full-back position that afternoon, and why, after a miserable six hours spent in mooning about a deserted campus and a lonely room, myron packed a suit-case with a few of his yellow-hued shirts and similar necessities and unobtrusively made his way to maple street in the early gloom of the october evening. chapter xx andy takes a journey at a few minutes past eight that evening joe clattered hurriedly up the stairs of the house in mill street and thumped imperatively at andrew's door. just why he thumped didn't appear, since he threw the door open without waiting for permission. andrew looked up inquiringly from his book in the yellow radius of light around the table. "hello," he greeted. "slide under the bed and maybe they won't find you." "it's that idiot, myron," announced joe breathlessly, and sank into a chair. "what's he done now?" asked andrew interestedly. "bolted!" "bolted?" "beat it--vamoosed--lit out--gone!" "where? what for?" "i don't know where, but he's gone. i suppose he's headed home. he's in wrong at the office over latin, and this morning doc lane told him to quit football. he was to have gone along with us to play day and robins, you know, and was all keyed up about it. i didn't get many of the details: only saw him for about three minutes just before we left: but he was talking then about firing himself and hiring out to kenwood for the rest of the year." andrew frowned. "a sweet thought," he murmured sarcastically. "oh, he wouldn't do it," said joe. "he likes to talk like that, but he's all right behind his mouth." "i hope so. where--when did he go?" "search me. i know he was gone when i got back at six, or a little before. i thought, of course, that he was around somewhere; probably at alumni. but he wasn't at dinner and he didn't show up afterwards, and i remembered his line of talk this morning and got to snooping around and found his suit-case gone and some of his things; brushes and sponge and the like of those." "maybe he got leave to go home over sunday." "i thought of that and found out from mr. hoyt. had to be careful so he wouldn't get suspicious, but i got away with it, i guess. he hasn't asked for leave; and wouldn't have got it anyway, i guess. no, he's just plain beat it." andrew whistled softly and expressively. "that fixes him," he said regretfully. "on top of probation----" "that's the point," urged joe. "he's dished for fair if faculty gets wind of it. that's why i came. _i_ can't go. i asked driscoll and he said nothing doing. so it's up to you, andy." "up to me? go? where?" "go after him and bring him back," answered joe. "i looked up trains. he probably waited until after dark, because he wouldn't have risked being seen with a suit-case, and if he did he must have taken the six-eighteen for new york. there's no train for port foster out of philadelphia until seven-twelve tomorrow morning. he might stay in new york overnight or go on to philadelphia, so the best way'll be to go right through to philadelphia and watch the port foster trains." andrew stared amazedly. "look here, joe," he said, "are you suggesting that i go to philadelphia after myron?" "sure," answered joe impatiently. "what did you suppose? and you'll have to get a hustle on, too: it's about eight-fifteen now and your train goes at nine-five. i'd go in a minute, but i'm in training and the rule's strict, and if i got caught--fare thee well!" to joe's surprise, andrew began to laugh. "well, you're a wonder, joe," he gasped. "why, man alive, i can't go traipsing all over the united states like that! i'm beastly sorry for myron, but----" "why can't you?" demanded joe, scowling. "some one's got to, and that's flat. if he's caught away from school without permission they'll chuck him as sure as shooting. why do you say you can't go, andy?" "why--why, for one reason, i can't afford it, you idiot! how much do you think it'll cost to go to philadelphia and back? i'm no millionaire! why----" "i thought of that." joe pulled a roll of bills from his trousers pocket and flung it on the table. "there's twenty-five, all i have right now. it's enough, i guess." andrew stared at the money in surprise. "well--but--look here, i've got an engagement in the morning. and how do you know i can get leave?" "take it! no one'll know you're away," said joe. "gosh, we've got to risk something!" "_we_ have? you mean _i_ have, don't you?" "oh, what's the difference? myron's a friend, ain't he, and we can't let him go and kill himself off like this without making a try, can we? besides, the team needs him bad. if he'd hung on a bit longer he'd have been full-back and--and everything! i--i'd like to wring his silly neck!" andrew smiled. then he stared thoughtfully at the table. at last he seized the roll of money, thrust it in his pocket and pushed back his chair. "guess you're right, joe," he said. "what time did you say the train goes?" "nine-five." joe jerked out his watch. "you've got forty minutes. better pack a toothbrush and a night-shirt, kiddo." "pack nothing," replied andrew. "a toothbrush and a comb will see me through, and those go in my pocket. i want that brown book, though, and some sheets of paper. better have my fountain pen, too. you'll have to take a message to wynant, 29 williams, for me, joe. better do it tonight. tell him i'm called away and can't be around in the morning. i'll see him when i get back. now, what about the dogs? mind coming around in the morning and letting them out and feeding them? good! we're off, then." andrew turned out the light and they fumbled their way to the door. outside, andrew gave the key to joe. "don't forget the dogs, joe," he reminded. "now, then, tell me again about these trains. it's philadelphia i'm going to, is it?" joe explained carefully as they hurried through the illy-lighted streets toward the station. "better get to philadelphia by the first train you can make, andy. you can sleep on the way, some. the first sunday train for port foster leaves philadelphia at twelve minutes past seven. there isn't another until ten-something. he may wait for that. you'll have to watch for him on the platform. for the love of mud, andy, don't miss him!" "i won't!" answered the other grimly as they entered the station. "wait here a minute. i'm going to call up the office." "the office!" exclaimed joe aghast. "what for?" "to get permission." "but----" "i know. i won't. here, you buy the ticket. get it to philadelphia and return if you can. i'll be right with you." andrew was as good as his word. joe viewed him anxiously. "did you get it?" he asked. andrew nodded. "yes. i told mr. hoyt i had to be away overnight on important matters. he hemmed a bit at first, but finally came around. so that's all right. i feel rather better for having faculty's blessing, joe." ten minutes later the long train rolled in and andrew climbed aboard. he was going into a day coach, but joe pulled him back and hurried him down the platform, past a hundred lighted windows and hustled him into a parlour-car. "might as well be as comfortable as you can," he explained. "you can get a pretty fair nap in one of those chairs if you don't mind waking up with a broken neck! good-bye and good luck, andy!" "good-bye. see you tomorrow afternoon or evening. don't forget tess and the puppies!" then the train pulled out and joe heaved a sigh of relief and made his way back to the campus and williams hall and the indignant mr. wynant. about the same time coach driscoll and captain mellen were talking things over in the former's lodgings. parkinson had played smooth, hard football that afternoon, bringing encouragement to both, and their countenances still reflected satisfaction. "looks as though we had struck our gait at last, cap," said mr. driscoll, puffing comfortably at his pipe. "it does look so," agreed jud. "it's time, too, with only two more games before kenwood." "well, i'd rather see a team come slowly and not reach the peak too early in the season. i'm more afraid of slumps than the smallpox, mellen. remember year before last's experience?" jud nodded. "if we can hold it where it is, coach, we'll be all right, i guess. some of the fellows certainly played themselves proud today: keith and meldrum and norris----" "and mellen," suggested mr. driscoll, smiling through the smoke. "i guess i didn't do so badly," jud allowed. "but that dobbins was the corker, when you come right down to brass tacks, don't you think so?" "dobbins played as remarkable a game as i've seen in a long, long time," was the reply. "the way he opened holes in the d. and r. line was pretty. they weren't holes, either, they were--were nice, broad boulevards! a stick of dynamite wouldn't have made more of a mess of their centre!" "and he's all there on defence, too," said jud. "steady as a concrete wall. he and keith work like twins." "pretty," agreed mr. driscoll. "i guess there's no question as to who'll play right guard against kenwood. i wish, though, i knew who was going to play full-back." mr. driscoll frowned. "you're sure foster's out of it?" "fairly. i only know what you know. i haven't seen him. i'm not surprised, though. he was beginning to show a good deal of side and you know yourself that when a fellow gets his head swelled he comes a cropper one way or another." "i know. still, we mustn't be too hard on the boy, for we've paid him a good deal of attention and that's likely to turn a chap's head unless it's screwed on pretty tightly. and we've worked him hard, too. maybe he hasn't had time to do enough studying." "well, he's out of it, anyway. it's hard luck, for i thought he was coming along finely. i guess it will have to be kearns, after all." the coach nodded. "i haven't lost hope of kearns yet, cap. he's got it in him to play good football. i was wondering, though, if we could spare brounker for the position. he's a good half, but we may not need him there, and perhaps with some coaching between now and three weeks from now he'd be better than kearns." "i suppose there's a chance of foster getting clear before the kenwood game," said jud doubtfully, "but he wouldn't be much use to us." "mighty little," replied the coach. "of course, if he was off only a week it would be different. in that case we could take him back and have him handy in case kearns went bad. but i don't know----" "i guess i'd better see him in the morning and find out what the prospects are. if he will saw wood and get rid of his conditions, or whatever his trouble is, by a week from monday----" "yes, tell him that. brow-beat him a bit. get him on his mettle. i'll see him, if you think it would be better." "i'll take a fall out of him first," said jud. "by the way, he and dobbins room together. it might be a good scheme to get dobbins after him. i guess they're pretty close from what i hear, and maybe he'd listen to dobbins when he wouldn't to me. well, anyway, i think we can lick kenwood this year even without a full-back," he ended. mr. driscoll smiled and shook his head. "let's not be too sure, mellen," he said. "wait until the sunday papers come. six to six sounds pretty good for phillipsburg, but we don't know yet how many of her subs kenwood used. that coach of hers is a foxy chap, and it may be that he was satisfied to get away with a tie and leave us guessing. perhaps he thought we had scouts over there today, looking them over." "i sort of wish we had had," said jud. "oh, i know your idea on the subject, coach, and i'm not saying you aren't right, but, just the same, it's a handicap. kenwood sends fellows to watch our playing and gets lots of useful information, i'll bet, and we have to depend on what the papers tell us. and most of that guff is written by fellows friendly to kenwood. if the kenwood coach wants the news to go out that the team is rotten, it goes out, and we have to swallow it. i'd give a hundred dollars to see her play montrose next saturday!" "that's high pay for acting the spy," replied the coach gravely. "see here, jud mellen, you're a fair and square, decent sort, from all i've seen of you, and i've known you for three years. you wouldn't pick a pocket or lie, and i've never yet seen you doing any dirty work in a game. then just how would you explain it to your conscience if you went over to kenwood next saturday with the idea of seeing how much information you could get hold of regarding kenwood's plays and signals and so on?" "but, gosh ding it, mr. driscoll, i wouldn't wear a false moustache and all that! i wouldn't sneak in, i'd go openly. there's no reason why i shouldn't see kenwood play a game of football just because i happen to play with parkinson!" "not if just being entertained was what you were there for, cap," answered the other. "but it wouldn't be. you'd be a spy, and you know it, old son. that's what i object to. when the time comes that it is an understood and mutually agreed on thing that members of one football team are welcome to see another team play, why, then i won't make a yip. but you know how we love to get word here from the gate that a kenwood scout has gone in! we cut out new plays and try to look worse than we are." "you mean we would if you'd let us," laughed jud. "you do it, anyhow," said the coach, smiling. "i've watched you too often. the last time we had visitors i asked cater why he didn't use a certain play in front of the other fellow's goal and get a score and he looked innocent and said he'd forgot it. no, we'll get along without that sort of stuff, mellen, while i'm here. i don't like it a bit." "well, i said you were right," jud laughed. "i just had to have my little kick. hello, nearly ten! i must leg it. i'll see foster in the morning; dobbins, too; and let you know what i learn. good night, coach." chapter xxi an early morning call but jud didn't see myron in the morning, for the reason that we know of. only joe was in number 17 when the football captain knocked, and joe was not telling all he knew. according to him, foster was "out just now" and the time of his return was most uncertain. joe "had an idea" that his friend was dining away from school. jud said that it didn't matter much and that he'd see foster later. then: "maybe you know how bad he's fixed with the office, whoa?" he suggested. "i don't," replied joe, "for he hasn't said much to me about it. i know that it's latin that's troubling him, though. he's been in wrong with addicks for a couple of weeks. fact is, cap, myron hasn't been putting in enough time on study. he falls to sleep at the table there about every other night. guess he's been getting a bit too much exercise." "yes, we've worked him pretty steadily. too bad, for, between you and me, he was doing mighty well and looked awfully good. i wonder if you can't find out what the prospects are, whoa, and let me know. if he could get a clean slate by a week from monday, say, he might still be of some use to the team. he probably wouldn't start the kenwood game, but it's a fair bet he'd get in for part of it. driscoll and i were talking about him last night, and i said i thought that maybe you could sort of jack him up; make him see that it is up to him to get square with the office and get back to the team." "oh, i'll get him back if it can be done," joe assured him. "i was going to, anyway. we need him, cap." "we certainly do, whoa. see what you can do with him. wouldn't some tutoring help? there's a chap named merriman in town who's a regular whale at it." "i know him. i'll have a talk with myron when he comes back--in, i mean--and let you know, cap. you leave him to me!" jud mellen had no more than got out of the building when a fearsome knock came at the door and chas cummins appeared, scowling ferociously. "hello," he said. "where's foster?" "out just now," replied joe affably. "want to leave a message?" "no--yes--yes, tell him i say he's to beat it over to my room the minute he shows up here!" "all right," said joe. chas clung to the doorknob and continued to scowl, and studied joe speculatively. finally: "isn't it a mess?" he demanded. "everything going like clock-work, and then, bingo--officer, call the ambulance! honest, whoa, i could kick foster from here to new york and back cheerfully, drat his hide!" "i wish you could kick him back," said joe. "what do you mean?" "close the door, will you? thanks. can you keep a secret, chas?" "sometimes. go on. what's up?" "myron's gone. went last evening." "_fired?_" "no, he just went." "left school, you mean? well, what--do you know--about that?" "we're trying to get him back before faculty gets on to it, but it doesn't look good. merriman's on his trail. took the nine o'clock train last night. i think he'll manage to head him off all right, but myron's a cranky, stubborn dog and may refuse to come back." "any one suspect so far?" asked chas with knitted brows. "don't think so. good thing there's no chapel on sunday, isn't it?" "merry andrew went, you say? good stuff! if any one can do the persuasion stunt, andy can. hang the beggar, what's he think, anyhow? doesn't he know he will get fired if faculty hears about it? and what about me?" "you?" asked joe. "well, i mean the team," corrected chas hurriedly. "he ought to be licked! i'd do it, too, if it would do any good. honest, whoa, isn't this the very limit?" "way past it," agreed joe. "he's a crazy guy for sure." "when do you expect andy back?" asked chas after a moment. "he might make it by the five o'clock. ought to be here by eight, anyway." "well, if he doesn't fetch him it'll be good-bye to foster for keeps! what's wrong with him, anyway? some one said he was on pro." "don't know whether it's out and out probation or not," said joe. "didn't have much time to talk to him. but he said doc lane told him to let football alone and get hunky with addicks again." "latin, eh? i always said that language ought to be prohibited! it's always getting folks into trouble. well, i suppose there isn't anything i can do. i wish you'd let me know the news when there is any, whoa." "i will. keep this quiet, though, chas. you and andy and i are the only ones who know, and it mustn't get any further. i only told you because you and myron have some game on and i knew you'd keep quiet." "some game on? what makes you think that?" asked chas. "well, i've got eyes and ears," answered the other drily. "i'm not asking questions, though. so long. i'll let you know how it comes out." "don't forget. if i'm out leave word with brown. just say 'yes' or 'no.' i'll understand. gosh, i hope andy fetches him, though!" myron reached new york at a few minutes after ten on saturday night. he had some supper on the way, crushed into a corner of a crowded dining-car, but he wasn't hungry and ate little. on arrival, quick work in a taxi-cab got him across town in time for a train to philadelphia that landed him there just before midnight. he had a married cousin living in that city, but he preferred to go to the quiet little hotel at which his mother stayed when on shopping visits. he left an order to be called at half-past six, luxuriated in a bath and crawled wearily to bed. but sleep was still a long way from him, and until after two he lay there wide-eyed and thought and thought, and twisted and turned. there may be more dismal places in the world than philadelphia at six-thirty on a rainy morning. if so, myron had fortunately escaped them. he had left himself barely enough time to dress and reach the station for the seven-twelve express, and when, aroused by the blatant _buz-z-zz_ of the telephone, he staggered to the window and looked out, he felt that he never could do it. that drab, empty stretch of wet street was the last blow to waning courage. had he rested well and felt normally fresh he would have charged at his clothes, leaped into a cab and made it nicely, but he was in no condition of mind or body for such hustling methods. besides, there were later trains, and he was in no hurry to face his folks, and the tumbled bed looked awfully good to him. three minutes later he was asleep again. meanwhile andrew merriman was slowly pacing the platform beside the seven-twelve train. he had been there ever since the train had rolled sleepily into the long, gloomy shed. keeping tabs on the passengers was no difficult task, for they were few in number and moved with dragging feet. andrew had arrived in philadelphia at half-past five, after an interminable ride during which he had huddled himself into a seat in a day-coach and slumbered fitfully between stops. it had been a glorious relief to leave that leisurely train and stretch his legs again. he had had breakfast at a nearby lunch-room, and now, all things considered, was feeling very fit. a glance at his watch showed the time to be two minutes to seven. in fourteen minutes from now he would know his fate. he had already arranged his plans in the event that myron didn't show up for that train, and he would have three hours in which to carry them out. a portly man with two suit-cases waddled down the long platform and puffed himself up the steps of a car. even allowing for a disguise, thought andrew whimsically, that was not myron. nor was the next passenger, a fussy little man with two small boys strung out behind him who came so fast that andrew half expected to see him "snap the whip" any moment and send the tiniest boy hurtling through space. but he didn't. he herded the children into a car and smiled triumphantly at andrew. evidently, he considered that arriving with only five minutes to spare was a reckless proceeding. there were the usual last-moment arrivals and then the train reluctantly pulled out, leaving andrew alone on the platform. two blocks away was a hotel, and thither he made his way. capturing a telephone directory, he found a chair by a window and turned to the list of hotels. there was an appalling lot of them and nothing to indicate which were of the sort likely to be patronised by myron. but he had three hours before him and plenty of money, and was not discouraged. he took a piece of paper from a pocket, unscrewed his pen and set to work. ten minutes later he was ready. the lobby was practically deserted and he had the telephone booths to himself. when he had exhausted all the nickels he had he crossed to the news-stand and had a dollar bill changed. then he went on with his campaign. it was slow work, for many of the hotels were extremely deliberate in answering. the voices that came back to him sounded sleepy, and some sounded cross as well. "is myron foster stopping there?" andrew would ask. "who? fosdick? how do you spell it? oh! what are the initials? hold the line, please." then, after a wait: "no such party registered." at any rate, that is the way it went for nearly twenty minutes. then luck turned. myron was still slumbering when the telephone rang a second time. for a moment he stared at the ceiling, a perfectly strange ceiling that seemed to return his regard coldly, and strove to think where he was. while he was still struggling the impatient instrument on the table beside the bed buzzed again. myron reached for it and recollection came to him. "yes," he said sleepily. "hello!" "gentleman to see you, mr. foster. shall we send him up?" "gentleman to see me!" echoed myron. was it possible that his father had learned already of his departure from school and had come up from port foster? he was thoroughly awake now. "what is the name?" he asked. after a moment of silence: "merriman," said the voice at the other end. "merriman?" thought myron. "i don't know any merriman! except andy. who the dickens----" "i didn't hear, mr. foster," said the clerk politely. "oh--er--all right! ask him to come up, please." myron put the receiver down, unlocked the door and returned to bed to hug his knees and stare perplexedly at the footboard. who the dickens was merriman? of course it couldn't be andy. this was philadelphia, and andy was several hundred miles away. well, he would soon know! then came a tap at the door and myron said "come in" in an unnecessarily loud tone and the portal opened. then it closed again. and myron, with eyes that looked as big and as round as butter-chips, whispered: "_where'd you come from?_" chapter xxii myron comes back "afraid i've spoiled your beauty sleep, myron," said the visitor. "sorry, but i've been up so long i forgot how early it was." "what--what are you doing over here?" gasped myron. "looking for you, of course," replied andrew easily as he seated himself on the bed. "nice quarters you've got. next time, though, i wish you'd locate further up on the alphabet. it's a long way to the m's!" "are you crazy or--or am i?" asked myron helplessly. "neither, i hope," answered the visitor calmly. "you see, i set out to find you on the telephone and had to call up about twenty hotels before i got the right one. i started with the a's and you, as it happened, were among the m's." "what did you want to find me for? who sent you?" "well, i suppose you might say that joe sent me. at least, he had the idea first. after that, i sort of sent myself." "you might have spared yourself the trouble," said myron defiantly. "i'm not going back!" apparently andrew didn't hear that. "joe was all fussed up, like a hen who's hatched out a duck. he came around about half-past eight and loaded me with money and handed me my hat, so to speak. got in here around five-thirty. you didn't show up at the station for the seven-twelve, so i changed my money into nickels and proceeded to make the telephone company enormously wealthy. you've cost me--or, rather, joe--a lot of money, myron." andrew shook his head sadly. "and i'm not sure you're worth it, either." "i didn't ask him to spend money on me," said myron sulkily. "he hadn't any business butting in, anyway. it's my own affair. if i want to leave school i've got a right to, and----" "back up! who told you that?" "told me what?" asked myron blankly. "that you had a right to leave school." "why, no one told me! but it's so!" "no, sir, it isn't," said andrew emphatically. "you haven't any more right to leave school than a soldier has to leave his post, or a policeman his beat. not a bit more, myron." "that isn't so," answered the other excitedly. "it isn't the same at all. duty is one thing and--and staying where you don't get a square deal's another. my folks have a right to take me away from parkinson whenever they want to!" "have they taken you out?" "no, they don't know yet. but they will when i ask them to." "that's all right, then. what your folks do is another matter, old man. it's what you do that i'm talking about. why do you say you haven't had a square deal?" "because i haven't! look at what jud did to me! first of all, they made me take too many courses, courses i didn't want to take at all, some of them. then when i couldn't keep them up just as--just as they think i ought to, they came down on me! jud says i can't play football. just because addicks has it in for me. addicks calls on me twice as often as any other fellow in class. i hate latin, anyway. i didn't want to take it this year. next year would be time enough. driscoll made me work like a slave, and i didn't have time enough for all the things i'm supposed to study, and jud socked it to me. i'd been trying for a month to get on the team, and now, just when i was sure of a place, jud springs this! call that a square deal? i don't!" "well, it's sort of tough luck, old man. how long are you off for?" "he wouldn't tell me. said we'd wait and see, or something. he can wait. i'm through." "still, i don't see how you're helping things much by running away," said andrew mildly. "if you want to play on the team you'll have to do it by mail, won't you?" "oh, i'm done wanting to," answered myron roughly. "i'm done with the whole rotten place." "and joe and me? i see." "i didn't say i had anything against you and joe," retorted myron indignantly. "or--or some other fellows. the fellows are all right. it--it's the school. the way they do things. they don't give you a chance. they aren't fair." "so you even up by not being fair, too?" "what do you mean by that?" asked myron, glowering. "why, you get mad because you think faculty has treated you badly, and then you turn around and treat other folks badly." "what other folks?" asked myron. "your friends, the football team and, through that, the whole school." "how do you make that out?" myron demanded, frowning. "well, take joe and me, for instance. we're in the picture. you let us take a liking to you, which we wouldn't have done if we hadn't thought you a good, square sort, the sort that does his duty even if it looks hard. then when duty gets a bit tiresome you kick us in the shins and run away. same way with the team. you went out for it and the coach and the rest spent time and effort on you. they thought you were a square sort, too. they wouldn't knowingly make a poor investment any more than joe and i would. then, when you hit a snag, you repudiate your debt to them and beat it. you had a chance to make a good player of yourself and win a position on the team and help bring about a victory for the school. because you get mad with jud, you tell the school to go to the dickens. in other words, myron, old man, you're a quitter." "i'm not!" cried the other desperately. "you're making it out all wrong! besides, it wouldn't make any difference to the school if i stayed. i'm out of football." "i don't see it. you're out of football until you get back your class standing. the right thing to do is to get it back as soon as you can. it's your fault that you lost it. there's no use kidding yourself, myron. you got in trouble with addicks because you didn't play fair with him. you got in trouble with jud for the same reason. now you won't play fair with the rest of us. think it over." "it's not so, andy! i tell you i didn't have time to study that beastly latin! joe knows i didn't. i was too tired at night. i couldn't!" "if that's really so you should have told driscoll to let up on you. but i think the trouble was that you didn't make the best use of the time you had. you have two hours every morning, to my certain knowledge, when you've no classes, and i've never heard of you making use of them for study." "it's all well enough for you to preach," retorted myron bitterly. "you _like_ the wretched stuff! you don't have any trouble with it. i do. i--even if i went back i'd never catch up in class." "oh, yes, you would. i'll guarantee that. i'll promise you that you'll be in good standing with addicks by next saturday." myron stared, surprised, doubtful. "how?" he asked at length. "i'll look after the 'how,' old man." "you mean you'll tutor me again?" andrew nodded. myron dropped his gaze to the counterpane. a minute of silence followed during which the ticking of myron's watch on the bedside table sounded loudly in the room. then said andrew briskly: "there's a new york train at ten, i think. that'll give you time for breakfast and let us catch the one-something back. you get your bath and dress and i'll go down and buy a paper. don't know but what i'll have a bite more myself. my breakfast was a trifle sketchy. how long will you be?" myron continued to study the counterpane. another silence ensued. finally, though, it was broken by myron. "twenty minutes," he said in a low voice. it was dark when they stepped off the train at warne. as they did so a form detached itself from the lamp-lit gloom of the platform and a voice asked cautiously: "that you, andy?" then myron felt a hand tugging at his suit-case, and: "let me have it, kiddo," said joe. "we'll go over to andy's and leave it there until tomorrow. better not take any risks." they skirted the end of the train, avoiding publicity as much as was possible, and made their way toward mill street. only when they were a block from the track was the silence broken again. then andy asked: "everything all right, joe?" "i think so. but i'm sure glad you didn't leave it until the next train. i'd have had nervous prostration long before that! i had the dogs out three times and fed them. there wasn't anything else to do. maybe they've bust themselves eating, but it can't be helped. that kid over in williams--wynant or something--has a grouch a mile long, andy. you'll have to kiss him, i guess, before he will ever smile again! how are you, kiddo?" "all right, thanks," answered myron rather constrainedly. "that's good. by the way, i had to give the impression that you were having dinner out somewhere. so if any one mentions it you'd better play up." "who did you tell?" asked myron. "i don't think i exactly _told_ any one, but i let jud mellen go away with the idea." "was he looking for me?" "yeah, wanted you to hurry up and get back to work," replied joe carelessly. "i told him that if you weren't back inside a week i'd bust every bone in your body." "he will be," said andrew grimly. "if he isn't you may bust mine!" just before supper time joe beat a tattoo on the portal of number 16 goss. chas cummins' voice bade him enter. joe, however, only stuck his head into the room, and, nodding to brown, said in a deep, mysterious whisper: "_yes-s-s!_" then he closed the door and went off down the corridor, chuckling. in number 16, brown raised his brows and looked inquiringly at his chum. "batty?" he asked. a day passed before joe and myron breathed freely. by monday evening it seemed quite safe to assume that myron's absence had passed undetected. they went across town and brought the suit-case home then, joe, however, transferring certain articles, such as myron's pyjamas, to his pockets in case some inquisitive member of the faculty should insist on looking inside the bag. but none challenged and the suit-case went back to the closet and myron's toilet articles to their places, and the episode was closed. the two spoke of it but briefly. that was sunday night, as they were preparing for bed. then joe remarked conversationally: "you're a crazy loon, kiddo, aren't you?" after a moment of reflection myron said "yes," quite humbly. "sure are," agreed joe, tossing his trousers in the general direction of a chair. "any time any guy accuses you of having sense, you knock him down. i'll stand by you. still, you have your uses, and i'm glad to see you in our midst again. how about being here, now that you are!" "tickled to death," owned myron a bit shamefacedly. joe chuckled. "knew you would be," he said. "we ain't--aren't such a bad lot when you take us, right. good night, kiddo." "good night, joe. i--you--i mean, thanks!" chapter xxiii reinstated myron isn't likely to forget for a long time the week that followed. every afternoon at four o'clock appeared andrew, armed for the fray, and for two hours of a hundred and twenty minutes each myron wrestled with latin. andrew was merciless. from the stroke of four to the stroke of six was the inexorable rule. myron's pleas weren't even heard. after two days he got fairly used to it, though, and then the labour began to bear fruit. mr. addicks shot a keen and questioning glance at myron on wednesday and followed it with one of mild approval on thursday. saturday morning myron was again out of the woods, although, as andrew reminded him more than once, whether he stayed so depended on whether he was willing to study hard and long and resolutely. myron reached the conclusion that he was. but being out of the woods did not necessarily place him in the full sunlight of faculty favour, and so it was from the grandstand that he saw parkinson play chancellor school at mt. wansett, and not from the players' bench. myron had doubts as to his right to make the trip, and put the matter up to joe. joe did not observe, as he might have, that, having got as far away as philadelphia without leave, going to a not distant town under like conditions shouldn't worry myron! instead, he advised him to put the question up to mr. hoyt. the secretary referred to a mysterious book and shook his head. "i can't find that you have gone on probation, foster," he said. "nothing here indicates it. you say doctor lane forbade you to play football? was anything said about probation?" "no, sir. i only thought--was afraid----" "well, i should say there was no intention, then. if i were you i'd assume that i was not on probation. however, if you still have doubts i'll take the matter up with the principal as soon as he's at leisure, and if you'll drop in again about twelve----" "but the train goes at eleven, sir!" mr. hoyt smiled faintly. "in that case, foster, i don't see how you can be here at twelve." "you think, then, that----" "i think so." myron hurried out before the secretary had time to change his mind and think differently! it rained that day, and the game was played in a sea of water on a soft and slippery turf. many boys who had meant to accompany the team backed out when they viewed the weather, and only a handful huddled in raincoats behind the parkinson bench and aided the brown with damp enthusiasm. not that a great deal of cheering was needed, however, for the first period settled the outcome of the contest, and after that it was merely a question of whether chancellor would score. parkinson started with the line-up that, so rumour had it, would face kenwood two weeks later: stearns and norris, ends; mellen and keith, tackles; cummins and dobbins, guards; cantrell, centre; cater, quarter; meldrum and brown, halves; kearns, full. but that arrangement did not outlast the second period. the third began with the score 19 to 0 and five substitutes on the field. and during the subsequent thirty minutes of playing time additional changes were frequent. parkinson ended with many third substitutes in the line-up, to which may be fairly attributed the fact that chancellor saved her face at the last and scored seven points. with a slippery field and a wet ball, both teams had stuck pretty closely to line plays, but some five or six minutes from the end, grove, playing quarter, took a chance and shot the ball to houghton, at full, for a wide run around left end. houghton muffed, not a difficult thing to do when the ball is as slippery as a pat of butter and it reaches you off at one side, and the fat was in the fire. a defeated team is a dangerous team, and chancellor proved it then and there by piling through the parkinson first and second defences, upsetting the distressed houghton and salvaging the pigskin some thirty yards from the brown's goal-line. for the first time in many long, wet minutes the spectators had something to thrill over. a long-limbed, shock-headed chancellor forward in mud-reeking pants and torn jersey, wearied and winded, went plunging and stumbling and slipping toward a touchdown with the field strewed out behind him. interference was hasty but effective. parkinson and chancellor youths went down like nine-pins, splashing into puddles, gouging into mud. for a moment it seemed that the incident would end with twenty-two players flat on the wet ground and only the officials erect! but, although many fell by the way, others managed to keep their feet and run it out, and among these was the youth with the ball. twice he went to his knees, but each time he recovered before the enemy reached him, and in the end he slid over the line close to the left goal-post, and chancellor shouted and leaped with delight. after the goal was prettily kicked the teams went at it again, but to all purposes the game was over and the score didn't change again. twenty-nine to seven were the figures that, later in the day, brought uneasiness to the kenwood camp. yet, returning to warne, it was noticed that coach driscoll's countenance did not reflect the satisfaction shown on other faces. after supper that evening he told jud mellen why. "you chaps played a rattling game today," he said almost regretfully. "i haven't a criticism to make that's worth the breath it would cost. even the second and third subs were good, almost without exception. but i sort of wish you hadn't done so well, and that's the truth." "afraid of a slump," said jud, nodding thoughtfully. "well, not exactly that. when a team reaches its best two weeks before the big game it doesn't take a slump to queer it. it only needs a return to ordinary playing, if you see what i mean. all you fellows need do to get beaten two weeks from today is to play the sort of football you played last week against day and robins. there's just that much difference between fine football and good football, cap. if it had been kenwood today instead of chancellor, we'd have the championship tucked away in our belt this evening. i guess i've made a mistake somewhere: let you fellows come too fast the last week or so. but i didn't have any warning that you were on the last lap. it hasn't shown once. well, it's up to us now to stay where we are, cap." "or go ahead," said jud. but mr. driscoll shook his head. "i'd like to think so, but i'm afraid we reached top-notch today. i'm always scared for a team that hasn't had a slump some time during the season. and we haven't. not a real, sure-enough slump. there was a tendency after the phillipsburg game, but it didn't really amount to anything." "well, i don't feel like slumping," laughed jud. "and i haven't noticed any signs of it in the others. every one's as cocky as you please tonight, and barring a few bruises--and flay's knee--they're all in fine shape." "yes, we came out of it mighty well," agreed the coach. "i hate a wet field, cap. i hope to goodness this rain doesn't keep on for two or three days. rainy weather can play hob with a team that's the least bit over-trained." "you're a regular pessimist tonight, coach," jud laughed. "cheer up! by the way, dobbins told me this evening that foster's expecting to get off pro. kearns wasn't half bad today, but it would certainly make me feel easier in what i call my mind to have foster ready to take his place." "yes. see if you can get him out monday. there isn't a whole lot of time left. still, he's learned the position fairly well and might give a good account of himself as he is. with another ten days of training he ought to make a good second for kearns." the rain continued during sunday and myron was restless and inclined to be as much of a pessimist as the head coach. he was difficult to live with, too, and joe dragged him over to mill street after dinner in the hope that andrew would be good for his soul. andrew did, in truth, perk him up not a little, predicting that he would get his release from doctor lane the next day. "i dare say he's forgotten all about me," said myron dismally. "suppose addicks doesn't tell him i've made good?" "well, it's up to addicks, and that's a fact," responded andrew. "if nothing happens by noon, i'd advise you to go to him and tell him the facts. tell him you want to get back on the team and can't until he speaks a good word for you to jud. addicks is a good sport and will do it. i think he will, anyhow, though. you see if you don't hear from jud in the morning." so myron decided to hope for the best and forgot his worries watching the amusing antics of the puppies, by now sturdy little rascals who made their mother's life a burden and a boredom. andrew's prediction came true, for the next morning myron was again summoned to the office and conducted into the presence of doctor lane. "mr. addicks tells me that you're doing very much better, foster," announced the doctor. "in fact, he recommends that we lift the restrictions in your case. do you think that you will be able to stay in good standing now?" "yes, sir. i'm going to try hard, anyway," said myron earnestly. doctor lane smiled. "in that case i believe that you will succeed, my boy. it's wonderful what really trying will accomplish. very well, foster. you have permission to go back and grind your face in the sod again. like football do you?" "very much, sir." "so do i. i used to play it once, a good many years ago. do you consider that we have a good chance to beat kenwood this fall?" "yes, sir, i think we will. we've got a bully team!" "so i understand. well, we'll hope so. good morning, foster." once outside the door of the outer office, myron broke into song. as a musical effort it was not remarkably successful, but as an expression of his feelings it met all requirements. turning into the entrance corridor, he almost ran into paul eldredge. he and paul had never spoken since the encounter on the walk that evening. paul's attitude toward him had been one of armed neutrality expressed in sullen silence and sarcastic glances. now, acting on impulse, myron stopped and spoke. "say, eldredge," he blurted, "let's call it off! what do you say? i'm sorry for whatever it was that--that offended you." eldredge, surprised, at a loss, stared at myron's smiling countenance for an instant, trying to think of something sarcastic. failing, he grunted, and then, as myron kept silence and waited, he said: "all right," none too graciously; adding: "i'm satisfied if you are. you started it, anyway." myron couldn't remember whether he had or hadn't just then, so he yielded the point. "did i? i'm sorry then. let's forget it, eh?" eldredge nodded more amiably. "sure! i'm willing." then myron nodded, laughed for no reason that the other could fathom, and hurried on. the laugh had nothing to do with eldredge or with the making of peace, but was just an advertisement of the fact that life looked very good to him at the moment. mr. addicks, a half-hour later, positively beamed on him, to the quiet amusement of those of the class who knew of myron's recent status, and myron decided that the latin instructor was "a corking old chap." reinstatement amongst the first team substitutes proved a most casual affair that afternoon. he reported to farnsworth and the manager said, rather decently, "glad you're back, foster. all right, get into it. that's your squad down the field." chapter xxiv eddie applies the brake i think the experiences of the past week had cleared the air in myron's case. perhaps andrew's curtain lecture at the hotel that sunday morning had its effect. perhaps, too, the knowledge that joe and andy had cared enough to go to all that scheming and effort to bring him back and save him from his own folly bucked him up. at all events, he went to work hammer-and-tongs and by wednesday night had steve kearns looking worried. chas, viewing events interestedly, chuckled to himself. things were working his way. not only was he secretly aiding and abetting the career of myron, but there were three others among the first and second choice fellows who were under his care and who, willingly or unwillingly, followed his instructions. had chas cared to he could have taken a pencil and paper and written down the line-up for next season's first important contest. needless to say, against the position of left guard would have been the name of cummins. chas was not without his qualms of uneasiness, though, for brodhead was now pushing him hard for his place. attending to the duties of next year's captain in anticipation somewhat detracted from his playing qualities, and when, on thursday, he found himself left on the bench while brodhead was sent into the game against the second at left guard, he realised dismayedly that he would have to let next season look after itself for the present and reinstate himself in the coach's good graces. chas' plans revolved on his election to the captaincy, and it wasn't usual to elect to that position a fellow who had not played in the big game. chas studied his scarred knuckles thoughtfully and wondered to just what extent mr. driscoll would let his personal feelings rule when it came to a choice between him and brodhead for the kenwood game. chas knew perfectly well that the coach, without disliking him, held it in for him on one or two scores, and one must allow for a certain amount of human nature, he reflected, in even a football coach! mentally he shook his head and acknowledged that he would have to mend his ways. he wasn't certain, for that matter, that it was not already too late, that, to use his own expression, he had not already "spilled the beans"! that thursday myron got himself talked about. he went in at full-back in the second half, vice kearns, and showed himself a remarkably proficient player at that position. coach driscoll watched him in genuine surprise, although, as usual, he hid his feelings. "he's just about four times as good as he was before he was laid off," he said to himself, "and at least twice as good as i ever thought he would be. why, the chap's a born full-back! give him a few more pounds for line-bucking and he will size up with any of them. next year he ought to be all-american material, by jupiter! but i mustn't spoil him. he's too good. and if he gets to knowing how good he is, he's likely to get fond of himself and fizzle out. i think he's the sort to do that. no, i guess we'll keep your spurs trimmed down pretty close, foster, my lad!" and in furtherance of that plan the coach strode across to the first team backfield and metaphorically ripped myron up the back, to the bewilderment of myron and the puzzlement of jud and joe and katie and some others! myron ended the game in a chastened mood, conscious of having made two touchdowns, one by a wide run behind good interference and one by downright grit from the four yards when the advance had seemed at an end, but equally conscious that he had not done as well as he should have. he had coach driscoll's word for the latter, although the coach had somehow failed to specify very exactly wherein myron had failed. there had been talk about "getting low" and "using your legs," but myron didn't really see how he could have struck the line much lower without going into it on his head or how he could have got another ounce of push out of those wearied legs of his. in the end, having been refreshed with food and having listened to hearty praise from his friends, he decided that coaches were strange persons not always to be taken seriously. but he didn't get a swelled head over the day's performance, which was what the coach had guarded against. there was no practice on friday for the first team players, and so when myron found a note in the mail that morning signed maurice millard saying that the writer would be in warne that noon and asking myron to meet him at the hotel at two o'clock, the latter was able to promise himself an enjoyable afternoon. unfortunately, he had a recitation at two, but he left a note for millard at the hotel in the forenoon postponing the meeting until a quarter to three. he recalled millard very pleasantly and was glad he was to meet him again. he liked that name, too, maurice millard: it had a swing to it, he thought, even if it did sound rather like the name of a moving-picture artist! he wished that millard had chosen to look him up at his room, for he would have liked to introduce him to joe. joe had seemed somehow rather sceptical as to millard's charms. but he could bring the visitor to sohmer later on, for of course he would want to see the school and visit the football field and so on. but, rather strangely--or so myron thought,--millard declared in favour of taking a drive into the country. "we can look around the school when we get back," he explained. "it's a wonderful day for a drive and i'm much fonder of the country than i am of towns. and we can have a jolly chat, too, and you won't have to interrupt yourself every ten seconds to say 'that's smith hall, built in 1876 and used by general washington as headquarters during the football game between parkinson and kenwood,' or some other such dope." as to its being a wonderful day for driving, myron had his doubts, for summer had returned and the weather was decidedly hot in spite of the fact that november was two weeks old. still, driving might be pleasanter than walking, and the guest had the right to choose his entertainment, and myron capitulated. to find a conveyance, however, was not so easy, for no jehus slept along the curb in front of the little hotel when they went in search of one. myron suggested walking to the station, only a block or so distant, and millard consented. the difficulty was solved before they got that far, however, for a new, highly varnished taxi-cab darted toward them from a side street and a dimly remembered youth on the driver's seat hailed myron by name. he proved to be the fellow who had conveyed myron to sohmer that first day of school, and by the time the latter had ended negotiations for the hiring of the cab by the hour he remembered that the sandy-haired young man was named eddie moses. the cab appeared to be brand-new and was certainly a vast improvement over the former one. they went briskly out of the town toward sturgis, and, with all windows open, the drive promised to be as enjoyable as millard had predicted. the visitor was as smartly, if quietly, dressed as when myron had seen him last, and myron was secretly glad that he had gone to extra pains in the matter of his own attire. myron asked about business and millard reported everything fine, and said that he had managed to get a small order from the local dealer in athletic supplies that morning. "not much, you know, but enough to let us show him that we have the goods he wants and can sell to him cheaper than that new york house. it's a wedge, foster." in spite of millard's expressed love of the country, he didn't seem to pay much attention to its beauties. before they had gone a mile he had switched the conversation from athletic goods to football, of which he appeared to know a great deal. myron wondered if he had played when at school, and what that school had been, but somehow he never got around to asking. he was glad enough to talk about football, and he managed before long to let millard know that he was now a member of the parkinson first team. millard was clearly delighted with his friend's good fortune, and congratulated him warmly. "i'll bet anything you'll make good, too, foster, when you fellows meet kenwood. i hear they've got only a fair team over there this year. i was talking to a fellow from there only a couple of days ago. 'we aren't telling it around, art'--my name's maurice arthur, you know, and some fellows call me art," he explained parenthetically. "'we aren't telling it around, but between you and me we've got a pretty punk outfit this year. we're trying to keep parkinson guessing, but if they play the sort of game they played against chancellor they'll have us on the run from the beginning.' maybe i oughtn't to tell this to a parkinson fellow, but he didn't tell me not to, and you and i are friends, so i guess there's no harm. besides, i'd like mighty well to see you fellows lick that kenwood bunch. they're too stuck-up for me." "i won't say anything about it to any one," said myron virtuously. "probably your friend wouldn't want it to get to our team." "oh, never mind what he wants. if telling your fellows'll do them any good, you go ahead and tell them. i'll stand for it. how is the team getting along, by the way? that was certainly a peach of a licking you gave chancellor. i was reading about it in the paper last sunday." myron replied that the team was getting on famously, and went into rather intimate details to prove it. millard was flatteringly interested and encouraged myron to talk, which myron was nothing loath to do since he was on a subject that appealed to him vastly. millard had many questions to ask, questions which showed conclusively that he had a close understanding of football and a wide acquaintance among players. with such a listener myron found it easy to pursue his subject. millard introduced debate by throwing doubt on the ability of the parkinson ends. he said he thought cousins and leeds, the kenwood ends, would have the better of the argument, and was only convinced to the contrary after myron had very thoroughly explained stearns' and norris' methods, both on offence and defence. there was simply no end to millard's interest in football, and once--they were running through the town of sturgis at the moment--when myron feared that he was boring the other, in spite of apparent willingness to listen, and sought to change the subject, it was millard who soon brought it back again. how the matter of signals came up, myron didn't afterward recall, but it did, and it was exhaustively dealt with. millard spoke of a case he knew of where the intricacy of the signals had lost an important game for a certain high school team. "i always think that the more simple the signal system is the better it is. you take the big colleges, now, foster. they don't ball the men all up with double numberings and 'repeats' and all those silly tricks. they select a simple system, one that's easy to learn and remember. why, i've seen quarter-backs stutter and fumble around for whole minutes trying to get their signals straightened out. and as for the number of times that backs have spoiled a play because they didn't get the signals right----" millard whistled eloquently. "guess we won't have any trouble that way," answered myron complacently. "our system's as simple as simple." "that so? holes and players numbered from left to right, eh?" "no, we begin at the ends." "yes, that's a better scheme. left end is 1, left tackle, 3, and so on, i suppose." "no, we don't number the players that way. the openings----" the taxi-cab stopped so suddenly that myron bit his tongue over the last word as he pitched forward. of course millard described much the same gymnastic feat, but it is doubtful if millard heard, or thought he heard, what myron did in the brief instant that his head protruded through a front window, for eddie moses' neck stayed myron's forward flight and eddie's mouth was but a few inches from myron's ear. and in the part of a second that it remained there it got the impression that some one, presumably eddie, had distinctly said: "_shut up!_" that impression did not register on his brain, however, until he was back in his seat and eddie had released his emergency brake. then, while eddie, in reply to millard's somewhat incensed question, was apologetically explaining something about a dog that had run almost under the wheels, he stared startledly at the back of eddie's head. that told him nothing, though, and he harked back to the interrupted conversation to discover what could have brought such a fiercely voiced admonition from the driver, if, indeed, that admonition had not been imagined. the shaking-up, however, had jostled memory as well as body, and it was millard who supplied the information he sought. "i didn't see any dog," he said huffily to eddie. "guess you imagined it. now, then, foster, you were explaining about that numbering." "what numbering?" asked myron blankly. "forgotten?" laughed millard. "why, we were talking about signals, don't you remember?" "oh, yes," answered myron thoughtfully. "so we were. how would it do to take the princeville road back, eddie? that'll give us more of a drive." as a matter of fact, it would do nothing of the sort, and myron knew it, and eddie moses knew it when he added cheerfully, "all right, boss!" only millard didn't know it, although it is likely that he suspected it later when, in far less time than it had taken them to reach sturgis, they were back again in warne. during that journey back, made at a greater speed than the trip away, millard tried vainly to swing the conversation back to the topic of football, and football signals in particular, but myron seemed to have suddenly wearied of the subject and wouldn't stay put a minute. he pointed out features of the landscape for millard's admiring observation and invented quite a few interesting legends about passing houses or farms. after a while millard managed to display some enthusiasm for nature and for the legends and was quite the entertaining and charming youth he had been before that shaking-up. but myron thought that there had been a quarter of an hour subsequent to it when the visitor had sounded out of patience and even a trifle short-tempered. he might have simply imagined it, though. they were back in town long before five, and millard's train didn't leave until after six, and there was plenty of time to visit the school, but millard recalled a forgotten appointment at the hotel and was set down there accordingly. he was most apologetic and thanked myron for a good time and begged to be allowed to go halves on the cab bill. this privilege myron indignantly denied. millard promised to look myron up again shortly. "i want to see the school and all that, you know, foster," he declared. "wish i could run up there now, but i'll be tied up until train time. the next time i come you must come down and have dinner with me." they shook hands and parted, myron returning to the cab and bidding eddie drive him to sohmer. but out of sight of the hotel myron leaned over and addressed the back of eddie's freckled neck. "did you say anything to me the time i went through the window?" he asked. "yeah, i said 'shut up!' you was doing a lot of fancy talking to that guy, seemed to me. 'course, he might be a friend of yours and all, but you was telling him things about the football team that you hadn't ought to, see? that's why i jammed on the 'mergency. there wasn't no dog at all!" "oh," murmured myron, "i see. maybe you're right. anyway, i'm much obliged. of course, millard is perfectly square, but he might talk." "yeah, he might," agreed eddie. "or he might let some one else do the talking. here you are, sir! sohmer hall, home of the rude rich! thank you, sir." eddie winked knowingly. "i'm not talking any. don't you worry about me, sir. so long!" myron made his way up the steps of the dormitory, under the envious regard of three third class youths, and climbed the stairs somewhat thoughtfully. certainly, maurice millard was all right, but he was awfully glad that eddie had imagined that dog. millard had repeated what the kenwood chap had told him about the kenwood team, information plainly not intended for publicity, which showed that he was not exactly close-mouthed. on the whole, decided myron, he had come horribly near to making an utter fool of himself. he decided to say nothing about it to joe. joe must already have a good enough opinion of his common sense! chapter xxv false colours the preliminary season came to an end the next day with the st. luke's academy game. football affairs had become fairly hectic now and the school marched to the field behind a strident brass band, cheering and singing. mass-meetings had been held twice weekly ever since the warne high school contest, and songs had been practised and cheers rehearsed, and today parkinson was in fine voice and filled with enthusiasm. st. luke's was not a formidable opponent, and for that reason had been chosen to fill in the last date before the kenwood game. a wise coach selects the semi-final adversary with care and deliberation, and a wrong selection may work much harm to his charges. st. luke's was warranted by past experience to give parkinson a good battle without requiring any extraordinary exertions on the latter's part. usually the score was one or two touchdowns to none, although not so long ago the generally docile st. luke's had kicked over the traces in the annual event and thrown a healthy scare into parkinson. on that historic occasion the final score had been 17 to 10 in the home team's favour. the brown line-up was exactly as at the start of the chancellor game, with a single exception. the name of foster appeared as full-back instead of kearns. whether he had been put in to save kearns for the kenwood game or whether he was there on his merits, myron couldn't decide. but he played a good game while he remained in the line-up. the cheering was fine and put heart into them all, and myron felt that afternoon as though he could "lick his weight in wild-cats," as joe might have put it. he wasn't called on for many punts, which was perhaps fortunate, for his punting still lacked control. if he got distance he was likely to send the pigskin to the wrong place, while if he obtained direction he was liable to kick short. but in the other departments he showed up strongly. he was a big addition to the backfield on defence, using his weight very knowingly, and more than one st. luke's gain was nipped in the bud by him. speed aided him at line plunges, and his runs, of which he got off three during the time he played, together netted nineteen yards against clever ends. altogether, he was a success, and coach and school recognised the fact, and when, five minutes after the beginning of the second half, he got rather the worst of a mix-up with the st. luke's left half and was taken out in favour of kearns, he got a hearty cheer as he walked none too steadily to the bench. myron was not the only player who deserved praise that afternoon, for every fellow on the team was good. if the perfection exhibited in the chancellor game was not quite duplicated it was possibly because the incentive was lacking. st. luke's was outweighed by several pounds and was slower than she should have been. and she seemed, too, to lack plays adapted to her style of football. parkinson failed to score in the first quarter, ran up eleven points in the second, seven more in the third and, in the last period, with a line consisting almost entirely of substitutes, and with second-string backs behind it, added a field goal by way of good measure. every one, even coach driscoll, appeared perfectly satisfied with the afternoon's performance, and parkinson's stock soared high that evening. it looked very much as if the season was to glide smoothly and uneventfully to a satisfactory close. but a week still intervened, and in a week much may happen. on monday, norris, right end, started the programme of events by breaking a bone in his right ankle. he did it by falling over a pail on the stairs in williams hall. it wasn't a serious disaster, but it might easily impair his playing ability five days later. tuesday, grafton, first-choice substitute for captain mellen, came down with laryngitis, and snow, who was due to take cantrell's place at centre in the event of that player's retirement, was called home to illinois because of serious illness in the family. coach driscoll smiled grimly and wondered what further misfortunes could happen in the remaining three days. coach driscoll, it may be said, was never designed for the peaceful life. he was more contented when he was facing difficulties. jud mellen, himself worried by the ill-luck, remarked almost resentfully tuesday evening: "gee, coach, any one would think you'd got news that the whole kenwood team was down with the sleeping sickness, you look so bright and merry. i'm sick!" "no use pulling a long face, cap," replied mr. driscoll. "after all, we've come through the season remarkably. something was bound to go wrong, and i felt it. i guess i'm rather relieved to find out what it is. and it might have been worse." "yes, we might have lost the whole team," responded jud sarcastically. "oh, i suppose we can pull through if nothing worse happens, but i'm expecting katie to fall off a roof or brown to get kicked by a mule tomorrow. this has got me going for fair!" "you look after number one," advised the coach. "the best way to kill a trouble is to laugh it to death!" jud expressed incredulous surprise when wednesday passed without further misfortunes. there was a monster meeting that night and a march through town and a speech by the principal from the porch of his residence and much enthusiasm and noise. myron did not take part in the observances, for the players were now required to remain in their rooms evenings as far as possible and to be in bed promptly at ten o'clock. so far, myron had felt no nervousness, nothing approaching stage-fright, but when thursday arrived and the field was well surrounded with cheering youths and townsfolk and the band that was to play on saturday was adding to the din and there was only light signal work, followed by punting and catching for the backs, instead of the relief of a good, hard scrimmage, why, then he felt a trifle fluttery about the heart. it meant so much to all those eager-eyed, laughing but secretly earnest boys about him, that hoped-for victory, and he was chosen to aid in the securing of it! the realisation of responsibility sobered him and then left him a trifle panic-stricken. suppose he failed them, the coach and captain mellen and the school! for the moment it seemed that in such an event he would not have the courage to stay on and face them all. he almost wished that coach driscoll would let kearns play instead! but that wish didn't last long, and the panic was short-lived, too. there was still a vague uneasiness disturbing him, however, and that uneasiness was due to remain with him during his waking hours until the whistle blew on saturday. the second team, its usefulness at an end, cheered and was cheered and performed a dignified ceremony behind the east goal, to which, since the first team players had trotted back to the gymnasium, the audience flocked. gravely, reverently, torn jerseys, worn-out pants, shoes beyond aid and various other disreputable articles of football attire and use were piled on the jumping pit. then a football rules book was laid on top of all, a gallon of kerosene applied and around the blazing pyre the members of the second team slowly circled with joined hands, chanting a strange jumble of atrocious latin and scarcely more acceptable english. gradually the pace grew faster and the pã¦an brisker until, presently, the scene was a ludicrous whirl of bodies amidst a wild shriek of song and a cloud of smoke. in such manner the second team disbanded, at the end, spent with laughter and breathless from their exertions, giving three feeble groans for kenwood and "nine long parkinsons"! friday was a long and gloomy day. there was little use trying to do anything at recitations if you were on the team, and not much more if you weren't. you just bluffed, if you could, or threw yourself on the mercy of the instructors, trusting that they would prove human enough to be lenient. they usually were, for long experience had proved to the parkinson faculty that for a week before the big game and for several days after it normal members of the student body were incapable of interest in studies. to make matters more dismal on friday, it rained. it didn't rain in a cheerful, whole-souled way, but drizzled and stopped and sulked and drizzled again, and you wanted to be outdoors if you were in and wanted to be back again as soon as you were out. there was blackboard work for the players in the afternoon and signal drill in the evening. afterwards myron and joe and andrew chatted in number 17 until bedtime, while from over in front of parkinson hall the cheers of some five hundred youths arose to the cloudy sky. then came ten o'clock, and andy went, and the room-mates got thoughtfully out of their clothes and crept beneath the covers, each a trifle more silent than usual. to myron's surprise, sleep came after a very short time, and when he awoke the sun was bright in a crisp november world and there were roystering sounds from the bath-rooms down the corridor. the first kenwood invaders appeared well before noon, and every hour after that brought more until by two o'clock the streets of the town, already fairly impartially arrayed as to shop windows with the blue and the brown, wore a decidedly cerulean hue. for the team, dinner was served at twelve instead of one, and after that there remained a long hour and a half before they could find relief from inaction. they were at liberty to do as they liked within reasonable limits, and myron and joe and chas wandered across the campus and down school street in search of diversion. chas was, in his own language, "too old a bird to have nerves," and he didn't intend that either of the others should either. he was bubbling over with good spirits and kept myron and joe laughing from the time the three of them left the campus. perhaps his cheerfulness was largely due to the fact that, at the eleventh hour, coach driscoll had chosen him over brodhead for left guard. and perhaps the coach had never intended to do anything else. chas never knew as to that. but he did know that had things turned out differently for him his plans for next season would have been of as much interest as a last year's bird's nest! their progress through the unusually thronged streets was frequently interrupted while chas greeted an acquaintance, generally one of the enemy. in front of the hotel quite a crowd had collected to peer through doors and windows at the kenwood heroes, who, having eaten dinner, were herded in the lobby about coach and trainer and rubbers. the three pushed into the throng until they could glimpse their adversaries, and chas pointed out several of the notables to the others: leeds, captain and right tackle; the much-respected mcafee, left half-back; odell, full-back and goal kicker extraordinary; garrity, the blue's clever quarter. "and the others i don't know the names of," said chas, "although that whaling big, pop-eyed monster must be todd, their centre. he's a new one this year. wonder which of the bunch is lampley, the chap i'm up against." "and i wonder which is my man," said joe. "i hope he's like his name!" "frost, isn't it?" asked chas. "they say he's good, but you'll know more about him along toward four-thirty." "who are the fellows over there by the desk?" asked myron. "the tall one's their coach, and i guess the others are the board of strategy, which is a fancy name for a bunch of fellows who travel around with the team and get their expenses paid out of the travelling fund. i think the short fellow is whitely, their manager, but i'm not certain. come on, we'll see enough of them before the afternoon's over!" in the act of turning, myron's gaze encountered a rather tall youth in the lobby whose face became for the first time visible to him at that moment. surely it was maurice millard, he thought. and yet it couldn't be, since millard would never be hob-nobbing with the kenwood coach. resisting chas' tug at his sleeve, he gazed at the object of his speculations while a vague uneasiness took possession of him. it was millard! he knew him now. it was millard in a long fuzzy brown ulster and a derby hat, millard looking far less carefree and cordial than he remembered him. myron seized the departing chas and literally dragged him back through the crowd. "who's the tall, good-looking fellow in the brown coat?" he demanded anxiously. "where is he? i don't see any good, tall-looking fellow in--oh, yes! that's what's-his-name, the kenwood third baseman. he's a pill. he's played with them two years. know him?" "i think so," answered myron, "a--a little. his name's millard, isn't it?" "mill-ah? no, it isn't mill-ah; it's cooke, arthur cooke. come along home and stop annoying the animals." myron looked again, but there was no chance for doubt. he turned and made his way through the group of loiterers in the wake of chas and joe. when he had overtaken the former he asked earnestly: "are you quite certain his name is cooke, cummins?" "sure i am! why not? he's the blow-hard that was going to do all sorts of things to liddell last spring, if you believe the papers. he is a pretty fair batter, and that's no joke, but liddell had him swinging like a gate and as mad as a hornet. he got a scratch single, and that's all he did get, the big boob!" "and--and he's--he's one of the kenwood board of strategy, as you call it?" asked myron faintly. "yes, sort of. he scouts for them, i guess. anyway, i heard they caught him snooping around the grounds of chancellor last year and mighty near tore his shirt off. kenwood has a fine old spy system, foster, but it never gets her anywhere except back home!" myron set the pace for the rest on the way back, his thoughts appearing to affect his feet. it was still only a little after a quarter past one and they were not due at the gymnasium until two. in that scant three-quarters of an hour, reflected myron sickeningly, he must find coach driscoll and make his humiliating confession. whether he had given millard, or cooke, enough information to affect the game, myron didn't know, but he did know that the manly and honest thing to do was to tell the coach all about it and let him decide that question. that mr. driscoll would let him play on the team after his confession had been made was highly improbable, but there was no help for that. in front of parkinson hall he made some sort of confused excuse to the others and hurried away. chapter xxvi behind the stand "you mean to tell me," said coach driscoll incredulously, "that you talked about the team to a perfect stranger, foster, to a fellow met on a station platform?" "not so much the first time, sir," answered myron miserably. "it was when he came here. he didn't seem like a stranger then, and i thought he was what he said he was." "you did, eh? why, he has prep school written all over him! i simply can't understand it, foster!" the coach looked helplessly to jud mellen and from jud to farnsworth and chas and katie. myron had run mr. driscoll to earth at last in the gymnasium, in consultation with the trainer, and now they were in the little office of mr. tasser, the physical director. the others had been summoned from the locker room downstairs, being the only players then in the building. having produced them, billy goode had discreetly closed the door behind them and retired to the entrance, where myron could see him now through the glass partition, his purple and white sweater radiant in the sunlight that flooded through the doorway. myron rather preferred looking at billy to meeting the accusing gaze of the coach. he was not having a very happy time of it. "cooke's crafty," offered katie. "i guess he could easily make you believe he was a travelling salesman if he wanted to try, and you didn't know him." chas nodded, scowling, but the coach said impatiently: "what of it? even if foster thought he was that, he shouldn't have talked. a travelling man is the last person on earth to tell secrets to! didn't it even occur to you, foster, that the fellow might repeat what you said?" "no, sir, it didn't. he seemed such a--a decent sort, mr. driscoll!" "let's get this right," said jud impatiently. "tell us again just what you told him, as near as you can remember." myron did so. his recollection of the two conversations was none too clear, however, and he faltered several times. "and then he brought in the subject of signals?" prompted the coach. "can you remember what you told him then?" "i don't think i told him anything of--of consequence," answered myron. "he said he thought that simple signals were best and told a lot of stories about games where the players had got the signals wrong because they were too complicated. and he told about some team a long while ago where they used to use words instead of numbers. i said our signals were simple enough, and he said he supposed we numbered the openings and the players from right to left; or maybe he said left to right. and i told him we didn't; that we began at the ends and numbered in; and then eddie moses stopped the cab quick and threw us off the seat." "eddie appears to deserve a medal and resolutions of thanks," observed the coach drily. "you're quite certain that was all you told him, foster? it was at the point you speak of that the jolt came?" "yes, sir. i think i had started to say something else, but i didn't have time." there was a moment of thoughtful silence. myron looked about the circle of troubled faces and wished himself at the bottom of the ocean. at last chas spoke. "well, say, folks, i don't see that there's been much harm done. foster didn't tell that fox anything kenwood didn't know already, i guess, except about the signals. they've seen us play all fall and know just about as much about our players and the way they play as we do." "that's so," murmured farnsworth. "they had three scouts at the chancellor game." "what about the signals, though?" asked mr. driscoll, frowning. "how much could cooke make of what foster so kindly informed him?" "mighty little, i'd say," answered katie. "there are just as many ways of numbering from the ends to the middle as there are from one end to the other, or from the middle out. seems to me this eddie boy put the brakes on at about the right minute!" "eddie ought to get a season ticket," said chas. "well, the fat's in the fire and there's no use trying to pull it out now," said the coach resignedly. "if we find they're on to our signals we'll have to switch. i guess we'd better arrange a new code before the game, cater." "that's easy, coach. just change about and number from the centre out." "wouldn't do, cater. the fellows would get balled up unless they had a good hour's drill first. we'll have to think up some simpler method." "double the odd numbers," suggested chas. "call 1, 11, 2, 22; and so on. they did that last year on the second and we couldn't get it at all till they told us after the season." "that might do," agreed the coach, and the rest nodded. "that would make outside left end 99," he reflected. "sound all right to you, cater?" "sure! that's easy enough, but what about 11, 13 and 15? call them 111, 113 and 115?" "i think so. we'll have to change the sequence call, though. we'll make it any even number over 100." "your friend cooke wouldn't approve, though, foster," said farnsworth. "he'd say they were too complicated." myron flushed, but made no answer. "get the team together as soon as you can, cap," said the coach, "and let cater go over the new signals with them a couple of times. mind, though, we don't change unless it's evident that kenwood is solving the plays. that's all, you fellows. just a minute, foster, please." the rest hurried out and down the stairs. myron leaned back again in the chair with a sigh. mr. driscoll viewed him coldly. "i suppose you realise that you've made rather a mess of things," said the coach. myron assented in silence. "the things you let out to this kenwood spy may mean just the difference to us between winning and losing. i hope they won't, but they may. i don't believe in hitting a man when he's down, foster, and so i won't say any more about it. i suppose you're feeling rather rotten yourself." the boy's glance was answer enough. "i was going to have you start the game at full." he paused and myron's heart sank. "i've changed my mind. there may be a chance for you before the game's over, but don't count on it. if you should by any possibility get in, foster, i shall expect you to try very hard to make up for any mischief you've caused with that tongue of yours. that's all. you'd better hustle down and go through those signals." when myron had gone mr. driscoll frowned. "i wonder," he muttered, "if that was the right thing. sort of tough on him, too. and if he should get sore--well, we'll see." lifting the telephone beside him, he called the locker room. "hello! who is this? oh, mistley? well, ask farnsworth to come up here a minute, please." the manager appeared promptly and behind the closed glass door the two spoke briefly with heads close together. then farnsworth arose and sped out, an expression of unholy glee on his countenance, and the coach, tapping the ashes from his pipe, dropped it into his pocket and went downstairs. across the campus a clock struck two. * * * * * the teams that faced each other that afternoon were fairly matched in weight and, as events proved, closely matched in skill. neither the brown nor the blue found herself until the first fifteen-minute period was nearly over. each seemed to lack confidence, and those who hoped to see one team or the other take the lead at the start were doomed to disappointment. there was much punting in that first quarter, some half-hearted rushing that soon slowed down, several fumbles and not a little bad judgment. each team appeared more intent on watching her opponent than on playing the game, and it was not until the very end that parkinson awoke from her lethargy and got into her stride. a fortunate forward-pass started her up, and from her own forty-two yards to the enemy's thirty-four she took the ball on line attacks varied by one wide, swinging run by meldrum. but the blue was also awake now and her line steadied and parkinson was forced to punt. kenwood plunged twice and returned the punt and cater caught and was downed in his tracks. kearns made a scant yard at guard on the right of the line and time was called. starting again from near parkinson's forty-yard line, the ball went across the centre and back again. cater was nailed when he attempted a quarter-back run to the left and brown made four yards in two tries. keith fell back and punted out of bounds at the twenty-five. no advantage accrued to either team for the next five minutes. parkinson was set back for holding and kenwood was twice penalised for off-side. the spectators' hearts went into their throats when a kenwood back misjudged a punt, and it looked for an instant as if the brown was to score. but norris missed the ball and the kenwood quarter fell on it eight yards from the goal-line. the blue promptly punted out of danger. parkinson failed to gain at the blue line and made a forward which grounded. she then punted to the enemy's thirty yards. the half ended with the pigskin in parkinson territory near the middle of the field and in kenwood's possession. neither team had shown ability to gain consistently at her opponent's line. parkinson had made two first downs and kenwood one. at punting kenwood had outdistanced the brown by some five yards on each kick, but had not gained any advantage by it, since stearns and norris were playing the game of their lives. in short, it was still anybody's game. during half-time the rivals contended with cheers and songs, the contest going to parkinson by reason of a slight advantage in numbers and the possession of a brass band. it was about the middle of that fifteen-minute intermission that a small youth in the attire of a messenger boy came wandering along the edge of the kenwood stand. "mr. cooke!" he droned. "message for mr. cooke!" in response a youth in a fuzzy brown overcoat arose from the group on the nearly deserted players' bench. "all right, kid!" he called. "here i am! let's have it!" "you mr. cooke?" asked the boy suspiciously. "yes, a. m. cooke. is it for me?" "yeah, that's right: a. m. cooke. well, you're wanted at the telephone." "where is it?" asked cooke, vaulting the rope into the passage. the boy waved a thumb over his shoulder. "out there," he said vaguely. "i'll show you." cooke followed, winding his way through the crowd about the entrance. at the gate he spoke to one of the ticket takers. "let me have a check, will you?" he asked. "i'm coming back." the boy presiding at the box smiled mysteriously. "that'll be all right," he said. "you won't need any check." afterwards, cooke concluded that it was at that moment that suspicion began to creep in. but the messenger led on and he followed around the back of the stand and into the presence of four grim-looking and extremely athletic first class fellows. cooke saw no telephone, and a frown gathered on his classic brow. the messenger was speaking. "here he is," he said. "i got him. where's me half?" a coin changed hands. cooke looked on curiously, a question trembling on his lips. but he didn't need to ask that question. suddenly the four youths encompassed him closely and he felt no further interest in telephones. "is your name cooke?" asked the spokesman. cooke wanted very much to deny it, but knew that denial would be futile. so he said yes, and the other went on as follows: "well, cooke, we don't like your sort. there's a train that will take you to kenwood leaving our station in fifteen minutes. if i were you i'd try mighty hard to get it. it won't be healthy for you around here after it's gone." cooke moistened his lips. "why should i?" he demanded in a weak attempt at bluster. "i paid to see this game----" "that's all right. you'll get your money back. we've bought your train ticket, and there's eighteen cents change coming to you. you can walk to the station comfortably in twelve minutes." the speaker looked at his watch. "you've just got twelve if you start now. these chaps are going with you to show the way and see that you don't change your mind." cooke looked at the faces surrounding him, bit his lip, laughed weakly and shrugged. "i suppose you think you're frightfully clever," he said, "but you're not worrying me any. i don't care to see the game, anyhow. we'll beat you, so what's it matter?" "eleven minutes," was the reply. "you'll have to run if you don't start quick." "suppose i don't choose to go?" asked cooke defiantly. "why, that would be very unhealthy for you," answered the other, a smile threatening his gravity. cooke looked up at the stand. there were plenty of friends there, but there seemed to be no way of reaching them. at the top a few occupants of the last row were looking down curiously, but they appeared quite unsuspicious of the indignity being visited on their schoolmate. cooke yielded. "all right," he muttered. "and, one thing more, cooke," said the spokesman of the little committee, "it will be better if you don't come over here with the baseball team next spring. in fact, if i were you, i'd take good care to stay away from here. we don't like spies." chapter xxvii full-back foster "that's all, i guess," said coach driscoll in conclusion. "the main thing is to play hard, fellows, and play fast. i don't think we'll have to change our signals. if kenwood was on to them she'd have showed it before this. so tear in now and show what you can really do. no more sleeping on the job, no more watchful waiting. here's your line-up. stearns, mellen, cummins, cantrell, dobbins, keith, mistley, cater, meldrum, brown, foster. on the run now!" myron, startled, gazed incredulously at the coach across the room. the others were heaving toward the doors, and he jumped up and followed, overtaking the coach in the corridor at the foot of the short stairway. "i--you said--me, mr. driscoll?" stammered myron. "yes," answered the coach calmly. "you're in, foster." "oh!" he darted forward, stopped and sprang back again. "thank you, sir," he said gratefully. "all right, my boy." mr. driscoll smiled. "you know what to do!" know what to do? well, he rather thought he did, he told himself as he trotted across the little space of turf to the rope. his lips were very tight together and it wasn't until joe smote him resoundingly between the shoulders that he knew he had been spoken to. "good stuff, kiddo!" joe was repeating. "glad you're back. go to it and eat 'em up, brother!" the cheering was deafening. across the trampled field the kenwood players were already throwing aside their blankets. near at hand the warne silver cornet band was blaring loudly, although all he got of it was the insistent _thump, thump, thump!_ of the big drum. then they were clustered on the side-line for a last earnest word from jud mellen and a minute later, spread over the east end of the gridiron, they awaited the whistle. myron played through the first few minutes in a queer sort of daze. he got his signals, fell into place and went through the plays, but it was much as though some one else was doing it and he was only looking on. what brought him to, in a manner of speaking, was a fine clout on his head when, kenwood having taken the ball on downs by a few inches, the play piled through between joe and paul keith and myron found himself a part of the squirming heap two yards behind his line. the blow from some one's shoe cleared his brain very effectively and the some one who played and the some one who looked on became instantly merged. which, perhaps, was a lucky thing, since a minute later, after kenwood's quarter had fumbled and mistley had squirmed through on top of the ball, he was called on to punt. for an instant his nerves jangled badly while he awaited the ball with outstretched hands, but when he had it between his gripping fingers he forgot. a quick turn, a step forward, a swing of his long leg and a fine, full thud of leather against leather! off sailed the ball, well over the up-flung hands of the enemy, straight toward the corner of the field. he side-stepped a charging kenwood forward, went down under the kick and found his place again near the blue's twelve yards. back up the gridiron presently, kenwood kicking on the second down. then a fake and a run to the right by meldrum for a scant yard, a short gain past tackle on the left by brown, and finally another punt, not so long this time. and so it went, neither side gaining her distance, both reverting to punts in the end. time was taken out for cantrell, again for katie, again for a kenwood end, and the game was slowing up. two penalties were awarded, and the opponents shared them. it was near the end of the third quarter now. brounker took meldrum's place and kenwood changed her left guard. myron was dirty and bruised and panting, but so they all were. chas had a long cut down one cheek that made him look like a desperado, but he was grinning broadly every minute. jud mellen was everywhere, encouraging, pleading, scolding, his voice sounding like the rasp of a file. brounker got clean away and was forced out at his own forty-six yards after a twelve-yard gain. the brown flags waved and a great cheer crashed across the field. myron charged straight at the centre, found a hole awaiting him and sped through, joe's voice growling above the rasp of canvas and the laboured breaths of tired lungs. "_atta boy, kiddo! atta boy!_" back came the ball: mistley had been off-side. katie called stearns around and slammed the ball at him as he sped past, but kenwood had guessed the play and stearns made less than a yard. then myron had the ball overhead and was watching stearns running back, far over on the left. a long heave and a good one, but a kenwood half spoiled it and it was fourth down. myron punted. a whistle blew. the mouthful of water no more than dampened myron's dry throat. "once i saw a whole pond full of this stuff," panted chas as he took the dipper from myron. "shut up!" begged the other. "there ain't no such thing!" jud dragged chas aside and joe joined myron as they walked over to where the umpire awaited them above the ball. "how's it going?" asked joe. "some game, kiddo, believe me!" "can't we score, joe?" asked myron, scowling. "sure we can! we're going to! that centre of their line's just ready to cave, kiddo. it's all-in from tackle to tackle. the new guy they put in for lampley's a cinch. keep at 'em, brother! you're going fine!" and yet the last quarter was many minutes old before myron found any indication that joe's prophecy was to come true. then, very suddenly, brown romped through the blue's centre and fought for eleven yards before he was brought down. that was the first decisive gain through the kenwood line, and the parkinson adherents shouted frantically. but another attack at the same place was stopped for less than two yards, and a third netted nothing. a skin-tackle play, brounker carrying, gave the brown five yards more. faking a punt, myron sped to the left, cut in and got the distance. again came the parkinson cheers. "we've got them going, parkinson!" cried katie. "they can't stop us now! make this good, fellows! play hard!" "hard! hard!" croaked jud, smiting the crouching men. "into it! get into it, parkinson!" but there was a long road to travel and time was speeding, and although three times the brown made her distance by narrow margins, on the twenty-three yards, with the blue's goal beckoning, kenwood rallied and held through three downs. then, while the shouting stands became silent, paul keith fell back and judged the distance to the cross-bar. kenwood swayed and gasped, her quarter shrilly calling on his men to "_block this kick! block it! block it!_" back sped the ball, was dropped-a groan arose from the brown stand. far to the right of the goal travelled the ball. the blue-stockinged warriors danced and shouted in glee. keith's head dropped despondently as he turned back up the field. "seven minutes to play," called the field judge. then they were battling again. perhaps that lost score had its effect, for kenwood was soon in parkinson territory. as far as the thirty yards she went before she was stopped. her punt went over the line and the ball came out to the twenty-five. two attacks at the kenwood centre brought the distance. kenwood had new material in her line now. brown tried an end and got three. but he was hurt and vance took his place. vance was stopped for a slight loss when he tried left tackle. myron gained four through left guard and brounker followed with three more. the tape left the ball in parkinson's possession. another forward, myron to stearns, failed. the ball was in mid-field now and there were but three minutes left. the stands were already emptying slowly. coach driscoll began sending in substitutes, fellows who had worked hard and deserved their letters. joe was gone, cummins, cater, even keith, who alone might score a field-goal should fortune give the opportunity. warren had taken cater's place. warren was fresh and eager and undismayed. his signals came snappily, and he pushed the wearied veterans hard. "make it go!" he chanted. "make it go! don't give up the ball! there's time enough left to score. here's where we get away from them. come on, parkinson! show your grit!" brounker and vance gained. the kenwood line was weakening fast now, but myron feared that it was too late. vance again, past left tackle on a criss-cross. then myron, sliding off left guard for the needed distance. well past the fifty-yard line now, and still going, but with seconds remaining instead of minutes and the time-keeper's eyes glued to the dial of his watch. if only they could get past those kenwood backs, thought myron! the blue line was pasteboard now, but the backs still fought hard and held firm. somewhere near the enemy's thirty yards warren called a sequence and myron's heart leaped. if they played quickly, smoothly, they _must_ get through! brounker tried left of centre and piled through, but was nailed by kenwood's backs. four yards! then, without signals, the team snapped into the next play. a quick shift to the right, brounker sprang away to the left, the ball sped back straight from centre and myron caught it. kenwood sensed danger now and shifted back to meet it, but myron was already charging past the left of the line, the interference working like a charm. he was through before he realised it and only a surprised quarter-back stood between him and the goal! ahead and at his right sped vance, tuckered but still game. behind him weary feet pounded. in his ears was a mighty noise that he knew for the wild, imploring shrieks of friend and foe. through it came the dull _thump, thump!_ of the bass drum. twenty yards more now, and the quarter, white-faced and desperate, running toward him with clutching fingers. then vance was down, run out, and myron was alone. fifteen yards and the kenwood quarter-back poising for his tackle! myron gave a little toward the side-line, slackened his pace and then, with a final demand on his strength, sprang forward again at renewed speed. the quarter-back leaped. myron felt his arms at his hips as he spun on his heel. one arm fell away, but a hand closed inside his leg above the knee and a great weight pulled at him. one plunge, a second, and the last line was swimming in his sight. then, as if by a miracle, the clutching hand was gone, and, freed of the dragging burden, myron stumbled, fell to his knees, recovered and went on, straight across the last white line to victory! [illustration: _straight across the last white line to victory_] * * * * * parkinson did not add a goal to her touchdown. she did not even try, for the crowd that overspread the field refused to be dispersed, and, since the last second of play had ticked itself off just before myron had reached the line, no one insisted very hard. parkinson was satisfied with that lone 6; and if kenwood was not, why, that was of small moment! blue banners waved, the band led, the victors followed, caps floated across the goal bars, the big drum said _thump! thump! thump!_ and pandemonium reigned supreme over parkinson field. * * * * * some four hours later, andrew merriman, crossing the campus on his way to sohmer, almost collided with a small and visibly excited youth who, panting an apology, added: "they've elected the new captain! i got it from a waiter!" "have they, son? well, who is he?" "bet you couldn't guess! i've told three fellows already and not one of them guessed right!" "then there's no use in my trying," replied andrew amiably. "suppose you tell me." "it's--_cummins_!" "_no!_" "yes, it is! what do you think of that? why, no one expected _he'd_ get it!" "no one," chuckled andrew as the youngster disappeared into the gloom. "anyway, no one but cummins!" the bunny brown series by laura lee hope author of the popular "bobbsey twins" books wrapper and text illustrations drawn by florence england nosworthy =12mo. bound in cloth. illustrated. uniform style of binding.= this new series by the author of the "bobbsey twins" books will be eagerly welcomed by the little folks from about five to ten years of age. their eyes will fairly dance with delight at the lively doings of inquisitive little bunny brown and his cunning, trustful sister sue. bunny brown and his sister sue bunny was a lively little boy, very inquisitive. when he did anything, sue followed his leadership. they had many adventures, some comical in the extreme. bunny brown and his sister sue on grandpa's farm how the youngsters journeyed to the farm in an auto, and what good times followed, is realistically told. bunny brown and his sister sue playing circus first the children gave a little affair, but when they obtained an old army tent the show was truly grand. bunny brown and his sister sue at camp rest-a-while the family go into camp on the edge of a beautiful lake, and bunny and his sister have more good times and some adventures. bunny brown and his sister sue at aunt lu's city home the city proved a wonderful place to the little folks. they took in all the sights and helped a colored girl who had run away from home. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the bobbsey twins books for little men and women by laura lee hope author of "the bunny brown" series, etc. =12mo. bound in cloth. illustrated. uniform style of binding.= copyright publications which cannot be obtained elsewhere. books that charm the hearts of the little ones, and of which they never tire. many of the adventures are comical in the extreme, and all the accidents that ordinarily happen to youthful personages happened to these many-sided little mortals. their haps and mishaps make decidedly entertaining reading. the bobbsey twins the bobbsey twins in the country the bobbsey twins at the seashore the bobbsey twins at school telling how they go home from the seashore; went to school and were promoted, and of their many trials and tribulations. the bobbsey twins at snow lodge telling of the winter holidays, and of the many fine times and adventures the twins had at a winter lodge in the big woods. the bobbsey twins on a houseboat mr. bobbsey obtains a houseboat, and the whole family go off on a tour. the bobbsey twins at meadow brook the young folks visit the farm again and have plenty of good times and several adventures. the bobbsey twins at home the twins get into all sorts of trouble--and out again--also bring aid to a poor family. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * transcriber's note: --punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were corrected without comment. --archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. [illustration: victory] <b>left tackle thayer</b> by ralph henry barbour author of left-end edwards, left guard gilbert, etc. illustrated by charles m. relyea 1915 contents chapter page i a new boy and an old one . . 3 ii captain innes receives . . . 18 iii amy airs his views . . . 31 iv clint cuts practice . . . 42 v on the second . . . . 53 vi the runaway wheel . . . . 65 vii lost! . . . . . . 77 viii the mysterious auto . . . 89 ix under suspicion . . . . 104 x buried treasure . . . . 118 xi brimfield meets defeat . . . 129 xii penny loses his temper . . . 148 xiii amy wins a cup . . . . 163 xiv the team takes revenge . . . 180 xv a broken fiddle . . . . 196 xvi amy takes a hand . . . . 210 xvii a stranger interrupts . . . 223 xviii a raid on the second . . . 233 xix mr. detweiler instructs. . . 244 xx 'varsity vs. second team . . 259 xxi the letter that wasn't written . 270 xxii dreer looks on . . . . 288 xxiii clint has stage-fright . . . 297 xxiv in the enemy's country . . . 313 xxv victory! . . . . . 327 illustrations victory . . . . . _frontispiece_ now and then they spoke, but so softly that the boys could not hear what was said . . . . . . . 90 "funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled clint . . . . . 170 "no, he won't!" exclaimed clint, jumping to his feet . . . . . . 292 left tackle thayer chapter i a new boy and an old one a boy in a blue serge suit sat on the second tier of seats of an otherwise empty grand-stand and, with his straw hat pulled well over his eyes, watched the progress of a horse-drawn mower about a field. the horse was a big, well-fed chestnut, and as he walked slowly along he bobbed his head rhythmically. in the seat of the mower perched a thin little man in a pair of blue overalls and a shirt which had also been blue at one time, but which was now faded almost white. a broad-brimmed straw hat of the sort affected by farmers, protected his head from the noonday sun. between the overalls and the rusty brogans on his feet several inches of bare ankle intervened, and, as he paraded slowly around the field, almost the only sign of life he showed was when he occasionally stooped to brush a mosquito from these exposed portions of his anatomy. the horse, too, wore brogans, big round leather shoes which strapped over his hoofs and protected the turf, and, having never before seen a horse in leather boots, the boy on the grand-stand had been for a while mildly interested. but the novelty had palled some time ago, and now, leaning forward with his sun-browned hands clasped loosely between his knees, he continued to watch the mower merely because it was the only object in sight that was not motionless, if one excepts the white clouds moving slowly across a blue september sky. now and then the clouds seemed to shadow the good-looking, tanned face of the youth, producing a troubled, sombre expression. the truth is that master clinton boyd thayer was lonesome and, although he would have denied it vigorously, a little bit homesick. (at sixteen one may be homesick even though one scoffs at the notion.) clinton had left his home at cedar run, virginia, the evening before, had changed into a sleeper at washington just before midnight, and reached new york very early this morning. from there, although he had until five in the afternoon to reach brimfield academy, he had departed after a breakfast eaten in the terminal and had arrived at brimfield at a little before nine. an hour had sufficed him to register and unpack his bag and trunk in the room assigned to him in torrence hall. since that time--and it was now almost twelve o'clock--he had wandered about the school. he had peeped into the other dormitories and the recitation building, had explored the gymnasium from basement to trophy room and, finally, had loitered across the athletic field to the grand-stand, where, for the better part of an hour, he had been sitting in the sun, getting lonelier every minute. clint--everyone had always called him clint and we might as well fall in line--had never been farther north than baltimore; and today he felt himself not only a long way from home but in a country somehow strangely and uncomfortably alien. the few persons he had encountered had been quite civil to him, to be sure; and the sunlight was the same sunlight that shone down on cedar run, but for all of that it seemed as if no one much cared where he was or what happened to him, and the air felt differently and the country looked different, and--and, well, he rather wished himself back in virginia! he had never been enthusiastic about going north to school. it had been his mother's idea. mr. thayer was willing that clint should prepare for college in his native state, but clint's mother had other ideas. mr. thayer had graduated from princeton and it had long been settled that clint was to be educated there too; and clint's mother insisted that since he was to attend a northern college it would be better for him to go to a northern preparatory school. clint himself had not felt strongly enough about it to object. several of his chums had gone or were going to virginia military college; and clint would have liked to go there too, although the military feature didn't especially appeal to him. brimfield academy, at brimfield, new york, had finally been selected, principally because a cousin of clint's on his father's side had once attended the school. the fact that the cousin in question had never amounted to much and was now clerking in a shoe store in norfolk was not held against the school. so far the boy had liked what he had seen of brimfield well enough. the thirty-mile journey from new york on the train had been through an attractive country, with now and then a fleeting glimpse of water to add variety to the landscape; and the woods and fields around the academy were pretty. from where he sat at the east end of the athletic field he could look along the backs of the buildings, which ran in a row straight along the edge of a plateau. nearest at hand was the gymnasium. then came wendell and torrence, the latter having the honour of being clint's abode for the ensuing nine months. next was main hall, containing recitation rooms, the assembly room, the library and the office; an older building and built all of brick whereas the other structures were uniformly of stone as to first story and brick above. beyond main hall were hensey and billings, both dormitories, and, at the western end of the row and slightly out of line, the cottage, where dwelt the principal, mr. fernald, of whom clint knew little and, it must be confessed, cared, at the present moment, still less. in front of the buildings the ground fell away to the country road over which clint had that morning travelled behind a somnolent grey horse and a voluble driver, to the last of which combination he owed most of his information regarding the academy. behind the buildings--in school parlance, the row--lay the athletic field, almost twelve acres in extent, bordered on the further side by a rising slope of forest. here there were football grid-irons--three of them, as the six goals indicated--quarter-mile running-track, a baseball diamond and a dozen tennis courts. the diamond was most in evidence, for the grand-stand stood behind the plate and the base paths, bare of turf, formed a square in front of it. even the foul lines had not been utterly obliterated by sun and rain, but were dimly discernible, where the mower had passed, as yellower streaks against the vivid green. it was a splendid field; clint had to acknowledge that; and for a time the thought of playing football on it had almost dispersed his gloom. but the after-reflection that for all he knew his services might not be required on the eleven, that very possibly his brand of football was not good enough for brimfield, had caused a relapse into depression. thrice he had told himself that as soon as the plodding horse reached the further turn he would get up and go back to his room, and thrice he had failed to keep his promise. he wondered who his room-mate was to be and whether that youth had yet arrived, but his curiosity was not strong enough to get him up. now, however, the mower was again traversing the opposite end of the field, and again approaching the further corner, and once more he made the agreement with himself, really meaning to live up to it. but, as events proved, he was not destined to keep faith. from around the corner of the stand furthest from the row appeared a boy in a suit of light grey flannels. the coat, hanging open, displayed a soft shirt of no uncertain shade of heliotrope. a bow-tie of lemon-yellow with purple dots nestled under his chin and between the cuffs of his trousers and the rubber-soled tan shoes a four-inch expanse of heliotrope silk stockings showed. a straw hat with a particularly narrow brim was adorned with a ribbon of alternating bars of maroon and grey. he was indeed a cheerful and colourful youth, his cheerfulness being further evidenced by the jaunty swinging of a stick which he had apparently cut from a willow and by the gay whistling of a tune. on sight of clint, however, the stick stopped swinging and the whistling came to an end in the middle of a note. "hi!" said the youth in surprised tones. "hello," answered clint politely. the newcomer paused and viewed the boy on the stand with frank curiosity. then his gaze wandered across to the mower, which was at the instant making the turn at the further corner, over by the tennis courts. finally, "bossing the job?" he asked, nodding toward the mower. clint smiled and shook his head. "no, just--just loafing." "hot, isn't it?" the other pushed the gaily-ribboned hat to the back of his head and drew a pale lavender handkerchief across his forehead. "been moseying around over there in the woods," he continued when clint had murmured agreement. "studying nature in her manifold moods. nature is some warm today. there's a sort of a breeze here, though, isn't there?" clint agreed again, more doubtfully, and the boy who had been studying nature seated himself sidewise on a seat below, drawing his feet up and clasping his hands about his knees. he was a good-looking, merry-faced chap of seventeen, with dark-brown eyes, a short nose liberally freckled under the tan and a rather prominent chin with a deep dimple in it. his position revealed a full ten inches of the startling hose; and, since they were almost under his nose, clint gazed at them fascinatedly. "some socks, are they not?" inquired the youth. clint, already a little embarrassed by the other's friendliness, removed his gaze hurriedly. "they're very--nice," he murmured. the other elevated one ankle and viewed it approvingly. "saw them in a window in new york yesterday and fell for them at once. i've got another pair that are sort of pinky-grey, ashes of roses, i guess. watch for them. they'll gladden your heart. you're new, aren't you?" "yes, i got here this morning," replied clint. "i suppose you're--you're not." "no, this is my third year. i'm in the fifth form. what's yours?" "i don't know yet. i reckon they'll put me in the fourth." "i see. how's everything below the line?" "below the line?" repeated clint. "yes, mason and dixon's. you're from the south, aren't you?" "oh! yes, i come from virginia; cedar run." the other chuckled. "what state did you say?" he asked. "virginia," responded clint innocently. "great! 'vay-gin-ya.'" he shook his head. "no, i can't get it." it dawned on clint that the other was trying to mimic his pronunciation of the word, and he felt resentful until a look at the boy's face showed that he intended no impertinence. "i love to hear a southerner talk," he went on. "there was a chap here named broland year before last; came from alabama, i think. he was fine! red-hot he was, too. you could always get a fall out of bud broland by mentioning grant or sherman. he used to fly right off the handle and wave the stars-and-bars fit to kill! we used to tell him that the war was over, but he wouldn't believe it." clint smiled doubtfully. "is he here now?" he asked. "broland? no, he only stayed a little while. couldn't get used to our ways. found school life too--too confining. he used to take trips, and faculty didn't approve." "trips?" asked clint. the other nodded. "yes, he used to put a clean collar in his pocket and run down to new york for week-ends. faculty was sort of narrow-minded and regretfully packed him off home to alabam'. bud was a good sort, but--well, he needed a larger scope for his talents than school afforded. i guess the right place for bud would have been a good big ranch out west somewhere. he needed lots of room!" clint smiled. "what time do we eat?" he asked presently, when they had silently watched the passage of the mower. the other boy tugged at a fob which dangled at his belt and produced a silver watch. "let's see." he frowned intently a moment. "i was twelve minutes fast yesterday afternoon. that would make me about twenty minutes ahead now. i'd say the absolutely correct time was somewhere between eleven-fifty-eight and twelve-six. and dinner's at half-past." "thank you," laughed clint. he pulled forth his own watch and looked at it. "i make it two minutes after," he said, "and i was right this morning by the clock in the station in new york." "two minutes past, eh?" the boy below set his timepiece and slipped it back under his belt. "it must be great to have a watch like yours. i used to have one but i left it at the rink last winter and it fell into the snow, i guess, and i never did find it. then i bought me this. it's guaranteed for a year." "why don't you take it back, then?" "oh, i've got sort of used to it now. after all, there's a certain excitement about having a watch like this. you never know whether you're going to be late or early. if i have to catch a train i always allow thirty minutes leeway. it's twelve o'clock, all right. solomon's quit." he nodded toward where the man in the blue overalls was unhitching the horse from the mower. "you can't fool solomon on the dinner hour." "is that his name?" inquired clint. "i don't suppose so. that's what he's called, though. he never says anything and so he seems to be all-fired wise. there's a lot in that, do you know? bet you if i didn't talk so much i'd get the reputation of being real brainy. guess i'll have to try it." he grinned broadly and clint smiled back in sympathy. "let's tell our names," said the other. "mine's byrd; first name, amory; nicknamed amy. pretty bad, but it might be worse." "mine's clinton thayer." "thayer? we've got some cousins of that name. they're northerners, though. live in new hampshire. no relation to you, i guess. i suppose fellows call you clint, don't they?" "yes." "all right, clint, let's mosey back and have some dinner. i had a remarkably early repast this morning and feel as though i could trifle with some real food." "so do i," replied clint as he climbed down. "i had my breakfast at half-past six." "great scott! what for?" "the train got in at six and there was nothing else to do. i got here before nine." "you did? i thought i was one of the early byrds--joke! get it?--but i didn't sight the dear old school until after ten. couldn't find any fellows i knew and so went for a walk. most of the fellows don't get here until afternoon. by the way, who do you room with?" "i don't know," replied clint. "i didn't ask. they put me--" "i don't know either," sighed amy. "i found a lot of truck in my room, but i haven't seen the owner yet. the fellow who was in with me last year has left school. gone to live in china. wish i could! i suppose the fellow i draw will be a regular mutt." they had reached the corner of wendell, and amy paused. "the dining room's in here. if you don't mind waiting until i run up and wash a bit we'll eat together." "i'd like to," answered clint, "but i reckon i'll wash too." he moved along with the other toward the next dormitory. "aren't you in wendell?" asked amy. "no, this next one. torrey, isn't it?" "torrence." amy stopped and viewed him with sudden interest. "say, what number?" "fourteen." "_well, what do you know about that_?" "what?" clint faltered. "why--why--" amy seized his hand and shook it vigorously. "clint, i want to congratulate you! i do, indeed!" clint smiled. "thanks, byrd, but what about?" "byrd?" murmured the other disappointedly. "is that the best you can do after our long acquaintance? you--you grieve me!" "amory, then," laughed clint. "call me amy," begged the other. "you'll call me worse than that when you've known me longer, but for now let it be amy." "all right. and now, please, what am i being congratulated for?" amy's face became suddenly earnest and sober, "because, my young friend, you are especially fortunate. a kindly providence has placed you in the care of one of the wisest, most respected, er--finest examples of young manhood this institution affords. i certainly do congratulate you!" amy made another grab at clint's hand, but the latter foiled him. "you mean the fellow i'm going to room with?" he asked. "exactly! faculty has indeed been good to you, clint. you will take up your abode with a youth in whom all the virtues and--and excellencies--" "who is he?" demanded clint suspiciously. "his name"--amy drew close and dropped his voice to an awed and thrilling whisper--"his name is--are you prepared?" "go on. ill try to stand it." "his name, then, is amory munson byrd!" "amory mun--" "--son byrd!" "you mean--i'm in with you?" "i mean just that, o fortunate youth! forward, sir! allow me to conduct you to your apartment!" and, putting his arm through clint's, he dragged that astonished youth into dormitory. chapter ii captain innes receives "what's that awful noise?" asked clint startledly, looking up from his book. it was the evening of the second day of school and clint and amy byrd were preparing lessons at opposite sides of the green-topped table in number 14 torrence. "that," replied amy, leaning back until his chair protested and viewing his room-mate under the shade of the drop-light, "is music." "music!" clint listened incredulously. from the next room, by way of opened windows and transoms, came the most lugubrious wails he thought he had ever listened to. "it--it's a fiddle, isn't it?" he demanded. amy nodded. "more respectfully, a violin. more correctly a viol-_din._ (the joke is not new.) what you are listening to with such evident delight are the sweet strains of penny durkin's violin." amy looked at the alarm clock which decorated a corner of his chiffonier. "penny is twelve minutes ahead of time. he's not supposed to play during study-hour, you see, and unless i'm much mistaken he will be so informed before the night is much--" "_hey, penny! cut it out, old top_!" from somewhere down the corridor the anguished wail floated, followed an instant later by sounds counterfeiting the howling of an unhappy dog. threats and pleas mingled. "penny! for the love of mike!" "set your watch back, penny!" "shut up, you idiot! study's not over!" "call an officer, please!" but pennington durkin was making too much noise on his instrument to hear the remonstrances at first, and it was not until some impatient neighbour sallied forth and pounded frantically at the portal of number 13 that the wailing ceased. then, "what is it?" asked durkin mildly. "it's only ten minutes to nine, penny. your clock's fast again. shut up or we'll kill you!" "oh!" said penny surprisedly. "are you sure? i set my watch--" "oh, forget it! you say that every night," was the wearied response. "how the dickens do you think anyone's going to study with that noise going on?" "i'm very sorry, really," responded penny, "if i'd known--" "you never do know, penny!" the youth outside strode back to his room and slammed the door and quiet prevailed once more. amy smiled. "poor penny," he said. "he suffers much in the cause of art. i refuse to study any more. close up shop, clint, and let's talk. now that you've been with us a whole day, what do you think of us? do you approve of this institution of learning, old man?" "i think i'm going to like it," replied clint soberly. "i do hope so," murmured amy anxiously. "still, any little changes you'd like made--" "well, you asked me, didn't you?" laughed clint. "besides, how can i help but like it when i am honoured by being roomed with you?" "sarcasm!" hissed amy. "time's up!" he slammed his book shut, tossed it on a pile at his elbow, yawned and jumped from his chair. "let's go visiting. what do you say? come along and i'll interdoodle you to some of our prominent criminals. find your cap and follow me." "i wish," said amy, as they clattered down the stairs in the wake of several other boys who had lingered no longer than they after nine o'clock had struck, "i wish you had made the fifth form, clint." "so do i," was the reply. "i could have if they'd stretched a point." "um; yes," mused the other. "stretched a point. now that's something i never could make out, clint." "what!" "why, how you can stretch a point. the dictionary describes a point as 'that which has position but no magnitude.' seems to me it must be very difficult to get hold of a thing with no magnitude, and, of course, you'd have to get hold of it to stretch it, wouldn't you? now, if you said stretch a line or stretch a circle--" "that's what you'll need if you don't shut up," laughed clint. "a circle?" "no, a stretcher!" "what a horrible pun," mourned amy. "say, suppose we drop in on jack innes?" "suppose we do," replied clint cheerfully. "who is he?" "football captain, you ignoramus. maybe if you don't act fresh and he takes a liking to you he will resign and let you be captain." "won't it look--well, sort of funny?" asked clint doubtfully as they passed along the bow. "what? you being captain?" "no, our going--i mean _my_ going to see him, won't he think i'm trying to--to swipe?" "poppycock! jack's a particular friend of mine. you don't have to tell him you want a place on the team, do you? besides, there'll likely be half a dozen others there. here we are; one flight." they turned in the first entrance of hensey and climbed the stairs. innes's room, like clint's, faced the stair-well, being also number 14, and from behind the closed door came a babel of voices. "full house tonight," observed amy, knocking thunderously. but the knocking wasn't heard inside and, after a moment, amy turned the knob and walked in, followed by clint. nearly a dozen boys were crowded in the room and each of the two small beds sagged dangerously under the weight it held. "we knocked," said amy, "but you hoodlums are making so much noise that--" "hi, amy! how's the boy?" called a youth whose position facing the door allowed him to discover the newcomers. heads turned and other greetings followed. it was evident to clint that his room-mate was a popular chap, for everyone seemed thoroughly glad to see him. "come here, amy," called a big fellow who was sprawled in a morris chair. amy good-naturedly obeyed the summons and the big fellow pulled up a leg of the other boy's trousers. "they're grey, fellows," he announced sorrowfully. "someone's gone and died, and amy's in mourning!" "grey!" exclaimed another. "never. amy, tell me it isn't true!" "shut up! i want to interdoodle my most bosom friend, mr. clinton thayer, of vay-gin-yah, sah! clint, take off your hat." the merriment ceased and the occupants of the room got to their feet as best they might and those within reach shook hands. "that large lump over there," indicated amy, "is innes. he's one of your hosts. the other one is mr. still; in the corner of the bed; the intelligent-looking youth. the others don't matter." "glad to know you, thayer," said jack innes in a deep, jovial voice. "hope you can find a place to sit down. i guess that bed near you will hold one more without giving way." clint somewhat embarrassedly crowded on to a corner of the bed and amy perched himself on an arm of the morris chair. a smallish, clever-looking fellow across the room said: "you're a punk introducer, amy. thayer, my name's marvin, and this chap is hall and the next one is edwards, and still you know, and then comes ruddie, and black--" "red and black," interpolated amy. "and next to innes is landers--" "oh, forget it, marvin," advised still. "thayer won't remember. names don't matter, anyway." "some names," retorted marvin, "have little significance, yours amongst them. i did the best i could for you, thayer. remember that. what's the good word, amy?" "i have no news to relate," was the grave response, "save that jordan obtruded his shining cranium as we came in and requested me to inform you fellows that unless there was less noise up here--" jeers greeted that fiction. "i love your phrases, amy," said marvin. "'shining cranium' is great" "oh, amy is one fine little phraser," said innes. "remember his theme last year, fellows? how did it go, amy? let me see. oh! 'the westerning sun sank slowly into the purple void of twilight, a burnished copper disk beyond the earth's horizon!'" "i never!" cried amy indignantly. "he loves to call a football an 'illusive spheroid,'" chuckled another chap. "so it is," asserted amy vehemently. "i know, because i tried to play with one once!" "i'll bet a great little football player was lost when you forsook the gridiron for the--the field of scholarly endeavour," said tom hall. "he's caught it, too!" groaned the youth beside him, steve edwards. "guess i'll take him home." "you're not talking that way yet, are you, thayer?" asked jack innes solicitously. "i don't think so," replied clint with a smile. "you will sooner or later, though. the fellow who roomed with amy last year got so he couldn't make himself understood in this country and had to go to japan." "china," corrected amy, "china, the land of the chink and the chop-stick." "there he goes!" moaned still. "what i haven't heard explained yet," said steve edwards, "is what's happened to amy's glad socks. why the sobriety, amy?" "wouldst hear the sweet, sad story?" "wouldst." "then give me your kind attention and i willst a tale unfold. you see, it's like this. clint there can tell you that just the other day i was a thing of beauty. my slender ankles were sheer and silken delights. but--and here's the weepy place, fellows--when i disrobed i discovered that the warmth of the weather had affected the dye in those gladsome garments and my little footies were like unto the edible purple beet of commerce. and i paid eighty-five cents a pair for those socks, too. i--i'm having them washed." when the laughter had ceased, ruddie, who seemed a serious-minded youth, began a story of an uncle of his who had contracted blood-poisoning from the dye in his stockings. what ultimately happened to the uncle clint never discovered, for the others very rudely broke in on ruddie's reminiscences and the conversation became general and varied. the boy next to clint, whose name he learned later was freer, politely inquired as to how clint liked brimfield and whether he played football. to the latter question clint confided that he did, although probably not well enough to stand much of a chance here. "oh, you can't tell," replied freer encouragingly. "come out for practice tomorrow and see. we're got a coach here that can do wonders with beginners." "of course i mean to try," said clint. "i reckon you wear togs, don't you, when you report?" "yes, come dressed to play. you'll get a workout for a week or so, anyway. three-thirty is the time. you won't feel lonesome. we've got more fellows here this year than we ever had and i guess there'll be a gang of new candidates. got a lot of last year's 'varsity players left, too, and we ought to be able to turn out a pretty fair team." "where does captain innes play?" clint asked "centre, and he's a peach. marvin, over there, is first-string quarter this year. edwards will be one of our ends and hall will have right guard cinched, i think." "and where do you play?" clint inquired. "half, when i play," laughed the other. "i'm going to make a good fight for it this year. how'd you know i did play, though?" "i--just thought so," said clint. "you sort of look it, you know." that seemed to please freer. "well, i've been at it three years," he said, "and this is my last chance." "i hope you make it." "thanks. same to you! well, i must get along." the gathering was breaking up. most of the fellows were careful to bid clint good night as they went and several told him to get amy to bring him around to see them. captain innes crowded his way through the confusion of visitors and furniture and sought clint where he stood aside in the corner. "i believe you play football, thayer?" he said inquiringly. "yes, some." "well, you're modest, anyway," the big centre laughed. "don't overdo it, though; it doesn't pay. what's your position?" "i played tackle at home." "well, you come out tomorrow and show your goods, thayer. we need all the talent we can get. hope to see you do splendidly. good night. awfully glad to have met you. good night, amy. hope those socks will come out all right." "they'll never be the same," replied amy sadly. "their pristine splendour--" "get out of here, amy! you remind me unpleasantly of tomorrow's english and the fact that i haven't looked at it yet!" and freer, who was a rather husky youth, pushed amy into the corridor without ceremony. on the way back to torrence clint asked curiously: "how do you suppose innes knew i played, amy?" "oh, he's a discerning brute," responded the other carelessly. "but he said he _believed_ i did. that sounds as if someone had told him. did you?" "well," replied the other hesitantly, "now that you mention it, summon it, as it were, to my attention, or, should i say, force it on my notice; or, perhaps, arouse my slumbering memory--" "meaning you did?" "i might have." "when?" "'s afternoon. we met by chance. casually i mentioned the fact that you were probably one of the niftiest little linemen that ever broke through the--er--stubborn defence of a desperate enemy--" "you idiot!" "and that, if properly encouraged, you would very likely be willing to lend your helpful assistance to the dear old team. and he said: 'bless you, amy, for them glad tidings. all is not lost, with clint thayer to help us, victory may once more perch upon our pennant!' or maybe it was 'banner.'" "honest, amy," pleaded clint, "what did you say?" "only that you were rooming with me and that i'd heard you say you, played and that i meant to bring you around to see him this evening." "and he said?" "he said 'of course, bring him along.'" "oh," murmured clint "just the remark i was about to make," declared amy. chapter iii amy airs his views clint settled down into his appointed niche at brimfield, one of one hundred and seventy-two individuals of various ages between twelve and twenty. at brimfield there were six forms, and clint had, after a brief examination, been assigned to the fourth. he found that he was well up with the class in everything save greek and latin, and these, greek especially, soon proved hard sledding. the instructor, mr. simkins--or "uncle sim," as he was called--was no easy taskmaster. he entertained a profound reverence for aristotle and vergil and cicero and homer and all the others, and failed to understand why his classes thought them tiresome and, sometimes, dry. his very enthusiasm, however, made him easy to impose on, and many a fellow received good marks merely because he simulated a fervid interest. but clint was either too honest or possessed too little histrionic talent to attempt that plan, and by the time the fall term was a week old, he, together with many another, was just barely keeping his head above water. he confessed discouragement to his room-mate one evening. amy was sympathetic but scarcely helpful. "it's tommyrot, that's what it is," amy said with conviction. "what good does it do you to know greek, anyway? i'll bet you anything that uncle sim himself couldn't go to athens tomorrow and order a cup of coffee and a hard-boiled egg! or, if he did order them, he'd get a morning newspaper and toothpick. last spring i was in the boot-blacking emporium in the village one afternoon and horace came in to get his shoes shined. there--" "who is horace!" asked clint dejectedly. "mr. daley; modern languages; you have him in french. well, there was a notice stuck on the wall across the place. it was in greek and i couldn't make anything out of it at all and i asked horace what it said. of course he just read it right off, with a mere passing glance; did he not? yes, he did not! he hemmed and hawed and muttered and finally said he couldn't make out the second word. i told him that was my trouble, too. then we asked the greek that runs the place and he told us it said that shines on sundays and holidays were ten cents. of course, horace isn't a specialist in greek, but still he's been through college, and what i say is--" "i don't believe the men who wrote the stuff really understood it," said clint. "oh, they understood a little of it, all right. they could sign their names, probably. the only consolation i find is this, clint. a couple of hundred years from now, when everyone is talking esperanto or some other universal language, the kids will have to study english. can't you see them grinding over the orations of william jennings bryan and wondering why the dickens anyone ever wanted to talk such a silly language? that's when we get our revenge, clint. we won't be around to see it, but it'll be there." clint had to smile at the picture amy drew, but he didn't find as much consolation as amy pretended to, and xenophon didn't come any easier. he was heartily glad when the study-hour came to an end and he could conscientiously close his books. the termination of that hour was almost invariably announced by the dismal squawking of penny durkin's fiddle. sometimes it was to be heard in the afternoon, but not always, for penny was a very busy youth. he was something of a "shark" at lessons, was a leading light in the debating circle and conducted a second-hand business in all sorts of things from a broken tooth-mug to a brass bed. penny bought and sold and traded and, so rumour declared, made enough to nearly pay his tuition each year. if you wanted a rug or a table or a chair or a picture or a broken-down bicycle or a pair of football pants you went to penny, and it was a dollar to a dime that penny either had in his possession, or could take you to someone else who had, the very thing you were looking for. if you paid cash you got it reasonably cheap--or you did if you knew enough to bargain craftily--and if you wanted credit penny charged you a whole lot more and waited on you promptly for the instalment at the first of each month. and besides these activities penny was a devoted student of music. he was an odd-looking fellow, tall and thin, with a lean face from which a pair of pale and near-sighted eyes peered forth from behind rubber-rimmed spectacles. his hair was almost black and was always in need of trimming, and his garments--he seldom wore trousers, coat and vest that matched--always seemed about to fall off him. clint's first glimpse of penny came one afternoon. the door of number 13 was open as clint returned to his room after football practice and lugubrious sounds issued forth. it was very near the supper hour and penny's room was lighted only by the rays of the sinking sun. against the window clint saw him in silhouette, his hair wildly ruffled, his violin under his chin, his bow scraping slowly back and forth as he leaned near-sightedly over the sheet of music spread on the rack before him. the strains that issued from the instrument were awful, but there was something fine in the player's absorption and obvious content, and what had started out as a laugh of amusement changed to a sympathetic smile as clint tiptoed on to his own door. the sorrow of penny's young life was that, although he had made innumerable attempts, he could not succeed in the formation of a school orchestra. there was a glee club and a musical society, the latter composed of performers on the mandolin, banjo and guitar, but no one would take any interest in penny's project. or no one save a fellow named pillsbury. pillsbury played the bass viol, and once a week or so he and penny got together and spent an entranced hour. time was when such meetings took place in penny's room or in pillsbury's room, but popular indignation put an end to that. nowadays they took their instruments to the gymnasium and held their chamber concerts in the trophy room. amy one day drew clint's attention to a fortunate circumstance. this was that, while there was a connecting door between number 14 and number 15, there was none between number 14 and number 13. that fact, amy declared, rendered their room fairly habitable when penny was pouring out his soul. "it's lucky in another way," he added, staring darkly at the buff-coloured wall that separated them from number 13. "if that door was on this side i'd have broken it open long ago and done murder!" clint laughed and inquired: "who rooms on the other side?" "schuman and dreer." the contemptuous tone of his reply caused clint to ask: "anything wrong with them?" "oh, schuman's all right, i guess, but dreer's a pill." there was a wealth of contempt in the word "pill" as amy pronounced it, and clint asked innocently what a "pill" was. "a pill," replied amy, "is--is--well, there are all sorts of pills. a fellow who toadies to the instructors is a pill. a fellow who is too lazy to play football or baseball or tennis or anything else and pretends the doctor won't let him is a pill. a fellow who has been to one school and got fired and then goes to another and is always shooting off his mouth about how much better the first school is is the worst kind of pill. and that's the kind harmon dreer is. he went to claflin for a year and a half and then got into some sort of mess and was expelled. then the next fall he came here. this is his second year here and he's still gabbing about how much higher class claflin is and how much better they do everything there and--oh, all that sort of rot. i told him once that if the fellows at claflin were so much classier than we are i could understand why they didn't let him stay there. he didn't like it. he doesn't narrate his sweet, sad story to me any more. if he ever does i'm likely to forget that i'm a perfect gentleman." but clint's neighbours were not of overpowering interest to him those days. there were more absorbing matters, pleasant and unpleasant, to fill his mind. for one thing, he was trying very hard to make a place on one of the football teams. he hadn't any hope of working into the first team. perhaps when he started he may, in spite of his expressed doubts, have secretly entertained some such hope, but by the end of the second day of practice he had abandoned it. the brand of football taught by coach robey and played by the 'varsity team was ahead of any clint had seen outside a college gridiron and was a revelation to him. even by the end of the first week the first team was in what seemed to clint end-of-season form, although in that clint was vastly mistaken, and his own efforts appeared to him pretty weak and amateurish. but he held on hard, did his best and hoped to at least retain a place on the third squad until the final cut came. and it might just be, he told himself in optimistic moments, that he'd make the second! meanwhile he was enjoying it. it's remarkable what a lot of extremely hard work a boy will go through if he likes football, and what a deal of pleasure he will get out of it! amy pretended to be totally unable to get that point of view. one afternoon when clint returned to prepare for supper with a lower lip twice the normal size of that feature amy indulged in sarcasm. "oh, the proud day!" he declaimed, striking an attitude. "wounded on the field of battle! glory! triumph! pã¦ans! my word, old top, but i certainly am proud to be the chum of such a hero! i'm so sot-up i could scream for joy. football's a wonderful pastime, isn't it?" "silly chump!" mumbled clint painfully. "yes, indeed, a wonderful pastime," ruminated amy, seating himself on the window-seat and hugging one knee. "all a fellow has to do is to go out and work like a dray-horse and a pile-driver and street-roller for a couple of hours every afternoon, get kicked in the shins and biffed in the eye and rolled in the dirt and ragged by one coach, one captain and one quarter-back. that's all he has to do except learn a lot of signals so he can recognise them in the fraction of a second, be able to recite the rules frontward and backward and both ways from the middle and live on indigestible things like beef and rice and prunes. for that he gets called a 'mutt' and a 'dub' and a 'disgrace to the school' and, unless he's lucky enough to break a leg and get out of it before the big game, he has twenty-fours hours of heart-disease and sixty minutes of glory. and his picture in the paper. he knows it's his picture because there's a statement underneath that bill jones is the third criminal from the left in the back row. and it isn't the photographer's fault if the good-looking half-back in the second row moved his head just as the camera went _snap_ and all that shows of bill jones is a torn and lacerated left ear!" "for the love of mike, amy, shut up!" pleaded clint. "you talk so much you don't say anything! besides, you told me once you used to play yourself when you first came here." "so i did," agreed amy calmly. "but i saw the error of my ways and quit. in me you see a brand snatched from the burning. why, gosh, if i'd kept on i'd be a popular hero now! first formers would copy my socks and neckties and say 'good morning, _mister_ byrd,' and the _review_ would refer to me as 'that sterling player, full-back byrd.' and harvard and yale and princeton scouts would be camping on my trail and offering me valuable presents and taking me to lunch at clubs. oh, i had a narrow escape, i can tell you! when i think how narrow i shudder." he proved it by having a sort of convulsion on the window-seat. "clint, when it's all said and done, a fellow's a perfect, a-plus fool to play football when he can enlist in the german army and die in a trench!" "i got away for twenty yards this afternoon and made a touchdown," proclaimed clint from between swollen lips, trying to keep the pride from his voice. amy threw up his hands in despair. "i'll say no more," he declared. "you're past help, clint. you've tasted blood. go on, you poor mistaken hero, and maim yourself for life. i wash my hands of you." "you'd better wash them of some of that dirt i see and come to supper," clint mumbled. "gee, if i'd talked half as much as you have in the last ten minutes i'd be starved!" chapter iv clint cuts practice brimfield played the first game on her schedule a few days later, winning without difficulty from miter hill school in ten-minute periods by a score of 17 to 0. there was much ragged football on each side; but brimfield showed herself far more advanced than her opponent and had, besides, the advantage of a heavier team. clint looked on from the bench, with some forty others, and grew more hopeless than ever of making good this year. his present status was that of substitute tackle on the third squad, and it didn't look as though he'd get beyond that point. if he had expected his introduction to jack innes to help his advancement he must have been disappointed, for the captain, while he invariably spoke when he saw him, and once inquired in the locker-room how clint was getting along, paid little attention to him. so far as clint could see, nobody cared whether he reported for practice or not. toward the end of an afternoon, when the third was fortunate enough to get into a few minutes of scrimmage with the second, clint usually finished up at right or left tackle. but he couldn't help thinking that were he not there his absence would go unremarked. even on the to him memorable occasion when he broke through the second's line on a fumble and, seizing the ball, romped almost unchallenged over the last four white lines for a touchdown the incident went apparently unnoticed. one or two of his team-mates patted him approvingly on the back, but that was all. clint was beginning to have moments of discouragement. but two days after the miter hill game an incident occurred which proved him wrong in thinking that no one knew or cared whether he reported for practice. that morning's greek had gone unusually badly for clint and mr. simkins had kept him after class and talked some plain talk to him. when clint's final recitation of the day was over at three he was out-of-sorts and depressed. he felt very little like playing football and still less like studying, but mr. simkins had as much as told him that unless a decided improvement was at once apparent some direful fate would be his, and the instructor had a convincing way of talking and clint quite believed him. consequently, of two evils clint chose the more necessary and dedicated that afternoon to the iliad. the dormitory was very quiet, for it was a fine, mild day and most of the fellows were out-of-doors, and concentration should have been easy. but it wasn't. clint couldn't keep his mind on his book, try as he might. through the open window came sounds from the grid-irons and ball-field; shouts, the honking of manager black's horn, the cries of the coaches and players, the crack of bat and ball where the nine was holding fall practice; even, now and then, the voices of the tennis players far down the field. he tried closing the window, but that made the room hot and stuffy, and he opened it again. four o'clock sounded and he was still dawdling. then footsteps sounded on the stairs, the door of number 13 opened and shut, and a minute or two later the wailing of penny durkin's violin broke onto the silence of the deserted dormitory. that ought to have ended clint's chances of study, it seemed, but, oddly enough, after he had listened for five minutes or so, his eyes sought the page in front of him and then--well, then it was more than an hour later, the violin was silent and someone was knocking on his door! clint gazed with surprise on the pencilled notes adorning the margins of the pages, from them to the open lexicon, from that to the pencil in his hand. he had absolutely done five pages! and then the knock at the door was repeated and clint stammered "come in!" and tracey black entered. the football manager was a slimly-built, nervous-mannered chap of eighteen and wore glasses through which he now regarded clint accusingly. "what's wrong with you, thayer?" he demanded bruskly. "sick?" "sick" repeated clint vaguely. "no, thanks, i'm all right." "then why do you cut practice?" asked black severely. "don't you know--" it was then that black recalled clint's face and remembered having met him in innes's room a week before. "hello," he said in a milder tone. "i didn't recognise you. er--you see, thayer, when you fellows don't show up i have to find out what the reason is. maybe you didn't know it, but it's the customary thing to get permission to cut practice." "oh! no, i didn't know it, black," replied clint. "i'm sorry. i got in a mess with my greek and thought i'd better stay away and take a fall out of it. besides, i didn't think anyone would care if i didn't report." "didn't think anyone would care!" exclaimed black, seating himself on an arm of the morris chair and viewing clint with astonishment. "how the dickens do you suppose we can turn out a team if we don't care whether fellows report or not? suppose the others thought that, thayer, and stayed away!" "i meant that--that i'm not much use out there and it didn't seem to me that it mattered very much if i stayed away once. i'm sorry, though, if i've done wrong." "well, that's all right," returned black, mollified. "if you didn't know, that's different. only another time you'd better see mr. robey and get permission to cut. you see, thayer, at this time of year we need all the fellows we can get. maybe you think you're not very important out there, but that isn't the way of it at all. everyone counts. you are all--ah--you are all parts of the--ah--machine, if you see my drift, thayer, and if one part is missing, why--ah--well, you see what i mean?" "yes, of course. i'll remember the next time." "well, i wouldn't let there be any next time if i were you. to be frank, thayer, robey doesn't like fellows to cut. if you do it much he's awfully likely to tell you to--ah--stay away altogether!" "well, in my case--" began clint, with a smile. "now today," went on black, "robey wanted you for the second when tyler got hurt and you weren't there and we had to play a second squad half-back at tackle. robey didn't like it and jumped on me about it. and of course i had to tell him that i hadn't given any cuts. i'm not supposed to, anyway, but he seemed to think that maybe i had. if you don't mind, thayer, it wouldn't be a bad idea to tell him if he asks you that you were--ah--sick, you know." "do you mean," asked clint incredulously, "that he wanted me to play on the second this afternoon?" "yes, you see tyler got an awful bat on the head and he's out of the game for several days, i guess. it's none of my business, in a way, of course, but, if you don't mind me saying so, thayer, it's a poor idea to let chances get by. if you'd been there today you might have had a slice of luck and found yourself on the second for keeps. a fellow's got to be on the _qui vive_ all the time and not miss any chances, old chap." "i reckon that's so," agreed clint regretfully. "you don't think he will want me for the second tomorrow, black?" "oh, maybe. you be there, anyhow. and if he asks you you'd better fake sickness, i think." "i dare say he won't remember by tomorrow," said clint. "but if he does--" "don't bank on that," replied black, shaking his head. "robey has a fierce memory. you'll find that out for yourself if you stay around awhile longer." "if i do," murmured clint. "well, i think you will unless you get robey down on you by too many cuts." "really?" clint asked eagerly. "sure. you see most fellows want to be backs or ends; about eight out of ten want to be half-backs and the ninth wants to be either full-back or end. the tenth fellow is willing to play in the line." "oh," said clint. "and how about quarters?" "you have to almost beg 'em to try for quarter-back. i don't know why, but almost every fellow is leery of that position. usually a coach makes a quarter out of a fellow who thinks he's a born half or end. well, i must beat it. see you tomorrow, then?" "yes, indeed, i'll be there!" replied clint earnestly. "thanks for coming around." "oh, that's all right. all in the way of duty, you know. so long!" clint thoughtfully placed a marker in his book and closed it. "that's a good afternoon's work," he reflected, "but if it's lost me a place on the second--" he shook his head ruefully. then he smiled. "gee," he murmured, "i don't know whether i'm more scared of mr. simkins or mr. robey!" the next day he made such a satisfactory showing in greek that mr. simkins took him back into his good graces. "ha, thayer," he said, "you lead me to suspect that you spent a little time on your lesson last evening. i am not doing you an injustice, thayer?" "no, sir, i put in two hours on it." "marvellous! is there any other member of the class who wasted so much of his time in such manner? raise your hands, please. one--two--three--burgess, you hesitate, do you not? ah, i thought so! you were merely going to scratch your head. wise youth, burgess. scratch hard. set up a circulation if possible. hm. that will do, thayer. burgess, if it is not asking too much--" unfortunately--or perhaps fortunately--clint's showing on this occasion was accepted by mr. simkins as a standard to which future performances were required to conform. "what has been done once may be done again, thayer," he would inform him. and clint, not being able to deny the logic of this statement, was forced to toil harder than ever. but there came a time, though it was not yet, when he found that his difficulties were lessening, that an hour accomplished what it had taken two to accomplish before; and that, in short, greek, while not a study to enthuse over, had lost most of its terrors. but all that, as i say, came later, and for many weeks yet "uncle sim" pursued clint in his dreams and the days when he had a greek recitation were dreaded ones. the afternoon following that on which he had absented himself from practice saw clint approaching the field at three-thirty with misgivings. he feared that coach robey would remember his defection against him and at the same time he knew that he would feel flattered if the coach did! the question was soon settled, for clint had no more than reached the bench when mr. robey's eyes fell on him. "thayer!" "yes, sir!" clint hurried toward him. "where were you yesterday?" "in my room, sir. i had--" "sick?" "no, sir, i wanted to--" "anyone tell you you might cut practice?" "no, sir, i didn't know--" "never mind what you knew or didn't know. you know now that if you stay away again without permission you'll get dropped. that's all." clint returned to the bench contentedly. after all he was, it seemed, not such an unimportant unit as he had supposed! later he discovered that tyler was not present and hoped so hard that he would fall heir to that disabled player's position on the second squad that he fell under the disfavour of the third squad quarter-back and was twice called down for missing signals. and then, when, finally, the first and second lined up for a twenty-minute scrimmage, he saw the coveted place again filled by the substitute half-back and found himself sitting, blanket-wrapped, on the bench! tracey black, catching his eye between periods, smiled sympathetically. tracey could have told him that coach robey was punishing him for yesterday's misdemeanour, but he didn't, and the explanation didn't occur to clint. and the latter followed the rest back to the gymnasium after practice was over, feeling very dejected, and was such poor company all evening that amy left him in disgust at nine and sought more cheerful scenes. chapter v on the second at the end of a fortnight clint had, so to speak, become a regular student of brimfield academy in good standing. that is, he had learned the manners and customs and the language, for brimfield, like every similar institution, had its own ways and its own speech. clint no longer said "hello!" or "how do you do?" on meeting an acquaintance. he said "hi!" and threw his head back with a little jerk. he bought a diminutive grey cap with a small visor and wore it so far on the back of his head that it was not discernible from the front. (if you belonged on one of the teams you wore your insignia in maroon above the visor, or, if you had won two "b's," you wore a maroon cap instead and the insignia was in grey. but clint hadn't come to that yet.) he offhandedly referred to the principal as "josh," to the instructors as "horace" or "uncle sim" or "jordy," as the case might be. he knew that a hall master was an "h.m."; that he and one hundred and seventy-one other youths were, in common parlance, "brims"; that a "silk sock" was a student of claflin school, brimfield's athletic rival; that wendell hall was "wen"; torrence, "t"; hensey, "hen" or "the coop," and billings, "bill." also that an easy course, such as bible history, was a "doze"; that to study was to "stuff"--one who made a specialty of it being, consequently, a "stuffer"; that a boy who prided himself on athletic prowess was a "greek"; that a recitation was a "recit"; that the recitation rooms were "cells," and many other important things. he subscribed to the school monthly, the _review_,--or, rather, he chipped in with amy, which produced the same result at half the cost,--contributed to the torrence hall football fund, became a member, though not yet a very active one, of the debating club and paid in his dues, and spent all his october and november allowance in advance, together with most of the money he had in hand, in the purchase of a suit of grey flannel at the local tailoring establishment. when completed--of course it couldn't be paid for at once--it was at least two sizes too large for him, such being the accepted fashion at brimfield just then; had the pockets set at rakish angles, exhibited a two-and-a-half-inch cuff at the bottom of the trousers and contained a cunning receptacle for a fountain pen and pencil in the waistcoat, (clint called it a vest, but the tailor set him right.) amy viewed that suit with frank envy, for the coat was fully two inches wider across the shoulders than his and the trouser cuffs were deeper. he tried it on before the glass and promptly offered to buy it of clint at an advance of two dollars, which offer was as promptly declined. "the trouble with my coat," said amy mournfully when all blandishments had failed and he was regretfully removing the garment, "is that it pretty near fits me. i told the man he was making it too snug!" by this time canterbury high school had been met and defeated, by the score of 15 to 6, and the football team had entered on its third week. clint still hung on, sometimes much discouraged, and took his share of hard knocks and gruelling labour. tyler having returned to his position on the second, clint told himself that his last chance to make that team had vanished. but, just when he had about given up hope of advancement, a fortuitous combination of briskness on the part of the weather and "ginger" on the part of clint produced unexpected results. the 'varsity team was composed largely of substitutes when scrimmage with the second began that afternoon, for the canterbury game three days before had left a number of the regulars rather played out. lacking a left tackle for saunders' place, coach robey took cupples from the second, and captain turner, of the latter team, filled the vacancy with bobbins, who, like clint, was a new candidate. clint viewed the proceeding gloomily. it seemed to him that he was more justly entitled to a place on the second's list of substitutes than bobbins. his judgment was speedily vindicated, for bobbins put up such a weak exhibition at left tackle that turner impatiently sent him off, and the scrimmage stopped while he looked doubtfully toward the bench. "i want a tackle," he announced. "who's there, danny?" danny moore, the trainer, ran a sharp eye along the blanketed line. "tackle!" he cried. "who's playing tackle?" both clint and another boy jumped forward, and as it happened danny's sharp green eye fell first on clint. "get in there, then, on the second, me boy!" morton, the assistant manager, who was keeping the record, called as clint trotted past him, "hi! what's the name?" "thayer," answered clint. "left tackle," instructed captain turner. "know the signals?" "yes," clint replied, jumping into place. kingston, a heavily-built, shock-headed youth whom clint knew well enough to nod to, played left guard. "hi!" he said as clint poised himself in the line. "use your arms and turn him in, boy!" "help your guard," instructed turner, at left end, "and watch for an inside run." it was the 'varsity's ball near the second's twenty-five-yard line, and carmine, who had taken marvin's place at quarter, sent still plunging at the left of the second's line on the first play. roberts, who played opposite clint, was a big, heavy chap, and when he threw himself forward clint, who had been playing too high, was hurled aside like a chip and still went through for three yards before the secondary defence brought him down. turner thumped clint on the back. "watch for that, left tackle! play lower! get the jump!" the next play struck the centre and piled through peters for the distance. an end run, with carmine carrying the ball, was spoiled by turner. then came another attack on the left. clint, playing a half-yard outside the opposing end, watched the ball snapped and sensed the play. "left!" he shouted. "left!" he heard kingston grunt as he plunged into his opponent. then he was holding roberts off as best he could, neck and hip, and kendall, the 'varsity right half, was cutting in. with a lunge, clint pivoted around roberts and tackled hard and firm as the half-back came through. he was dragged a foot or two before his secondary defence hurled itself against the runner, but the gain was less than a yard and turner thumped him ecstatically as he pulled himself out of the pile. "that's the ticket, feller! run him out and get him! third down, second! stop 'em now!" the second didn't stop them, but it made them resort to a fake-kick to get their distance on fourth down. from the fifteen yards kendall tried a field-goal and missed narrowly and the second put the ball in play on the twenty yards. the first play went through for two yards on the other side of the line. then came a criss-cross, with the runner plunging at right guard. clint started with the ball and had his man out instantly. the play followed through for three yards. again the quarter chose that point and again the second's left side made the opening. but, with three to go on fourth down, a punt was imperative and martin, the full-back, was called on. as martin was a right-foot punter clint had little to do save get through and down the field, and the instant the ball was snapped he dashed into his opponent, beating him by a fraction of a second and upsetting his balance beautifully. when the sound of boot and leather came clint was past the 'varsity's backfield and, with turner but a yard or two in advance, was sprinting fast. carmine was playing back in centre, with kendall across the field, and it was into carmine's territory that the ball was going. suddenly clint saw carmine start quickly up the field toward them and guessed that the kick was short. kendall was heading across to interfere for the catcher. "get the interference," cried turner. but it wasn't to happen that way, for edwards had circled around and, even as turner issued his command, edwards and kendall went over together in a heap and the ball settled into carmine's arms. turner leaped toward him, carmine swayed aside and turner went past. it was clint who hurled himself at the quarter, wrapped eager arms about his knees and toppled him to earth so savagely that the pigskin bounded out of his clutch. there was a scramble for the ball, but tyler, the second's right tackle, got it and reached the twenty-yard line before he was pulled down from behind. "that's the way to tackle, thayer!" clint, trotting down the field to the new line-up, turned to find coach robey beside him. "that was good work," commended the coach. "keep it up." the 'varsity made some changes then. kendall went out and was replaced by freer, still gave way to st. clair, and gafferty went in for hall at right guard. the fresh players saved the day for the 'varsity, for, although the second finally reached the twelve yards, it could go no further, and captain turner's try at a place-kick went a yard under the cross-bar. and that ended the practice for the day. in the locker-room turner sought clint out and said several nice things about his playing, ending with: "guess we'll have to have you on the second, thayer. you report to me tomorrow." that undoubtedly was the turning point in clint's football career for that year, for three days later the second cut came and the third squad ceased to be. some fifteen fellows retired to private life or to their hall teams and the rest were gathered into the second or went to the 'varsity to be tried out as substitutes. clint was pretty certain that, had it not been for that tuesday performance, he would have been one of the unfortunate fifteen. amy pretended to view clint's advancement to the second team with alarm. "first thing i know," he said gloomily, "i'll be rooming with a regular greek. you'll be having photographs taken to show your superb physical development, i dare say, and writing letters to the _bulletin_ signed 'athlete.' as a matter of fact, clint, i happened to see that performance this afternoon and you didn't fool me a bit. you tackled carmine because he was in the way and you ran into him and put your arms around him to keep from falling on your nose. it was no brilliancy of yours that made the poor chap fumble the ball. you hit him like a load of bricks! if i'd been carmine i'd have up and biffed you one! you were--were distinctly ungentlemanly, clint. you should remember that even in football there are limits. to deliberately try to kill an opponent, as you did today, is not considered good form. besides, carmine's a friend of mine. we come from the same metropolis. it would be a very painful thing if i had to write home to his folks that he had been killed on the field of battle by my room-mate. a most painful and embarrassing duty for me, clint." "it's going to be my painful and embarrassing duty to stuff a towel in your silly mouth in about two minutes," replied clint. "how did you happen to see practice? i thought you were going to play tennis with scannel." "he didn't show up. i suppose his courage failed him at the last moment." "yes, it must be trying to beat anyone the way he beats you. i don't blame him for shirking it." "when bob scannel beats me," replied amy serenely, "you'll be playing football on the varsity, old top, and i'll be getting a's in math., a far, far day!" "i suppose i'll be going to training table before long," said clint reflectively. amy groaned. "there you go! that's the sort of stuff i'll have to listen to from now on. i hope to goodness you choke on a prune! that's about all you'll get there; prunes and boiled rice. i'm not sure about the rice, either, at the second's table. i think the second simply has prunes. boiled prunes for breakfast, roast prunes for dinner and dried prunes for supper. i--i shall expect to notice a wonderful imprunement in you very soon, clint." "and that's the sort of stuff _i_ have to listen to!" exclaimed the other. "honest, amy, you make the bummest jokes!" "i think that was rather good, myself," said amy cheerfully. "i believe i'll send it to the _bulletin_. i've observed of late that the _bulletin_ has lacked humour." "did it ever have any?" asked clint, folding the letter he had been struggling over. "unconsciously, yes. last year someone contributed a sonnet called 'truth.' no one could see much sense in it until some smart chap discovered that the first letters of each line spelled 'the bulletin is punk.' now when you want anything printed in the _bulletin_ you have to send a sworn statement that there isn't an acrostic concealed in it. the editors went gunning for the fellow who sent in the sonnet, but they never found him." clint laughed. "they didn't try 14 torrence, then, did they?" he inquired. amy smiled noncommittingly. "your insinuation pains me," he murmured. "why don't you deny it, then?" "it is quite unnecessary. anyone knowing my blameless career--" "have you saved a copy of it?" "i believe there's one somewhere in my scrapbook," replied amy carelessly. "some time, if you are good, i'll look it up. meanwhile, if you're through with your ridiculous chatter, we'll go to supper." chapter vi the runaway wheel the following saturday brimfield went to thacher to play thacher school. as there was to be no practice for the second team, clint decided to see the game. rather to his surprise, amy readily agreed to accompany him. amy pretended a deep disdain for football and seldom attended practice or, for that matter, minor contests. it is probable that he consented to go to thacher less to watch the game than for the sake of clint's society, for by that time the two were fairly inseparable. the team started off about noon, but the "rooters", most of whom had eleven-thirty recitations, started an hour later, after a hurried dinner. thacher was only twenty-odd miles away, but the journey occupied more than an hour, since it was necessary to take train to wharton and change there to the trolley line. it was a mild day, sunny and cloudless, and travelling, especially on the electric car, was very pleasant. the fellows were full of spirits and a bit noisy, and played pranks on each other and had a thoroughly good time. the only untoward incident occurred when peters, the second team centre, fell off the running-board of the trolley car and rolled down a six-foot embankment. fortunately the accident occurred on a curve and the car was running slowly. still more fortunately, perhaps, peters was a rotund youth well padded with flesh and he sustained no injuries beyond a sprained thumb. by the time the car had been stopped and hurried back to the rescue peters was climbing a trifle indignantly up the bank. for the rest of the way he amused himself and others within hearing by estimating the amount of damages he could collect from the railway company. something like an hour later, however, when peters made the discovery that in his spectacular disembarkment he had emptied his pocket of all the money he had with him, a matter of ninety-four cents, he could no longer see the humorous aspect of the incident. for nearly two months he conducted a campaign of correspondence with the railway company seeking a refund of his money. peters' claim against the company became a standing joke. in the end he was defeated. his contention that the company owed him the amount of money lost from his pocket resulted, after many days, in a reply from the claims agent to the effect that since the money was undoubtedly just where he had lost it and could be found by search the company could not be held responsible. to this peters laboriously wrote that since the money had been abstracted from him while a passenger on the company's car it was up to the company to find it and return it to him. also that, if the loss wasn't made good, he would bring suit against the company for injuries sustained. after a lapse of a fortnight the agent countered with a statement that as peters had been riding on the running-board, contrary to the rules of the company, the company was in no way liable for his injury. peters replied that he had not ridden on the running-board from choice but that he had been unable to find accommodations on any other part of the car, and he wanted ninety-four cents, please. whereupon a brief epistle announced that the matter had been referred to the legal department and, upon advice, the road was regretfully obliged to refuse further consideration of the claim. that settled the matter, except that peters wrote once more and told the agent quite frankly what he, peters, thought of the railway, its officers, legal department, road-bed, rolling-stock and claims department; especially claims department! undoubtedly the company had grounds for libel after the receipt of that epistle, but it never made use of them. but we are far ahead of our story. the thacher game was not especially interesting. thacher faced brimfield with a light team, and, unable to gain consistently through the line, reverted to kicking. this gave the visiting backs some good practice in the handling of punts but gained the home team little advantage. brimfield rolled up twenty-six points in four ten-minute periods and was scored on but once when, in the third quarter, thacher managed a brilliant field-goal from the enemy's thirty-three yards. the contest was all over before four o'clock and brimfield made a wild rush from the grounds to the town in the endeavour to get the four-fifteen trolley for wharton. the team, which was provided with a coach, and about half the "rooters" succeeded, but the rest, clint and amy among them, arrived too late. as there was not another car until a quarter to five, they set out to kill time by viewing the town. thacher was not a very large place and, after wandering up one side of the main street and down the other, looking in all the windows, and leisurely partaking of college-ices at the principal drug store, there was still ten minutes left to be disposed of. at the moment of making the discovery they were a block from the square from which the trolley car trundled away to wharton, and they could have covered the distance in something like ten seconds from a standing start. in spite of this, however, they never got that car! gradually they had become separated from the other fellows, and now they were alone in their grandeur watching the efforts of a youth of about twenty to start an automobile which stood in front of thacher's principal hotel, the commercial house. they were not especially interested in the spectacle and really didn't much care whether the youth ever got going, but there wasn't much else to look at. every time the engine started and the youth made a wild dash at the throttle he reached it too late. before he could pull it down the chug-chugging died away. several minutes passed and clint viewed the clock in front of a jewelry store across the street apprehensively. it was seventeen minutes of five. he tugged amy's sleeve. "come on," he said. "we don't want to miss this one." "right-o," replied amy. "let's see, though, if he makes it this time." "say, one of you fellows pull that throttle down when i get her going, will you?" asked the automobilist. amy nodded and put his hand on the quadrant. "now then!" the engine started after several crankings and amy pulled a lever. unfortunately, however, he pulled the wrong one and the engine, as amy said, immediately choked to death. the youth observed him more in sorrow than in anger and drew a sleeve over his perspiring forehead. "awfully sorry," said amy. "i got the wrong handle. try it again." the clock showed four-forty-four and clint saw the car roll around the corner into the square. "come on," he begged. "we'll have to beat it, amy." amy nodded, but the youth was cranking again and he didn't want to desert his post. this time their combined efforts were crowned with success. the car awoke to a steady, frantic chugging. the youth mopped his forehead again. "want a ride?" he asked. "i'm going by the school." "not our school," said amy. "we're from brimfield." "well, i'll put you down in wharton before the trolley gets there. that's where i'm going. jump in." amy looked eagerly at clint. "want to?" he asked. "got to," replied clint gloomily. "there goes the car, you silly chump!" "all right," said amy. "we don't have to get there until five-twenty, anyway. come on, clint." they climbed into the back of the car and threw themselves luxuriously against the cushions. "home, james," commanded amy. the driver turned and grinned. he was a not-over-clean youth, and his hair was badly in need of a barber's attentions, but he was evidently good-natured. the car, which was an old one and had undoubtedly seen much better days, swung around and headed back toward thacher school and the football field. the youth talked to them over his shoulder. "she's hard to start," he said, "when she's been standing, but she can go all right. you wait till we're out of town and i'll show you. i got to go over to wharton to get mr. cumnock." "who's he?" asked amy disinterestedly. "he runs the commercial house. he comes out from new york on the express and i go over and get him." "oh, is this his car?" "no, it belongs to sterry, the liveryman. i drive for him. it's been a good car in its day, but it's pretty old now. runs pretty well, though, when it's in shape." "i hope," said clint, "it's in shape today." "sure. i was two hours fixing it this morning. now i'll show you if she can go." he did and she could! they passed the school and the football field at a thirty-mile clip and, a little further out of town, hit it up still faster. clint and amy bumped around in the tonneau like two dried peas in a pod. the engine was by no means noiseless and from somewhere under their feet there came a protesting grind that nearly drowned their efforts at conversation. not that that mattered, though, for they were going too fast to talk, anyway. at first they were a bit uneasy, but presently when they found that the car did not jump into a ditch or vault a fence, they got over their nervousness and thoroughly enjoyed the well-nigh breathless sensation. the driver lolled back on his spine with a nonchalance that aroused clint's admiration and envy. he wondered whether he would ever own a car and be able to go dashing through the scenery at forty miles an hour like this. and he was still wondering when something happened. it happened so quickly that it was all over before it had begun. at least, so amy declared afterwards. the car, which fortunately had decreased its speed to negotiate an abrupt turn in the road, suddenly shot down a slope at the left, turned around once and stopped with a disconcerting abruptness, its radiator against a four-inch birch tree. clint and amy picked themselves from the bottom of the tonneau and stared, more surprised than frightened. behind them, on the level road, a wheel--present investigation showed that it was the forward left one--was proceeding firmly, independently on its way! as they looked, open-mouthed, it began to wobble, as though doubtful of the propriety of going off on its own hook like that, and finally, after turning around several times, like a dog making its bed, it subsided in the dust. the driver of the car, still clutching the steering-wheel, turned a mildly surprised gaze on the boys. "now, what," he asked slowly, "do you think of that?" they both thought it decidedly strange, but they didn't say so. clint laughed uncertainly and took a long breath and amy viewed his surroundings interestedly. "when," asked amy, "does the next car go, please?" that flippant remark broke the tension and the driver climbed gingerly out and viewed the bare hub. "it's lucky," he ruminated, "i had you fellows in back there. if you hadn't been there i guess she'd have turned turtle on me. well, say, i've known this old boiler to do a heap of tricks, but this is a new one on me, all right!" he stood off and sought inspiration by scratching his head. the boys joined him on the ground. "just naturally slid off the hub and rolled away!" murmured the youth. "what do you think of that?" "i'd hate to tell you what i think of it," responded amy. "can you put it on again?" "yes, but it won't stay, because the nut's gone." he went off and rescued the wheel. "i guess the nut and the hub-cap came off down the road somewhere. might look for 'em, but like as not they're a mile or two back." "what will you do then?" asked clint. "foot it to wharton, i guess. maybe i can find a telephone this side somewhere." he reflected. "i guess there's one at maxwell's stock farm about three miles from here. i'll get bumstead in wharton to send out and tow me in." "that's all right for you," said amy, "but what are we supposed to do?" "guess you'll either have to foot it or wait till someone comes along. sorry, but i didn't know that wheel was thinking of leaving." "do you reckon there'll be someone along?" asked clint. "sure to be sooner or later." "we'll get 'sooner or later' if we're not back at school in time for supper," murmured amy. "guess we'd better hike along, clint. how far is wharton from here?" "about five miles, by road," said the youth. "maybe less if you cross over there and hit the trolley line. say, if you get over there you might catch a car. what time is it?" "just five-three," answered clint. "oh, well, then there won't be one along for most a half-hour. that'll be your shortest way, though." "we'll never get back before six," said clint. "more likely eight," replied amy. "well, it can't be helped. we might as well make the best of it. what are you going to do?" the driver of the automobile looked up the road and down. "i might go back and look for that nut," he muttered, "or i might go on to maxwell's, or i might stay here and wait for someone to come along. guess i'll wait a while." "well, we've got to beat it," said amy. "sorry about your car. is there anything we can do if we ever reach wharton?" the youth shook his head philosophically. "no, i'll get word to bumstead before you get there, i guess. much obliged. i'm sorry i got you into such a fix, fellows. i meant well." he grinned broadly. "that's all right," clint replied. "it wasn't your fault. good-bye. straight across that field there, you say? how far is it to the trolley?" "about half a mile, i guess. you'll see the poles pretty quick. good-bye, fellows. hope you get home all right. so long." chapter vii lost! it was all well enough for the automobile driver to tell them go straight across the field, but it was quite another thing to do it, for there was a broad and deep stream in the middle of it and no sign of a bridge anywhere in sight. there was nothing to do but follow the stream in the general direction of wharton until they could reach the trolley line. that brook wound in a most exasperating manner, finally heading back toward where they supposed the dirt road to be. amy stopped and viewed it disgustedly. "i'm going to wade it," he declared. but clint persuaded him against that plan, pointing out that he would be extremely uncomfortable riding on the trolley car with his clothes soaking wet. amy grumblingly agreed to give the stream another chance to behave itself. by that time they had been walking fully fifteen minutes and the scene of the accident was lost to sight and as yet there was no trace of the trolley line. clint looked at his watch. "i reckon," he said, "we wouldn't get that car even if we were on the other side now. the best thing for us to do is hit the road again and beat it for wharton on foot." amy agreed and they turned their backs on the stubborn brook and set off across a meadow which presently gave place to a hill-side field overgrown with bushes and weeds and prickly vines which clung to their trousers and snarled around their feet. clint said they were wild raspberry and blackberry vines and amy replied that he didn't care what sort of vines they were; they were a blooming nuisance. to avoid them, they struck westward again toward a stone wall, climbed it and found themselves in a patch of woods. they kept along the stone wall, dodging in and out through the trees, and ascending a hill. presently it dawned on clint that the stone wall, like the brook, was having fun with them. for, instead of running straight, as one would expect any decent stone wall to run, it was bending all the time to the west. clint knew it was the west because the sun was disappearing there; perhaps _had_ disappeared by now. he acquainted amy with the discovery and they crawled across the wall again and found themselves in a worse tangle of briers than before. but they were desperate now. it was well after five and the shadows were getting long and black. they were both secretly rather glad to be out of the woods, although progress through the briers was far from enjoyable. finally amy, pausing to wrest himself from the frantic clutches of a blackberry vine, raised his head and viewed clint solemnly. "clint," he announced, "i've got something to tell you." "fire away." "we're lost." "i knew that ten minutes ago," was the reply. "then why didn't you tell a fellow? when i'm lost i like to know it. it's the--the uncertainty that worries me. now that i know i shall never see school and josh again i feel better." amy looked about him appraisingly. "have you noticed any berries or nuts, clint? i suppose we'll have to live on them for a few days." "you're the only nut i've seen so far," laughed clint. "come on and let's get out of here. if i've got to be lost i'd rather be lost where there aren't so many stickers." "yes," agreed amy, "i suppose we must do the usual thing. we must walk until we drop. then we cover ourselves with leaves, pillow our heads on a rock and sleep the sleep of exhaustion." "what was that?" asked clint. "what was what? don't tell me you heard a bear!" "i guess it was the trolley car. only it seemed to come from over that way, and that fellow said the trolley line was over there." "i don't believe that fellow very well," responded amy pessimistically. "he said he'd get us to wharton, and he didn't. he said his old car would go, and it didn't. he said we could cross that field, and it didn't--i mean we couldn't. anyway, i propose we find the road again and sit down and wait until someone comes along and gives us a lift." "that's all very well, but which way _is_ the road?" amy considered. "search me," he said finally. "let's play it's over there, though. after all, it doesn't matter which way you walk when you're lost. you always walk in circles. we'll be back here in a while, clint. why not make believe we've walked and are back again?" "don't be an idiot," said clint. "come on. it'll be dark first thing we know and then we _will_ be in a fix!" "and i'm getting most awfully hungry," murmured amy. "i shall search for berries as we toil weariedly onward." when they at last left the pasture behind them they found themselves in another wood. clint leaned hopelessly against a tree and shook his head. "this has ceased to be a joke, amy. we're just about lost as anything." "right-o!" then he added cheerfully: "but we didn't walk in a circle, clint. that's something. and that road must be somewhere around here. when you think of it it's mighty funny. there we were with a perfectly good road on one side of us and a trolley line on the other. we haven't crossed either of them. now where the dickens are they?" "the way i figure it," replied clint thoughtfully, "is that the trolley was a lot farther off than he said it was and that the road turned to the left again after we got off it. one thing is certain, and that is that if we haven't crossed it it must be in front of us somewhere, and the only thing to do is keep on going." "until we drop," agreed amy. "i shall begin and look for a nice comfortable place to drop. say, we won't get a thing but hard looks when we get back--if ever we do." "we'll be lucky if we get off with hard looks, i reckon," said clint gloomily. they went on through the woods. they were tired now and it was quite dark under the trees and they made slow progress. once clint tripped over a fallen branch and measured his length and once amy ran head-on into a sapling and declared irately, as he rubbed his nose, that he would come back the next day with an axe and settle matters. at last, after a silence of many minutes: "we're doing it, i'll bet you anything," said amy. "doing what?" asked clint from the twilight. "walking in a circle. we must be. we've been in this place for twenty minutes, at least, and we haven't found a way out yet. which way is it you go when you walk in a circle? to the left, isn't it?" "right, i think," answered clint doubtfully. "no, i'm pretty sure it's the left. tell you what we'll do, we'll take shorter steps with our right legs, clint" they tried it, but nothing resulted. it was pitch-black now and, since the sun was gone, getting chillier every minute. clint wished he had put on a vest, or, rather, waistcoat. he was about ready to give up when a patch of grey showed ahead and they made toward it to find themselves at the edge of the wood on a little hill. below them spread uncertainly a bare field. overhead a few stars shone. if the road was near it was too dark to see it. they sat down on the ground to rest. for several minutes neither spoke. then clint heard a chuckle from amy. "glad you find it so funny," he grumbled resentfully. "i was just thinking of something," gurgled amy. "this is saturday, you know, and we always have cold lamb for supper on saturdays. i hate cold lamb." "i don't see where the joke comes in," grumbled clint. "why, i don't have to eat the lamb, do i? isn't that funny?" "no, it isn't. i could eat cold--cold--cold dog! come on. we might as well walk as sit here and freeze to death." "i've read," said amy, "that freezing was a pleasant death, but it doesn't seem so. maybe, though, it's painful just at first." he arose with a groan and followed clint down the slope. there were more briers, and now and then they stumbled over outcropping rocks. the field seemed interminable, but after awhile clint bumped into a wall. they climbed over it and started on again. "if there was only a moon," said clint, "it would help some. you can't see a blessed thing." "if there was a moon it wouldn't get through the clouds. it feels to me as if it might rain." "you certainly have cheerful thoughts," clint grumbled. "i wonder if it would do any good if we yelled." "we might try it. suppose we give the brimfield cheer, clint." "oh, shut up! you make me tired, amy. come on, now. yell as loud as you can. all ready?" "hold on i what am i to yell?" "yell 'help!' you idiot!" "oh, all right." they raised their voices together in a loud appealing shout. then they listened. not a sound answered them. "once more," said clint. again they shouted and again they listened. deep silence, broken only by the chirping of crickets. "no good, i guess," said clint despondently. "nobody home," murmured amy. "now what? i'll tell you frankly, as man to man, that i can't go on walking all night, clint. i'm dog-tired and my left leg's got a cramp in it and i'm weak with hunger. let's find a cosy corner somewhere and go to sleep." "i reckon we'll have to. i'm about all in, too. we'd better find a place where there's more shelter than there is here, though. gee, but we are certainly a fine pair of idiots!" "we are indeed!" assented amy with enthusiasm. "i suppose that the time will come, perhaps twenty or thirty years from now, when we'll be able to look back on this night's jolly adventures and appreciate all the fun we're having, but just now--" amy's voice trailed off into silence. "jolly adventures!" grunted clint. "don't talk rot!" five minutes later they stopped. that is, clint stopped and amy ran into him with a grunt. "i suppose you haven't got a match, have you?" asked clint. "right-o! you're a fine little supposer," chattered amy. "there's something here and i want to see what it is," said clint. as he spoke he moved forward a step or two and felt around in the darkness. "it feels like a fence," he muttered, "a board fence. no, it isn't, it's a house! here's a window." "a hole, i'd call it," said amy. "let's find the door." they moved to the right, following the building, and promptly collided with a tree. they had to go around that, since there was no room to squeeze past it. then the hut, for it was evidently no more, presented a doorway, with a door half-open on broken hinges. they hesitated a moment. "wonder what's inside," said clint in a low voice. "spooks," suggested amy, none too bravely. "shut up! would you go in?" "sure, i would. come on." very cautiously they edged past the crazy door, their hands stretched warily ahead. there was a sudden scurrying sound from the darkness and they jumped back and held their breaths. "p-probably a rat," whispered amy. "or a squirrel," said clint. they listened. all was silent again. a damp and musty odour pervaded the place. under their feet the floor boards had rotted and as they made a cautious circuit of the interior they trod as often on soil as on wood. the hut was apparently empty of everything save a section of rusted stovepipe, dangling from a hole in the roof, some damp rags and paper in a corner and a broken box. clint discovered the box by falling over it with a noise that sent amy a foot off the ground. when all was said the advantages presented by the hut were few. it did protect them from the little chill breeze that stirred and it put a roof over their heads, although, as clint said, if it rained before morning they'd probably find the roof of little account. on the other hand, it was damper than the outdoors and the mustiness was far from fragrant. they decided, however, to take up their quarters there until morning. looking for the road was evidently quite useless, and, anyway, they were much too tired to tramp any longer. they found a place away from door and window where some of the floor-boards still survived and sank down with their backs to the wall. amy heaved a great sigh of relief. "gee," he muttered, "this is fine!" "pull the blanket up," murmured clint with a pathetic effort at humour. amy chuckled weakly. "i can't reach it," he said. "guess it's on the floor. anyway, the night air is very beneficial." "could you eat anything if you had it, amy?" "shut up, for the love of mike! i could eat a kitchen range. clint, did i cast any aspersions awhile ago on cold lamb?" "uh-huh," said the other faintly. "i was afraid so. i wish i hadn't now. a great, big platter of cold lamb would--would--oh, say, i could love it to death! gee, but i'm tired! and sleepy, too. aren't you?" clint's response was a long, contented snore. amy grunted. "i see you're not," he murmured. "well--" he pushed himself a little closer to clint for warmth and closed his eyes. many times they stirred and muttered and reached for bedclothes that were not there, but i doubt if either of them once really fully awoke until a sudden glare of light illumined the hut and flashed on their closed eyelids. [illustration: now and then they spoke, but so softly that the boys could not hear what was said] chapter viii the mysterious auto they awoke then, alarmed and confused, and stared with sleepy eyes at the white radiance which, entering door and window, showed with startling detail the bare walls of their refuge. even as they looked the light vanished and, by contrast, the darkness seemed blacker than ever. "awake, amy?" whispered clint. "yes. say, what the dickens was that?" "i don't know. listen!" from somewhere not far away came the steady purring of a motor car. their minds didn't work very quickly yet, and it was fully a minute before clint exclaimed: "an auto! then we must be near the road!" he scrambled to his feet and crept, unsteadily because of chilled limbs, to the doorway. amy followed. at first there was nothing to be seen. the night was still cloudy. but the sound of the running motor reached them distinctly, and, after a minute of strained peering into the darkness, they made out a line of trees against the sky. apparently there was a road between them and the trees and the automobile was in the road. but no lights showed from it. "do you suppose," whispered amy, "it's that fellow looking for us?" "no, but maybe, whoever it is, he will give us--" clint's whisper stopped abruptly. a light flashed a few yards away, such an illumination as might be from a pocket electric lamp, and a voice broke the stillness. clint grasped amy's arm, warning to silence. footsteps crossed the ground toward the hut. again the light flashed, but this time its rays were directed toward the ground and showed two pairs of legs and something that looked like a stout stick. then it went out again and the footsteps stopped. the two men, whoever they were and whatever they were doing, remained some twenty feet from the watchers at the door. now and then they spoke, but so softly that the boys could not hear what was said. neither could they determine what the other sound was that reached them. it seemed almost as though the men were scuffing about the ground, and the absurd notion that they had lost something and were seeking it occurred to both. but to look for anything in the dark when there was a light at hand was too silly, and that explanation was discarded. for fully ten minutes--it seemed much longer to the shivering pair in the doorway--the motor chugged and the men continued their mysterious occupation. amy's teeth were chattering so that clint squeezed his arm again. then the light again flashed, swept the ground for an instant and was as suddenly shut off, and the footsteps retreated. the boys eased their cramped positions. a minute passed. then they leaped aside from the doorway, for the flood of white light from the car was again illumining the hut and the engine was humming loudly. a moment of suspense, and the light swept past them, moved to the right, fell on a line of bushes and trees, turned back a little and bored a long hole in the darkness at the bottom of which stretched a roadway. and then, with a final sputter of racing engine and a grind of gears, the car sprang away up the road, the light dimmed and blackness fell again. the chugging of the auto diminished and died in the distance. amy arose stiffly from where he had thrown himself out of the light. "now, what the dickens?" he demanded puzzledly. "i can't imagine," replied clint. "and i don't much care. what gets me is why we didn't speak to them!" "that's so," agreed amy. "somehow, there was something sort of sneaky about them, though, wasn't there? bet you anything they were robbers or--or something." "robbers don't usually travel around the country at night in autos," said clint thoughtfully. "but i felt the way you did about them, i guess. i sort of felt that it would be just as well if we didn't butt in! one of them had a club that looked right hefty." "let's go out there and see if we can find anything," suggested amy. "all right, but i don't suppose we can even find the place in the dark." they went out very cautiously and tramped about where it seemed that the mysterious visitors had been, and amy even got down on hands and knees and felt over the ground. but nothing of moment rewarded their search, the only thing either of them discovered being a head-high bush into which clint walked. at last: "well, this isn't much fun," said amy. "and i'm cold clear through. now we know where the road is, clint, let's get on it and walk. at least it will warm us up." "all right. i wish i knew what those fellows were up to, though. maybe if we waited until daylight--" "and froze to death! nothing doing," chattered amy. "curiosity killed a cat, and although i don't feel exactly kittenish, i refuse to take any chances. what time do you suppose it is?" "about midnight, i guess." clint drew out his watch, but he couldn't even discern the outline of it. "a fellow's a fool to go without matches," he muttered disgustedly. "bet you it's a whole lot later than that," said amy. "anyway, let's get going. which direction do you think wharton is?" they debated that for some time after they had reached the road, and in the end they decided that the town lay to their left, although, as clint pointed out, the men in the automobile had gone in the opposite direction. "they might be going to thacher," said amy. "anyhow, we're bound to get somewhere in time. all i ask of fortune is a bed and a breakfast; and i could do without the bed, i guess. somewhere in the world, clint there are two cups of hot coffee waiting for us. is that not a cheering thought?" "i wish i had mine now," replied the other shiveringly. "i dare say we're headed in the wrong direction for wharton." "say not so," exclaimed amy, whose spirits were rapidly returning. "courage, faint heart! onward to coffee!" for awhile they speculated on the mysterious mission of the two men in the automobile, but neither of them could offer a satisfactory solution of the problem, and finally they fell silent. fortunately the road ran fairly straight and they got off it only once. after they had been walking what seemed to them to be about an hour, although there was no way of knowing, clint called attention to the fact that he could see the road. amy replied that he couldn't, but in a moment decided that he could. to the left of them there was a perceptible greying of the sky. after that morning came fast. in a few minutes they could make out dimly the forms of trees beside the way, then more distant objects became visible and, as by a miracle, the sleeping world suddenly lay before them, black and grey in the growing light. somewhere a bird twittered and was answered. a chilling breeze crept across a field, heralding the dawn and bringing shivers to the boys. soon after that they came across the first sign of life, a farm with a creaking windmill busily at work, and a light showing wanly in an upper window of the house. "some poor fellow is getting out of a nice, warm bed," soliloquised amy. "how i pity him! can't you see him shaking his fist at the alarm-clock and shivering as he gets into his panties?" "he's lucky to have a nice, warm bed," responded clint. "if i had one it would take more than an alarm-clock to get me out of it!" "me too! say, what do you think about sneaking over there to the stable and hitting the hay for a couple of hours? maybe the chap might give us some coffee, too." "more likely he'd set the dog on us at this time of morning," answered clint. and, to lend weight to his objection, a challenging bark came across the field. "right-o," agreed amy. "i didn't want any coffee, anyway. isn't that a sign-post ahead?" it was a sign-post, looming black and forbidding, like a wayside gibbet, where a second road turned to the left. "wharton, 2 m--levidge's mills, 4 m--custer, 6 m," they read with difficulty. "we can do two miles in half an hour easily," said amy. "gee, i can almost smell that coffee, clint!" they went on in the growing light, passing another farm-house presently and another unfriendly dog. the greyness in the east became tinged with rose. birds sang and fluttered. a rabbit hopped nimbly across the road ahead of them and disappeared, with a taunting flick of his little white tail, in the bushes. further on a chipmunk chattered at them from the top of the wall and then, with long leaps, raced ahead to stop and eye them inquiringly, finally disappearing with a last squeal of alarm. a second sign-post renewed their courage. wharton, it declared, was but a mile distant. but that was a long, long last mile! they were no longer sleepy, but their legs were very tired and the chilly breeze still bored through their coats. but their journey came to an end at last. straggling houses appeared, houses with little gardens and truck patches about them. then came a factory building with row on row of staring windows just catching the first faint glow of the sun. then they crossed a railroad and plunged into the town. but it was a silent, empty town, for this was sunday morning, and their steps on the brick sidewalk echoed lonesomely. the awful thought that perhaps there would be no eating-place open assailed them and drew a groan of dismay from amy. "still," he declared, "if the worst comes to the worst, we can break a window and get taken to jail. they feed you in jail, don't they?" he added wistfully. but near the centre of town a cheering sight met their anxious eyes. a little man in a white apron was sweeping the doorway of a tiny restaurant, yawning and pausing at intervals to gaze curiously toward the approaching travellers. before they reached him, however, his curiosity either gave out or was sated, for, with a final tap of the broom against the doorway, he disappeared. "suppose," exclaimed amy, "he changes his mind and locks up again!" they urged tired feet to a faster pace and reached the door. on one wide window was the legend: "cannister's cafã©." the door was closed but unlocked. they opened it and entered. there was no one in sight, but from beyond a partition which ran across the room at the back came the cheering sounds of rattling dishes and the heartening fragrance of coffee. there were eight small tables and a little counter adorned with a cash register and a cigar case, and these, excepting an appropriate number of chairs, comprised the furnishings; unless the various signs along each wall could be included. these announcements were printed in blue on grey card-board, and the boys, sinking into chairs at the nearest table, read them avidly: "beef stew, 15 cents"; "pork and beans, 10 cents"; "boiled rice and milk, 10 cents"; "coffee and crullers, 10 cents"; "oysters in season"; "small steak, 30 cents"; "buy a ticket--$5.00 for $4.50"; "corn beef hash, 15 cents; with 1 poached egg, 20 cents." their eyes met and they smiled. it was pleasantly warm in the little restaurant, the sun was peeping in at the window, the odour of coffee was more delightful than anything they had ever inhaled and it was extremely good to stretch tired legs and ease aching muscles, and for several minutes they were content to sit there and feast their hungry eyes on the placards and enjoy in anticipation the cheer that was to follow. "what are you going to have?" asked amy presently. "beans and a lot of bread-and-butter and seventy-five cups of coffee," replied clint rapturously. "corned beef hash for mine. and a lot more coffee than that. say, why doesn't he come?" evidently the proprietor had drowned the sound of their entrance with the rattle of dishes, for the swinging door in the partition remained closed and the little ledged window beside it showed only a dim vista of hanging pots and saucepans. amy rapped a knife against the edge of a glass and the noise at the rear ceased abruptly, the door swung open and the man in the enveloping white apron viewed them in surprise. he was a bald-headed, pink-faced little man with a pair of contemplative blue eyes. "morning, boys," he said. "i didn't hear you come in. don't usually get customers till most seven on sundays. want something to eat?" "yes, can we have something pretty quick?" asked clint. "we're nearly starved." "well, i ain't got anything cooked, but the fire's coming up fast and it won't take long. what would you want?" they made known their wishes and the little man leisurely vanished again. a clock above the counter announced the time to be twenty-five minutes to seven. "we might have got him to bring us some coffee now," said amy. "i'd rather wait until i get my breakfast," clint replied. "i wonder when we get a train for brimfield. i reckon they don't run very often on sundays." "maybe this chap can tell us. we'll ask him when he comes back." other and delicious odours mingled with the coffee fragrance, and a promising sound of sizzling reached them. "that," said amy, settling back luxuriously and patting his waistcoat, "is my corned beef hash. i sort of wish i'd ordered an egg with it. or, maybe, two eggs. guess i will. some crullers would taste pretty good, wouldn't they?" "anything would taste good," agreed clint longingly. ten minutes passed and the door opened to admit another customer. after that they drifted in by ones and twos quite fast. the boys gathered that the newcomers were men employed at the railway yards nearby, and presently amy questioned one who was reading a paper at the next table. "can you tell us when we can get a train for brimfield?" he asked. "brimfield? yes, there's one at seven-twelve and one at nine-forty-six." "i guess we couldn't get the seven-twelve," said amy, glancing at the clock. "the other would be all right." "i ain't sure if that one stops at brimfield, though. say, pete, does the nine-forty-six stop at brimfield?" "no," replied a man at another table. "express to new york." "you're wrong," volunteered a third. "it runs accommodation from here on sundays." "that's so," agreed the other. "i'd forgot." amy thanked his informant and at that moment the proprietor, who had been in and out taking orders, appeared with the boys' breakfasts. the baked beans and the hash were sizzling hot and looked delicious, and the coffee commanded instant attention. a plate piled with thick slices of bread and two small pats of very yellow butter completed the repast. for five minutes by the clock not a word was said at that table. then, having ordered a second cup of coffee apiece, the boys found time to pause. "gee, but that was good!" murmured amy. "i suppose i must have eaten awfully fast, for i don't seem to want those eggs now." "how about the crullers?" asked clint. "they wouldn't be half bad, would they? have some?" clint nodded and four rather sad-looking rings of pastry appeared. it was still only a quarter past seven and, since they could not continue their journey before nine-forty-six, they consumed the crullers and their second cups of coffee more leisurely. the little restaurant began to get pretty smoky, and the combined odours of a dozen breakfasts, now that they had completed their own repasts, failed to delight them. but they stayed on, hating the thought of the walk to the station, quite satisfied to remain there without moving in the warmth and cheerful bustle. if they could have laid their heads against the wall and gone to sleep they'd have asked nothing more. amy nodded drowsily once or twice and clint stared out the sunny window with the somnolent gaze of a well-fed cat. it was, he reflected, a very beautiful world. and then their pleasant day-dreams were disturbed by the sudden and rather boisterous entry of a big, broad-shouldered man who seemed to take entire possession of the restaurant and quite dwarf its size. "hello, boys!" the newcomer skimmed his hat dexterously to a peg, pulled out a chair with twice as much noise as usually accompanies such an operation and plumped his big body into it with a heartiness which almost set the dishes to rattling in the kitchen. everyone in the room except the two boys answered his greeting. "hello, mike! how's the lad?" "fine! and hungry to beat the band! can, you old rascal! where are you? fry me a couple of eggs and some bacon, can, and draw one." "all right, mike!" the proprietor's pink face showed for an instant at the window. the newcomer opened a morning paper with a loud rustling, beating the sheets into place with the flat of a huge hand. "you fellows hear about the burglary?" he asked. chapter ix under suspicion "burglary? no. where was it?" asked several voices. "black and wiggin's jewelry store." "_what?_ who says so?" "i says so! i seen it just now." "saw the burglary?" "naw! saw where they'd cut a chunk out of the window and gone in. where you fellows been all morning?" "maybe you did it, mike," suggested a small man across the room, winking to his neighbour. "maybe i wished i had!" was the reply. "they say they got away with nearly a thousand dollars' worth of stuff. blew the safe, they did, and cleaned it out pretty." "that right? when was this, mike?" "some time last night. a watchman at the collar factory says he seen an automobile stop around the corner near the baptist church about three o'clock. says it didn't have no lights on it. he didn't think much about it, though, he says, and the next time he came round front he looked again and it was gone. the papers had it last week where there was a job just like that done over to maynard. two ginks in an automobile came along one night and lifted six or eight hundred dollars' worth of stuff out of a gent's furnishing shop. if they don't raise my pay at the yards pretty quick i'm going to hire me an automobile, fellows." this aroused laughter, and an excited discussion of the burglary followed, during which mr. cannister quite forgot his orders on the stove and was only recalled to them by an odour of scorching eggs. two of the customers, having finished breakfast, made known their intention of visiting the scene of the crime, and went out. at the first table inside the door two boys were regarding each other with round and inquiring eyes. "do you suppose--" began clint. but amy hissed him to silence. "wait till we hear more," he cautioned. but, although they listened with all ears, little more information was forthcoming, save that one carey, chief of the local police, was already busy. "he's telephoned all around," said mike, "and told them to look out for the automobile. but, say, what chance has he got, eh? you can't stop every automobile that goes through and search it for jewelry!" "what sort of jewelry did they get, mike?" asked the proprietor. "rings and pins and things like that." he chuckled. "it seems that whoever closed up last night left the box they keep their diamonds and stones that ain't set in out of the safe. they found it back of the counter this morning. the robbers hadn't ever seen it. i guess they'd be good and mad if they knew!" "come on," whispered amy. they settled their checks and left the restaurant, trying to disguise their eagerness. after the door had closed behind them the man whom they had asked about the brimfield trains inquired: "who are those boys, can?" "don't know. they walked in here about six-thirty and wanted some breakfast. said they was nigh starved. looked it, too. and mighty tired. nice-appearing young fellows. off on a lark, maybe, trampin' around country." "thought they were strangers here. got any more coffee, can?" * * * * * "what do you think?" asked amy eagerly as they walked up the street. "i don't know," replied clint doubtfully. "what would they be doing there?" "burying the stuff they stole, of course! that's what they did, all right. you see if it isn't. maybe they'll offer a reward and all we'll have to do is go there and dig the things up and--" "i guess we'd better find the police station and tell what we know, reward or no reward," answered clint. "and another thing we'd better do is telephone to school and tell them we aren't dead. we're going to catch the mischief, anyway, i reckon, but we might as well save ourselves all we can. wonder where there's a telephone." "there's a blue sign over there in the next block," said amy. "who--who's going to do the talking?" "well, you're pretty fond of it," suggested clint. "not today! not on sundays, clint! i never could talk on sundays! you'd better do it. and get josh himself, if you can. he'll like it better than if he hears it from an h.m. tell him we got lost and--" but amy's further instructions were interrupted. a blue-coated policeman who had been observing their approach with keen interest hailed them from the curb at the corner. "hello, boys!" he said. "where'd you come from?" "we came from thacher," replied clint. "that is, we came from there this morning, or, rather, last night. we're from brimfield, really." "are, eh? thought you said thacher. what you doing here?'' "waiting for a train. we lost our way last night and only got here this morning." "why didn't you take the seven-o'clock then?" "we didn't know about it until it was too late. we were getting some breakfast at a restaurant down the street there. we're going to take the nine-forty-six." "the nine-forty-six is an express to new york, son. what's your name? and what's his?" "my name's thayer and his is byrd. we go to brimfield academy." "do, eh? aren't you a long way from home?" "yes. you see, we went over to thacher to the football game and lost the trolley. and then a fellow offered to give us a ride in an automobile as far as this place and we got in and a wheel came off and we had to walk the rest of the way. but we got lost in the woods somewhere and--" "what sort of a looking fellow was this? the one with the auto, i mean?" "oh, he was about twenty years old, with kind of long hair, light-brown, and sort of greyish eyes." "tell you his name?" "no, sir, we didn't ask him. he drives the auto for some liveryman in thacher, he said." "hm. well, that may be all right, kids, but i've been instructed to look out for suspicious characters this morning, and i guess you'd both better step around to the station with me." he smiled. "i don't suppose the chief'll keep you very long, but he might like to ask you some questions. see?" the boys nodded not over-enthusiastically and accompanied the officer. the police station was but a half-block distant on a side street and their captor ushered them up the steps and into a room where a tall, bushy-whiskered man with much gold on his shoulders sat writing at a flat-topped desk. "chief, here's a couple of youngsters i met on main street just now. i guess they're all right, but i thought maybe you'd like to look 'em over." the chief nodded and proceeded to do so. he had a most disconcerting stare, had the chief, and the boys began to wonder if they had not, perhaps, after all performed that burglary! "well, boys," he said finally, "where do you belong?" "brimfield academy," replied amy. "running away, are you?" "no, sir, we're trying to get back. we went to thacher yesterday with the football team and started over here in a fellow's auto and it broke down about--about four miles back and we got lost and slept in a sort of hut and got here this morning." "where was the hut?" asked the official. "just off the road between here and thacher. about four miles, or maybe five." "nearer six," corrected clint. "we walked four miles, i guess, before we found that sign-post." the chief questioned particularly regarding the automobile and its driver, finally taking up the telephone and inquiring of the two local garages if such a car had been brought in for repairs. both garages replied that they hadn't seen the car and the chief looked back at amy speculatively. "he must have gone back and found that nut," said amy, "and repaired it himself." "maybe," said the chief. "who did you say the fellow drove the auto for?" "i didn't say. i've forgotten the name. some liveryman in thacher." "and he was coming here to get the hotel proprietor, eh?" "that's what he said." "and you didn't see him again?" "no, sir, not unless--" "unless what?" amy glanced inquiringly at clint and clint nodded. "unless he was in the car that stopped at the hut in the night," concluded amy, "and i don't believe he was." the chief exchanged a quick look with the policeman and asked indifferently: "oh, there was a car stopped in the night, eh? what for? who was in it?" "we couldn't see who was in it. we were asleep in the hut and woke up with the light in our eyes. then we heard the car chugging on the road and two men got out and came toward the hut and sort of--sort of walked around for about ten minutes and then went off again." "walked around? what were they walking around for?" "i don't know, sir, but--" "we think," interrupted clint, "that they were the men who robbed the jewelry store and that they were burying the things they had stolen." "you do, eh? who told you any jewelry store had been robbed?" "we heard some men talking about it at the restaurant where we had breakfast." "where was that?" "about five blocks that way," said clint. "cannister was the name on the door," explained amy. "if you thought the men in the automobile were burying something why didn't you find out what it was after they had gone?" "we didn't think that until we got here and heard about the burglary. we didn't know what they were doing. it was dark and we had no matches. after they had gone we did sort of feel around there to see if we could find anything, but we couldn't." "what time was it?" "i suppose it was about four o'clock. we couldn't see our watches." the chief held a hand across the desk. "let me see yours," he said. "see what, sir?" asked clint. "your watch." clint took it off and laid it in the chief's hand. it was a plain and inexpensive gold watch and was quite evidently far from new. the chief examined it, opened the back and read the number, and referred to a slip of paper beside him. then he asked for amy's and smiled as amy passed him his nickel timepiece. "all right," he said, returning them. "what did those two men look like?" "we couldn't see, sir," replied amy. "they just had an electric torch and they lighted it only twice. we could just see two pairs of legs and that was all. and a stick." "a stick?" "i think it was a shovel," said clint. "were the lights on the car lighted all this time?" "no, sir, they put them out." "could you see the car enough to say whether it was a big one or a little one?" "no, sir," said clint, "but i have an idea it was sort of small. the engine sounded like it." "suppose you give me your names." they did so and the chief took off the telephone receiver again. "hello! get me brimfield academy at brimfield. this is chief carey. i want to talk with the president--" "principal, sir," whispered amy. "with the principal." a minute or two passed in silence. then: "hello," said the chief. "is this brimfield academy? well, who am i talking to, please? mr. ferner? fernald?" he looked questioningly at clint and clint nodded his head. "well, this is the chief of police at wharton. have you got two boys at your school named clinton thayer and amory byrd, mr. fernald? have, eh? are they there now?... i see. well, i guess i've got them here.... no, no, nothing like that. there's been a robbery here and the boys seem to think they have a clue to it. i wanted to find out if they were all right. yes, they're right here. certainly, sir." the chief held out the telephone and clint took it. "mr. fernald? this is thayer, sir. we're awfully sorry, sir, but we got lost last night and had to sleep in a hut near here and we've only just got here a little while ago. we are coming right back, sir." "how did you happen to get lost?" asked the principal's voice. clint explained as best he could. "byrd is there with you?" "yes, sir. do you want to speak to him?" "no. get back here as soon as you can and come and see me at once. i want this explained a little better, thayer. that's all. you're not--um--you're not in trouble with the police?" "no, sir." "all right. get back on the first train." clint sighed with relief as he returned the telephone to the desk. "was he very waxy?" asked amy anxiously. "not very, i reckon," clint replied. "he wants us to beat it back and see him at once." "i can scarcely restrain my eagerness," murmured amy. "what train were you thinking of taking?" asked the chief, drawing the telephone toward him again. "they said there was one at nine-forty-six," replied clint, "but this--this officer says it doesn't stop at brimfield." "we'll soon find out, boys." the chief consulted a time-table and nodded. "brimfield at ten-fifteen." he looked at the big clock on the wall. "seven-forty-five," he muttered. "i guess we can make it." he put the receiver to his ear once more. "operator? wharton, 137-m, please. hello! that you, gus? this is dave carey. say, gus, i want an auto to hold five of us besides your driver. what say? yes, right away. well, hunt him up. get here by eight sure. at the station, yes. all right." the chief returned the receiver and leaned back. "i guess," he said, "you boys had better show us where that place is and we'll have a look at it. it doesn't seem probable to me that the crooks would hide that stuff in a hole, but they might have. if it was getting late they might have been afraid they'd get held up and searched before they got clear. anyway, we'll have a look." "is there any reward for it?" asked amy. "not that i know of," laughed the chief. "i guess there's a reward for the capture of the fellows who did it. if you can show us where they are you might make a couple of hundred dollars, son. the jewellers' protective association would be glad to square you." "i'm afraid i don't get that," mourned amy. "how much is the stuff worth that they swiped?" "oh, seven or eight hundred, i guess. wiggin didn't seem to know just what had been taken. here's a list of some of it, though. seven watches, eleven seals and a lot of pins and brooches and studs. they missed the unset stones, the thieves did. bill, you dig up a couple of spades somewhere and bring around here by eight." the policeman disappeared and the boys seated themselves to wait. chapter x buried treasure some twenty minutes later they were headed in a big seven-seating automobile toward the scene of the boys' early morning adventure. on the front seat with the chauffeur sat chief carey and in the tonneau were clint and amy and two policemen, one of them the officer who had taken them to the station. at their feet were two brand-new spades. it was a fine, clear morning and promised to be quite warm by noon. but clint and amy snuggled down into the seat and presented as small a portion of their anatomies as was possible to the fresh morning breeze that rushed by them. they passed the first sign-post and the second and the first farm they had seen, but after that the road was quite unfamiliar since they had travelled over it in the dark. the car whisked along at an even thirty-mile speed until, shortly after the farm-house was passed, clint suggested that as neither he nor amy were certain as to the location of the hut the car proceed more slowly. after that a careful look-out was kept. no one in the car could recall a hut of any sort along the road, and, when they had travelled at least eight miles from wharton without finding it, chief carey showed signs of impatience. the car was stopped and a consultation was held. the boys reiterated their statement that the hut, to the best of their knowledge, was between four and six miles from wharton. finally it was decided that they should turn around and go back slowly in order that the boys could identify the spot where the automobile had met its mishap the afternoon before. clint was not at all certain that he would know the place when he saw it again, but amy stoutly asserted that he would recognise it at once. and he did. there, finally, was the quick turn in the road and beyond, still plainly visible, the tracks of the auto in the looser soil and turf of the bank and meadow. "there's the tree we ran into," pointed out amy, "and there's the field we went across. now let's see. we found a stream there; you can see it, can't you? then we followed along this side of it and up that sort of hill--" but beyond that he couldn't trace their wanderings. woods and pastures ran into each other confusingly. one thing was explained, however, or, rather, two things; why they didn't find the trolley line and why they didn't succeed in reaching the road again. the trolley line, the chauffeur explained, was more than a mile distant, and the road ahead of them turned widely to the left just beyond. they had, consequently, roamed over a stretch of country at least two miles broad between dirt road and railroad. when they went on, which they did very slowly, all hands peered intently along the right side of the highway. they had proceeded possibly three-quarters of a mile when one of the officers called out and the car stopped. "i think i saw it," he said. "anyway, there's something there. back up a little, tom." the chauffeur obeyed and the quest was at an end. there was the hut, but so hidden by young oak trees with russet leaves still hanging that only from one point was it noticeable. out they all piled. "now," said the chief, "you boys get in there and stand just where you did last night and then come out and indicate about where those fellows dug--if they did dig." clint and amy obeyed and the others followed slowly across the intervening space. the hut stood further from the road than it had seemed to in the night. a good thirty yards separated the two, and the yellowing turf of long meadow grass was interspersed here and there with clumps of goldenrod and asters and wild shrubs and with small second-growth trees. at the side of the doorway was the tree which they had collided with, a twenty-foot white birch. the hut was even more dilapidated than they had supposed. it looked as if a good wind would send its twisted, sun-split grey boards into a heap. inside, however, with the sunlight streaming through doorway, window and cracks, it looked more inviting than it had at night. weeds were growing between the rotting boards and in one corner a hornets' nest as big as their heads hung from a sagging rafter. "gee," muttered amy, "i'm glad we didn't accidentally disturb that, clint!" in the doorway they stood and tried to re-enact the happenings of the night. it wasn't easy to decide on the spot where the men had stood, however, but finally they agreed as to its probable location and walked toward the road, keeping a little to the left, for some fifteen yards. that brought them close to a six-foot bush which, they decided, was the one clint had walked into. the chief and the others joined them. "about here, you think?" asked the chief. "yes, sir, as near as we can tell," replied clint, none too confidently. they viewed the place carefully, but, save that the grass seemed a trifle more trampled than elsewhere, there was nothing to indicate that the soil had been disturbed. nothing, at least, until one of the officers picked up a torn and twisted oak-seedling some sixteen inches long which lay a few feet away. it's brown roots were broken as if it had been pulled up by force and tossed aside. the chief nodded and went minutely over the turf for a space several yards in extent, finally giving a grunt of satisfaction. "here you are," he said, straightening his body and pointing the toe of one broad shoe at the ground. "they lifted the turf off and put it back again. a pretty good job to do in the dark, i say. bring your shovels, men." it was easy enough to see the spot now that the chief had found it. the turf had been cut through with a shovel or spade and rolled or lifted back. close looking showed the incision and there still remained some loose soil about the roots of the grass at one side, although the men had evidently striven carefully to hide all traces of their undertaking. in a moment the turf was once more up and the spades were plunging into the loosened soil beneath. clint and amy watched excitedly. presently one of the officers stopped digging, since there was now only room for one spade in the excavation. once there was an expectant pause while the digger reached in with his hands and grubbed in the moist red gravel. but it was only a stone he pulled out. the hole was down almost two feet now and the chief was beginning to frown anxiously. "they made a good job of it," he growled. "i guess--" but he forgot to say what he guessed, for just at that moment there was an exclamation from the officer who was wielding the spade and all bent forward as he dropped his implement and reached down into the hole. when he straightened up again he brought a small bundle wrapped in a piece of black rubber sheeting. the chief seized it and unwrapped the sheeting, laying bare a small pasteboard box tied with a piece of pink string. with the string undone and the lid off one glance was enough to show that they had found the stolen jewelry. "that's the stuff, all right," said the chief with satisfaction. "and i guess it's all here, from the looks. you'd better dig down and make sure, though." the officer obeyed, while the others crowded around the chief. the stolen things had been tossed carelessly into the box, a few still wrapped in squares of tissue paper but the most rattling together indiscriminately. there were watches and scarfpins and brooches and studs and watch charms and several bracelets and one platinum and gold chain. the robbers had selected carefully, for every article was valuable, although it still seemed possible that the chief's estimate of seven hundred dollars was generous enough. "they'll be some surprised if they ever come back for it, won't they?" asked the chauffeur with a chuckle. "say, chief, why don't you set a man to watch for 'em?" "i would if i knew when they were coming," replied the official drily. "but they may not come back here for a month. maybe they won't then. they won't if we can get our hands on them," he added grimly. the officer who had been probing the hole further reported nothing more there, and, well satisfied, they returned to the car. "i'll check this up when we get back to the station," said the chief, tossing the box carelessly to the seat. "black and wiggin are mighty lucky to get it back. they wouldn't have if it hadn't been for these chaps. say, boys, you tell wiggin he ought to give you something for this. you certainly deserve it." and the officers agreed. "oh, if there isn't any reward offered," said amy, "we don't want anything." "well, he ought to be willing to give you something. how much time is there before that train goes? most an hour? that's all right then. we'll go back to the station and i'll 'phone wiggin to come around." the return trip was made in quick time and almost before they knew it the boys were back in the chief's office at the station house. the chief wouldn't consent to their leaving until mr. wiggin had arrived, although they both declared that the jeweller didn't owe them anything and that they mustn't on any account lose their train. "you won't," replied the chief. "you can walk to the station in three minutes and you've still got forty. sit down there while i check this stuff up." they obeyed and looked on while he dumped the things from the box to the top of the desk and pulled his memorandum toward him. one by one he pushed the articles aside and checked the list with a pencil. finally he chuckled. "wiggin didn't know much more'n half the stuff he lost," he said. "there's nine watches here instead of seven and a lot more other things than he's got down here on his list. here he is now, i guess." mr. wiggin was a bewhiskered, nervous-mannered little man and he hurried into the chief's office as though he had run all the way from his house or store. "well, well, chief!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "so you've found it, eh? i want to know! i want to know! got the thieves too, eh?" he scowled darkly at clint and amy, and amy was heard to assert under his breath that he hoped mr. wiggin would choke. the chief laughed. "no, we haven't got the thieves, mr. wiggin. these boys gave us the clue that led to the stuff. shake hands, boys, with mr. wiggin. that's byrd and that's thayer. they're brimfield academy fellows, mr. wiggin, and they happened to see the thieves burying the things about five miles out of town toward thacher." whereupon the chief told the story to the jeweller and the latter, recovering from his embarrassment, insisted on shaking hands again. "i want to know!" he ejaculated, beaming at them like a pleased sparrow. "i want to know! smart lads, eh, chief? now--now--" he hesitated, his eyes darting from clint to amy and from amy to the chief. then he cleared his throat nervously, slapped his hands together gently and continued. "there--hem--there was no reward offered, boys, but--" "that's all right," replied amy briskly. "we don't want anything, mr. wiggin." "no, no, of course not, of course not! only--hem--i was thinking that--possibly, say, fifty dollars between you, or--" "no, thanks," interrupted clint. "we're glad we were able to help you recover the things, sir. and now i reckon we'll have to be getting to the station." but mr. wiggin was the sort who becomes more insistent against opposition. really, the boys must take something! really they must! he appealed to chief carey, and the chief agreed. "now--now--" continued the jeweller, "say a watch apiece, if they didn't like to take money. just a gold watch. here were two nice ones!" in the end his insistence won, the boys becoming at last too embarrassed and too fearful of losing their train to refuse longer. a handsome gold watch, not much thicker than a book-cover, was attached to amy's chain, while clint, having a perfectly good watch already, was invited to select something else from the array on the desk and finally allowed himself to become possessed of a diamond and ruby scarfpin which was much the finest thing he had ever owned. and then, with ten minutes to reach the station in, they shook hands with the jeweller and chief carey and relievedly hurried out, the chief's hearty invitation to come and see him again pursuing them into the corridor. a very few minutes afterwards they were seated in the train and speeding toward brimfield. "and now," said amy brightly, "all we've got to do is to give our little song and dance to josh!" chapter xi brimfield meets defeat the interview with mr. fernald was not, however, the ordeal they had feared. the principal pointed out to them that they should have returned from thacher to wharton by trolley with the other students, and not experimented with a strange automobile. when the boys had shown proper contrition for that fault mr. fernald allowed a note of curiosity to appear in his voice. "now," he said, "about this burglary, byrd. what--a--what was all that?" so amy narrated in detail and they exhibited their presents and the principal was frankly interested. he smiled when he returned clint's scarfpin. "you young gentlemen had quite an adventure, and i consider that you behaved very--ah--circumspectly. i congratulate you on your rewards. if i remember rightly, byrd, you lost a watch last winter." "yes, sir, i left it at the rink." "this is much too fine a one to lose. see if you can't hold on to it. you may be excused from church attendance this morning. if you'll take my advice you'll clean up and then get some sleep. as near as i can see you didn't have much last night." "thank you, sir," said amy. "i'm sorry we--got lost, mr. fernald." "are you, byrd?" there was a twinkle in the principal's eye. "you know if you hadn't got lost you wouldn't have a nice new watch!" they were challenged several times before they reached their room by boys who wanted to know where they had been and what had happened to them, but both were too sleepy and tired to do the subject justice and so they observed a mysterious reticence and resisted all pleas. they bathed, amy nearly falling asleep in the tub, and then stretched themselves out gratefully on their beds. that was the last either knew until, almost two hours later, penny durkin began an ambitious attempt on handel's largo in the next room. they managed to get to dining hall without being penalised for tardiness and ate like wood-choppers. that evening they went over to hensey and called on jack innes and amy told the story of their adventures to a roomful of fellows who utterly refused to believe a word of it until clint had subscribed to the main facts and the watch and scarfpin had been passed around. you could scarcely have blamed them for their incredulity, either, for the story as amy told it was wonderfully and fearfully embroidered. it was a good story, though, a mighty good story. amy acknowledged that himself! "it's a wonder," jeered tracey black, "you didn't stay over at wharton and help your friend the chief capture the robbers!" "he wanted us to," replied amy gravely, "but of course we couldn't. we gave him some good advice, though, and told him he could call us up by 'phone if he got stuck." "gee, i'll bet that was a big relief to him," said steve edwards. "i feel sort of sorry for those burglars, fellows. they haven't a ghost of a show now." amy smiled tolerantly. after that the conversation got around to the absorbing subject of football and stayed there until the gathering broke up. there was some discussion of yesterday's contest, but more of the next saturday's game with morgan's school. morgan's was a new opponent on brimfield's schedule and not a great deal was known about its prowess. black thought, or pretended to think, that the maroon-and-grey was in for a beating, but couldn't give any very convincing reasons. "oh, piffle," grunted still, "who ever heard of morgan's school until you put it on the schedule, tracey?" "i didn't put it on. lawrence did, naturally. and it's silly to say that no one ever heard of morgan's. just because it isn't near new york you think it can't possibly be any good!" "where is it, anyway?" inquired tom hall. "manningsville, delaware," replied the manager. "it's a whopping big school, with about three hundred fellows, and last year they licked about everyone they met up with." "time, then, they came up here and saw a real team," said marvin. "bet you we score twice as much as they do, tracey." "bet you we don't! bet you the sodas for the crowd!" "got you," answered marvin, pulling still's pillow further under his head where he lay sprawled on the bed. "get your mouths fixed, fellows. mr. black's treat!" "what do you think, jack?" asked edwards. "shucks, i don't know anything about it. and i don't see that it matters. if we beat them, all right; if they beat us, all right. the main thing is to play the best we know how and get as much fun and profit as we can out of the game. i don't care a brass tack about any of the games except claflin and chambers. i would like to beat chambers, after the way they mussed us up last year. by the way, fellows, i got word from detweiler this morning and he says he will come about the first of november and put in a week or so on the tackles and ends. that's bully news, isn't it?" several agreed enthusiastically that it was, but gilbert, a second team substitute, who was a protã©gã© of marvin's, asked apologetically who detweiler was. "joe detweiler was all-america tackle on the princeton team last year," responded captain innes, "and the year before that, too. he was captain here five years ago." "oh, _that_ detweiler!" said gilbert. "i didn't know!" "your ignorance pains me sorely, gilbert," said amy. "you could be excused for not recalling the name of the president, for not knowing whether thomas edison or j.p. morgan built the first steamboat or whether admiral dewey was a hero or a condition of the weather, but, gilbert, not to know detweiler proves you hopeless. i'm sorry to say it, but your mind is evidently of no account whatever. detweiler, you poor benighted nut, is a greek of the grecians! he has a chest measurement of ninety-eight inches under-all! his biceps are made of harveyised steel and his forceps--" "for the love of mike, amy, shut up!" begged marvin. "oh? very well! if you want the poor idiot to go through life with no knowledge of the important--er--" "we do!" agreed innes. "of course i know who detweiler is," said gilbert, a trifle indignantly. "but there might be more than one, mightn't there? how did i know--" "more than one detweiler!" exclaimed amy horrifiedly. "is there more than one washington? more than one napoleon? more than one huxley? more than one thackeray? more than one--one byrd?" "you bet there are!" asserted black. "there are jays and parrots!" "amy, you're a crazy nut," laughed innes. "a nut i may be," replied amy with dignity, "but i have raisins." there was an excruciating howl of agony and amy was violently set upon, deposited on the nearer bed and pummelled until he begged for mercy. when quiet was restored edwards asked: "is 'boots' coming back this year, jack?" "yes, he'll be here in a day or two, i think. robey had a letter from him last week." "thought someone said he wasn't coming back," observed still. "he said in the spring he didn't think he could," explained jack, "but you couldn't keep him away if you tried, i guess. you second team fellows will know what hustling means when he takes hold of you, thayer." clint smiled and looked politely interested, but the subject was not continued, for at that moment, amy, who had been craftily biding his time, reached out and pulled still's chair over, and in the ensuing confusion the gathering broke up. on the way along the row, clint asked amy about the mysterious "boots." "his name is boutelle," explained amy. "we call him 'boots' for short; a sort of a _last_ name." amy chuckled gleefully. "what's the joke?" asked clint. "didn't you get it? _last_ name; see? 'boots'--last!" "oh!" "thank you! i was afraid i'd have to explain it for you in a _foot_-note." "what's he do? coach the second?" "he do. and he's a mighty nice chap, 'boots' is. the fellows were quite crazy about him last year. he did good work, too. turned out a second that was some team, believe me! maybe if 'boots' gets hold of you, clint, you may amount to something. i've done what i could for you, but i think you've got where you need a firmer hand." "you're getting where you need a firm foot," laughed clint. "and i'm the one to apply it!" "tut, tut!" murmured the other. "never start anything, clint, you can't finish. right wheel, march! oh, dear, penny is at it again! and i had hoped for a quiet evening!" the middle of the week mr. boutelle arrived and the second team got down to business. the training-table was started, and including coach boutelle was made up of sixteen members. "boots" presided at the head and captain turner at the foot, and clint was sandwiched in between kingston, who played guard, and don gilbert, a substitute guard. the team had its own signals now and practised on its own gridiron each afternoon until it was time to scrimmage with the 'varsity. clint was first choice right tackle, with robbins close behind and hard after him. being at training-table was lots of fun, although clint regretted leaving amy. the latter's dire forebodings regarding the food at the second's table proved unjustified. they had plenty to eat and of the sort that was best for them. steaks and chops and roasts formed the meat diet, eggs appeared at breakfast and supper, there was all the milk they could drink, and fresh vegetables and light desserts completed the menus. "boots" was rather strict in the matter of diet and fresh bread agitated him as a red flag agitates a bull. clint thought he had never seen so much toast in his life as appeared on and disappeared from the second team's table that fall. another thing that "boots" would not tolerate was water with meals. it was, he declared, ruinous to the digestion. "all the milk you want, but no water" was "boots'" rule, and in consequence the four big white pitchers that stood in a row down the middle of the board had to be refilled at every meal. the boys at the training-tables paid a dollar a week extra for board, but clint still felt that he was cheating someone and feared it was the cow! "boots" worked them hard, but his own enthusiasm was so contagious that he soon had them as eager as he was, and the afternoon when they kept the 'varsity from scoring during two twelve-minute periods was a red-letter day, and supper that evening was almost like a banquet. fortunately the 'varsity table and the second team table were separated by the width of the hall. otherwise the 'varsity fellows might have taken exception to some of the remarks that passed between the elated second team members. that scoreless tie did not take place just yet, however. just now the second was only finding itself and the 'varsity romped through or around it almost at will. the final scrimmage before the morgan's school contest was on friday and the varsity had no trouble scoring twice in twenty minutes of actual playing time. but even then the second was beginning to show possibilities and the first team fellows were forced to work hard for the two touchdowns they secured. coach robey was unusually grim that afternoon and so many changes were made in the line-up of the 'varsity that assistant manager morton's brain reeled as he tried to keep track of the players. it was suspected that the head coach was far from satisfied with the first-string backs and it was predicted on the stand that afternoon that before the season was much older there would be considerable of a shake-up in their ranks. freer was looked on as having a good chance to displace kendall, and st. clair, who although he had been playing but one year was developing rapidly into a clever half, had many partisans who considered him the equal of the veteran still. on saturday "boots" put the second through an hour's scrimmage and consequently the varsity game with morgan's school was nearly half over when clint and the others pulled on sweaters and blankets and hustled across to the nearby gridiron and settled to watch. morgan's presented a very husky lot of chaps, long-legged, narrow-hipped fellows who appeared to be trained to the minute. "they look," confided clint to don gilbert, "as if they were all the same height and size and style. they must buy 'em by the dozen." gilbert chuckled. "'buy them' is good," he said. "they say half of them don't pay a cent of tuition. same way with their baseball fellows. i know a chap who goes to prentiss hall, and prentiss and morgan's are rivals, you know. he says half the fellows who play football and baseball and things at morgan's don't have to pay a cent." "maybe he's prejudiced," laughed clint. "you hear a lot of that sort of stuff, gilbert, and it's always about the other fellow!" "well, that's what dave larned says, anyway. say, they _are_ fast though, aren't they!" ejaculated gilbert. they certainly were, as brimfield was discovering to her cost. with the second quarter almost over and no score by either side, the orange-and-blue-stockinged visitors were behaving very much as if they meant to put a touchdown over. morgan's had secured the ball by fair catch on her own thirty-eight yards after a poor attempt at a punt by harris, and now she was turning brimfield's right flank nicely. trow, tackle on that side, was boxed twice in succession; roberts, right end, was bowled over and two rushes gained first down on the twenty-five-yard line. coach robey sped holt in for roberts and holt managed to upset the next play for a yard gain. then morgan's swung her attack against left guard and churchill was caught napping and the whole backfield swept over him for four yards. a fake-kick, with the ball going to a rangey morgan's full-back, proved good for the rest of the distance; edwards missing a tackle that would have spoiled the attempt far back of the line. the only thing that saved brimfield from being scored on then and there was the decision of the orange-and-blue's quarter-back to pass up a field-goal in favour of a touchdown. from the thirteen yards a goal-from-field was more than a possibility, but the quarter was ambitious and wanted six points instead of three, and so plugged the ball across the field to a waiting end on a forward pass. fortunately for the defenders of the west goal edwards dived into the catcher at the last moment and the ball grounded. and then, before another play could be pulled off, the whistle blew. when the third period began the head coach had made many substitutions. blaisdell had taken churchill's place at left guard, gafferty had gone in for hall in the other guard position, freer was at right half instead of kendall and rollins had ousted harris at full-back. whatever may have been said to the brimfield warriors during that fifteen minutes' breathing space, it brought results. marvin speeded the team up and the men no longer allowed their opponents to get the jump on them each time. in the first five minutes brimfield was twice penalised for off-side play. marvin got away for a thrilling run along the side line soon after morgan's kicked off, and placed the pigskin on the enemy's thirty-four yards after a gain of over forty. then rollins, who was a heavily-built, hard-plugging chap, smashed the line on the right and, keeping his feet cleverly, bored through for six. a forward failed and, on third down, freer punted to the morgan's twelve yards and both edwards and holt reached the catcher before he could start. a whirlwind double-pass back of the line sent a half around edwards' end and gained three, and was followed by a skin-tackle play that secured three more past trow. but morgan's had to punt then, and a fine kick followed and was caught by still on his forty-five. with good interference he secured five before he was thrown. brimfield, still working fast, reached the opponent's thirty-five before a punt was again necessary. this time innes passed low and freer kicked into the mãªlã©e and the pigskin danced and bobbed around for many doubtful moments before marvin snuggled it under him on the morgan's forty-three yards. from there a forward went to still and gained seven, and, playing desperately, the brimfield backs ploughed through for two firsts and placed the ball on the twenty-yard line. one attempt at the left side lost ground and a delayed pass followed by a plunge at centre secured but three yards. rollins then dropped back to the twenty-five and, with the stand very quiet, dropped the ball over for three points and the first score of the game. brimfield applauded relievedly and morgan's kicked off again. but the period ended a minute later and the teams changed goals. morgan's put in three substitutes, one, a short, stocky guard, leading clint to remark that the orange-and-blue's supply of regular goods had given out. but that new guard played real football and braced up his side of the line so that brimfield soon left it respectfully alone and applied its efforts to the other. injuries began to occur soon after the final ten minutes commenced and two morgan's and two brimfield players retired to the side lines. brimfield lost captain innes and trow. innes' injury was slight, but trow got a blow on the back of his head that prevented him from realising what was going on for several minutes. morgan's came back hard in that last quarter and soon had the maroon-and-grey on the defensive. a fumbled punt by carmine, who had taken marvin's place a minute before, was secured by a morgan's end and the aspect of the game changed very suddenly. the orange-and-blue was now in possession of the ball on brimfield's twenty-six yards, and it was first down. coach robey rushed hall and churchill back to the line-up, evidently well weighted down with instructions, and, after a conference with clustered heads, brimfield faced the enemy again. morgan's adopted old-style football with a vengeance and hurled her backs at the line between tackles. twice she was stopped, but on a third attempt brimfield broke squarely in two where thursby was substituting captain innes and half the visiting team piled through. first down was secured on another attack at the same place and the ball was on the defender's sixteen yards. two yards more came past right tackle and two through centre--morgan's had discovered the weakness of thursby's defence--and the ten-yard line was almost underfoot. a conference ensued. evidently some of the enemy were favouring a field-goal, but the quarter still held out for all the law would allow and a line-shift was followed by a quick toss of the ball to one side of the field. luckily for the home team, however, it was steve edwards' side that was chosen, and edwards, while he was not quick enough to prevent the catch, stopped the runner for a yard gain. it was third down then, with the ball out of position for a field-goal and ten yards to a touchdown and the brimfield supporters, urging their team to "hold 'em!" breathed easier. "fourth down! five to go!" announced the referee. "stop 'em!" panted marvin. then the morgan's drop-kicker moved back to the twenty-yard line and well to the left of centre, and centre stood sidewise as though to make an oblique pass. it hardly seemed possible that morgan's would attempt a goal from such an angle, but still there was but one down left and the brimfield line, though it had yielded short gains, was not likely to give way to the enemy for the five yards necessary for a first down. captain innes watched the orange-and-blue formation doubtfully, striving to guess what was to develop. in the end he scented a fake-kick and warned his line. "fake!" he shouted. "fake! watch that ball! get that end, steve! hold 'em, hold 'em, brimfield!" and brimfield held them. at least, brimfield held all but one of them. it was unfortunate that that one should have been the one who had the ball! just what really happened was a matter of discussion for many days. it occurred so suddenly, with such an intricate mingling of backs and forwards, that brimfield was unable then or later to fathom the play. even from the side line, where coach robey and a dozen or more substitutes looked on intently, that play was puzzling. all that seemed clear then or afterwards was that the ball did actually go to the drop-kicker, that that youth swung his leg in the approved fashion, that one of the backs--some said the quarter, while others said one of the halves--ran back and took the pigskin at a hand-pass, and that subsequently a tackle who had played on the end of the line was seen tearing across the goal line well toward the other side of the field. there had undoubtedly been a lateral pass, perhaps two, but the morgan's players had so surrounded the play that the whole thing was as unfathomable as it was mysterious and as mysterious as it was unexpected. the one fact that stood out very, very clearly was that the enemy had scored a touchdown. and, although she afterwards failed to kick the goal, she had accomplished enough to humble brimfield. in the two minutes remaining the home team played desperately, trying its hardest to secure the ball and get away for a run. but the visitors refused to yield possession and the whistle sounded a defeat for the maroon-and-grey. "i think," said manager black to quarter-back marvin as they met at the entrance to the gymnasium, "i'll take a walnut sundae." what quarter-back marvin replied to manager black was both impolite and forceful. chapter xii penny loses his temper what annoyed brimfield academy most about that beating was the fact that morgan's school was a stranger. being defeated in early season was nothing to be sore about; it happened every year, sometimes several times; and the score of 6 to 3 was far from humiliating; but to be defeated by a team that no one had ever heard about was horribly annoying. of course tracey black insisted to all who would listen that morgan's, instead of being unknown to fame, was in reality a strong team with a fine record behind it and an enviable reputation in its own part of the world. but tracey didn't convince anyone, i think, and the school continued to be disgruntled for the better part of a week, or possibly until the varsity went away the following saturday and won a clean-cut victory from benton military academy. last year the two schools had played a no-score tie game and consequently the maroon-and-grey's victory this year was more appreciated. meanwhile marvin had settled his wager at the village soda fountain and had listened with commendable patience to tracey's "i-told-you-so" remarks. all that marvin said was, when tracey had rubbed it in sufficiently: "there's just one thing you want to do, tracey, and that is get a date with those guys for next year. i won't be here, but it'll do me a whole lot of good to hear that we have rammed that old touchdown down their throats with one or two more for good measure." "say, you're not sore or anything, are you?" laughed tracey. "never you mind. i can take a licking as well as the next chap, but when a team works a sleight-of-hand gag on you, that's something different yet!" "i'll bet anything!" said steve edwards, "that they had two balls that day! if they didn't, i'm blessed if i can see how they got that one across the field there." "maybe that chap who made the touchdown had a string tied to it," suggested still. "that wouldn't be a bad scheme, eh?" "i don't know how they did it," said marvin soberly, setting down his empty glass with a last fond look, "but if you take my advice, tracey, you'll have it understood next year that there's to be no miracles!" clint regretted that defeat, but it didn't affect his spirits any. as a matter of fact, clint had reached a state of second team patriotism that precluded his being heart-broken about anything save a humiliating beating of the second. and most of the other members of mr. boutelle's constituency felt the same way. it was regrettable to have the school team worsted, but the main thing in life was the glory of the second. if coach robey had suggested that clint should throw in his lot with the 'varsity just then clint might have felt flattered but he would probably have gently and firmly declined the promotion. "boots," in short, had in a bare fortnight endowed his charges with an enthusiasm and _esprit de corps_ that was truly remarkable. "anyone would think," said amy one day when clint had been singing the praises of the second team, "that you dubs were the only football players in school. ever hear of the 'varsity team, clint? of course i may be mistaken, but i've been given to understand that they have one or two fairly good men on the 'varsity." clint grinned. "that's what _they_ tell you, amy!" "well, of all the swank!" exclaimed the other incredulously. "what's that?" "side, swell-headedness, dog, intolerable conceit--er--" "that'll do. you talk like a dictionary of synonyms." "you talk like a blooming idiot! why, don't you know that the second team is nothing on earth but the 'goat' for the 'varsity?" "yes, and the 'goat' butts pretty hard sometimes," chuckled clint. amy threw up his hands in despair. "you fellows are so stuck on yourselves," he said finally, "that i suppose you'll be expecting robey to discharge the 'varsity and let you play against claflin!" "he might do worse, i dare say," returned clint carelessly. "might do--here, i can't stand this! i'm going out! where's my cap?" and amy fled. clint didn't see a great deal of amy those days except during study hour, for amy was busy with the fall tennis tournament. besides playing in it he was managing it, and managing it entailed much visiting in the evenings, for the tournament insisted on getting horribly mixed up every afternoon owing to the failure of fellows to play when they were supposed to, and it was one of amy's duties to hunt up the offenders and threaten them with all sorts of awful fates if they didn't arise at some unseemly hour the next morning and play off the postponed match before chapel. clint went over to the courts one afternoon before practice in the hope of seeing his room-mate perform. but amy was dashing around with a score-sheet in hand and the matches in progress were not exciting. "who's going to win?" asked clint when amy had subsided long enough to be spoken to. "or, rather, who's going to get second place?" "second place? why second place?" asked amy suspiciously. "just wondered. of course, as you're running the thing you'll naturally get first place, amy. i was curious to know who you'd decided on for second man." amy laughed. "well, it will probably be holt, if he can spare enough time from football practice to play. he's had a match with lewis on for two days now. they've each won a set and holt can't play in the afternoon and lewis refuses to get up early enough in the morning. and there you are!" "why don't you award the match to yourself by default?" inquired clint innocently. "to myself? how the dickens--oh, get out of here!" clint got out and as he made his way across to the second team gridiron he heard amy's impassioned voice behind him. "say, grindell, where under the stars and stripes have you been? lee has been waiting here for you ever since two o'clock! you fellows certainly give me a pain! now, look here--" clint chuckled. "funny," he reflected, "to get so excited about a tennis tournament. now, if it was football--" clint shook his head over the vagaries of his friend and very soon forgot them in the task of trying to keep the troublesome robbins where he belonged, which, in clint's judgment, was among the second team substitutes. that was a glorious afternoon for the second team, for they held the 'varsity scoreless in the first period and allowed them only the scant consolation of a field-goal in the second. "boutelle's babies," as some waggish first team man had labelled them, went off in high feather and fancied themselves more than ever. clint smiled at himself all the way to his room afterwards. he had played good football and had thrice won praise from "boots" that afternoon. even jack innes had gone out of his way to say a good word. he had clearly outplayed saunders, the 'varsity left tackle, on attack and had held his own against the opposing end on defence. more than that, he had once nailed the redoubtable kendall well behind the line, receiving an extremely hard look from the half-back, and had on two occasions got down the field under the punt in time to tackle the catcher. yes, clint was very well satisfied with himself today, so well pleased that the fact that he had bruised his left knee so that he had to limp a little as he went upstairs didn't trouble him a mite. he hoped amy would be back from that silly tennis tournament so that he might tell him all about it. but amy wasn't back, as he discovered presently. what met his eyes as he opened the door from the staircase well, however, put amy quite out of his mind for awhile. the door of his own room was closed, but the doors of 13 and 15 were open, and midway between them a rather startling drama was being enacted. the participants were penny durkin, harmon dreer and a smaller boy whose name afterwards transpired to be melville. melville was no longer an active participant, though, when clint appeared unnoted on the scene and paused across the corridor in surprise. it was penny and harmon dreer who held the centre of the stage. "what are you butting in for?" demanded dreer angrily. "i'll cuff the kid if i want to. you get out of here, penny." "you weren't cuffing him," replied penny hotly. "you were twisting his arm and making him cry. now you let the kid alone, dreer. if you want to try that sort of thing you try it on me." "all right!" dreer stepped forward and shot his closed fist into penny's face. the blow missed its full force, since penny, seeing it coming, dodged so that it caught him on the side of the chin. but it was enough to send him staggering to the wall. "you keep out of it, you skinny monkey!" shouted dreer. "all you're good for is to make rotten noises on that beastly fiddle of yours! want more, do you?" penny evidently did, for he came back with a funny sidelong shuffle, arms extended, and dreer, perhaps surprised at the other's pluck, moved cautiously away. "you've had what was coming to you, durkin," he growled. "now you keep away from me or you'll get worse. keep away, i tell you!" but penny durkin suddenly jumped and landed, beating down the other's guard. dreer staggered back, ducking his head, and penny shot a long arm around in a swinging blow that caught the other under his ear and dreer's knees doubled up under him and he sprawled on the threshold of his room. "durkin!" cried clint. "stop it!" penny turned and observed clint quite calmly, although clint could see that he was trembling in every nerve and muscle. "i'm not going to touch him again," replied penny. "i should think not!" clint leaned over the motionless dreer anxiously. "here, take hold of him and get him inside. you help, too, kid, whatever your name is. get him on the bed and shut the door. that was an awful punch you gave him, durkin." "yes, he can't fight," replied penny unemotionally, as he helped carry the burden to the bed. "he'll be all right in a minute. i jabbed him under the ear. it doesn't hurt you much; just gives you a sort of a headache. wet a towel and dab it on his face." "what the dickens was it all about, anyway?" asked clint as he followed instructions. "well, he was twisting young melville's arm and the kid was yelling and--" "you'd have yelled yourself," muttered the boy, with a sniffle. "i came out and told him to stop it and he didn't. so i pulled the kid away from him and he got mad and punched me in the cheek. so i went for him. he's a mean pup, anyway, dreer is." the subject of the compliment stirred and opened his eyes with a groan. then he looked blankly at clint. "hello," he muttered. "what's the--" at that moment his gaze travelled on to penny and he scowled. "all right, durkin," he said softly. "i'll get even with you, you--you--" "cut it out," advised clint. "how do you feel?" "all right. tell him to get out of my room. and that kid, too." penny nodded and retired, herding melville before him, followed by the scowling regard of dreer. clint tossed the towel aside. "i'll beat it, too, i guess," he said. "you'll be all right if you lie still awhile. so long." "much obliged," muttered dreer, not very graciously. "i'll get square with that ugly pup, though, thayer. you hear what i tell you!" "oh, call it off," replied clint cheerfully. "you each had a whack. what more do you want? so long, dreer." "long," murmured the other, closing his eyes. "tell him to--look out--thayer." clint's first impulse was to seek penny, but before he reached the door of number 13 the strains of the fiddle began to be heard and clint, with a shrug and a smile, sought his own room. he spread his books on the table, resolved to do a half-hour's stuffing before supper. but his thoughts wandered far from lessons. the scrap in the corridor, penny's unexpected ferocity, the afternoon's practice, the folks at home, all these subjects and many others engaged his mind. beyond the wall on one side penny was scraping busily on his violin. in the pauses between exercises clint could hear harmon dreer moving about behind the locked door that separated numbers 14 and 15. then the door from the well swung open, footsteps crossed the hall and amy appeared, racket in hand. after that there was no more chance of study, for clint had to tell of the fracas between penny and dreer while amy, stretched in the morris chair, listened interestedly. when clint ended amy whistled softly and expressively. "think of old penny durkin scrapping like that!" he said. then, with a smile, he added regretfully: "wish i'd seen it! handed him a regular knock-out, eh? what do you know about that? guess i'll go in and shake hands with him!" "dreer?" asked clint innocently. "dreer! yah! penny. someone ought to thank him on behalf of the school. who was the kid? charlie melville?" "i didn't hear his first name," replied clint, nodding. "he's a young rotter. dare say he deserved what dreer was giving him, although i don't believe in arm-twisting. dreer ought to have spanked him." "then you don't think penny had any right to interfere?" "don't i? you bet i do! anyone has a right to interfere with harmon dreer. anyone who hands him a jolt is a public benefactor." "i fear you're a trifle biased," laughed clint. "whatever that is, i am," responded amy cheerfully. "what was melville doing to arouse the gentleman's wrath?" "i didn't hear the details. dreer assured me twice that he was going to get even with penny, though." "piffle! he hasn't enough grit! penny should worry! say, what are you making faces about?" "i--it's my knee. i got a whack on it and it sort of hurts when i bend it." "why didn't you get it rubbed, you silly chump. let's see it." "oh, it's nothing. it'll be all right tomorrow." "let--me--see--it!" commanded amy sternly. "well, i'd say you did whack it! stretch out there and i'll rub it. oh, shut up! i've rubbed more knees than--than a centipede ever saw! besides, it won't do to have you laid up, clint, old scout. think of what it would mean to the second team--and the school--and the nation! i shudder to contemplate it. that where it is? i thought so from your facial contortions. lie still, can't you? how do you suppose i can--rub if--you--twist like--that?" "don't be so--so plaguey enthusiastic!" gasped clint. "nonsense! grin and bear it. think what it would mean if you were lost to the team!" "oh, dry up," grumbled clint. "how did you get on with your silly tennis today?" "all right. we'll finish up tomorrow, i guess. i play kennard in the morning. he's a snap." "why don't you pick out someone who can play? don't win the tournament too easily, amy. they'll get onto you." "that's so, but i can't afford to take any chances. there you are! now you're all right. up, guards, and at them!" "i'm not a guard; i'm a tackle," corrected clint as he experimentally bent his knee up and down. "it does feel better, amy. thanks." "of course it does. i'm a fine little massewer. let's go and eat." but the next morning that knee was stiff and painful and although amy again administered to it, it was all clint could do to hobble to wendell for breakfast. "boots" sternly demanded an immediate examination and an hour later clint was bandaged about his knee like a mummy and told to keep away from practice for several days and not to use his leg more than he had to. he limped out of the physical director's room in the gymnasium with the aid of a cane which mr. conklin had donated and with a dark scowl on his face. "of all the mean luck!" he muttered disgustedly. "just when i was going well, too! now, i suppose, robbins will get my place, hang him! bet you this settles me for the rest of the season!" chapter xiii amy wins a cup in the afternoon clint hobbled down to the tennis courts to watch the final match in the tournament between amy and holt. they were hard at it when he arrived and half a hundred enthusiasts were looking on and applauding. clint didn't play tennis and thought it something of a waste of time. but today he had his eyes opened somewhat. amy was a brilliant player for his years, and holt, who was a substitute end on the varsity football team, was scarcely less accomplished. in fact, holt had secured the lead when clint reached the court and the score of the first set was 5-2 in his favour. "byrd hasn't found himself yet," volunteered a boy next to clint. "he lost two games on his service. banged the balls into the net time after time. he'll get down to work presently, though, i guess." even as clint's informant ended there came a burst of handclapping and harry westcott, who was umpiring, announced: "the games are 5--3. holt leads." amy had the service and secured two aces at once, holt returning twice into the net. then a double fault put the score 30--15. holt got the next service and lobbed. amy ran up and smashed it safe into the further corner of the court. again holt tried lobbing, and this time he got away with it, for amy drove the ball out. with the score 40--30, amy served a sizzling ball that holt failed to handle and the games were 5--4. the boy beside clint chuckled. "he's getting down to work now," he said. but amy's hope of making it five--all died quickly. holt won on his first service and although amy returned the next he missed the back line by an inch. holt doubled and the score was 30--15. amy tried to draw holt to the net and pass him across court, but holt secured applause by a difficult back-hand return that just trickled over the net and left amy standing. the set ended a minute later when amy drove the service squarely into the net. "holt wins the first set," proclaimed westcott, "six games to four." the adversaries changed courts and the second set started. again amy won on his service and again lost on holt's. there were several good rallies and amy secured a round of hearty applause by a long chase down the court and a high back-hand lob that holt failed to get. amy was playing more carefully now, using easier strokes and paying more attention to placing. but holt was a hard man to fool, and time and again amy's efforts to put the ball out of his reach failed. the set worked back and forth to 4-all, with little apparent favor to either side. then amy suddenly dropped his caution and let himself out with a vengeance. the ninth game went to forty-love before holt succeeded in handling one of the sizzling serves that amy put across. then he returned to the back of the court and amy banged the ball into the net. a double fault brought the score to 40-30, but on the next serve amy again skimmed one over that holt failed with and the games were 5-4. "i hope he gets this," murmured clint. "hope he doesn't," replied his neighbour. "i want to see a deuce set." so, apparently, did holt, but he was too anxious and his serves broke high and amy killed two at the start. then came a rally with both boys racing up and down the court like mad and the white ball dodging back and forth over the net from one side to the other. holt finally secured the ace by dropping the ball just over the canvas. amy, although he ran hard and reached the ball, failed to play it. another serve was returned low and hard to the left of the court, came back in a high lob almost to the back line, sailed again across the canvas with barely an inch to spare and finally landed in the net. holt looked worried then. if he lost the next ace he would have lost the set. so he tried to serve one that would settle the matter, but only banged it into the net. the next one amy had no trouble with and sped it back along the side line to the corner. but holt was there and got it nicely and again lobbed. amy awaited with poised racket and holt scurried to the rear of the court. then down came amy's racket and the ball sailed across almost to the back line and bounded high, and although holt jumped for it, he missed it and it lodged hard and fast in the back net. "byrd wins the set, 6--4! the score is one set each!" amy, passing the end of the net to change court, stopped a moment in front of clint. "how's the knee?" he asked. "rotten, thanks. say, i thought you said you weren't taking chances, amy." amy grinned and doubling up the towel with which he had been wiping his face and hands let it drive. clint caught it and draped it over his knees. "go on and take your beating," he taunted. but it was quite a different amy who started in on that third and deciding set. holt never had a real chance after the first two games. amy took them both, the first 50-0 on his service and the second 30-50 on holt's. after that amy found himself and played tennis that kept the gallery clapping and approving most of the time. it was only when he had run the set to 4-0 that he eased up a little and allowed holt the consolation of one game. the next went to deuce and hung there some time, but amy finally captured it. by that time holt's spirit was pretty well broken and he put up scarcely any defence in the final game and amy slammed his serves over almost unchallenged and won a love game. "game, set and match to byrd!" announced westcott above the applause. "byrd wins the school championship!" amy and holt shook hands across the net and clint, hobbling up, tossed amy the towel. "got a conundrum for you, amy," he said. "want to hear it?" "shoot!" replied amy, from behind the towel. "why are you like a great english poet?" "give it up. why, mr. johnsing, am i like a great english poet?" "because," replied clint, edging away, "you surely can play tennis, son!" "play ten--oh! help! officer, arrest this man!" "huh," said clint, "that's a better joke than you ever sprung. where are you going?" "to get that nice pewter mug over there and then to the gym for a shower. come along and then i'll go over with you and watch that wonderful team of yours bite holes in the turf." some of the fellows who remained demanded a speech when amy accepted the trophy from westcott. "fellow-citizens," responded amy, "i can only say that this is the proudest moment of my young and blameless life. thank you, one and all. where's the flannel stocking that goes with this, harry?" the bag couldn't be found, however, and amy bore away his prize without it. they paused at a neighbouring court to watch for a moment a white-clad quartette of boys who were battling for the doubles championship. "semi-final round," explained amy. "the winners meet scannel and boynton tomorrow. it'll be a good match. what's the score, hal?" [illustration: "funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled clint] "brooks and chase have won one set and they're three--love on this, amy," replied the boy addressed. "thought so," said amy. "i picked them to meet scannel and boynton. and i'll bet they beat 'em, too." "why didn't you enter the doubles?" asked clint. "oh, i had enough to do looking after the thing," replied amy, "and getting through the singles." clint smiled. "i reckon the real reason was that you didn't want to hog the show and take both prizes, eh?" "no fear of that, i guess," answered the other evasively. "aren't you coming over to the gym with me?" "i'll wait for you over yonder," said clint. "conklin says i mustn't use this leg very much. hurry up and come back. i'll be on the stand over there." the second was still practising when clint reached the seats, some of them tackling the dummy in the corner of the field and others, backs and ends these, catching punts. over on their own gridiron the 'varsity was hard at it, the two squads trotting and charging about under the shrill commands of marvin and carmine. presently the rattle and bump of the dummy ceased and the tackling squad returned to the gridiron and "boots" cleared the field for signal work. the backs and ends came panting to the bench, and captain turner, spying clint in solitary grandeur, walked over to the foot of the stand. "how's the knee, thayer?" he asked anxiously. "much better, thanks," replied clint, more optimistically than truthfully. turner nodded. "that's good," he said approvingly. "go easy with it, old man, and don't take chances. conklin says it's only a bruise, but knees are funny things. you don't want to get water on it. we need you too much, thayer. come on down to the bench." "thanks, but i'm waiting for byrd. did conklin say how long i'd be out?" "no, but you needn't worry, i guess. a couple of days more will put you all right." turner nodded and hurried back to where "boots" was making the line-up. when the squad took the field clint saw that cupples had taken his place at right tackle and that robbins was at left. this, he reflected with some satisfaction, was doubtless because robbins was not quite so good as he, clint, and the left of the 'varsity line was the strongest. hinton's piping voice sang the signals and the squad, followed by the substitutes, began its journeys up and down the gridiron. amy joined clint presently, still lugging his pewter trophy, and the two boys leaned back against the seat behind them and looked on. clint, when the squad was near enough for him to hear the signal, translated for amy's benefit, as: "right half outside of left guard. watch it!" or "here's a forward to turner, amy. there he goes! missed it, though. that was a punk throw of martin's." "it's all well enough for you fellows to pretend that you know what's going to happen when the quarter-back shouts a lot of numbers to you," observed amy, hugging his knees and exposing a startling view of crushed-raspberry socks, "but i'm too old a bird--no pun intended this time--to be caught. besides, i played once for a couple of weeks, and i know that signals didn't mean anything to me." "funny you didn't make a success of it!" chuckled clint. "the quarter-back just bawls out whatever comes into his head and then he tosses the ball to whichever chap looks as if he was wide enough awake to catch it and that chap makes a break at the line wherever he happens to think he can get through," continued amy convincedly. "all this stuff about signals is rot. now we'll see. where's this play going?" clint listened to the signal. "full-back straight ahead through centre," he said. "what did i tell you?" amy turned in triumph. clint laughed. "otis got the signal wrong," he explained, "and crossed in front of martin." "oh, certainly! yes, indeed!" agreed amy with deep sarcasm. "honest, clint, i think you really believe that stuff!" "i have to," grunted clint. "here it goes right this time." the signal was repeated and martin dashed forward, took the pigskin at a hand-pass and went through the centre. amy grunted. "you just happened to guess it," he said. "where are they going?" "over to scrimmage with the 'varsity. come along." "would you?" asked amy doubtfully. "somehow i hate to see the 'varsity trampled on and defeated, clint. would you mind asking 'boots' to be merciful today! tell him you've got a friend with you who's soft-hearted and hates the sight of blood." amy made himself particularly objectionable during the ensuing half-hour. the 'varsity was in fine fettle today and ripped the second team wide open for three scores in the two periods played. amy pretended to think that every 'varsity success was a second team victory. "there, that 'varsity fellow has taken the ball across the line, clint! isn't that great? how much does that count for the second? six, doesn't it? my, but your team is certainly playing wonderful football, chum. what i don't understand, though, is the--the appearance of satisfaction displayed by the 'varsity, clint. why is that? carmine is patting kendall on the back just as if he had done something fine! i suppose, though, that they're so used to being defeated that they can pretend they're pleased! let me see, that makes the score 13 to for the second, eh?" "oh, dry up!" laughed clint. "the 'varsity's having one of its good days, that's all, and we're playing pretty rotten. we have to let them win once in a while. if we didn't they might not play with us. there goes st. clair in for still." "i hear that still is fairly punk this fall," said amy. "too bad, too, for he was a dandy man last year. he had some sort of sickness in the summer, freer tells me. still never said anything about it for fear he'd lose his place." "that so? i'm sorry for still, for he's a nice chap, but that st. clair is surely a wonder, amy. he hasn't any weight to speak of, but he's the fastest backfield man they've got, with the exception of marvin, maybe." "well, i don't know much about the game," said amy, "but it seems to me that carmine is a better quarter than marvin. he seems to have more ginger, don't you think?" "perhaps, but marvin's a steadier fellow. more dependable. handles punts a heap better. knows a lot more football than carmine. i like the way carmine hustles his team, though. i reckon marvin will have to get a hump on him or he'll be losing his job." "which is the fellow who has your place, clint?" "the tall fellow on this end; just pulling his head-guard down; see him?" "yes. how is he doing?" "mighty well, i'd say," responded clint ruefully. "he's playing better than i've ever seen him play all fall. there he goes now! let's see if he gets under the ball." martin had punted, a long, high corkscrew that "hung" well and then came down with a rush toward the waiting arms of kendall. captain turner had got away with robbins at his heels, but lee, the other end, had been sent sprawling by edwards, of the 'varsity, and cupples, playing right tackle, was far behind the kick. carmine dived at turner as the ball settled into kendall's arms, and brought him down, and robbins threw himself at the runner. but kendall leaped aside, spinning on a heel, and robbins missed him badly. it was a second team forward who finally stopped kendall after the latter had raced across four white lines. amy observed clint severely. "why that unholy smirk on your face?" he asked. "i wasn't," denied clint. "you was! it pleased you to see robbins miss the tackle, and you needn't deny it. i'm surprised at you, clint! surprised and pained. you should feel sorry for the poor dub, don't you know that?" "yes, i know it," replied clint. "well, are you?" "i am not!" "neither am i," said amy, with a chuckle. "i hope he misses 'em all and bites his tongue!" a few minutes later the second again covered itself with glory, according to amy, when harris of the 'varsity skirted its left end and romped across the goal line for a third touchdown. amy applauded with glee and thumped clint on the shoulder. "bully for our side, clint!" he gloated. "we've gone and made the 'varsity score another touchdown for us! oh, but we're the snappy little heroes, what? let's see if jack can kick a goal and give us another point. now then! there we go! did he or didn't he?" "he did," replied clint gloomily. "fine! that puts the second 20 to 0, eh? say, you've got a team there to be proud of, old top! never again will i cast aspersions on it, or--what's up? why the--the exodus?" "they're through. come on home." "couldn't stand the punishment any longer, eh?" asked amy cheerfully. "ah, poor, disgraced, downtrodden 'varsity! my heart bleeds for them, clint! i could sit me down and weep--" "you'll weep all right if you don't shut up!" declared clint savagely. "and don't walk so fast. i've got a bum knee." halfway to torrence amy stopped suddenly and clasped a hand to his forehead. "woe is me!" he declaimed. "what is it?" asked clint impatiently. "i've left my pretty little trophy behind. i'll have to beat it back, clint, and rescue it. can't you picture the poor little thing sitting there all alone in pathetic solitude, forlorn and deserted?" "i'll bet no one would steal it," said clint unkindly. "perhaps not, perhaps not, but suppose it rained, clint, and it's little insides got full of water! i mustn't risk it. farewell!" amy didn't get back to the room until half an hour later, but he had his precious tennis trophy, and explained as he placed it on top his chiffonier and stood off to view the effect, that he had stopped at the courts to learn the results and afterwards at main hall to get mail. "brooks and chase won two straight," he said, "just as i expected they would. what did i do with that score-sheet, by the way? oh, here it is." he drew it from an inner pocket of his jacket, and with it a blue envelope which fell to the floor. he picked it up, with a chuckle. "look at this, clint. i found it in the mail and nearly had heart disease. too well do i know those blue envelopes and josh's copper-plate writing! catch it. i tried to think of something i'd done, and couldn't, and then i opened it and found that thing!" clint drew a sheet of paper from the blue envelope. on it was pasted a short newspaper clipping and above the clipping was written in the principal's minute writing: "thought you'd like to see this. j.l.f." clint read the clipping: "wharton, oct. 24--the stamford police yesterday took into custody james phee and william curtin, charged with numerous burglaries throughout the state within the past month, among them that of black and wiggin's jewelry store in this city a fortnight ago. the suspected men were trying to dispose of a small roadster automobile when arrested and their willingness to part with it at a ridiculously low figure placed them under suspicion. this car is presumably the one with which they operated and successfully escaped arrest for so long. the stamford police are trying to find the real owner of the car. it is believed that the two men got away with at least four thousand dollars' worth of goods of various kinds during their recent campaign, of which none has been recovered except that stolen from black and wiggin. in that case almost a thousand dollars' worth of jewelry which the burglars secured by blowing the safe was discovered the following day buried in the ground on property belonging to thomas fairleigh about four miles from town, a piece of detective work reflecting great credit on chief carey." "i notice," commented clint with a smile, "that no credit is given to amory byrd and clinton thayer for their share in the discovery." "i should say not! maybe it's just as well, though. newspaper notoriety is most unpleasant, clint. besides, we didn't do so badly!" amy pulled out his gold watch and frowned at it intently. "it's an awful exact sort of a thing, though. it hasn't lost or gained a second in two weeks. i'm not sure that i approve of a watch with so little--er--sense of humour!" chapter xiv the team takes revenge clint's knee remained painful for more than a week, during which time he took no part in practice except, at "boots'" direction, to watch from the bench and, later, to follow the squad during signal work. meanwhile the obnoxious robbins--who was in reality a very decent fellow and one whom clint could have liked had they not been rivals--was performing quite satisfactorily without displaying any remarkable brilliance. coach robey made two changes in the line-up of the 'varsity on thursday of that week in preparation for the game with chambers tech. st. clair went in at left half-back, vice still, and blaisdell ousted churchill at left guard. the chambers contest was one which brimfield wanted very much to win. last year chambers had thoroughly humiliated the maroon-and-grey, winning 30--9 in a contest which reflected little credit on the loser. brimfield had been caught in the middle of a bad slump on that occasion. this year, however, no slump was apparent as yet and the school thirsted for and expected a victory decisive enough to wipe out the stigma of last fall's defeat. the game was to be played at brimfield, a fact which was counted on to aid the home team. the school displayed far more interest in saturday's game than in any other on the schedule except, of course, the final conflict with claflin, and displayed a confidence rather out of proportion to the probabilities. for chambers had played six games so far this fall, to brimfield's five, and had won five of them and tied the other, a record superior to the maroon-and-grey's. there was no practice that afternoon for the second and so clint witnessed the chambers game from the grand-stand in company with amy and bob chase. chase was a sixth form fellow, long, loose-jointed and somewhat taciturn. he with his partner, brooks, had won the doubles in the tennis tournament a few days previously. before the game was more than five minutes old he had surprised clint with the intimate knowledge he displayed of football. possibly amy discerned his chum's surprise; for he said: "i forgot to tell you, clint, that bob is the fellow who invented the modern game of american football, he and walter camp together, that is. and i've always suspected that bob gives camp too much credit, at that!" "i played four years," said chase quietly, "and was crazy about it. but i got a broken collar-bone one day and my folks were scared and asked me to give it up. so i did." clint pondered that. he wondered if he would be so complaisant if his parents made a like request, and greatly feared he wouldn't. "you must have hated to do it," he said admiringly. chase nodded. "i did. but i argued it like this. dad was paying a lot of good money for my education, and he hasn't very much of it, either, and if he didn't want to risk the investment i hadn't any right to ask him to. because, of course, if i went and busted myself up i'd be more or less of a dead loss. any amount of education doesn't cut much figure if you can't make use of it." "n-no, but--fellows don't get really hurt very often," replied clint. "not often, but there was no way of proving to dad's satisfaction that i mightn't, you see. and then, once when we went to a summer resort down in maine there was a chap there, a great, big six-footer of a fellow, who used to be wheeled around on a reclining chair. he'd got his in football. and that rather scared me, i guess. not so much on my account as on dad's. i knew he'd be pretty well disappointed if he paid for my school and college courses and in return got only an invalid in a wheel-chair." "so, very wisely," said amy, "you dropped football and took up a gentleman's game?" "well, i'd always liked tennis," conceded chase. "funny thing, though, that, after all, i got hurt worse in tennis than i did in four years of football." clint looked curious and chase went on. "i was playing in a doubles tournament at home summer before last and my partner and i hadn't worked together before and there was a high one to the back of the court and we both made for it. i got the ball and he got me; on the back of the head with his full force. i dropped and they had me in bed three weeks. concussion, they called it. i thought so too." clint glanced reflectively at his knee. "i reckon a fellow does take chances in football," he murmured. "i'd hate to give it up, though." "i have an uncle," said chase, "who used to play football a long time ago, when he was in college. in those days about everything went, i guess. he told me once that he used to be scared to death every time he started in a hard game for fear he'd get badly injured. said it wasn't until someone had jabbed him in the nose or 'chinned' him that he forgot to be scared." "i know the feeling," observed amy. "once when i was playing a chap jumped on me when i was down and dug his knee into my chest till i thought he'd caved me in. i was so mad i tried to bite his ankle!" "he had a narrow escape from hydrophobia, didn't he?" mused clint. the first two periods of the chambers game aroused little interest. both teams played listlessly, much, as amy put it, as if they were waiting for the noon whistle. there was a good deal of punting and both sides handled the ball cleanly. neither team was able to make consistent gains at rushing and the two periods passed without an exciting incident. amy was frankly bored and offered to play chase a couple of sets of tennis. chase, however, chose to see the game through. "they'll wake up in the next quarter," he predicted. "they've both been feeling the other fellow out. you'll see that our fellows will start in and try to rush the ends when they come back. after they've spread chambers' line a bit they'll hammer the guards, i guess. i think chambers will try to punt into scoring distance and then let loose." "a score in each period will be the best either side will do, i reckon," said clint. but chase shook his head. "i don't think so," he said. "maybe there won't be any scoring in the third period, but you'll find that the fur will fly in the last. only thing is, i don't know whose fur it will be!" "well, i'll be glad to see some action," remarked amy, yawning. "compared to tennis this game is a regular 'cold water sit-around'!" "what's that?" laughed clint. "oh, that's a party where you don't get anything but a glass of water in the way of refreshments, and you sit around in a circle and tell stories." "i reckon you're a big hit at those parties," said clint. "when it comes to telling stories--" but the rest of clint's remark was drowned by the cheer that went up as the maroon-and-grey trotted back around the corner of the grand-stand. a moment later chambers returned from her seclusion and her warriors dropped their grey-blue blankets and began to run up and down to stretch their muscles. chase watched approvingly. "an awfully fit-looking lot," he said. "i like them rangey, don't you, thayer?" "yes, i think so. they do look good, don't they? they must average older than our fellows." "at least a year, i'd say. not much 'beef' on any of them. hello, robey's sending tyler in at right tackle! wonder why. trow wasn't hurt, was he?" "hurt!" scoffed amy. "how the dickens could anyone get hurt? he probably fell asleep in the gym and they didn't like to wake him!" "carmine's gone in for marvin," said clint. "that means that robey wants things shaken up a bit. marvin's a good, sure player, but he lacks punch, thayer." "i know. he doesn't seem to be able to get the speed out of the fellows that carmine does." it was chambers' kick-off and the ball travelled to the five-yard line. carmine let it bound out, touched it back and the teams went back to the twenty. carmine showed his ginger at once. his shrill voice barked out the signals impatiently and kendall set off around his own left end. the two teams raced across the field, kendall searching for an opportunity to cut in and finding none until he was almost at the side line. then he twisted ahead for a scant three yards and brimfield cheered. another try at the same end netted two yards more, and then harris faked a punt and shot the ball to edwards, who was downed for no gain although he made the catch. harris punted to chambers' forty yards and edwards got the runner neatly. chambers smashed through hall for two, through tyler for two more and punted on third down. kendall caught near the edge of the field and ran back twelve yards before he was forced out near his twenty-five. a yard gain on the short side put the runner over the line and the ball was brought in. st. clair tried right tackle for no gain and kendall made four outside the same opponent. harris punted high and short and chambers made a fair catch on her forty-two yards. a fake attack on the left of the line fooled the brimfield backs and chambers came around the right end for seven yards. she made her distance in two more tries and placed the ball in brimfield territory. but a smash at the centre was hurled back and on the next play she was caught holding and penalised. a forward pass grounded and chambers punted to brimfield's twenty where carmine caught and dodged back for fifteen behind excellent interference. "that," commented thayer, "was real football. now, then, brimfield, show 'em what!" end attacks, diversified by feints at the line, took the pigskin to chambers' forty-four yards, and the maroon-and-grey supports were cheering loudly. then fate interposed and carmine fumbled, a chambers forward falling on the ball. "that's the trouble with carmine," grumbled clint. "he fumbles too plaguey much." brimfield was over-anxious and roberts was caught off-side. chambers worked a double-pass and made six around roberts' end. two attacks on tyler gave the visitor the other four and made it first down on brimfield's forty-yard line. again the home team was set back for being off-side. chambers came through right guard for three and worked edwards' end for four more. with seven to go, a forward pass was tried and succeeded for enough to make the distance. things were waking up now with a vengeance and amy was no longer demanding action. instead, he was shuffling around on the edge of his seat, watching events breathlessly. chambers was down to her opponents' twenty-four yards now, almost under the shadow of the goal and a place-kick would score once out of twice. but chambers didn't want the mere three points to be gained by the overhead route. instead, suddenly displaying a ferocity of attack never once hinted at in the first half of the contest, she hurled her fast backs at the brimfield wings and bored through twice for two-yard gains. then a fake forward-pass deceived the defenders and the chambers full-back broke through past innes and blaisdell for a full six yards and another first down. there seemed no stopping her then. carmine was scolding shrilly and captain innes was hoarsely imploring the line to "get low and slam 'em back!" with only fourteen yards between her and the last white line, chambers played like wildcats. a half fumbled behind the line, but the quarter recovered the ball and actually squirmed ahead for a yard before he could be stopped. another attack on tyler netted three yards more. "hold 'em, brimfield! hold 'em! hold 'em! hold 'em!" chanted the grand-stand. clint was scowling ferociously and gripping his hands hard between his knees. amy was patting his feet on the boards. chase was studying the situation intently, outwardly quite unaffected by the crisis. "someone," he observed, "is making a mistake there. they'll never get six yards by plugging the line. why don't they make brimfield open out?" but evidently chambers thought she could conquer by massing her attack, for once more she hurled her backs at the centre, and once more the maroon-and-grey yielded. but the gain was less than two yards and only one down remained. "fourth down and about four to go!" cried the referee. chambers changed her plans then, strung her backs out along her line and shifted to the left. "here comes a trick," muttered clint. "i doubt it," responded chase. "it looks like it, and it's meant to, but i guess when it comes it'll be a straight line-buck with that careless-looking full-back carrying the ball. i hope innes sizes it up the way i do, for--" "watch this!" innes shouted. "watch the ball! look out for a forward! come in here, kendall! throw 'em back, fellows!" the chambers quarter shouted his signals, the ball went to him, the two half-backs shot away to the left, the full-back plunged ahead, took the ball and struck hard, head down, at the left of centre. but brimfield had not been fooled. blaisdell wavered, but the secondary defence piled up behind him. the full-back stopped, struggled ahead, stopped again and then came staggering back, half the brimfield team about him. the whistle piped, and-"brimfield's ball!" cried the referee. "first down right here!" he waved the linemen toward the chambers goal and the grand-stand burst into a peal of triumph. amy clapped clint on the knee--fortunately it was not the injured one!--and cried: "some team, clint! say, they play almost as well as the second, eh?" and clint, laughing delightedly, acknowledged that they did--almost! harris, well behind his own goal line, punted to safety, a long and high corkscrew that brought another roar of delight from the home team supporters and settled into the arms of a chambers back near the forty-yard line. two tries at the left wing and the whistle shrilled the end of the third period and the teams changed goals. "bet you it'll be a stand-off," said amy. "don't want to take your money," replied chase, with a smile. "who will score, then?" "brimfield for certain, chambers perhaps. if chambers scores it'll be from the field. she's killed herself." and chase's prophecy proved fairly correct. chambers had shot her bolt. brimfield secured the ball by inches on a fourth down near the middle of the field and her first desperate attack, a skin-tackle play with st. clair carrying the pigskin, piled through for nearly ten yards, proving that chambers was no longer invulnerable. carmine, still in control, called for more speed and still more. the maroon-and-grey warriors fairly dashed to their positions after a play. chambers called time for an injured guard and substituted two new linesmen. kendall and harris were poked through left tackle for good gains and st. clair got away around left end and was not stopped until he had placed the ball on the twenty-three. a fake kick worked for a short gain through centre, carmine carried the pigskin around left tackle for three, harris hurled himself through the rapidly weakening centre for four more and on the next play netted the distance and a yard to spare. the grand-stand had well-nigh emptied itself, the spectators hurrying along the side line toward the chambers goal. amy and clint and chase squirmed to the front of the crowd where tracey black was wildly imploring the fellows to "keep back of the line, please! don't get on the field, fellows!" chambers put in a new left half and coach robey sent gafferty in for hall. the latter had been pretty badly treated in the third quarter. the pigskin was on the chambers twelve yards now and carmine and captain innes went back and put their heads together. then harris joined them and the crowd along the edge of the field set up a demand for a touchdown. "we don't want a field-goal, innes! we want a touchdown! give us a touchdown! touchdown! touchdown!" but jack innes apparently thought a field-goal with its accompanying three points was sufficient to try for, for harris walked slowly back to kicking position and spread his long arms out. but no one expected a try-at-goal on first down and there was none. harris got the ball, made believe hurl it to the left, turned and raced to the right. kendall and carmine bowled over an opponent apiece and harris ducked through and was pulled down on the six yards, while some seven score excited youths danced along the side line and howled gleefully. again harris went back, but this time it was carmine himself who sought a breach in the opponent's defence and was finally upset without gain. it was third down now, with four to go. the ball was well to the right of the goal, but harris had done harder angles than that in his time, and hardly anyone there doubted that he would manage to land the ball across the bar. for there was hardly a question but that brimfield was to try a field-goal this time. she weakened her end defence to provide protection to the kicker, both kendall and roberts playing well in and leaving the opposing ends unchallenged. but if harris was capable of dropping the ball over from that angle he failed to do it on this occasion. back near the eighteen yards he waited, while carmine piped the signal, arms outstretched. chambers feinted and danced in her eagerness to pile through. then back went the ball, waist-high, and harris caught it and turned it carefully. the enemy thrust and struggled. an eager left end came around and went to earth before roberts. confusion reigned supreme for a long moment. then the unexpected happened. harris swung his leg, but he didn't drop the ball to it. instead he turned quickly, tossed it a running figure which had suddenly detached itself from the offence and threw himself in the path of a reaching chambers forward. off to right shot the runner with the ball. cries, frantic gasps from chambers! a sudden scuttling to the left to head off the attack! but the chambers left wing had been neatly drawn in and steve edwards had nearly a clear field in front of him when, ten yards from the side line, he saw his chance and dodging behind st. clair and eluding the chambers right half-back, he fairly romped across the line! "that," shouted amy, whacking chase on the back, "is what is called strategy! get me? strategy!" three minutes later jack innes had kicked goal and turned the six to a seven. and five minutes later still the game came to an end with brimfield once more pounding at chambers' door. it was generally conceded that if the contest had lasted another minute brimfield would have added another score. chapter xv a broken fiddle brimfield trooped back across the field to the row noisily triumphant. two hours before had anyone suggested that it would be satisfied with anything less than three scores it would have derided the notion. now however it was not only satisfied but elated. those seven points looked large and noble, and the home team's victory was viewed as a masterful triumph. chambers was credited with having put up a fine fight, with having a more than ordinarily powerful team, and there were some who even went so far as to declare that claflin would show no better football than today's visitors had shown. but that was doubtless an exaggeration, and those who made it had probably forgotten those first two periods in which both teams played very ordinary football indeed. a fair analysis of the game would have shown that the two elevens, while playing somewhat different styles of football, had been very evenly matched in ability and condition, that both had been weak on defence and that neither had proved itself the possessor of an attack which could be depended on to gain consistently. what both teams had shown was a do-or-die spirit which, while extremely commendable, would not have availed against a well-rounded eleven evenly developed as to attack and defence. in other words, both brimfield and chambers had shown fine possibilities, but neither was yet by any means a remarkable team. in some ways the visitors had outplayed brimfield. chambers' attack, especially between the twenty-five-yard lines, had been far more varied and effective. her line, from tackle to tackle, had been stronger than her opponent's. brimfield had been especially weak at the left of centre, and a rã©sumã© of the game showed that chambers had made two-thirds of her line gains through blaisdell and saunders. churchill, who had replaced blaisdell in the second half, had shown up no better on defence. at the ends brimfield had held her own, while her backs had shown up superior to chambers'. chambers had outpunted brimfield an average of five yards at a kick and had placed her punts to better advantage. in generalship both teams had erred frequently and there was little to choose between them. but all this had no present effect on brimfield's jubilation, and the school acted as if a most notable victory had been won. when the 'varsity team came in to supper that night it received an ovation hardly second in enthusiasm to that usually accorded it after a victory over claflin. and perhaps, after all, the team deserved it, for when all was said and done the spirit which had been shown when they had held chambers scoreless on the four yards and again later when they had themselves worn down the defence and gained their touchdown had been of the right sort. clint filled four pages of his sunday's letter the next afternoon with a glowing and detailed account of that game, and it is to be hoped that the folks at cedar run enjoyed the perusal of it half as much as he enjoyed writing it. that evening he and amy dropped in at number 14 hensey and found a roomful of fellows in excited discussion of the game. there was a disposition on the part of some of the fellows to consider the claflin contest as good as won, but jack innes was more pessimistic. "look here," he interrupted finally, "you fellows talk like a lot of sick ducks. i'm blessed if i see what you're so cocky about. we beat chambers, all right, but we didn't any more than beat them, and we had to work like the very dickens to do it. and, what's more, we only kept chambers from scoring by the biggest piece of good luck." "oh, piffle, jack!" exclaimed still. "we had them fourth down and five to go. they couldn't have made it to save their lives!" "they only had four to go," replied jack, "and if they'd tried anything but a child's trick they'd likely have made it. the only way we got across was by springing a delayed pass on them when they were looking for a line-plunge." "bet you anything you like we could have gone straight through for that touchdown." said still. "we had the ball on their four yards and it was only third down. harris or kendall could have torn that four yards off easily." "that's your opinion," replied jack drily. "as i remember it, though, you were not on at the time. we knew mighty well we _couldn't_ get that four yards by playing the line. if you don't believe me, ask robey. the first thing he said afterwards was that he was afraid we were going to send harris at centre on that last play and that if we had we'd never have got over." "oh, well, we got it, anyway," observed tom hall cheerfully. "yes, we got it," agreed jack innes, "but i'm telling you fellows that we only just did get it, and that we've got mighty little to crow about. our forward line wasn't nearly as good as chambers'. you all know that. and you ought to know that if we went in against claflin and played the sort of football we played yesterday we'd be literally swamped!" "but, look here, jack," protested tracey black warmly, "it's only mid-season, old man. you've got to acknowledge that we're in mighty good shape for the time of year." "i'm not knocking, tracey. i'm giving all the fellows credit for what they did yesterday, but i don't want them to get the idea in their heads that all we've got to do is mark time from now until the big game. we've got to be at least twice as good then as we were yesterday. besides, i don't call it the middle of the season when we've got only three games to play before claflin. the benton game was the mid-season game. we're on the last lap now. and," he added grimly, "we've got some work ahead of us!" "for my part," observed amy, who had been rather bored by the discussion, "i think the whole bunch of you played pretty rottenly." "you do, eh?" demanded edwards. "suppose you tell us all about it, amy. give us of your wisdom, o enlightened one." "there you go," groaned tom hall, "talking the way he does!" "oh, i don't know that i care to specify which of you was the worst," replied amy carelessly. "possibly it was you, steve. you had a dandy chance once to upset the referee and you deliberately side-stepped him. if you're going to play the game, boy, _play_ it! don't dodge any of your duties or responsibilities." "oh, you be blowed," laughed edwards. "it's the sorrow of my life, amy, that you didn't keep on with football." "i dare say if i had i'd have shown you fellows a few things about it," replied amy modestly. "theoretically, i'm something of an authority on football. when you come right down to brass tacks, it's the fellow on the side line who sees most of the game. i'm considering coaching when i leave school. take my young friend clint here. clint owes a whole lot to my advice and guidance. he wouldn't be where he is today if it hadn't been for me, would you, clint?" "i'm on the bench just now," retorted clint drily. "that's where you'll stay if you listen to his ravings," said steve edwards, amidst general laughter. "by the way, how is that ankle of yours, thayer?" inquired innes. "pretty nearly all right, thanks. it's my knee, though." "oh, is it? say, churchill got a peach of a black eye yesterday. seen it!" "rather!" replied freer. "he looked positively disreputable, poor chap." "the fun of it is," chuckled hall, "that he had to address the christian association this afternoon. were you there, jack?" "yes. it wasn't so bad. he had a patch over it. still, it was sort of funny to hear him talking about clean playing!" clint was given a clear bill of health the next day and went back to practice with a silk bandage around his knee. he was given light work and sat on the bench again while the second played two twelve-minute periods against the 'varsity substitutes. it seemed to him that robbins fairly outplayed himself that afternoon, but he failed to take into consideration that his rival was pitted against substitutes or that his own state of mind was rather pessimistic. practice ended early and after a shower and a rub clint ambled across to torrence feeling rather dispirited. the dormitory seemed pretty empty and lonesome as he entered the corridor. even penny durkin's violin was silent, which was a most unusual condition of affairs for that hour of the afternoon. clint slammed his door behind him, tossed his cap in the general direction of the window-seat and flopped morosely into a chair at the table. he had plenty of work to do, but after pulling a book toward him and finding his place he slammed it shut again and pushed it distastefully away. he wished amy would come back, and looked at his watch. it was only a little after half-past four, though, and amy, who was probably playing tennis, would scarcely stop as long as he was able to distinguish the balls. perhaps it was the absence of the customary wailing of the next door violin that put penny durkin in mind. clint had never been in penny's room, nor ever said more than two dozen words to him except on the occasion of penny's encounter with harmon dreer, but just now clint wanted mightily to talk to someone and so he decided to see if penny was in. at first his knock on the door of number 13 elicited no answer, and he was turning away when a doubtful "come in" reached him from beyond the closed portal. when he entered penny was seated on the window-seat at the far end of the room doing something to his violin. "hello," he said not very graciously. then, giving the newcomer a second glance, he added: "oh, that you, thayer? i thought it was mullins. come on in." "thought maybe you were dead," said clint flippantly, "and dropped in to see." "dead!" questioned penny vaguely. "yes, i didn't hear the violin, you know." "oh, i see." there was a moment's silence. then penny said very soberly: "it isn't me that's dead; it's the violin." "something gone wrong?" asked clint, joining the other at the window and viewing the instrument solicitously. penny nodded. "i guess it's a goner," he muttered. "look here." he held the violin out for clint's inspection and the latter stared at it without seeing anything wrong until penny sadly indicated a crack which ran the full length of the brown surface. "oh, i see," said clint. "too bad. will it hurt it much?" penny viewed him in surprise. "hurt it! why, it spoils it! it'll never have the same tone, thayer. it--it's just worthless now! i was pretty"--there was a catch in penny's voice--fond of this old feller." "that is a shame," said clint sympathetically. "how'd you do it?" penny laid the violin down beside him on the window-seat and gazed at it sorrowfully a moment. finally, "i didn't do it," he answered. "i found it like that an hour ago." "then--how did it happen? i suppose they're fairly easy to bust, aren't they?" "no, they're not. whoever cracked that had to give it a pretty good blow. you can see where it was hit." "but who--was it emery, do you think?" emery was penny's room-mate, a quiet fifth form fellow who lived to stuff and who spent most of his waking hours in recitation room or school library. "he might have knocked it off, i dare say." penny shook his head. "it wasn't gus and it wasn't the chambermaid. i asked them both. besides, the violin was in its case leaning in the corner. no, somebody took it out and either struck it with something or hit it over the corner of the table. i think probably they hit it on the table." clint stared. "you mean that--that someone did it deliberately?" he gasped incredulously. "but, durkin, no one would do a thing like that!" "of course, i've got another one," said penny, "but it isn't like this. this is a moretti and cost sixty dollars twelve years ago. you can't buy them any more. moretti's dead, and he only made about three a year, and there aren't many anyhow." "but, durkin, who could have done it?" penny didn't answer; only picked up the violin tenderly and once more traced the almost imperceptible crack along the face of the mellowed wood. "you don't mean"--clint's voice dropped--don't mean dreer?" "i can't prove it on him," answered penny quietly. "but--but, oh, hang it, durkin, even dreer wouldn't do as mean a thing as that!" but even as he said it clint somehow knew that penny's suspicions were correct, and, at variance with his assertion, added wrathfully: "by jove, he ought to be thrashed!" "he said he'd get even," observed penny thoughtfully. clint sat down on the end of the window-seat and looked frowningly at penny. "what are you going to do?" he asked finally. "don't see that i can do anything except grin," was the reply. "if i charge him with it he'll deny it. no one saw him do it, i guess. he probably came in here early this afternoon. i have french at two, you know, and he probably counted on that. gus never is in, anyhow. after he did it he put it back in the case, but i knew as soon as i'd opened it that somebody had been at it because my handkerchief was underneath, and i always spread it on top. if i beat him up he'll go to josh and josh will say it was an unwarrantable attack, or something, and i'll get the dickens. i can't afford that, because i'm trying hard for a draper scholarship and can't take chances. i guess he's evened things up all right, thayer." "it's perfectly rotten!" said clint explosively. "if it was me i'd thrash him, scholarship or no scholarship! the mean pup!" "you wouldn't if it might mean losing your chance of coming back after christmas. i need that scholarship the worst way and i have a hunch that i'll get it if i don't get into trouble. i had it last year, you know. i haven't done very well with business this fall; fellows haven't seemed to want things much. no, if dreer figured out that i wouldn't go after him on account of the scholarship, he guessed about right. i'd like to"--penny's voice trembled--"to half kill him, but--i won't!" "then tell faculty, durkin. have him fired out of school. do--do something!" "no use telling faculty; i can't prove it on him. besides, i don't like the idea of playing baby. and, anyway, nothing i could do to dreer would give me my violin back the way it was. it--it had a grand tone, thayer! you've heard it!" "yes." clint had to suppress a smile. "yes, i've heard it often, durkin. it did have a good tone; nice and--and clear." "there isn't a better instrument made than a moretti," said penny sadly. "i can have it fixed so it won't show, but it won't ever be the same." he laid the violin back in the case very tenderly and spread the white silk handkerchief across the strings. "if you don't mind, thayer, i'd just as leave you didn't say much about this." "all right," agreed clint gruffly. "mind if i tell amy, though?" "oh, no, only i--i'd rather it didn't get around. some of the fellows don't like my playing, anyhow, you see, and they'd do a lot of talking." clint took his departure a minute later, after renewed regrets, and went back to his room. amy was still absent and it was not until after supper that they met. chapter xvi amy takes a hand clint told amy about penny's violin without mentioning the latter's suspicion. amy listened with darkening face and when clint had ended said: "dreer, eh? it's the sort of thing you'd expect from him. what's penny going to do?" clint explained about the scholarship and amy nodded. "i see. i guess he's right. dreer would be sure to go to josh and penny'd get what-for; and then it would be good-bye, scholarship! unless--" amy paused thoughtfully. "unless what?" "unless he could induce our friend dreer to 'fess up." "not likely!" "n-no, not very. still--well, i'm sorry for old penny." "durkin asked me not to say anything about it, amy." "so you told me?" laughed the other. "he said i might tell you. i guess he was afraid if the fellows learned of it they'd cheer!" amy chuckled. "bet they would, too! where's my dear old german dictionary?" the two boys settled down at opposite sides of the table to study. after a few minutes, clint whose thoughts still dwelt on penny's tragedy, asked: "what made you think it was dreer, amy?" "eh? oh, why, who else would it be? shut up and let me get this piffle." but a half-hour later, when clint closed his latin book and glanced across, amy was leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head and a deep frown on his forehead. "all through?" asked clint enviously. "through?" amy evidently came back with an effort. "no, i wish i were. i was--thinking." when nine o'clock sounded clint sighed with relief and closed his book. amy got up and walked to the window and threw himself on the seat. "look here," he said finally, "dreer oughtn't to be allowed to get away with that cute little stunt of his." "no, but how--" "i've been thinking." amy thrust his hands into his pockets and a slow smile spread over his face. "penny can't touch him, but that doesn't say i can't. i haven't any scholarship to lose." "but you can't go and knock dreer down for what he did to someone else," objected clint. "why can't i, if i want to?" "but--but they'd expel you or--or something." "i wonder! well, maybe they would. yes, i guess so. consequently, i'll knock him down on my own account--ostensibly, clint, ostensibly." "don't be an ass," begged the other. "you can't do that." amy doubled a capable-looking fist and viewed it thoughtfully. "i think i can," he responded grimly. "oh, you know what i mean, clint. you haven't any quarrel with dreer." "i told him that the next time he talked rot about how much better claflin is than brimfield i'd lick him. i gave him fair warning, and he knows i'll do it, too." "all right, but he hasn't said anything like that, has he?" "not that i know of, but"--amy's smile deepened--"something tells me he's going to! come on over here where i won't have to shout at you." amy patted the window-seat. "that door isn't so awfully thick, i'm thinking." clint obeyed, and for the next ten minutes amy explained and clint demurred, objected and, finally, yielded. in such manner was the plot to avenge penny durkin's wrongs hatched. two days later harmon dreer, looking for mail in main hall, came across a notice from the post office apprising him that there was a registered parcel there which would be delivered to him on presentation of this notice and satisfactory identification. harmon frowned at the slip of paper a moment, stuffed it into his pocket and sought his nine-o'clock recitation. a half-hour later, however, having nothing to do until ten, he started off toward the village. he was half-way down the drive toward the east gate before he became visible from the window of thursby's room on the front of torrence. amy, who had been seated at the window for half an hour, at once arose, crossed the hall and put his head in at the door of number 14. "got him," he announced placidly. clint, who had cut a recitation to remain within call, and had been salving his conscience by studying his french, jumped up and seized his cap. "he's about at the gate now," added clint as they hurried down the stairs. "we'll give him plenty of time, because we don't want to meet him until he's half-way back. i knew he'd bite at that registered parcel." amy chuckled. "he couldn't even wait until noon!" fifteen minutes later harmon dreer, returning from the post office, spied ahead of him, loitering in the direction of the academy, two boys of whom one looked at the distance of a block away very much like the obnoxious byrd. for choice, dreer would have avoided amy on general principles, but in this case he had no chance, for, unless he climbed a fence and took to the fields, there was no way for him to reach school without proceeding along the present road. neither was it advisable to dawdle, for he had greek at ten o'clock, it was now twelve minutes of and "uncle sim" had scant patience with tardy students. there was nothing for it but to hurry along, but the fact didn't improve his temper, which was already bad. to walk three-quarters of a mile in the expectation of getting a valuable registered parcel and then discover on opening it that it contained only two folded copies of a daily newspaper was enough to sour anyone's disposition! and that is what had happened to dreer. someone, of course, had played a silly joke on him, but he couldn't imagine who, nor did he for a moment connect byrd's appearance on the scene with the registered parcel. when he reached the two ahead he saw that one was byrd, as he had thought, and the other thayer. they were so deeply in conversation that he was almost past before they looked up. when they did dreer nodded. "hi, fellows," he murmured, without, however, decreasing his pace. "hi, dreer!" responded amy, and thayer echoed him. "say, you're just the fellow to settle this," amy continued. "settle what?" asked dreer, pausing unwillingly. "why, clint says--by the way, you know thayer, don't you?" dreer nodded and amy went on. "well, clint says that claflin played two fellows on her team last year who weren't eligible. what were their names, clint?" "ainsmith and kenney," replied clint unhesitatingly. "ainsmith!" exclaimed dreer. "kenney! say, you don't know what you're talking about, thayer!" "that's what i told him," said amy eagerly. "they were all right, weren't they? clint says that last year was their first at claflin and that they didn't have any right to play on the team." "rot! ainsmith's been at claflin two years and kenney three. where'd you get that dope, thayer?" "i heard it and i think i'm right," said clint stubbornly. "you can't be," persisted amy. "dreer went to claflin last year, and he knows, don't you, dreer?" "of course i know! besides, claflin doesn't do that sort of thing, thayer. it doesn't have to! you'd better turn over; you're on your back!" "that's what i heard," persisted clint. "you're wrong!" dreer laughed contemptuously. "whoever told you that stuff was stringing you. well, i must get a move on. i've got a ten o'clock." "but wait a minute," begged amy. "you've got time enough. let's get this settled." dreer suddenly discovered that amy was between him and the academy and that he had a detaining hand on his arm. "can't, i tell you! i'll be late! besides, there's nothing to settle. i know what i'm talking about. and if thayer doesn't believe it all he's got to do is to look in the claflin catalogue. i've got one in my room he can see any time he wants to." "sure, i know," said amy soothingly. "i've told him you'd know all about it." amy turned to clint impatiently. "dreer went to claflin--how many years was it? two, dreer?" "yes; that is, one and a half. i left in the winter." "of course. well, don't you see, clint, he'd ought to know what he's talking about?" "maybe he ought," replied clint rudely, "but i don't believe he does. he says claflin doesn't do that kind of thing. if it's such a fine school why didn't he stay there?" "you bet it's a fine school!" returned dreer heatedly. "it's the best there is!" "oh, piffle," sneered clint. "better than brimfield, i suppose?" "better than--say, you make me laugh! there isn't any comparison. claflin's got it all over this hole every way you look!" dreer paused suddenly and cast a doubtful look at amy. but for once amy seemed unconcerned by such sentiment. his smile even seemed approving! dreer warmed to his subject. "of course, you fellows haven't been anywhere else and think brimfield's quite a school. that's all right. but i happen to have gone to claflin and i know the difference between a real school and a second-rate imitation like this! brimfield's a regular hole, fellows, believe me! gee, i must get on!" "i wouldn't hurry," said amy. something in his tone caught dreer's attention and he glanced around apprehensively to find amy removing his coat. "wha--what do you mean, you wouldn't hurry?" he asked uneasily. amy hung his coat on a paling and placed his cap on top. then he tugged his belt in another hole. and all the time he smiled quite pleasantly. dreer moved backward toward the curb, but found clint barring his way. his anxious gaze searched the road for help, but in each direction it was empty. he laughed nervously. "what's the joke?" he asked. "no joke at all, dreer," replied amy. "i gave you fair warning that the next time you ran down the school i'd beat you. if i were you, dreer, i'd take off my coat." "you dare touch me and it'll be mighty bad for you, byrd! i'm not going to fight you, and you can't make me." "suit yourself about that," replied amy, stepping toward him. dreer thought of flight, but it looked hopeless. besides, a remnant of pride counselled him to bluster it out rather than run away. he laughed, not very successfully. "two against one, eh? wait till fellows hear about it! you won't dare show your faces, you two thugs!" again his gaze travelled along the empty, sunlit road. "anyway, i didn't say anything i didn't have a right to say. you asked me what i thought and i told you. you--you made me say it!" "i did, dreer!" amy shook his head gently. "think again. surely, i didn't do that?" "well, he did," faltered dreer. "and you put him up to it, i'll bet! don't you touch me, byrd!" "put your hands up!" "i won't! you're bullies! two against one isn't fair!" "thayer won't touch you. i'll attend to you alone and unaided, dreer. fair warning!" "keep away from me! you'd better! don't you--" dreer picked himself up slowly from the sidewalk. there was a frightened look in his eyes. "i don't see what you're doing this for," he half whimpered. "i haven't done anything to you." "you spoke disrespectfully of the school, dreer. i told you you mustn't. i'm terribly fond of the dear old school and it hurts me to hear it maligned. and then there's durkin's violin, dreer. perhaps you haven't heard about that." a gleam of comprehension flashed in the boy's face and he backed up against the fence. "i don't know anything about any violin," he muttered. "of course you don't, dreer," replied amy cheerfully. "i'm just telling you about it. someone went into his room day before yesterday and smashed it. isn't that a shame? _you_ wouldn't do a thing like that, would you?" "i didn't!" whined dreer. "you haven't any right to blame me for it!" "who's blaming you for it? perish the thought, dreer! i'm just telling you about it." "then you let me go, byrd! i didn't hurt his old fiddle!" "tut, tut! you mustn't think i'm knocking you around on account of that. oh dear, no! i wouldn't have any right to do that, dreer. what i'm doing is punishing you for speaking disrespectfully of our dear old alma mater. look out for your face, dreer!" dreer put up a half-hearted defence then, and for a moment the two boys circled about on the dusty sidewalk, dreer pale and plainly scared, amy smiling and deliberate. then came a feint at dreer's body, a lowering of his guard and a quick out-thrust of amy's left fist. the blow landed on dreer's cheek and he went staggering backward against the palings. he was too frightened to cry out. with a hand pressed to his bleeding cheek, he stared dumbly at amy, trembling and panting. clint, who had watched proceedings from a few yards away, felt sorry for the boy. "that's enough, amy," he said. "he can't fight." "oh, yes, he can," returned amy sternly. "he can fight when the other fellow's smaller than he is, can't you, dreer? and he's a very skilful arm-twister, too. i haven't got him warmed up yet, that's all. we've only started, haven't we, dreer?" "you--you brute!" muttered dreer. "what do you want me to do? i--i'll do anything you say, byrd." "will you? then come away from that fence so i can knock you over again, you sneak!" "he's had enough, amy," pleaded clint. "enough? oh, no, he hasn't! when he's had enough he's going to tell us who smashed durkin's violin, aren't you, dreer? and he's going to tell us that he's been awfully mistaken in his estimate of brimfield academy, too. why, he's going to just love the dear old school before i get through with him, clint!" "i--i tell you i didn't touch his violin," cried dreer with a brief flash of defiance. "there! you see?" said amy. "his memory is still weak, clint. come away from the fence, dreer." "i won't! let me alone! you've struck me twice, byrd. that--that ought to be enough." he ended with a sniffle. "sorry," said amy, "but i've got to arouse that memory of yours. if you won't come away from there, why--" "hello, hello!" said a voice. "what's the trouble, fellows?" the three boys started. a few yards away, leaning on his cane, stood a tall man of twenty-three or four years, a mildly surprised expression on his good-looking face. chapter xvii a stranger interrupts he wore a grey flannel suit, a cap to match, and rubber-soled tan shoes. it was doubtless the latter which accounted for his unsuspected appearance on the scene. his brown eyes travelled from one to another of the little group inquiringly. "i hope i don't intrude," he observed politely. "i'm afraid you do, a bit," responded amy calmly. "they're two against one!" cried dreer shrilly. "i didn't do a thing to them! he--he knocked me down, and cut my face, and--" "easy, easy!" the stranger held up a hand. "i thought from what i saw that this gentleman was quite neutral. how about it?" he turned to clint. "yes, sir," answered the latter. "i thought so. then it's you two who are engaged in this encounter, eh? i presume it's a gentleman's affair! all fair and ship-shape?" "quite within the rules of civilised warfare, sir," assured amy with a smile. "i see. in that case don't let me detain you. proceed with the matter in hand. unless, that is, i may act as mediator? is the--the question in dispute one which is open to arbitration?" "i'm afraid not," answered amy. "the fact is, sir, this fellow has a lamentable habit of speaking disrespectfully of his school. i have warned him that i didn't like it and he persists. what i--" "it isn't that, sir!" cried dreer passionately. "he says i--i broke durkin's fiddle, and i didn't, and the rest is only an excuse to--to fight me! he hasn't any right--" "dreer!" protested amy. "i've explained, even insisted that the incident of the violin has nothing to do with this--er--salutary punishment i am inflicting. i wish you wouldn't confuse things so!" the stranger grinned. "seems to me," he said, "all that is necessary then is for the gentleman with the ensanguined cheek to withdraw whatever derogatory remarks he may have injudiciously used. what do you think?" he appealed politely to clint. "yes, sir, i--i suppose so," clint agreed. "that's so," said amy, "but he is also under treatment for lapse of memory, sir, or perhaps i should say for hesitancy of speech. i am hoping that presently he will remember who did break the violin and tell us. have we your permission to continue, sir?" "hm." the man's eyes twinkled appreciatively as he returned amy's ingenuous regard. "i see that my offer of good offices was premature. pray let the argument proceed. with your permission i'll stand by and see that everything is as it should be." dreer's amazement was ludicrous. "you--you mean you're going to let him knock me down again?" he demanded incredulously. "seems to me," replied the stranger judicially, "it's up to you whether he knocks you down. why don't you turn the tables and do the knocking down yourself? it's a beautiful morning you've chosen, gentlemen." "i won't fight, i tell you!" screamed dreer. "i'll tell fernald of this and you'll all be expelled!" "we won't worry about that yet, dreer," said amy. "come on, now. let's get through with this." "keep away from me!" dreer cried. then he appealed to the stranger. "make him let me alone, won't you, sir, please? i--i told him i'd do anything he said!" "oh, did you?" asked the man. "then hold on a bit. what is it you want him to do, you chap in the shirt-sleeves?" "i want him to acknowledge that he has been terribly mistaken about the school, for one thing." "you do acknowledge that, don't you?" asked the man. dreer nodded almost eagerly. amy viewed him doubtfully. "perhaps it would be well for him to state that he considers brimfield academy to be, to the best of his knowledge, the finest school in the world." "i--i do think so," agreed dreer sullenly. "i was just fooling." "in fact," pursued amy, "compared to claflin school, brimfield is as a gem of purest ray to a--a pebble, dreer? you are convinced of that, are you not?" "i suppose so." "only--suppose, dreer? couldn't you be absolutely certain?" "yes, i--i'm certain." "fine! now, in regard to that violin, dreer, which, you know, has nothing to do with our recent altercation. could you find it convenient to tell us who sneaked into durkin's room and cracked it?" "no, i couldn't," muttered dreer. "you see, sir?" amy appealed to the stranger. "memory still pretty bad!" "hm, yes, i see. you think--ah--" "absolutely certain, sir." "then, perhaps, a little more--treatment--" "my idea exactly, sir!" amy advanced toward dreer again, hands up. dreer looked about at the unrelenting faces, and, "i'll tell!" he cried. "i did it. durkin hit me. you were there; you saw him!" he appealed to clint. "and--and i told him i'd get even. so--so i did!" he looked defiantly about him. "i warned him." amy nodded and reached for his coat. the stranger held it for him and handed him his cap. "thank you, sir," said amy. "that's all, dreer. you may go." "i--i'll get you into trouble for this, byrd," called dreer as he moved away. "you needn't think i'm through with you, you big bully!" amy made no response. the stranger was smiling amusedly at the two boys who remained, flicking his cane in and out of the fallen leaves beside the fence. "everything quite satisfactory now?" he inquired. "yes, sir, thank you," replied amy. "you have a very direct way of getting results," continued the other. "might i inquire your name?" "byrd, sir. and this is thayer." "delighted to know you both. mind if i stroll along with you? i'm an old boy myself, byrd. used to be here some five years ago. my name, by the way, is detweiler." "oh!" said amy. "you're going to help coach, aren't you, sir?" "yes, that's what i'm here for. are you playing?" "no, but thayer is. he's on the second, that is. i hope you don't think we do this sort of thing regularly, mr. detweiler." "no, i suspected that it was something rather extra," replied the other drily. "think that he will--what's his name, by the way?" "harmon dreer." "think he will make trouble for you, byrd?" amy shrugged. "not with faculty, i guess. he wouldn't dare. he may try to get back at me some other way, though. i'm not worrying. when did you get here, sir?" "this morning, on the eight-something. went to a house in the village that george robey wrote me about and found a room, and then started out for a stroll and broke in on your innocent amusement. so far i've found the old place quite interesting!" and mr. detweiler chuckled. "hope you'll like it well enough to stay a good while, sir," said amy. "thanks. hello! there's a new hall since i was here! what do you call it?" "the last one on the left, sir? that's billings. i think it was built about three years ago." "aside from that things look about as they used to," mused the other. then he turned to clint. "so you're playing on the second, thayer? how are you getting on? what do you play?" "pretty well, sir. i play tackle. i've had a bum knee for a week or so, though." "how's the 'varsity shaping?" "very well, i'd say. we expect to lick claflin again, sir." "do, eh? that's good. football at brimfield didn't amount to a great deal when i was here, but the old school's turned out some good elevens since then. well, i'm glad to have met you chaps. some day when you've got nothing better to do look me up in the village. i'm at storer's, a little white house opposite the store and post office. awfully glad to have you. and--er--by the way, if you need evidence, byrd, in this little matter, call on me. very glad to testify to the best of my knowledge. good-bye." mr. detweiler swung off in the direction of the gymnasium and the two boys, continuing toward main hall, looked after him interestedly. "gee, he's built for work, isn't he?" mused amy. "played tackle, didn't he?" "yes, and he was a dandy. bet you he will do a lot of good here, amy." "he seems a level-headed sort," replied amy. "i liked the way he minded his own business back there. lots of men would have hopped around and got excited and said, 'boys! boys! this will never do!' he just made up his mind that everything was all right and said 'go to it!'" "i'm glad he came," acknowledged clint. "i didn't want to see dreer get any more, amy." "he needed a lot more," replied amy grimly. "personally, i was a bit sorry he fessed up so quick. i was hoping for another whack at him!" "you're a bloodthirsty kid," marvelled clint. "i am?" amy seemed surprised. "don't you believe it, clint. i'm as easy-going and soft-hearted as a suckling dove, whatever that is. only, when some low-life like dreer says this is a rotten school i don't care for it. and when he does a trick like the one he did with poor old penny's fiddle i want to fight. not, though, that you could call that little affair a fight," he added regretfully. "why, the silly chump wouldn't even guard!" "do you reckon he will tell josh?" asked clint uneasily. "no, i don't. he wouldn't care to have josh know about the violin business. what he will do is to put arsenic in our tea some day, i guess." "that's all right, then," laughed clint. "i don't drink tea." "or, maybe, he'll drop a bomb through the transom some dark night." "we'll keep it closed." "well, if i have to teach him behaviour again i won't stop so soon," said amy. "i'm not sure i don't wish he _would_ try some trick with me. i--do you know, clint, i don't think i quite like that fellow!" "honest? i'd never have suspected it," clint laughed. "say, how many cuts did you take?" "two. and there's going to be trouble. but it was worth it!" there was trouble, and amy had to visit mr. fernald the next day and explain, as best he could, why he had missed two recitations. unfortunately, amy couldn't confide to the principal the nature of the business which had interfered with his attendance at classes, and his plea of indisposition was not kindly received. still, he got off with nothing more serious than a warning, and thought himself extremely fortunate. clint, who had cut only one "recit," received merely a reprimand from "horace" and an invitation to make up the lost work. amy confided to penny that evening that he and dreer had had a misunderstanding regarding the respect due from a student to his school and that dreer had sustained a cut cheek. and penny nodded understandingly and said: "much obliged, byrd. i wish i might have seen it." "yes, it would have done you a lot of good," replied amy cheerfully. chapter xviii a raid on the second "boots" gave clint a fair chance to win back his place as first string right tackle. every day he was used for half the scrimmage and robbins for the other half. robbins worked desperately, but by friday clint had proved his superiority, though perhaps by no great margin, and robbins became second choice again. scrimmaging with the 'varsity was no mere child's play now. with only three games intervening before the claflin contest, the 'varsity coaches were allowing no grass to grow underfoot. mr. robey was now assisted by mr. detweiler and, at least five afternoons a week, some other old player. andy miller, who had captained last year's team and led it to a 6-0 victory, arrived about this time and took hold of the backs with good effect. miller remained a few days at a time and continued his visits right up to the final game. with him occasionally came hatherton williams, last year's right tackle. williams, since detweiler had the tackles in hand, confided his coaching to harris, rollins and freer and laboured hard and earnestly in an effort to improve their drop-kicking. harris was fairly good at it, but rollins was pretty poor and freer was a veritable tyro. other fellows appeared now and then and tried to be of assistance, but it is doubtful if they accomplished much good. st. clair had ousted still permanently, it appeared, although still was by no means discouraged. perhaps he had no time to be, for the substitutes were worked quite as hard as the first string fellows. coach robey had no intention of being beaten for the want of capable substitutes. there were several very pretty contests in progress for coveted positions. churchill and blaisdell were fighting hard for the left guard honour, with blaisdell in the lead, and trow and tyler were nip and tuck for right tackle. the rival quarter-backs could scarcely be said to be contesting for the position, for it was a foregone conclusion that each would be used in the claflin game. marvin was a very steady, dependable player on defence, handled punts and ran them back in better style than carmine and was never erratic. carmine, however, though weak in catching and likely to fumble at inopportune moments, had the faculty of getting more speed out of the team and inspiring it to greater effort. both were good generals and each would be called on for what he could best perform. harris was sure of his place at full-back, and the ends, edwards and roberts, were unchallenged. jack innes was a fixture at centre and hall, although he had played in hard luck this fall, was far superior to gafferty, the second-string man. at left tackle saunders held his place without question. so things stood on the saturday when the 'varsity, with a long string of substitutes, journeyed off to play phillips school. fully half the school went, too, and "rooted" hard for a victory. phillips had been cleanly beaten last year, 12-0, and there was no reason to doubt that today's contest would be any harder for brimfield. at least, there was no reason that brimfield knew of. but for once coaches and team were caught napping and phillips proved a difficult problem to solve. in the end brimfield trotted off--perhaps limped off would be closer to the truth--with phillips' scalp, but the score was 16-14, which indicates how closely defeat had hovered over the visitors. only an almost miraculous field-goal by rollins, who had taken harris' place at full-back, in the third period, had saved brimfield from disaster. brimfield had won two touchdowns, both in the first half of the game, by the hardest sort of plugging. every bit of generalship that marvin knew had been called on and every ounce of strength that the team was capable of exerting had been necessary. jack innes had kicked the first goal without difficulty from a rather bad angle and then had missed the second, also without difficulty, from directly in front of the posts. meanwhile phillips had scored once, getting the ball over on a smash through right tackle from the seven yards, and had followed with a goal. in the third period the home team had had things very much her own way, for, although it had not managed to add to its score, it had held brimfield safe. the fourth quarter was also phillips' up until the last few minutes. a series of forward passes had carried phillips from her own forty yards to brimfield's twenty, and from there two trick plays had taken her to the twelve. three line attacks had netted only six and brimfield's supports were sighing their relief when phillips' apparent attempt at a field-goal turned into a forward pass that landed safely in the arms of a phillips end and behind the line. again phillips kicked goal, and, with some seven minutes to play, the score stood phillips 14, brimfield 13, and it only remained for the home team to keep the visitor away from her goal to hold the game. it was then, however, that brimfield had given another exhibition of her fighting spirit. carmine was put back at quarter, rollins went in for harris, and thursby took captain innes's place at centre. carmine took many chances. there were several lateral passes which made gains, two forward heaves that in some unaccountable manner landed right, a number of end runs that helped, and a desperate attack at the phillips centre between these. and, almost before anyone realised how things were going, brimfield was besieging the phillips goal. she lost the ball on the twenty-six yards, recovered it again on the forty-eight when phillips punted short, pulled off a double pass that sent still spinning around left tackle for twelve yards, hurled rollins through centre for four more, sent a forward pass to edwards and was back again on the twenty-yard line. phillips played heroically. all her best defensive talent was back in line and she met every onslaught with courage and skill. but brimfield was not to be denied, it seemed. roberts was hurt and gave way to holt at right end. saunders, who had been limping for some time, was taken out after a pile-up and tyler took his place. freer was sent in for wendell, although the latter was still going strong. freer brought instructions from coach robey, perhaps, for there was a lot of whispering when he reached the scene. with the pigskin almost on phillips' fifteen yards and only a minute or two remaining it was up to brimfield to pull off a score and do it quickly. it was third down, with six to go, and phillips was holding better every minute. rollins was sent back as if to drop-kick, but the ball went to freer and freer banged his way into the opposing line for a scant two yards. churchill was hurt in that play and blaisdell went back again at left guard. again the ball was passed to rollins, and, standing on the twenty-five yards and well to the left of the nearer post, he dropped it over for as pretty a field-goal as had ever been seen by the spectators. in such manner did brimfield wrest victory from defeat, and the maroon-and-grey banners waved exultantly. but the victory had cost dearly, as was discovered when the casualties were counted. saunders was badly hurt, so badly that he was definitely out of the game for a fortnight at the least; roberts had injured his knee and would be of no use for several days; and churchill had sustained a pulled tendon in his ankle. the two latter injuries were of minor importance, for blaisdell could fill churchill's shoes for a week or so and roberts would doubtless be all right again for the southby contest. but the damage to saunders meant more. saunders was a good tackle--detweiler declared emphatically that he was the only good one in sight--and it wasn't easy to find a fellow for his position. tyler was the logical choice, and tyler went in, but the remaining aspirant, crewe, was scarcely 'varsity material, and in case of injury to trow or tyler the outlook would be bad. joe detweiler pointed this fact out to mr. robey on the following monday, after watching crewe's efforts. "we can't count on saunders coming back before the cherry valley game, if he does then," said mr. detweiler. "tyler's only fair and trow is not much better. as for crewe, he won't make a good tackle before next year. he doesn't sense it at all. we've got to find someone else, george. what about the second? haven't they got someone there we can grab and hammer into a tackle? what about that fellow thayer? isn't that his name?" "thayer's promising," replied mr. robey. "then there's cupples. cupples has played longer. thayer's new this fall. look them over, joe, and help yourself. only 'boots' will probably scalp you!" "i've got a tough scalp," was the untroubled reply. "anyway, we've got to have at least one good tackle. great scott, george, you don't seem to realise what we're up against. why, phillips went into trow and tyler saturday as if they were paper! they're old-style tackles, both of them. no one's ever told them that the game has changed since the day when tackles were just linemen! here, i'm going over there and see what 'boots' has got in his outfit." there was no scrimmage with the 'varsity that afternoon, and mr. boutelle was putting his second team through a hard practice when joe detweiler appeared on the second's gridiron. "boots" viewed his advent with suspicion and joined him with a belligerent expression on his face. "what are you doing over here, you spy?" he demanded. "trying to get our signals!" "no, just looking," replied the other innocently. "looking at my tackles, maybe, eh! you tell george he can't have any of them. how the dickens does he suppose i'm going to make a team if he keeps pulling a man out every little while?" "that what he's been doing!" asked detweiler sympathetically, his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed speculatively on the squad that was dashing past. "that's thayer on this end, isn't it?" "yes, it is," agreed "boots" reluctantly. "suppose you'd like him, wouldn't you?" "well, you know the fix we're in over there, old man. saunders is out of it for a fortnight and trow and tyler haven't any ginger at all. we might give him back to you next week, you know." "oh, yes, i know! you're likely to! what i'll get will be that fellow crewe. i don't want him, understand? i wouldn't have him on my team. look here, if you only want a tackle for a week or so, why don't you take robbins? he's a good man, robbins." "is he? which is robbins?" mr. boutelle pointed him out. detweiler shook his head. "too straggly, 'boots.' try again. either cupples or thayer, i guess it will have to be. sorry, you know." "oh, yes, you're plumb broken-hearted, aren't you?" asked "boots" with bitter sarcasm. as a relief to his feelings, he shouted pungent criticism at quarter-back hinton. "well," he said finally, "which do you want and when do you want him?" "i guess we'll take thayer," was the answer, "tell him to report tomorrow, will you? much obliged, old man." "you're not welcome, confound you! now get out of here! and tell george this is the last player he gets from me this fall!" detweiler departed, grinning, and "boots" returned, grumbling, to his charges and was so cross-grained for the rest of the practice that the team wondered. later, in the gymnasium, "boots" approached clint. "thayer, they want you on the 'varsity," he announced shortly. "report to coach robey tomorrow. and for goodness' sake show them that we know football over here. you'll do well enough to hold your job over there, i guess, if you'll just remember a few of the things i've tried to hammer into you. if you don't you'll be dumped back on my hands again, and i don't want you. i warn you right now that if you come back to me this season you'll go on the bench. i won't have any castaways from the 'varsity working for me!" "yes, sir; thank you, mr. boutelle. i'll try my best, sir." mr. boutelle's frowns diminished. "well, that's all you can do, thayer. i'm sorry to lose you, and that's a fact. and i hope you'll make good." then he scowled again. "it means learning a new set of signals, confound them!" he went off, still grumbling, leaving clint, attired principally in a towel, a prey to very varied emotions. chapter xix mr. detweiler instructs "it isn't that i'm not tickled to death about getting on the 'varsity," explained clint to amy later, "but i'm mighty sorry to leave the second. you see, a fellow gets sort of fond of the team." "fond!" jeered amy. "you're positively foolish! it's a wonder you wouldn't go into mourning!" "and then, too," continued clint, analysing his emotions for his own satisfaction more than for amy's benefit, "i'm scared. suppose i don't do well enough for them on the 'varsity, amy. i'd feel pretty cheap if they dropped me after a day or two, wouldn't i? 'boots' swears he won't have anything to do with me if i come back. i--sort of wish robey had chosen cupples or robbins. i really do!" "cheer up!" said amy. "faint heart ne'er won the 'varsity! i'll bet you'll make 'em open their eyes, clint, when you get there. one trouble with you is that you're too modest. you need to have more--more faith in yourself, old top. and don't take 'boots' too seriously, either. if you decide to return to his aggregation of world-beaters you'll find he'll do a heap of scolding and then fall on your neck. but you won't do anything of the sort. i'm no football connoisseur, whatever that is, but i have a feeling, clint, that you can play all around trow and tyler. besides, after joe detweiler gets hold of you he'll do wonders for you. joking aside, clint, i'm awfully pleased. it's great! and--and it's so mighty unexpected, too! that's what gets me! of course, i've always known you were bound to become famous some day, but i didn't suppose it was going to happen so soon!" "i didn't suppose it was going to happen at all," replied clint rather ruefully. "and it's going to be fine for me, too," continued amy with gusto. "think what it will mean to be the chum of a regular 'greek'! 'hats off, fellows! here comes mr. byrd! good morning, mr. byrd. we trust we see you well today? and how is mr. thayer? we hope that his knee has quite recovered from its recent indisposition!'" "you silly idiot!" laughed clint. "and then, clint, think of following your meteoric career in the papers! as i nibble at my toast of a morning i prop the new york _herald_ against the water giraffe and read, spilling my coffee down my neck: 'the life of the party was right tackle thayer. seizing the elongated sphere and tucking it under his strong left arm, thayer dashed into the embattled line of the helpless adversary. hurling the foe right and left and biting the claflin quarter-back in the neck, he emerged triumphant from the mãªlã©e. dodging the enemy's bewildered secondary defence, and upsetting the umpire with a dull thud, our hero dashed down the field. line after line vanished behind his flying feet. shod with the wings of mercury, he sped on and on and still on toward the far-distant goal line. cheers thundered from the encompassing stadium, met overhead, broke and descended upon the head of the speeding runner in a shower of fragmentary vowels and consonants. still on and on went right tackle thayer. friend and enemy were far behind. victory stretched eager arms toward him. with a last, gallant effort he plunged across the goal line and fell unconscious beneath the cross-bar. at a given signal a wreath of laurel descended from above and fitted about his noble brow. the score: thayer, 98; claflin, 0!'" "just the same," muttered clint, when he had stopped laughing, "i'm scared. and i _do_ wish robey had let me alone." "coward!" taunted amy. "quitter! youth of chilly extremities!" "i'll have to learn new signals, too. and that's a beast of a job, amy." "sluggard! lazy-bones! dawdler!" "shut up! i wish it was you, by ginger!" "if it was me," replied amy, "do you think i'd be sitting there clasping my hands agonisedly? not much i wouldn't be sitting there handing my clasp ango--well, i wouldn't! i'd be out on the row with my head up and my thumbs in the pockets of my vest; only i haven't any vest on; and i'd be letting folks know what had happened to me. you don't deserve the honour of making the 'varsity in your fourth year, clint. you don't appreciate it. why, look at poor old freer. he's been trying to make himself a regular for three years and he's still just a substitute!" "that's what i'll be," said clint. "you don't suppose, do you, that they're going to put me in the first line-up?" "well, not for a day or two," answered amy airily. "but after that you'll be a regular feature of the day's entertainment. and, zowie, how the second will lay for you and hand it to you! they'll consider you a traitor, a renegade, a--a backslider, clint, and they'll go after you hard. better lay in a full supply of arnica and sterilised gauze and plaster, my noble hero, for you'll get yours all right, all right!" "i don't see why they need to look at it that way," objected the other. "i didn't _want_ to leave the second!" "but they won't believe it, clint. i'm sorry for you, but the path of glory is indeed hard!" it was. and clint frequently doubted during the next week that glory had anything to do with it. when, on tuesday afternoon, he reported to mr. robey, that gentleman cast a speculative look over him, nodded and said briefly: "see mr. detweiler, thayer." clint sought the assisting coach. "mr. robey told me to report to you, sir." "yes." mr. detweiler viewed him much as coach robey had, as though trying to see not only what showed but what was inside as well. the only difference was that mr. detweiler smiled. "well, thayer, now let's see." he walked to the bench which the players were vacating, clint following, and seated himself. "sit down a minute," he directed. and when clint was beside him he went on. "i really don't know much about your playing, thayer. we had to have a new tackle and i took you because i liked your looks the other day. maybe i ought to have taken one of the others. what do you think?" clint smiled uncertainly. "i reckon i'm not a fair judge," he replied after a moment's hesitation. "i suppose not. but tell me, can you play tackle pretty well?" "i've got along all right so far, i think. of course, cupples's been at it longer than i have, mr. detweiler." "what in your judgment is the biggest asset a tackle can have, thayer?" "brains, sir." "hm; yes, that's so. now, look here." mr. detweiler laid a hand on clint's knee. "there's a fine chance for a fellow who is willing to work and learn on this team. if you'll make up your mind to it, you can go right ahead and play tackle against claflin. but you'll have to plug like the dickens, thayer. it won't be any picnic. i want a chap who is willing to work hard; not only that, but who will take the goad without flinching. think you're the chap?" "i reckon so," murmured clint. "i'm willing, anyway, sir." "you're not over-enthusiastic," laughed the coach, "but maybe that's just as well. all right, you see what you can do. get out there now with the second squad. try to show me that i made a good selection, thayer. and, by the way, i wish you'd drop around and see me this evening after study. can you?" "yes, sir." "good. i'll look for you, then. and bring that friend of yours along, if he wants to come." "byrd?" "yes, that's his name, isn't it? tell him i'll be honoured if he will pardon the informality of the invitation and give me the pleasure of his society from nine to ten. that's his style, isn't it?" "yes, sir." clint smiled. "i think he will be very glad to come, sir." "all right. now get in there, thayer, and set your mind on it. show what you can do. i expect you to make mistakes, boy; we can correct those; but if i think for a moment that you're not trying--well, we can't waste time on you in that case, thayer." clint reported to carmine, who was personally conducting the substitutes around the field. "hello!" he greeted. "tackle, you say? all right. follow along for awhile, will you? now then, fellows, get this right! gafferty over! 36--41--17--8! 36--41--17--" clint tried to pick up the signals, but it was a hopeless task, and it was not until mr. robey detailed one of the substitutes to teach him the 'varsity code that he was able to take part in proceedings. he went in at right tackle for one of the two fifteen-minute periods and, considering that he was still unfamiliar with the shifts and signals, did very well. no one told him so, to be sure, but he knew without being told, and emerged from the afternoon's practice thinking that perhaps, after all, playing on the 'varsity was not such a difficult thing as he had imagined it. but clint's troubles hadn't begun yet. that evening when he went in to supper he created an unintentional diversion by proceeding, from force of habit, to the second team table. it was only when he got there and found no seat awaiting him that it dawned on him that he had made a mistake. the second team fellows broke into a roar of laughter as clint blankly surveyed them and, turning hurriedly, made his way to the other end of the room. the rest of the fellows sensed the situation after a moment and clint passed table after table of amused faces. amy, grinning delightedly, reached far across the board where he sat and, pointing at clint with a baked potato impaled on a fork, announced loudly: "a _contretemps_, mr. thayer, a veritable _contretemps_!" clint was blushing when he finally reached the first of the tables occupied by the 'varsity players and found a vacant chair. there, too, amused glances awaited him, and he was heartily glad when freer laughingly pulled him into the seat beside him. they got a half-hour's leave from the hall master after supper, which allowed them to remain out of the dormitory until half-past ten, and, as soon as study hour was over, set out for the village and mr. detweiler's. when they reached his room in the little boarding house they found mr. boutelle there, but he left almost at once. mr. detweiler made them comfortable, apologising for the unattractiveness of his quarters. "the fact is, fellows," he explained, "i didn't expect to stay over the week when i came, and so brought nothing but a kit-bag. but robey thinks i ought to see him through, and, to tell the truth, i'm rather keen to myself. you don't play the noble game of football, byrd?" "no, sir," replied amy modestly. "you see, i developed at the wrong end." he tapped his forehead significantly. "that's hard on you and me, thayer," laughed the coach. "well, what do you do for exercise? "tennis, some." "he won the singles championship this fall, sir," explained clint. "really? that's fine. i'm a bit of a tennis enthusiast myself. played on the team three years in college. some before that. tennis was about the only thing we specialised in when i was here. by the way, did you get into difficulties over the disciplining of that fellow, whatever his name is?" "no, sir, we haven't heard anything from it yet. he'd hardly be likely to say much, would he?" "i fancy not. have you met him since?" "oh, we see him every day. he rooms next door in torrence." "and what about the chap whose violin he broke?" "durkin? oh, penny's making about as much noise as before. he says the fiddle he's using now isn't nearly as good as the one dreer busted, but i can't see much difference myself. can you, clint?" clint shook his head sorrowfully. "sounds even louder to me," he said. "i must drop around some time and hear him perform," laughed the coach. "he must be something of a character." amy agreed that he was, and narrated two or three anecdotes concerning penny to prove it. mr. detweiler evidently found amy's discourse amusing and drew him out until he was in the full flood of his eloquence. but when they had been there a half hour or so their host abruptly switched the conversation. "i want to talk shop with thayer a little," he announced. "you won't mind, byrd? there are some magazines in front of you if you like to read." "thanks, i'll just listen, sir. it always amuses me to hear folks get excited about football." "oh, we're not going to get excited, byrd." mr. detweiler hitched his chair around a trifle and faced clint. "how did you get on today?" he inquired. "fairly well, i reckon. i didn't know the signals very well. i don't yet, for that matter." "no, it'll take a day or two to forget the others and remember ours. there are two or three things i noticed about your playing this afternoon, thayer, and i want to speak of them while they're fresh in my mind. in the first place, you played too close to your guard on defence as a general thing. open up there and, above all, don't play between opponents. i mean by that, don't try to get through on defence between two men. select one and play him. usually it will be the outside man, and your game is to put him against his inside man or side-step him. as a general thing your position on defence is a foot or so outside the opposing end player, although there are one or two formations when that isn't so. another thing i noticed was that, while you watched the ball well, you were liable to let the other man get the jump on you. as soon as the ball is snapped, thayer, get busy with your arms. there are two main factors in the playing of a tackle position. one is head and the other is arms. use your head all the time and your arms most of the time. as soon as the ball is snapped, out with your arms, thayer. lunge against the opponent. get him first and hold him off until you can see where the ball's going. don't try to break through blindly. hold him at arm's length, keep your legs out of the way and then put him in or out, as the case may be, and go through for the runner. if you can get your arms on the other fellow _before_ the ball is snapped, do it, but don't try it too long before or you won't be able to hold it. try for the neck and arm position. it's the best. you can swing a man either way if you have that. if he gets under your arms and boxes you don't try to push forward by main force, because you'll be only wasting your strength. back away and get around him. "of course, you know that the play is usually to charge your opponent toward the centre. play to get around the opposing end on the outside and block the runner. if he finds you've got past and are waiting for him he will likely turn in and try to get through nearer the centre of the line, and the centre of the line is the hardest to gain through. so 'turn 'em in' is the regular rule, thayer. on attack keep close to your guard and help him on plays inside your position. learn to work smoothly with him. usually you'll be able to settle between you whether you're to help him or go out and help the end. it depends on the play and on how strong the guard is. when you make a hole, make it clean; and don't stop when it's made. keep on playing until the ball is down. and don't trust the horn for it, either. see it down yourself. "when the runner is through the hole it's often up to you to say whether he's to make three yards or thirty. look for the man who's in position to stop the runner and get to him and put him out of it. play the game every minute, thayer. be always on the lookout for trouble and try to get a finger in it. and, another thing, and i've been dinning this into the men all the week, don't slow down before tackling. tackle hard, thayer. put on a little extra steam at the last moment and smash into it! don't merely stop your man; anyone can do that; but put him back when you hit him. make him fall toward his own goal, and not toward yours. sometimes there's a difference of two yards right there. and besides, and i say this because i know it to be so, there's nothing that takes the starch out of a backfield man who is catching a punt or running it in like knowing that he's going to be tackled hard. he has it on his mind when he's catching the ball. he knows he's got to get it right and hug it hard or he will lose it. and it's a dollar to a dime he will get over-anxious and nervous. a team that tackles fiercely and for keeps will have its opponents making fair-catches before the second half starts. well, that's enough for tonight. if i hurl too much wisdom at you you won't remember any of it. besides, byrd over there is yawning already." "oh, no, sir, i found your discourse most interesting," assured amy. "and i do hope our young friend will profit by the advice. i sometimes think he shows real promise, mr. detweiler." "well, we'll hope he will later on show fulfilment, byrd. i don't want to frighten you, thayer, but you're likely to hear all this stuff over again, and a heap more like it. these little lectures of mine occur frequently. i hope you weren't as bored as your friend here." "no, sir, and i'll try to remember what you told me." "in case you shouldn't i'll tell you again soon," laughed the coach. "rome wasn't made in a day nor a good tackle in one lecture. now we'll talk of something that byrd can come in on." chapter xx 'varsity vs. second team saunders, who was going around on crutches those days, viewed the advent of clint on the 'varsity squad with misgiving, but he was very nice to him whenever the opportunity occurred. the same was true of the older candidates for the tackles positions, trow, tyler and crewe. it was evident to a blind man from the first that coach detweiler had made up his mind that if such a thing were possible clinton thayer was to be converted into a tackle of 'varsity calibre. hence the other candidates, especially those who had been practically certain of their positions, could not be blamed for feeling a little resentment toward both mr. detweiler and clint. that they refrained from showing it was creditable. but clint felt it even if he didn't have optical or auricular evidence of it and for the first few days at least experienced some embarrassment and constraint. but life was too busy to leave him much time for troubling about whether or not saunders and the others approved of his presence. his work was cut out for him from the start. mr. detweiler was forever at his heels and mr. detweiler's voice was forever raised in criticism or instruction. more than once clint felt like giving up. toward the end of that first week it seemed to him that the coach paid no heed to anyone but just clint thayer and that nothing clint thayer did was ever quite right! but he never did give up, however. he was often discouraged, sometimes angry, always tired out when work was over, but he kept on trying. mr. detweiler dogged his footsteps every minute, or so it seemed to clint. returning from practice the coach would frequently range himself alongside and deliver one of his brief lectures. sometimes he would intercept him between locker and shower and tell him something he had forgotten earlier. on thursday evening clint found him awaiting him in number 14 torrence when he returned from supper, and, punctuated by lugubrious wails from penny durkin's violin, the coach delivered a twenty-minute lecture on "the duties of a tackle on offence when the play is on the other side of centre." clint got so he dreamed of football and neglected his studies wofully until both mr. simkins and mr. jordan remonstrated. in the southby game, which was played at brimfield, clint started in place of trow at right tackle, with tyler at left. offensively he showed up particularly well, but it must be acknowledged that on the defence he was far from perfect. the southby left end was a clever player and clint's efforts to out-guess that youth were not very successful. several times during the two periods in which he played the runner went over or around clint for good gains. considering it afterwards, it was a surprise to him that he had not been taken out before he was. perhaps, though, the fact that brimfield scored twice in the first period and so secured a lead that was never threatened had something to do with it. probably the coaches were willing to sacrifice some yards of territory in exchange for experience for the new tackle. at all events, when, at the commencement of the third quarter, clint's name was not in the line-up and clint bundled himself in a blanket and took his place on the bench, mr. robey paused long enough to say: "watch your game, thayer. you did pretty well." if clint did not cover himself with glory, neither, for that matter, did trow, tyler or crewe, all of whom played at some time during the game. with saunders laid off, the tackle positions were the weakest spots in the line. with most of the line attacks "skin tackle" plays, as they were that year, the tackle positions should have been the strongest of all. only the fact that southby was weak on offence saved brimfield from a beating. blaisdell and hall, and, later, churchill and gafferty were forced to aid the tackles to such an extent that they were used up very quickly. tyler made the best showing that day of any of the tackles, but even tyler was by no means perfect. on forward passes to the opposing end he utterly failed to get his man, and, since the same was true of trow on the other end, southby made some alarming midfield gains by that method, while it was edwards who spoiled a touchdown for the visitors by intercepting a forward pass on his five-yard line in the third period. southby went down in defeat to the tune of 17-3. as last year's score had been brimfield 39, southby 7, there was little encouragement to be discovered, especially as the southby team was no better than, if as good as, the former one. on the whole, that saturday's contest was rather disappointing, and when the sunday morning papers announced that claflin had run rings around the strong mendell hall team, winning by a score of 41-6, brimfield's stock sank perceptibly. there was a meeting of the coaches that sunday evening at mr. robey's room in the village. mr. robey, mr. boutelle, mr. detweiler, andy miller and jack innes were present, and, although the school never learned what was said or done, it was felt that strenuous measures had been decided on. on monday there was no scrimmage and most of the fellows who had participated in saturday's game to any extent were sent two or three times around the track and then dismissed for the day. the rest were put through a hard drill in fundamentals, the coaches looking glum and stern and determined. clint was not one of the fortunate exempts, but went through the hardest afternoon he ever had. of the tackles only tyler was absent. the rest of them were bullied and browbeaten and hustled for a solid hour and a half until clint, for one, scarcely knew whether he was on his head or his heels. it was rumoured around that afternoon that "s.o.s." calls had been sent out in all directions and that the middle of the week would find an army of assistant coaches on hand. the army failed to materialise, but by tuesday four specialists had joined the array of coaching talent and there was an instructor for every position on the team. the practice that afternoon was more grim and businesslike than ever before. no one was admitted to that part of the field who was not either a member of the team or a coach. there was thirty minutes of individual instruction, twenty minutes of signal work, and finally two fifteen-minute scrimmage periods with the second team. and what the 'varsity did to the second that day was a pity! with seven coaches urging them on, the 'varsity players performed desperately. the new plays to be used against claflin were tried out and worked well. the 'varsity scored two touchdowns in the first period and one in the second, and kicked a field-goal when, with only a minute left, it had reached the second team's eighteen yards. on the other hand, the second failed to gain consistently inside the 'varsity's danger zone and both of martin's drop-kicks went wide. the 'varsity's defence was better than it had been at any time that fall, and even the tackles showed up well. saunders had discarded crutches and managed a slow jog once around the track that afternoon, and it was fully expected that he would be in shape to get back to work the first of the next week. clint and tyler played through most of that scrimmage, and clint, unmercifully prodded by detweiler--and anyone else who happened to think of it--showed real form on defence. he was opposed to captain turner, of the second, and turner was a crafty end. that clint was able, more than once, to get around turner and stop the runner well behind the line spoke well for him. on forward passes, too, he used his head and twice managed to get to the receiver and spoil the play. it was a tired lot of boys who tramped back to the gymnasium that thursday afternoon at dusk, and there were many bruises to be seen to, for the two teams had battled as fiercely as though they had been the deadliest enemies. clint fell asleep in the middle of study hour with his head on his latin book, and amy sympathetically let him slumber. on friday, contrary to established custom, practice was hard as ever and the scrimmage with the second was drawn out to forty minutes of actual playing time. the game with cherry valley on the morrow was not looked on as a difficult one and it was noised about that coach robey meant to put in a full set of substitutes in the second half. the varsity was severely tested in defence that day. five times the second was given the pigskin inside the 'varsity's fifteen-yard line and instructed to take it across by rushing and four times they failed. the fifth time, with the ball on the three yards, they were given two extra downs and finally piled through tyler for the last needed six inches. tyler went out after that, pretty well worsted, and trow took his place. clint had escaped damage so far, but had been called on to repel many an attack, and was glad enough when time was called and they were allowed to return to the bench for a five-minute intermission. after the rest--if it could be called a rest when seven coaches were criticising and instructing every minute--the scrimmage developed into straight football. the second kicked off and, after the 'varsity had failed to get its distance in three downs, harris fell back to punt. harris was a left-foot kicker and was accustomed to taking a pretty long stride to the left side before he swung. he was very deliberate about it, too, and the line had to hold hard and long in order to enable him to get the ball off safely. when it did go it went well and accurately, but in the present instance it didn't go. cupples, of the second, had no difficulty in getting through trow, and it was cupples who knocked the ball down just as it left harris' foot. fortunately marvin fell on the pigskin for a fifteen-yard loss. harris raged and sputtered and the coaches stood over the unfortunate trow and read him the riot act. but two minutes later the same thing happened again, although on this occasion cupples only tipped the ball with his upstretched fingers. there was a hurried conference of the coaches and clint was yanked out of the right side of the line and put in place of trow, the latter going to left tackle. mr. robey demanded a punt at once in order to test the new arrangement and cupples, grinning wickedly at clint, prepared to repeat his act. but cupples had the surprise of his life, for the first thing he knew clint's right hand was on the side of his neck and clint's left hand was under his armpit and he found himself thrust around against his guard. and that was as near to breaking through as cupples came for the rest of the scrimmage. four coaches thumped clint on the back and excitedly praised him, and clint felt suddenly that to defeat the wicked machinations of the ambitious cupples was the biggest thing in life. after that it was a battle royal between them, cupples using every bit of brain and sinew he possessed to outwit his opponent and clint watching him as a cat watches a mouse and constantly out-guessing him and "getting the jump" time after time. cupples had a bleeding lip and a smear of brown earth down one cheek and was a forbidding looking antagonist, and for hours after practice was over clint had only to close his eyes to visualise the angry, intense countenance of his opponent. had clint but known it, he was not a very pretty object himself just then. someone's boot had rubbed the skin from his left cheek and the blood had caked there, well mixed with dirt, until he looked quite villainous. the 'varsity scored twice by straight football and once by the use of tricks which were designed to outwit claflin a week later. the second managed a field-goal from the fifteen yards. toward the end the 'varsity used substitutes freely, but clint played through to the last, emerging with many an aching bone, a painful shortness of breath and a fine glow of victory. mr. detweiler, red-faced and perspiring, caught him on the side line as he dragged his tired feet toward the blanket pile. "all right, thayer?" he asked anxiously. "yes, sir," panted clint. "good! get in as soon as you can and have a good rub. you played real football, boy, and i'm proud of you! keep it up!" "you bet i will!" murmured clint to himself, as he turned toward the gymnasium. "i'll show cupples that he can't come through me, the big guy!" ten minutes later, refreshed by his shower, he ran into cupples outside the door to the rubbing room. cupples, a piece of surgeon's plaster adorning his lip, grinned. clint grinned back. "some game," he said. "was it!" agreed cupples. "clint, you've got the rest of them all backed off the map! saunders hasn't a thing on you, old man, and i've played against him and know. i hope they keep you there." "thanks, cupples, but if the claflin chap is any tougher than you are i guess saunders is welcome to his job whenever he wants it back." "well, say," chuckled the other, "we had a good time, didn't we?" "great!" assented clint. and, he reflected as he went on, now that it was all over so they had! chapter xxi the letter that wasn't written the cherry valley game came off the next afternoon, and the school turned out with songs and cheers and marched across to the gridiron to watch the last contest before the final and supreme test. it was a cold, cloudy day, with a biting northeast wind sweeping down the field. most of the assisting coaches had gone away over the week-end, mr. robey and andy miller had journeyed to claflin to see the game there and mr. detweiler was left in charge at home. cherry valley had been defeated 27-6 last year and was not looked on as at all dangerous. her team was light in weight and looked even less competent than it proved, since whatever might have been said in criticism of it, it was fast. brimfield started the game with her best foot forward. with the exception of clint at left tackle, the line-up consisted of first-string players. tyler played in his old place at right tackle. brimfield was not to show anything in the way of new plays, in case claflin had thought it worth while to send scouts, and to that extent the maroon-and-grey was handicapped. the first period ran along without a score on either side. brimfield couldn't seem to get started. there was more fumbling on both sides than was necessary, even when the wind was taken into consideration, and each team lost the ball twice at critical moments. brimfield worked down to the cherry-red twenty-two yards, lost a couple of yards by a fumble, tried the left end for no gain and essayed a goal from the field. but distance and wind were too much for harris. after that there was much punting on cherry valley's part, evidently in the hope that a brimfield back would fumble. and brimfield backs did fumble, for the wind made certain judgment of kicks impossible, but fortunately the ball was recovered each time without much loss. the first period ended with the ball in midfield in cherry valley's possession. carmine went in for marvin, since, with the wind against her, cherry valley would not be likely to do much punting and carmine's backfield unsteadiness would not count. he managed to get more speed into the maroon-and-grey and toward the end of the period two long punts, poorly returned, put her within scoring distance. on the thirty yards brimfield uncorked her real offence and kendall and harris and st. clair hammered the line and skirted the ends and finally plugged through for a hard-earned touchdown. the punt-out was missed and so brimfield was not able to add a 1 to the 6. thirty seconds after the kick-off carmine faked a forward pass and started around his own left end and, eluding most of the cherry valley team by some of the best dodging that had been seen that season, put the pigskin back on the red's twenty-four yards. a forward pass, harris to edwards, gained eight, and harris made it first down past left tackle. kendall worked the centre for three and harris romped around the right for six more. carmine plunged through centre for the distance. harris went back as if to kick and the ball shot to st. clair and that elusive youth fairly streaked across the field and, finding a hole, shot through and over the line for the second score. this time innes kicked the goal and the tally was 13-0. there was no more scoring in that period, although cherry valley sent the spectators' hearts into their throats by getting a back off away on a long run down the side of the field which, but for a splendid tackle by kendall, would have resulted in a touchdown. with the pigskin in cherry valley's possession on the home team's sixteen yards the half ended. mr. detweiler and "boots" scolded and threatened during half-time. the team had played, declared the latter, like a lot of helpless idiots. what was the matter with them? did they think they were there to loaf? for two cents mr. boutelle would yank the whole silly bunch off the field and finish the game with the second team! he would, by ginger! after that mr. detweiler more quietly pointed out some dozen or fifteen of the most glaring faults displayed and read a new line-up. with the exception of clint, hall, carmine and tyler every fellow was new. "and now," said mr. detweiler, "let's see what you can do this half. do something, anyway! stop loafing! if you can't play football, wave your arms and make a noise!" brimfield wisely chose to play a kicking game at the beginning of the third period, since, with the wind behind her, freer's high corkscrews were particularly effective. freer didn't try for much distance with his punts. what he did was to send them well into the air and let the wind do the rest. the result was that the pigskin sailed down the field for anywhere from thirty-five to fifty yards and came down in the most unexpected places. cherry valley very sensibly made no effort to run back punts, but signalled a fair-catch every time, which made it easier for the brimfield ends and tackles, since they, no more than the enemy, could tell where the erratic ball was going to descend. cherry valley attempted to run the ends and succeeded now and then, punting only on fourth down when everything else had failed. after a dozen plays brimfield had gained half the distance to the red's goal without having put her new backfield to the test. there, however, a fumble by still changed the complexion of things, for the ball was recovered by a tall cherry valley guard and that youth eluded the opponents and carried the pigskin past the centre of the field and was pulled down on brimfield's forty-two yards by carmine. that seemed to give the visitors the encouragement they had lacked, for they at once started in with a bewildering set of fast criss-crosses and double-passes and so deceived the substitute backfield that they made two first downs before a halt was called. then, with six yards to go on third down, the red pulled off a forward pass of startling length and precision and the catcher was run out at the maroon-and-grey's twenty-five-yard line. cherry valley tried brimfield's left end and gained four, slid off clint for three more, tried the same place again and was stopped for no gain and punted short and across field to carmine on his eight yards. carmine slipped past the red's left end and started on a wide run, looking for a chance to cut in. but advance was blocked thoroughly and he was finally down on his ten-yard line. a plunge by rollins gained two and freer got past the right tackle for three more. then freer was sent back to his goal line to punt. thursby, at centre, passed low, and freer was hurried, with the result that the ball went almost straight into the air, was caught by the wind and landed out of bounds at brimfield's eighteen yards. cherry valley started in again with grim determination. a weak spot was discovered at right guard, where gafferty was in hall's place, and two gains were made there, bringing the pigskin to the twelve yards. another attempt, this time on tyler, produced two more. with two to go on fourth down, cherry valley elected to kick and her right half-back, who performed the drop-kicking, fell back to the eighteen yards. the ball was opposite the left-hand goal post and a three-point tally appeared inevitable. carmine and still, the latter acting-captain in jack innes's absence, implored the forwards to block the kick. there was an instant of comparative silence, broken only by the quarter's hoarse voice as he gave the signal, and then the two lines heaved at each other and the ball sped back to the kicker. his eyes sought the goal, the ball dropped, his leg swung and through the din of cries and the rasping of canvas came the thud of foot and ball. but it was followed by another thud, the hollow sound of the pigskin striking the chest of the maroon-and-grey's left tackle, and back up the field bounded the ball. clint had chosen the opposing tackle as his prey, had swung him out and broken through somehow between him and guard. a half-back had thrown himself in his way, but clint had staggered over or past him and leaped desperately into the path of the ascending ball. he had felt the resounding smack of it under his chin and, recovering from the force of the impact, had, even as he found his feet again, seen it bound away past the frantic kicker, seen that youth go down under the sturdy holt, and had started instantly in pursuit. behind him thudded friend and foe, from one side darted the cherry valley quarter-back. the ball was wobbling left and right a dozen yards away. clint strove to put himself in the way of the quarter, but that player, with a burst of speed, ran free and dived for the ball. clint toppled on top of the quarter. and then, just how he never knew, he had the ball snuggled under his chest, the quarter ineffectually seeking a hold on it! "brimfield's ball!" announced the referee, heeling. "first down right here!" that was cherry valley's last threat. later, in the fourth quarter, she reached the maroon-and-grey's twenty-seven yards but was forced to punt after two attempted forward passes had failed. brimfield secured two more touchdowns, one in each period, and twice failed at field-goals, rollins's drop-kicking proving far from first-class. freer took the ball over for the first score in the second half, and marvin, who replaced carmine toward the end of the last period, squirmed through from the four yards for the second. freer failed to convert his touchdown into a goal, but marvin very neatly added a point to his, and the final score read brimfield, 26; cherry valley, 0; which was a more satisfactory result than last year's. the school showed a strong disposition to lionize clint for his blocking of cherry valley's drop-kick, and when he entered the dining hall that evening he received more applause than, any of the other players. it was his first experience of being clapped to his seat and he found himself heartily wishing that the 'varsity training-tables had been located nearer the door! the football mass-meeting that night was enthusiastic to a degree, and even the news that claflin had beaten larchville that afternoon 11 to failed to dampen the fervour of the songs and cheers that rang through the hall. it was recalled that a year ago larchville, who had then held the same position on claflin's schedule, had defeated the latter 12 to 6, and that subsequently the best brimfield had been able to do with claflin was 6 to 0. consequently it would seem that claflin was stronger this year than last. unfortunately, however, brimfield had not played larchville this season, owing to the fact that larchville, having beaten brimfield 17 to 3 last year, had insisted that the next meeting should be at larchville, an arrangement brimfield had not been willing to consent to. for this reason it was not possible to compare the strength of brimfield and claflin with any certainty. andy miller, who was prevailed on to address the mass-meeting, declared it to be his conviction that claflin had a slightly stronger team than she had had last fall. "i think," he explained, "that it is a little more evenly developed. she is surer in all departments than she was a year ago. like us, the blue started the season with five of her old men in the line-up, and, like us, she had a good crowd of substitutes to pick from. her captain and quarter-back, ainsmith, is one of the best in the game today, and in her full-back, atkinson, whom you probably remember, she has another star. her halves are new men, but they're fast and hard to stop. in the line, tackle to tackle, i think we'll even up with them. as for our ends, i believe we can show better goods than they can, although mumford, who played with them last year, is a very good man. i'm not telling you this to discourage you, for i firmly believe we're going to win, but i don't want you to think that it's going to be a walk-over, for it isn't, not by any manner of means. we've got to work hard and use everything we know if we're to have the long end of the score a week from today. that's what our team has got to do. as for you fellows, you've got to stand right up behind it every minute and make it feel that you have confidence in it. i can't be here to see the game myself; i wish i could; but i fully expect to take up the paper a week from tomorrow morning and read that brimfield has turned the trick again. and i expect to read, too, that a notable feature of the contest was the whole-souled, hearty support given the maroon-and-grey by their fellows! that's all i've got to say to you. the team's going to do its part. you do yours." the next day dawned fair and warm, with an almost imperceptible haze in the atmosphere, a veritable indian summer day if ever there was one. after dinner, a rather more hearty meal than was served to the football players on week-days, clint went back to his room with the noble intention of writing a fine long letter to his father and mother. there had been complaints from cedar run of late to the effect that clint's epistles were much too brief. today he resolved to send at least eight pages. he would tell them all about the fine weather and yesterday's game--mentioning quite incidentally his own part in it--and the football spirit that prevailed throughout the academy and--and--about this time clint found himself smothering a yawn and viewing distastefully the writing pad in front of him. through the open windows came the sound of voices borne on the still, soft air, and he pushed back his chair and wandered to the casement. across the field the autumn woods were brown and sunlit and their depths filled with a purple haze. boys were strolling in couples and groups across the yellowing turf. after a minute clint went back to the table, looked indecisively at the still clean sheet of paper awaiting his pen, picked up his cap from the chair and, with a guilty backward glance, stole out of the room. he felt very much as though he was playing hookey, a feeling which perhaps naturally increased his pleasure as he ran down the stairs and issued forth on the row. penny durkin was seated on the steps with a text-book in hand, but clint noted that penny's gaze was fixed on the distance. the fact acted as a salve for clint's conscience. if penny couldn't study today, penny who had been known to play his fiddle even while he stuffed greek or latin or mathematics, surely no one else could rightfully be expected to fix his mind on letter-writing! clint halted a moment on the walk and penny's gaze and thoughts came back from afar and he blinked up at the other. "hi!" said penny dreamily. "hi," returned clint. "warm, isn't it?" "yes, great." "i thought i'd study a little, but i guess i was almost asleep." "day-dreaming," suggested clint. there was a moment's silence, during which an odd idea occurred to clint. he didn't much care to walk by himself, and he didn't know where to look for amy or any of the other fellows who might care to join him. why not, then, ask penny durkin? before he had thoroughly weighed the merits of the scheme he found himself making the suggestion. "come on for a walk, durkin," he said. "bring your old book along if you like. we'll find a place in the woods and, as amy says, commune with nature." penny looked first surprised and then pleased, and, "i'd love to," he said. so they set off together around the corner of torrence and past the little brick building which held the heating plant and made off across the field. the sun was gloriously warm and the air was like that of a june day, and after the first minute or two of progress they discovered that they had no inclination toward hurrying, that, in short, they felt decidedly lazy and drowsy, and that the sooner they reached that place in the woods where they were to commune with nature the pleasanter it would be. conversation was fitful. penny spoke hesitantly of clint's good work in yesterday's game, ventured a vague prediction that brimfield would win from claflin on saturday and then seemed to fall asleep. clint made no effort to arouse him and presently they climbed over the stone wall that divided the school property from the woodland and made their way through the trees until they were half-way up the slope. there, in the lee of an outcropping grey ledge of weathered granite, they subsided on a bed of leaves with sighs of contentment. through the nearer trees and above the more distant ones, they could see the further side of the field and the sunlit buildings. "i reckon," said clint, propping his shoulders against a convenient surface of the ledge, "this is the place we were looking for. now, bring on your nature and we'll commune." "i used to come up here when i was a first former," said penny. "two or three of us kids would sneak stuff from dining hall and build a fire back of this rock and picnic. one day we went off and forgot about the fire and that night someone looked over and saw a blaze and they had to fight it for almost an hour with brooms and buckets of water. we had a fine time! everyone turned out. we never told what we knew about it, though!" and penny smiled reminiscently. "you're in the sixth form this year, aren't you?" asked clint. "yes, this is my last year." "and you've been here five already!" clint marvelled. "my, that's a long time, isn't it? you'll feel queer, won't you, when you don't come back next fall?" penny nodded soberly. "it'll be--funny," he agreed. "i don't suppose you'll quite understand it, thayer, but--well, this school is more like a real home than any other place i know. you see, my mother died a long while ago; i was just a toddler then; and my father married again. then, when i was eleven, he died and now i live with my stepmother and her brother. he's not a bad sort of man, uncle steve. i just call him uncle, of course. but my stepmother never liked me much, and then, besides, father didn't leave much money when he died and she sort of feels that she can't afford to pay my education. i've always had to fight to get back here every year. uncle steve helped me some, but he's kind of scared of ma and doesn't dare say much. that's why school seems like home. when i go back to parkerstown it's more like going on a visit than going home. and after this year it's going to seem funny, unless i go to college." "but you are going, aren't you?" asked clint anxiously. "if i can. mr. fernald says he's hoping to get me a scholarship that will pretty nearly see me through my freshman year, but there's nothing certain about it, because there are always a lot of folks after those scholarships and there aren't very many of them. i guess that's about the only way i'll manage it." "i do hope you get it," said clint with genuine sympathy. "i suppose you couldn't--couldn't find any way to work through, durkin." "i've thought of that. i don't know. i've done pretty well here, buying and selling all kinds of things. you wouldn't think there'd be much money in it, would you? but since my second year i've done a lot of it and made nearly enough each year to pay my tuition. that's the only way i've been able to stay. i guess ma argued that i'd cost her less at school, making most of the money myself, than i would at home. fellows sometimes call me a 'yankee' and a 'shylock' and things like that because i try to get all the money i can for a thing. but i've never cheated anyone; and--and i've really needed the money. but i don't believe a fellow could do that in college. there might be another way, though. i've heard of fellows making a lot of money in college." "seems to me," said clint, "it's your step-mother's duty to look after you and pay for your schooling. it's your father's money she's using, isn't it?" "yes, but there's not a great deal of it, i suppose. i never knew how much he did leave. and ma's fond of nice things and it costs a good deal to live, i guess. oh, if i can get that scholarship i'll be all right. you see, though, don't you, why i didn't want to scrap with dreer? it might have just queered everything for me." "yes, i see," asserted clint. "you did the right thing. you'd have been mighty silly to risk it, durkin. what about playing? you--you play pretty well, don't you? couldn't you make any money that way?" "no." penny shook his head. "i don't play well enough. you see, i've kept thinking that some day i'd be able to get instruction, but i never have yet; except a few lessons a fellow in parkerstown gave me one summer. i just scrape; that's all." "i've always thought," fibbed clint stoutly, "that you played finely!" "i've always thought i could if i'd had instruction," replied penny wistfully. "i sort of love it. maybe some day--" his voice dwindled into silence, and for several minutes the two boys, each busy with their separate thoughts, stared through the bare branches up to the blue afternoon sky. they were aroused from their dreaming by the sound of voices and rustling of leaves under the feet of the speakers. clint, peering around, saw harmon dreer, and another boy whom he didn't know by sight, climbing the slope toward them. chapter xxii dreer looks on "there's dreer now," said clint softly. "and beaufort," added penny. "who's he?" "he lives the other side of the village. his father owned a lot of land around here and made heaps of money selling it off. they call him 'babe' beaufort; this fellow, i mean, not his father; probably because he's so big." "he looks like a walrus," commented clint. further confidences were impossible, for the approaching couple were now within earshot and had caught sight of the boys by the rock. dreer spoke to beaufort softly and the latter turned a quick, curious look toward the boys under the ledge. then, without speaking, they passed on up the hill and out of sight amongst the trees. penny gave a sigh of relief. "he's a scrapper, and i thought maybe dreer would try to start something," said penny. "who is? beaufort?" [illustration: "no, he won't!" exclaimed clint, jumping to his feet] "yes, he's a sort of village bully. he's been in trouble two or three times. his father has so much money 'babe' thinks he's the whole thing in brimfield. he and hatherton williams had a row in front of the post-office a couple of years ago and it took the whole police force to separate them." "what does the brimfield police force consist of?" asked clint with a laugh. "one constable with a tin star?" "two," replied penny, smiling. "we were sorry the cops butted in, for williams would have given him a fine licking, i guess. he's just the sort of chap dreer would naturally take up with." "listen!" commanded clint. "they're coming back, i guess." someone was certainly approaching down the hill. penny frowned. "if it is they," said clint anxiously, "don't have any words with them, durkin." "not me," replied penny resolutely. "can't afford to." just then dreer and his friend came into sight. clint watched hopefully. they were headed straight down the slope and he was just going to lean his head back against the rock again when beaufort suddenly hunched his shoulders and turned angrily toward clint and penny. "here!" he shouted. "what did you do that for?" "do what?" asked clint in genuine surprise as beaufort and dreer, the latter a good pace behind, strode toward them through the trees. "you know what," replied "babe" beaufort with an ugly scowl that increased his resemblance to a ferocious walrus. "you shied a stone at me!" his eyes, however, fixed themselves on penny. "shied a stone!" exclaimed clint incredulously. "why, we haven't moved. besides, there aren't any stones around here. and we couldn't have thrown one through the trees if we'd tried." "you keep out of this," said beaufort. "when i want a lawyer i'll hire one. this fellow here threw it and i saw him." "oh, no, you didn't," contradicted clint, "for i was looking and your head was turned away until you jumped. there wasn't any stone thrown, and you know it. you're just trying to pick a scrap, beaufort." "call me a liar, do you? i'll attend to you when i'm through with this long-haired galoot!" beaufort contemptuously kicked penny's shoe. "get up and fight, you! you can't shy rocks at me and get away with it!" penny had so far said nothing, but, although there was a gravely amused smile on his thin face, his eyes held a dangerous sparkle. "it can't be done, beaufort," he answered. "i'm not fighting today. you come around the day after school closes in the spring and i'll talk with you." "you're a coward," sneered the big youth. "you'll either get up and fight or i'll kick you down the bank!" clint was too angry now to remain longer diplomatic. "you're a fine one, dreer," he declared hotly. "why don't you fight your own battles and not bring a hired bully to do it for you?" "hired bully!" exploded beaufort, who was working himself into a fine imitation of a rage. "for two cents i'd knock your head off, you fresh kid!" harmon dreer only smirked. "it's no business of mine," he said. "if you fellows throw stones you've got to take the consequences, thayer." "when we do, we will, but you know well enough we didn't throw a stone, dreer. you're picking on durkin because byrd knocked you down the other day. why don't you go after him if you want trouble?" "you keep out of this," said beaufort. then, turning to penny again, "will you get up and take your licking?" he demanded. "no, he won't!" exclaimed clint, jumping to his feet. "if you've got to fight someone, you fight me, you big overgrown bully!" "shut up, thayer." penny pulled his long length from the ground. "this is none of your business." "i'm making it my business," replied clint hotly. "you keep out of it, durkin. i'll look after this fellow. if he wants a scrap he can have it." clint peeled off his coat and tossed it aside. but penny calmly and good-naturedly thrust him away. "it's my row, thayer," he said. "thanks, just the same." he took off his coat and vest, exposing a pair of purple cotton suspenders. "throw those down somewhere, will you? look out for the watch in the vest." "don't be a fool, durkin," begged clint. "you can see it's a put-up job! let me attend to it, won't you?" penny shook his head. "no, i've got to do it," he answered. he turned to dreer. "will you promise to keep mum about this?" he asked. "if you don't promise, i won't fight." "it's nothing to me," muttered dreer, maintaining a safe position. "all right. remember that. if i ever find you've spoken of it i'll half kill you, dreer!" "i guess i'd have something to say about that," said dreer, blustering weakly. beaufort cut in impatiently. "aw, stow the gab!" he said. he tossed his coat aside and skimmed his cap after it. "come on, you runt, and take your medicine!" for answer penny sprang forward and landed a blow on beaufort's shoulder that almost upset him because of its unexpectedness. beaufort grunted angrily and swung back. but penny was quick on his feet and handy with his arms and the blow was blocked, and beaufort's jab with his left fell short. there was little space between the trees and the ledge, and what there was was uneven and covered with leaves which made the footing uncertain. it was long-distance sparring for a minute, during which time the two boys, watching each other intently, stepped back and forth across the little clearing, feinting and backing. beaufort looked to be fully eighteen and was heavily built, with wide shoulders and hips and a deep chest. clint, studying him, felt that one of his blows from the shoulder, if it landed, would be more than enough for poor penny. penny was of the same apparent age, but he was thin and fragile looking beside the other. and yet he was certainly quicker of movement and had an advantage in reach, and there was a certain careful precision about penny's movements that encouraged clint. dreer had moved well away from the scene and was looking on with eager, excited face, a cruel smile twisting his thin lips. suddenly beaufort lunged forward with his right and then shot his second under penny's guard. the blow sent the latter staggering against a tree. fortunately, though, it had landed on his ribs, and after the first instant of breathlessness, during which he managed to side-step further punishment, he showed no damage. again beaufort feinted and swung, but this time penny sprang back out of the way. then, before the other could recover, he went into him, left, right and left again, and beaufort gave way. only one blow took effect, but that reached the bigger boy's face and brought a veritable howl of rage from him. like a windmill, thick arms swinging, he bored in to penny. the latter retreated, guarding well, but beaufort's blows were heavy ones, the ground was slippery with fallen leaves, and penny, missing his footing, measured his length, his head narrowly escaping collision with a tree as he fell. with a grunt of triumph, beaufort sprang toward him and aimed a blow. but clint, boiling with rage, dashed between. "let him up!" he cried. "get away!" growled beaufort, leading at clint. clint swung his shoulders aside and the blow passed harmlessly. penny scrambled to his feet. "my fight, beaufort!" he panted. "let him alone!" beaufort turned to penny again, and again they went at it. it was in-fighting now. short, quick jabs for the face and head followed each other in rapid succession. then they clinched, beaufort's stout right arm holding penny against him and his left fist seeking lodgment against penny's face. but penny, squirming, kept his head down and the blows fell harmlessly on his skull. then, wrenching himself free, penny stumbled out of the way, pale and dizzy. beaufort plunged toward him again wildly. penny stood still then. a feint at the stomach, and beaufort for an instant dropped his guard. then, and it all happened too quickly for clint to follow, penny's left shot out, there was a grunt from beaufort, another lightning-like blow straight from penny's shoulder and the bully went down on his back, one big leg waving in air as he tumbled. and in the same instant a voice, cold and measured, broke the stillness. "durkin! that's enough of that!" mr. daley and mr. conklin stepped onto the scene. chapter xxiii clint has stage-fright the instructor and the physical director had approached without a sound of warning, and penny, clint and dreer, the latter exhibiting an evident desire to efface himself, stared in surprise for a moment. and at the same time beaufort, raising himself weakly on one elbow, gazed bewilderedly from penny to the faces of the newcomers. "i'm not through," he muttered thickly. "wait--a minute!" "i think you are through, beaufort," said mr. daley coldly. "pick up your coat, please, and put it on. durkin, do the same." silently they obeyed, mr. conklin helping the dazed beaufort to his unsteady feet. he had a bleeding nose and one eye looked far from its best. for his part, penny, although evidently distressed, showed only a bruised cheek. "don't go, dreer," said mr. daley. dreer halted in his elaborately uninterested departure. "now, then, boys, what does this mean? don't you know that fighting is barred here? and don't you think that, if you had to try to kill each other like two wild animals, you might--er--have chosen some day other than the sabbath?" no one had any reply to make. "well," continued the instructor in his careful way, "why don't you--er--say something? who began this and what was it about?" "durkin shied a stone at us as we were going down the hill," said dreer, "and when we told him to stop it he--he wanted to fight." "that was the way of it, beaufort?" "aw, find out," growled beaufort. "i don't have to account to you for what i do." "keep a civil tongue, beaufort," counselled mr. conklin, "or it may prove bad for you, my boy." "you've been told before that you must keep off school property," said mr. daley, otherwise known as "horace." "i'm not on school property," replied beaufort defiantly. "you're not now, but you have been or you wouldn't be here. after this kindly remain away from the school entirely. we've had trouble with you before." "sure and you'll have more if you get gay," answered the other with a grin. "when anyone throws stones at my head he gets licked for it." "did you do that, durkin?" "no, sir," replied penny quietly. "thayer and i were lying under the rock here when those fellows came up the hill. they saw us and went on up. then, pretty soon, they came down again and beaufort pretended i'd thrown a stone at him and came over here and insisted on a scrap." "pretended you threw it? what for?" "oh, it's some of dreer's funny work," replied penny. "he had it in for me because--for something that happened a while back, and he got beaufort to pick a quarrel with me." "what was the something that happened, durkin?" "i'd rather not say, mr. daley. it--it had nothing to do with this." "what do you say, thayer?" "penny's told it just the way it happened, sir. beaufort wanted to fight and penny wouldn't until beaufort made him. there wasn't any stone thrown, mr. daley." mr. daley looked puzzled. "well," he said, "you'd better all return to hall for the rest of the day. you'll--er--you'll probably hear from this later." beaufort took his departure non-chalantly, whistling as he made his way through the woods. dreer stood not on the order of his going, but was over the wall almost before the instructor had finished speaking. penny and clint followed more leisurely, leaving mr. daley and mr. conklin in possession of the field of battle. they too, however, presently continued their interrupted walk. "what do you make of it, jim?" asked mr. daley. mr. conklin smiled and shook his head. "oh, i fancy durkin told it straight. it's some private feud we happened on. too bad we didn't follow our first intention and go toward the village." mr. daley looked doubtful. "i'm sorry about durkin," he said regretfully. "mr. fernald has been trying to secure a scholarship for him at one of the colleges, and this--er--affair will, i fear, displease him." mr. conklin shot a quick glance at the other. "oh, so you think you'll have to report it, eh?" "naturally!" "hm. well, all right. only it somehow seems to me that as they were off of school property and were settling an affair in a perfectly regular way it might be overlooked without any harm, horace. you know best, of course. that's just my notion." "but that would be encouraging fighting here, jim, and you know what the rules are. i--i wish i might--er--forget it, but i don't think i conscientiously can." mr. conklin nodded. after a moment he said, with a chuckle: "that was a clever punch of durkin's. i'm glad we got there for the knock-out." "durkin appeared much lighter than beaufort, too," replied mr. daley, unwilling admiration in his voice. "i wonder how he happens to be so--er--clever." "because he took boxing lessons with me for two years," answered mr. conklin unhesitatingly. "we used to have boxing, you know. that was before your time, though. i remember now that durkin, although a mere kid, was very quick and took to it like a duck to water. it was a great mistake to abolish boxing. there's no better exercise, and none more useful." "but doesn't it--er--encourage just this sort of thing?" asked mr. daley, with a backward tilt of his head. "not a bit," replied the other stoutly. "on the contrary, if a boy can put on a pair of gloves and harmlessly pound another boy about a bit--or get pounded about--it satisfies the desire for fistic encounter that's a part of every fellow's make-up, and he's a lot less likely to be quarrelsome. besides, horace, it's a fine exercise for the body and brain and eyes." "brain?" questioned mr. daley smilingly. "undoubtedly! try it some time and see if it isn't. you've got to think quick, look quick and act quick. if i had my way boxing would be compulsory, by george!" mr. daley shook his head doubtfully. "you may be right," he said, "but it seems to me that teaching a boy how to fight is going to make him want to. that's the way it goes with other things, jim. give a boy lessons in swimming and he wants to swim; teach him--er--how to jump--" "teach him how to box and he wants to box. certainly, but that doesn't mean that he wants to go around picking quarrels and fighting with bare fists. you might as well say that learning to fence makes you want to go out and stab folks with a rapier! and look at the evidence presented awhile ago. beaufort undoubtedly picked that quarrel. there can't be any doubt of that. we know his record. beaufort, i'll wager, never took a boxing lesson in his life. he showed it. the chap who knew how to box, durkin, had to be forced to fight." "you'll convince me in a minute," laughed mr. daley, "that if i want to keep out of trouble i'll have to learn to use my fists!" "it would be a good thing if you did," responded the other. "come over to the gym some afternoon and have a go at it!" "that would be setting a fine example, wouldn't it?" "as a matter of fact, it would," replied mr. conklin earnestly. "i wish i could convince fernald of it!" meanwhile, clint and penny, both chastened and uneasy, were reviewing the episode in penny's room. "i suppose he will report it," said penny. "if he does, and mr. fernald believes dreer's story, it'll cost me that scholarship." "i don't see why he should believe dreer any more than you and me," clint objected. "i'm afraid he will want to. he hates to have fellows fight. i'm glad you kept out of it, anyway." "i'm not! it wouldn't have made so much difference with me, durkin." "you might have been put on probation thayer, and that would have kept you off the football team." "probation just for--for that?" exclaimed the other incredulously. "wouldn't be surprised," replied penny. "josh is rabid on the subject. well, there's no use crying over spilled milk. and, anyhow, i'm glad i did it! only i wish it had been dreer instead of beaufort!" "so do i," muttered clint. amy, when he heard of it, was devastated with sorrow. "and i wasn't there!" he wailed. "just my silly luck! tell me about it. you say penny knocked him out!" the next forenoon the summons came from the office and at twelve o'clock penny, clint and dreer were admitted to the inner sanctuary one at a time and grilled by mr. fernald. penny's forebodings were none too dismal, as events proved. probation was awarded to penny and dreer, while clint was unmercifully lectured. unfortunately, their sense of honour kept both penny and clint silent as to the underlying cause of the affair, and the principal's efforts to find out why dreer should have set beaufort to pick a quarrel with penny, as both penny and clint claimed, were unsuccessful. naturally enough, dreer himself failed to throw light on this matter. mr. fernald refused to believe that any boy would deliberately seek the help of another to administer punishment to a third. he was willing to exonerate penny and clint from the charge of throwing stones, but insisted that it always took two to make a quarrel and that if penny had chosen to observe the rules of the school he could have done so. for his part, clint left the inner office feeling that he had been extremely lucky to have escaped hanging or life imprisonment, to say nothing of probation! poor penny was pretty downcast, amy was furious and declared his intention of going to mr. fernald and telling the real truth of the whole affair. but penny wouldn't listen to that. "you can't do it, byrd," he said. "why can't i?" amy demanded. "because it wouldn't be decent," replied penny earnestly. "you know that. a fellow can't--can't tell tales, you see." "but, hang it all, you're letting dreer get away with it! he busted your fiddle and set beaufort on you and all he gets is a month's pro! and he doesn't care whether he's on pro or not. it doesn't make any difference to him. you're the one who's getting the short end of it. you're losing your scholarship as sure as shooting!" "yes, but a fellow can't blab," still insisted penny. amy argued and stormed and threatened to go into number 15 and knock harmon dreer into a cocked-hat, but in the end he had to subside. penny insisted on taking his medicine. clint was as sorry as possible for penny, but he didn't have much time for sympathy. with practice on monday afternoon football affairs at brimfield started on their last lap. only monday, tuesday and wednesday were left for real work. after that only signal practice and blackboard lectures remained. andy miller showed up again, and with him two other coaches who had absented themselves for a few days, and life became once more terrifically strenuous for the 'varsity players. saunders got back into practice that afternoon, but it was plain that his injury still inconvenienced him and he was not allowed to take part in the forty-five-minute scrimmage. clint held down the left tackle position and held it down pretty well. although he had no suspicion of it, his performance that afternoon settled definitely his status, and on the way to the gymnasium afterwards mr. detweiler ranged himself alongside, slid an arm over clint's shoulder and said: "thayer, we're going to play you on saturday. saunders isn't in shape, i'm sorry to say, and won't be able to do more than take your place for awhile if necessary. you've done well. i want to give you credit for that. you're not a perfect tackle yet, my boy, but we've all got hopes of you and we expect you to give a good account of yourself against claflin. and i expect to see you play better saturday by fifty per cent than you've played yet. how do you feel about it?" clint couldn't have said just how he did feel, and was relieved when, seeing his embarrassment, mr. detweiler went on encouragingly. "whatever you do, don't get scared. just remember that, while winning from claflin is a bigger thing than winning from any other team we've met, claflin isn't very different, after all. they may play a little better football, but they're just as liable to make mistakes, just as liable to go to pieces in a pinch. make up your mind that we've got a better team than they have and that we're going to everlastingly smear them! and then go ahead and prove it. you'll be up against a good man on attack, this fellow terrill, but don't let that make you nervous. remember that he's probably just as much afraid of you as you are of him, thayer. if you can get around him a couple of times at the start you'll have him on the run for the rest of the game. so jump into him the minute the game begins and let him see that he's up against a real hard proposition. meanwhile, do your level best to smooth down your playing. you've got the right ideas; just develop them. make them go. put a little more hump into your work. you'll find you can do about twice as well as you've been doing, if you put your mind on it. and remember too, thayer, that i'm looking to you to vindicate my choice of you. don't give anyone a chance to say after the game that i'd have done better if i'd picked cupples or trow for the place. all right. take care of yourself." and mr. detweiler gave clint a parting thump at the gymnasium door. events passed at an amazing speed for the next few days. clint moved at times in a waking dream, and amy, tapping his head significantly, spoke to him soothingly and hoped that the trouble would not prove permanent. clint had a way of suddenly waking, at the most inopportune moments, to the fact that he was due to play left tackle on the brimfield football team against claflin school in a few days, and when he did he invariably experienced an appalling sick feeling at the pit of his stomach and became for the moment incapable of speech or action. when this occurred in class during, say, a faltering elucidation of the iliad, it produced anything but a favourable impression on the instructor. fortunately, while actually engaged in out-guessing lee, of the second, or breaking through the none too vulnerable pryme, or racing down the field under one of harris's punts, he had no time to think of it and so was spared the mortification of suspended animation at what would have been a most unfortunate time. his appetite became decidedly capricious. and the capriciousness increased as saturday drew near. also, the sinking sensations to which he had become a prey attacked him more often. he drove amy to despair by predicting all sorts of direful things. he was sure that he wouldn't be able to do anything with terrill, the claflin right end. he was morally certain that he was going to disgrace himself and the school. he was even inclined to think, rather hopefully, as it seemed to amy, that he would be taken violently ill before saturday. "you'll make _me_ ill!" declared amy. "honest, clint, you talk like a demented duck! buck up! what's the matter with you? anyone would think you were going to be hung saturday instead of play football!" "i almost wish i were," murmured clint dejectedly. but if clint was troubled with forebodings, not so the school at large. enthusiastic mass-meetings were held alternate evenings and the new songs were rehearsed and the cheers which were to bring terror to the enemy were thundered with a mighty zest. brimfield refused to even consider defeat. parades became a frequent proceeding. by wednesday it was only necessary for a fellow to step out on the row and shout "brimfield!" to have a procession form almost instantly! the last practice took place wednesday afternoon and for a solid forty-five minutes the 'varsity did its level best to totally annihilate the second team, and almost succeeded. things went with a most encouraging bang that day. even coach robey was seen to smile, which, during practice, was a most extraordinary thing for him to do. the 'varsity had to work for what it got, but got it. three touchdowns and a field-goal was the sum of its attainment, while the second, fighting fiercely, managed to push otis over for a score in the third period. afterward the second cheered the 'varsity, was heartily cheered in return and then trotted back to the gymnasium no longer existent as a team. the most enthusiastic meeting of the fall was held that evening and was followed by a very riotous parade during which much red-fire was set off. the procession invaded the village and brought the inhabitants to their doors in alarm. it paused at coach robey's boarding place and cheered and demanded a speech. coach robey, however, was not at home. neither was mr. detweiler, to whose abode the fellows next made their way. but they didn't care much. they greatly preferred hearing themselves to listening to anything the coaches might have to say. finally they returned to main hall, indulged in one final burst of tumult and disbanded. clint, hearkening from his room, where, quite alone, he was supposed to be diligently pursuing his studies, had another and worse attack of nerves! there was signal practice thursday for a short time in the afternoon, and in the evening a blackboard talk in the gymnasium. after that clint returned to torrence and made believe study until he could crawl into bed. amy did what he could to take his mind from football, but his efforts were not very successful. just when he thought he had clint thoroughly interested in his conversation clint would give a sudden start and blurt out: "i'll never remember the signals, amy! i know i won't!" or "gee, i wish it was over!" those were trying times in number 14. chapter xxiv in the enemy's country and then, suddenly, it was saturday morning! clint, rousing from disturbed, uneasy slumber, stared at a patch of sunlight shimmering on the white ceiling and tried for just that moment that lies between sleep and consciousness to account for the fluttering condition of his nerves, the sense of impending doom that lay like a dark shadow at the back of his brain. then full recollection came, his heart turned completely over twice, raced like a propeller out of water and sank dejectedly to somewhere near the pit of his stomach. after that he was very, very wide awake. he turned and looked enviously at amy, who, one bare arm over his touselled head, slept on untroubledly. a door banged in the corridor, the sound of rushing water came from the bathroom at the end, someone across the way began to sing "tipperary" joyously, and through the open window came the shrill voice of an early first former: "hi, terry! terry brainard! oh, _ter_-ry!" clint would have liked to have buried his head in the pillow and gone back to sleep and slept until--well, say five o'clock that afternoon. for by five o'clock the claflin game would be over with. but even a five-minute cat-nap was denied him by restless nerves, and, after a moment or two, he put his legs out and sat up yawning, feeling strangely tired and listless. his bath helped some, however, and later on he was surprised to find that as long as he kept his mind off the game he was able to do full justice to a chop, two soft-boiled eggs, three slices of toast, a dish of stewed apricots, a baked potato and three glasses of milk! after that he felt better still! there was a studied effort on the part of the players to keep away from the subject of football that morning. many of the fellows looked nervous and drawn, and said little. others were, or appeared to be, in high spirits, and laughed a good deal and rather stridently, and talked loudly of all kinds of things--except football. jack innes was even more quiet than usual and almost jumped out of his chair when a boy at the next table dropped a knife on the floor. there were no recitations after eleven that day. there might just as well have been none before that, for it's quite useless to expect a boy to put his mind on his studies only a few hours before the big game! at eleven the 'varsity players and substitutes assembled at the gymnasium and, escorted by mr. detweiler and mr. boutelle, took a walk across the fields and hills at an even though moderate pace. they were back a little before twelve. dinner was at noon, and by a quarter to one they were climbing into coaches in front of main hall and at one-eight they, together with most of the school, were pulling out of the brimfield station on their journey to westplains, twelve miles distant. claflin was an older school than brimfield and had a much larger enrolment. until last year the blue had won three football games from the maroon-and-grey, all, in fact, that the two schools had played together. last year the tide had turned and brimfield had nosed out her rival by one touchdown. this year--well, what was to happen this year was still on the lap of the gods, but brimfield set out confident of victory. coaches met the players at the westplains station and rolled them away along the tree-lined, winding road to the school, while the rest of the brimfield invaders followed on foot or, if their pockets afforded it and they hankered for luxury; in the little station-wagons which, patriotically decorated with blue bunting and flags, sought patronage. claflin school was set down in the very middle of the town, a quiet, rambling, overgrown village too near new york to ever become more than a residence place. the school was spread over many acres and its buildings, most of which had been there many years, had a look of mellow antiquity which the newer brimfield halls had not had time to acquire. wide-spreading elms shaded the walks in summer and even today their graceful branches added beauty to the campus. brimfield, nearly a hundred and fifty strong, took possession of the school grounds and went sight-seeing before they poured out on the further side and made their way to the athletic field. amy and bob chase, pausing to translate a latin inscription over the entrance to one of the buildings, became detached from the others and were discovered by mr. detweiler, who, having made an unsuccessful attempt to find a college friend who was instructing at claflin, was on his way to the gymnasium. he listened, unseen, for a moment to amy's extremely literal and picturesque translation, and then a laugh revealed his presence and amy looked around a bit sheepishly. "that's fine, byrd," said mr. detweiler. "you certainly reflect credit on 'uncle sim'!" "i guess," observed bob chase, "'uncle sim' would have had a fit if he'd heard that!" they strolled on together, speaking of the buildings they passed, until, opposite the gymnasium, mr. detweiler started to leave them, thought better of it and said: "by the way, byrd, i wonder if i was pledged to secrecy the other day." "the other day?" repeated amy questioningly. "the day i met you and thayer and--" he looked doubtfully at chase. "bob's all right," amy reassured him. "i know when you mean, sir. but i don't understand about being pledged--" "i'll tell you." mr. detweiler looked hurriedly at his watch. "i happened to hear from mr. daley yesterday that your friend durkin had got in trouble. you knew that?" "yes, sir." "well, it seemed that mr. fernald thought durkin had either picked the quarrel or--well, we'll say welcomed it. daley told me durkin was on probation and stood a pretty fair chance of losing a scholarship he was after. so, as i hadn't been, as i thought, pledged to secrecy, i told daley what i knew of the start of the trouble. that seemed to put a different complexion on the matter and daley went to mr. fernald and told him about it. since then i've wondered whether i ought to have kept my mouth closed. do you mind?" "not a bit," declared amy heartily. "i'm mighty glad you did tell. i wanted to, but penny wouldn't hear of it. he said it would be sneaky, or something like that. what--what did mr. fernald say, sir?" "i haven't heard. i hope, though, he will see that your friend durkin couldn't very well avoid that row on sunday. it seemed to me rather too bad that he should lose his chance at the scholarship. that is why i 'butted in,' byrd." "i'm very glad you did, mr. detweiler. i'll find penny and see if he's heard anything." penny, however, was very elusive, and it was not until a few minutes before the game started that amy finally located him in the top row of the temporary grand-stand. even then amy could only get within shouting distance, but shouting distance sufficed. "penny!" called amy. "hi, penny!" penny smiled and waved. "had any news?" asked amy in a confidential shout. penny looked blank for an instant. then a slow smile lighted his face and he nodded vehemently. "yes," he called. "this morning, byrd! it's all right about--you know!" "awfully glad," replied amy. "mr. detweiler just told me! see you after the game." "sit down, amy!" said a friend in the stand. "yes, clear the aisle, please, byrd," called another. amy smiled and hurried back to his seat next to bob chase just as the two teams, having warmed up and experimented with what little breeze was cutting across the gridiron, withdrew to their respective sides of the field. a final long-drawn cheer for brimfield issued from the south stand, was answered by a more thunderous one from the opposite seats, the teams lined up, the captains waved their hands to the referee and claflin's left guard sent the nice new yellow ball arching away against the sky. it is to be presumed that more than one heart under a canvas jacket was thumping loudly at that moment, but i doubt if any was trying harder to turn somersaults than clint thayer's as he hustled across to where kendall was gathering the pigskin in his arms. but in the next moment clint forgot all about his heart, forgot he even had one, for kendall was plunging forward through the fast-gathering claflin warriors and his work was cut out for him. back to the fifteen-yard line went the pigskin before the referee called it down, and brimfield's supporters cheered. it is always something of a shock to realise that an event which has been dreaded for days has at last arrived. during that tense moment wherein the blue-stockinged briggs had cuddled the ball into position on the tee clint had experienced just such a shock. only yesterday the claflin game had been of the future, only this morning he had still viewed it uneasily as a thing impending, and now--presto!--it was here. he endured for a long minute more kinds of stage-fright than he had ever dreamed of! but action was a panacea for his malady, and the instant he thrust himself in the path of a plunging claflin man, felt the impact of the hard-muscled body against him, recovered and fell into his place in the quickly-formed wedge of interference, the thrill of battle drove out fear. now marvin was calling his signals, the brimfield forwards were poising themselves for the assault, and clint, hands on the ground, feet apart, head up, was watching every movement of his opponent. and, simultaneously with the snapping of the ball, he was lunging upward and forward with both hands, all the muscles of his tense body behind that quick thrust, and the claflin opponent, caught unawares, spun sideways and crashed into his guard, while harris, the ball clutched to his stomach, smashed through and past and, stumbling, twisting, panting, pushed three yards of turf behind him before the claflin backs pulled him down. and so it went until brimfield, taking the enemy by surprise, had won her way to the thirty-seven yards. there someone mistook the signals, three yards were lost on second down, and, with seven to go, harris punted high and far. clint found his opponents too much for him that time and was hurled aside. claflin caught on her thirty-three and ran back six. then clint had a chance to prove himself on the defence, and prove himself he did on the second play. the renowned terrill, striving to draw clint out from his guard, suddenly found himself nicely fooled, and clint, swinging through inside, smeared the play well behind the claflin line. there was a vast feeling of satisfaction when his arms wrapped themselves around the legs of that blue-stockinged left half and held like a vise. the fact that a vengeful claflin forward dropped his hundred-and-seventy pounds on clint's neck didn't matter a mite! it was nip and tuck for the rest of that first period. claflin regularly made from four to eight yards on three plays and then punted. brimfield made similar gains and punted. kendall missed a catch and recovered the ball for a ten-yard loss. to equalise things, ainsmith of claflin fumbled for almost as much. the quarter ended with the ball in brimfield's possession in the middle of the field. in the second period marvin began to work the ends, sending st. clair and kendall around the wings for short gains. once, when kendall, almost stopped, wriggled himself free and dashed on along the side line, the brimfield supporters leaped to their feet in the stand with ecstatic visions of a touchdown dancing before their eyes. but kendall was forced out on claflin's thirty-five yards and the yells of triumph subsided. from there harris made it first down through a hole as wide as a door in the centre of the claflin line, reeling off twelve yards before he was upset. the blue's centre-rush was hurt in that encounter and a substitute took his place. marvin tested the new man on the next play, but kendall was stopped. a second attempt, with harris plunging straight ahead from kicking position, produced three yards. st. clair slid off left tackle for two more and harris punted to the blue's twelve yards. a penalty for off-side brought the ball back to the seventeen. claflin rounded edwards for six yards, pounded clint for two more, was held on the next down and punted to the maroon-and-grey's forty-seven. there marvin caught and was toppled in his tracks. roberts was hurt in a missed tackle and coach robey sent holt in. both teams had slowed up in their playing now, for the pace had been unusually fast. claflin was caught holding and the ball went once more into her own territory. harris and kendall hammered the tackles for a first down and st. clair got off around the right end for seven yards more. marvin fumbled and harris fell on the ball. harris punted to a corner of the field and the ball rolled out at the fifteen yards. claflin braced then and pushed through for a first down, following it with a long forward-pass that took the pigskin to her forty-three yards. a fake-kick failed to gain and her full-back was brought up standing when he tried jack innes's position. a punt was caught by kendall on his twenty-five-yard line and, behind good interference, he dashed back nearly ten before he was nailed. st. clair made three off the blue's right tackle and marvin kicked from position, the ball rolling past the claflin quarter to his thirty-yard line, where he managed to secure it just an instant before steve edwards reached him. two tries netted but four yards and a punt followed. marvin caught near midfield and the half ended. the teams had shown themselves to be very evenly matched in all departments of the game. on offence brimfield had done a trifle better, if we except the forward-pass made by her adversary, the only one so far attempted by either side. on defence claflin had proved no stronger than the maroon-and-grey. in punting, harris, for brimfield, and wentworth, for claflin, had shown about the same ability, what advantage there might be being in favour of harris, whose punts had been a little better placed. so far it was anybody's game, and the rival schools, during the intermission, sang and cheered loudly and confidently. in the locker-room at the gymnasium mr. robey and the assistant coaches dealt praise and censure and instruction. several of the fellows had been pretty well played out at the end of the half. claflin had paid a good deal of attention to the centre of brimfield's line--later it transpired that rumours had reached westplains to the effect that brimfield's centre trio were weak on defence--and both captain innes and hall were rather battered up. blaisdell had come out of it with less punishment. there were no injuries of moment, however, even roberts, whose shoulder had been bruised, being ready to go back. as the time to return to the field approached mr. robey called for attention. "i want to tell you fellows," he said quietly, "that you've played well. you've done as much as i'd hoped you'd do. you've held claflin away from your goal, and in doing that you've done a good deal, for you've been up against as fine a blue team as they've ever got together. but from now on you've got to have punch, fellows. you've got to play faster and harder. claflin will try everything she knows. she isn't beaten, not by a whole lot, and she's going to come back hard. i want to see improvement in the backfield in this half. you backs haven't helped the forwards as you've been taught to do and as you can do. you've let the runner have an extra yard or two yards time and again. go in hard and stop the man before he gets clear. you've been waiting for him to come to you. don't do that. go in and meet him. every inch counts. now, then, let's see what you can do for brimfield this time. play hard. when you tackle, stop your man. when you block, block hard and long. put every ounce of strength into the game from now on and i'll promise you that you'll take that football back to brimfield with you!" claflin had made four changes in her line-up when the teams faced each other again, and brimfield two. on the latter team carmine was at quarter and gafferty had taken tom hall's place at right guard. roberts was back in his position at the right end of the line. jack innes settled the ball on the mound of earth, glanced over his team, cried "ready, sir!" stepped forward and punted obliquely across the field toward the claflin stand. the second half was on and the laurel of victory was still to be won. chapter xxv victory! that oblique kick-off had been prearranged and by the time the claflin right guard had called it his the maroon-and grey forwards were down on him. his frantic attempt to gather the ball into his arms failed and it bounded away toward the side line. blaisdell fell on it a foot from the mark and brimfield shouted joyfully. from claflin's thirty-six yards to her twenty the brimfield backs carried the pigskin. there roberts was caught holding and the maroon-and-grey was set back. harris fell back as if to kick and threw forward to roberts on claflin's twelve. roberts caught, but was stopped for no more gain. the brimfield stand cheered hoarsely and unceasingly, the cheerleaders never letting up for a moment. harris plugged the claflin centre for two, st. clair got three around left tackle and harris made it first down on the blue's two yards directly in front of goal by a criss-cross play through right guard. brimfield went crazy then and cries of "touchdown! touchdown! touchdown!" thundered across from the stand. carmine and captain innes conferred. st. clair was chosen to try the right tackle. but there was no hole there and he lost a yard. harris banged out less than two feet at right guard. st. clair again tried right tackle and got through for one. harris fell back to kick. the stands quieted. innes passed low and harris took too much time. the ball bounded away from an upstretched hand and carmine fell on it at the twenty-two yards. once more brimfield took up the journey. a forward-pass to edwards went short and clint knocked it out of the eager hands of a claflin player. two attempts by kendall advanced the ball but four yards and harris again went back to kicking position. he was on the twenty-six yards and just to the left of the goal and brimfield fully expected a score. but when the ball went to him he tucked it under his arm and shot to the left in an effort to skirt the end. the attempt just failed to gain the distance and the ball went to claflin on downs. the maroon-and-grey flags that a moment before had been waving riotously now wilted dejectedly. claflin failed to gain on two downs and punted short to midfield, where carmine caught and eluded half the enemy before he was forced over the side line for a gain of eight yards. the ball was paced in at claflin's forty-six and kendall, from kick formation, got nine outside right tackle, clint opening the hole. harris made it first down. a forward-pass, carmine to edwards, grounded. carmine took the ball for four through centre, st. clair failed to gain and harris punted to the blue's five-yard line. wentworth made a fair-catch and punted on second down, after a plunge at right tackle had netted two yards. kendall caught and was stopped for no gain. the ball was on claflin's forty-six yards. harris, on a delayed pass play, made three outside left tackle and kendall got away for seven and first down. kendall again got free around the left of the blue's line and reeled off six more before he was tackled. he was hurt and freer took his place. the latter at once distinguished himself by breaking straight through the claflin left guard for five yards, and it was first down again on the blue's twenty-five. it seemed now that nothing was going to stop the brimfield machine short of the goal line, for the offence it was showing was far superior to anything exhibited that afternoon by either team. claflin was proving weaker at the ends of her line than expected and her tackles were showing the strain. the end of the period sounded after freer had been stopped for a yard. claflin put in a new right guard and a fresh right tackle and returned two of her former men to the line. coach robey sent hall back, but made no other change. the teams doffed blankets once more and again faced each other on the blue's twenty-four yards. claflin hoped for nothing better, perhaps, than a no-score result, for her attack had several times failed to get under way and her opponent seemed to be gaining strength rather than losing it. carmine, acting under instructions from coach robey, now opened up his bag of tricks. a long side-pass to edwards, followed by a forward heave to roberts, across the field, brought the maroon-and-grey supporters leaping to their feet, for roberts caught the long pass high in the air, dodged a frantic claflin end and raced straight toward the goal line. only the fact that he slipped near the ten-yard line prevented a score then and there. that instant's falter brought the enemy down on him and, although he managed to squirm forward another yard, he was stopped. but it looked a short distance from the nine yards to the final white line, and brimfield implored a touchdown. harris was hurled against the desperate blue line and made a scant two yards, and was found threshing his arms about when the players were torn apart. time was taken out and, after the full-back had been administered to, he was supported to the bench and the eager rollins cantered on. again came a bewildering trick-play, with a delayed pass from innes to freer and a straight dash at the line by st. clair after a short lateral pass. but, although claflin's forwards faltered, the secondary defence came to the rescue and st. clair gained only two yards. it was third down now, with five to go, and from both sides of the gridiron came the imploring shout of the rival "rooters." brimfield chanted "touchdown! touchdown!" and claflin hoarsely begged her warriors to "hold 'em, claflin! hold 'em, claflin!" and claflin held them! with harris out of the line-up, carmine hesitated to try a field-goal, and when, after another yard and a half had been gained by freer, the goal line was still almost four yards away, he risked all on a forward-pass. edwards managed to sneak into position beyond the goal line, but carmine's toss went wide and claflin fell on the ball back of the post. blue flags waved wildly then, while, across the dimming field, the brimfield stand was silent and disappointed. six minutes still remained of that final quarter, however, and the maroon-and-grey took courage again. when the teams lined up once more still was at left half, trow at right tackle and thursby had taken jack innes's place. claflin played desperately then and, almost before brimfield realised it, had reached the middle of the field. trow was weak and several gains were made past him. thursby, too, had not found his pace. claflin succeeded with a short forward-pass and twice made five-and six-yard gains around the brimfield right end. but at the fifty-yard line the blue's advance was halted and claflin was forced to punt. the kick was short and high and went out near the maroon-and-grey's thirty-yard line. carmine hurled freer at the centre for four, the same player slid off left tackle for three more and carmine himself made it first down on a wide end-run. once more brimfield took up its journey toward the distant goal line. lateral passes, forward passes, delayed plays, all were used and all gained something, while freer and still and freer again slid past the tackles, carmine shot through here and there like a jack rabbit and the slower-moving rollins bucked the line for less spectacular gains. past the centre of the field rolled the maroon-and-grey, past the forty yards, past the thirty. claflin fought tooth and nail, despairingly, desperately, longing for the whistle that should announce the end. just past the thirty-yard line brimfield had a setback and her progress was halted when gafferty was caught off-side. it became second down then with fifteen to go and rollins trotted back up the field and held his arms out. but claflin wasn't looking for a punt on second down and so was not deceived as to her opponent's intentions. what did deceive her, though, was the play that came off. for the ball was snapped to freer, and freer, after running across the field, passed back to carmine and that youth, twisting on his heel, dashed straight into the confusion of friend and foe, dodging, feinting, twisting, and emerged on the other side and raced on for the goal line. but near the twenty he was brought low by a claflin back, and it was third down and a half-yard to go. carmine pantingly demanded the time. the answer was two minutes. it was still who got the necessary half-yard, together with a yard more for good measure. claflin halted the game while an injured right end was nursed back to an interest in life, and in that interim coach robey sent in three substitutes. sherrard went in for edwards, holt for roberts, and saunders, limping a little, took the place of trow at right tackle. clint had his head-guard ready to hand over when he saw saunders trot on and was more than surprised when the former left tackle passed him by and laid his hand on trow's arm. holt evidently brought a message from coach robey, for he dragged carmine back and whispered to him. what the instructions were was soon apparent, for when the whistle shrilled again the maroon-and-grey began a relentless hammering of the blue's left side, hurling her backs at guard and tackle, and, although claflin sent her backs to the rescue of the beleaguered forwards, the gains came consistently and grew longer and longer. the maroon-and-grey, on the eight yards now, was again demanding surrender. clint, with a swollen mouth and a piece of dirty surgeon's plaster running slantwise above his right eye, panting for breath, bathed in perspiration, watched his adversary as carmine yelped his signals again. only eight yards to go and four downs to do it in. clint scented victory and his nerves grew tense as he waited. then he was pushing and wrenching and once more the hole was opened wide and once more freer, playing like a wildcat, smashed past him. clint followed through, met a claflin back and sent him staggering aside. freer, tackled but still fighting, dragged himself on and on. and then the unexpected happened. "_ball!_" the shout came frantically from somewhere and clint saw the pigskin, squeezed from the half-back's arms, bound into air. a blue-sleeved arm shot toward it, and another, but the ball, bouncing away from an eager hand, went, turning lazily over and over in its flight, toward the side line. clint turned swiftly and pursued, elbowed by others. he shot an arm out to the left and cleared his path. cries and pounding footsteps came to his ears. away rolled the ball, spurning the five-yard line, seemingly bent on trickling out of bounds. a blue-jerseyed player tried to edge past clint, but the latter swung in front of him. then he was on the ball, and up again with it tucked against his stomach, and was plunging toward the goal line, a scant six yards away! a claflin man dived at him and strove to pinion his knees, but with a wrench clint tore one leg free and staggered on another stride. arms clutched him about the shoulders and it seemed that he was pulling a ton of weight with him. then there was a shock, his legs went from under him and he toppled to earth. but as he fell, and as the last breath in his body seemed to leave him forever, he pushed the ball away from him at arm's length and set his fingers about it like so many vises! and that was the last he knew. when he opened his eyes he was being sloshed with water from a big, smelly sponge, and the trainer's little green eyes were above his. "what is it?" he asked dazedly. "it's a touchdown, my boy! a touchdown by a bare two inches! and how do you feel?" clint smiled as he closed his eyes again for a moment and became aware that the sound which had before seemed like the pounding of surf on the shore was the steady cheering of brimfield's supporters. "i feel--all right," he answered, "and--and for the love of mud take that beastly sponge out of my mouth!" the trainer chuckled, and at that instant the cheering rose to a new height of intensity. "what's that?" asked clint, struggling to get up. "rollins kicked goal," was the answer. "lie still a minute, boy." "then--then we've won?" exclaimed clint, realisation of victory pouring over him like a wave and setting his heart to thumping. "we have; seven to nothing; and there goes the whistle and it's all over for another year, thank heaven! and now you'd best get on your feet, for they'll be after you in a minute!" and they were, a score of them, with amy in the lead, amy laughing and jubilant and devil-may-care! and clint, protesting, still a bit faint and pale, but immeasurably happy, was lifted to willing shoulders from where, a little vaguely, he looked down upon a sea of frantically cheering youths who waved maroon-and-grey banners and behaved in the time-honoured custom of the conqueror. "gangway!" shouted amy. "hold tight, clint! here we go, fellows! gangway!" clint's bearers broke into a shambling run, and clint, clutching tightly at amy's neck, lurched and bobbed dizzily as they hurried across the field. for an instant he caught a view of the gravely pleased countenance of penny durkin. penny waved and was lost to sight again. other faces he knew swam past him. smiles and shouts and waving hands greeted him. other players, caught before escape was possible, were swaying about in front of the stand where brimfield was forming into a procession to march in triumph about the trampled field of battle. straight for the head of the parade scuttled amy and his cohorts. "gangway!" babbled amy. "let us through here!" "amy!" remonstrated clint. "let me down, you crazy indian! i--i'm tired!" "let you down!" cried amy incredulously. "not much! you're a bloomin' hero, clint, and you've got to act the part. you're the chap who knocked the 'laf' out of claflin! hold your head up now and look like napoleon!" "but, amy, honest--" "shut up and don't queer the show! gangway! gangway for left tackle thayer!" the end http://www.archive.org/details/crimsonsweater00barb the crimson sweater by ralph henry barbour author of "the half-back," "for the honor of the school," etc. with illustrations by c.m. relyea [illustration: the final game between ferry hill and hammond.] [illustration] new york the century co. 1906 copyright, 1905, 1906, by the century co. published october, 1906 the de vinne press to my kindly critics ruth and molly contents chapter page i the crimson sweater's first appearance 3 ii roy makes an enemy and a friend 17 iii a midnight hazing 32 iv roy changes his mind 39 v chub eaton introduces himself 53 vi methuselah has a sore throat 70 vii coaches and players 81 viii forrest loses his temper and roy keeps his promise 103 ix red hair and white rabbits 116 x the cross-country race 131 xi harry finds a clue 143 xii a night in the quarry 156 xiii forming the hockey team 169 xiv the entertainment and how it ended 183 xv a defeat, a victory and a challenge 196 xvi "just for the school" 210 xvii the hockey championship is decided 221 xviii on fox island 236 xix a night alarm 247 xx roy visits hammond 258 xxi ferry hill changes its leader 272 xxii the poaching 286 xxiii on inner bounds 298 xxiv sid's popular protest--and what followed 311 xxv the boat-race 327 xxvi the game with hammond 338 xxvii the crimson sweater disappears 352 list of illustrations page the final game between ferry hill and hammond--_frontispiece_ roy porter 9 "'that will do, horace,' said the newcomer. 'you can rest awhile'" 21 "roy lifted his hat, and nodded with a friendly smile, but his only reward was an unseeing glance from the blue eyes" 45 "'if you'll do your honest best there, i'll stick to you as long as you live'" 51 "'run along, porter,' counselled the peacemaker" 55 "'of course i wasn't christened chub'" 61 "'poor old 'thuselah,' she murmured" 73 "even harry joined her shrill voice, the while she waved her flag valiantly" 91 "roy leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a foot" 113 "'my, what a temper!'" 123 "at last roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels into a clump of bushes" 139 mr. cobb and the search-party looking for roy 151 "'look where you're going, mr. cobb!'" 161 "they had gathered chairs of all descriptions from all over the school" 179 "chub's tambourine flew whirling out of his hand" 187 "it was roy who dashed across the stage" 193 roy giving instruction in hockey 199 "schonberg made a last despairing effort when twenty feet from the line" 217 "quiet fell over fox island" 245 "roy held his breath and waited" 261 "then slowly, he headed away in the darkness" 269 "it was unlocked and the crimson sweater lay in the top of the till" 289 "'when you're down on your luck,' he murmured, 'grin as hard as you can grin'" 307 "'the way that gal sassed me was a caution!'" 315 "ten hard ones made a difference" 331 "'about this!'" 347 "roy's bearers waited" 365 the crimson sweater the crimson sweater chapter i the crimson sweater's first appearance "hello, lobster!" the boy in the crimson sweater raised a pair of blue eyes to the speaker's face and a little frown crept into the sun-burned forehead; but there was no answer. "where'd you get that sweater?" the older boy, a tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested youth of nineteen, with a dark, not altogether pleasant face, paused on his way down the gymnasium steps and put the question sneeringly. below, on the gravelled path leading to the athletic field, a little group of fellows had turned and were watching expectantly; horace burlen had a way of taking conceit out of new boys that was always interesting. to be sure, in the present case the new boy didn't look especially conceited--unless it is conceit to appear for football practice in a dandy crimson sweater which must have cost well up in two figures--but you never could tell, and, anyway, horace burlen was the school leader and had a right to do what he pleased. just at present it pleased him to scowl fiercely, for the new boy was displaying a most annoying deliberation. horace examined the other with awakening interest. he was a fairly tall youth, sixteen years of age, well set up with good chest and shoulders and rather wide hips. like horace, the younger boy was in football togs, only his sweater instead of being brown was crimson and in place of the letters "f h" sported by horace the front of his garment showed where the inscription "h 2nd" had been ripped away. but the difference between the two boys didn't end there; horace burlen was tall and big and dark; roy porter was several inches shorter, not so wide of shoulder nor so deep of chest; and whereas horace's hair was straight and black, roy's was light, almost sandy, and was inclined to be curly. under the hair was a good-looking sun-browned face, with a short, well-built nose, a good mouth and a pair of nice grey-blue eyes which at this moment were regarding horace calmly. the older boy scowled threateningly. "say, kid, at this school we teach 'em to answer when they're spoken to; see? where'd you get that silly red sweater?" "it was given to me," answered roy coolly. "think you'll ever grow enough to fill it?" "i guess so." "who gave it to you?" "seems to me they're a bit inquisitive at this school. but if you must know, my brother gave it to me." "too big for him, wasn't it?" roy smiled. "not to speak of. he got a better one." "hope he changed the color," said horace with a sneer. "why, yes, he did, as it happened. his new one is black with a crimson h." horace started and shot a quick glance up and down the form confronting him. "is your brother porter of the harvard eleven?" he asked with a trace of unwilling respect in his voice. roy nodded. "i suppose you think you can play the game because he can, eh? what's your name?" "porter," answered roy sweetly. "don't get fresh," admonished the other angrily. "what's your first name?" "i guess it will do if you just call me porter," was the reply. there was a sudden darkening of the blue eyes and in spite of the fact that the lips still smiled serenely horace saw the danger signal and respected it. "you're a pretty fresh young kid at present, but you'll get some of it taken out of you before you're here long," said the school leader turning away. "and i'd advise you to take off that red rag; it's too much like the hammond color to be popular here." "fresh, am i?" mused roy, watching the other join the group below and cross the lawn toward the field. "i wonder what he thinks he is? if he ever asks me i'll mighty soon tell him! red rag! i'll make him take that back some day, see if i don't." roy's angry musings were interrupted by the sudden outward swing of the big oak door behind him. a dozen or so of ferry hill boys in football attire trooped out in company with mr. cobb, an instructor who had charge of the football and baseball coaching. roy fell in behind the group, crossed the lawn, passed through the gate in the well-trimmed hedge and found himself on the edge of the cinder track. the gridiron had just been freshly marked out for this first practice of the year and the white lines gleamed brightly in the afternoon sunlight. half a dozen footballs were produced from a canvas bag and were speedily bobbing crazily across the turf or arching up against the blue sky. roy, however, remained on the side-line and looked about him. beyond the field was a border of trees and an occasional telegraph pole marking the road over which he had journeyed the evening before from the silver cove station, where he had left the train from new york--and home. that word home sounded unusually pleasant to-day. not that he was exactly homesick, in spite of the fact that this was his first experience of boarding school life; he would have been rather indignant, i fancy, at the suggestion; but he had made the mistake of reaching ferry hill school a day too early, had spent the night in a deserted dormitory and had killed time since then in arranging his possessions in the scanty cupboard assigned to him and in watching the arrival of his future companions. it had been a dull time and he may, i think, be pardoned if his thoughts turned for an instant a bit wistfully toward home. brother laurence had given him a good deal of advice--probably very excellent advice--before taking himself away to cambridge, fall practice and glory, and part of it was this: "keep a stiff upper lip, roy, mind your own affairs and when you're down on your luck or up against a bigger man grin just as hard as you can grin." that was the harvard way, although roy didn't know it then. but now he recalled the advice--and grinned. then he began again the examination of his surroundings. very beautiful surroundings they were, too. to his left, beyond the turn of the track, were the tennis courts all freshly limed. beyond those the trees began and sloped gently upward and away in a forest of swaying branches. turning, he saw, below the courts, and divided from them by a stone wall, a good-sized orchard across which the apple and pear trees marched as straightly and evenly as a regiment of soldiers. below the orchard lay the vegetable garden, filled with the blue-green of late cabbages and the yellower hues of waving corn. then, facing still further about, until the field was at his back, he could look over the level top of the wide hedge and so down the slope of the campus. to his right were the two white barns and clustering outhouses with the tower of school hall rising beyond them. further to the left was the red brick, vine-draped "cottage," residence of the principal, doctor emery, and his family. then, further away down the sloping turf, stood burgess hall, the dormitory and dining room, while here, close by, was the handsome new gymnasium. beyond the campus the "grove," a small plantation of beech and oaks, shaded the path which led to the river and the boat house at its margin. a long expanse of the hudson was in sight from where he stood, its broad, rippled surface aglint in the september sunshine. at the far side of the stream, a group of red buildings huddled under giant elms, stood hammond academy, ferry hill's life-long rival. in the far distance loomed the blue summits of the nearer mountains. yes, it was all very beautiful and picturesque, and roy admitted the fact ungrudgingly; he was very anxious to discover merits and lovable qualities in the place which was to be his home for the better part of the next two years. "this way, everybody!" called mr. cobb, and roy turned and joined the group of candidates. there were forty-three students at ferry hill that year, and at first glance it seemed that every last one of them had decided to try for the football team. but a second look would have found a handful of juniors whose size or age made them ineligible watching proceedings from the side-line. and there were one or two older boys, too, among the spectators, and roy wondered whether they were crippled or ill! surely no healthy boy could be content to watch from the side-line! [illustration: roy porter] "fellows who played in the varsity or second last year," directed mr. cobb, "take the other end of the field and practice passing for a while. i'll be down presently. captain rogers won't be out until half-past four. the rest of you chaps get a couple of balls and come over this way. that's it. make a circle and pass the balls around. stand nearer together than that, you fellows over there. that's better." roy found himself between a short, stout youth of apparently fourteen and an older boy whose age might have been anywhere from sixteen to eighteen. he reminded roy of a weed which had spent all its time growing upward and had forgotten to fill out at the sides. he wore a faded brown sweater with crossed oars dividing the letters f h. roy experienced a touch of respect for him as a member of the crew quite out of keeping with the feeling of amusement aroused by his lanky body, unkempt hair and unpleasant beady brown eyes. roy liked the little chunky youth on his other side better. he was evidently a new hand and was in a continual funk for fear he would drop the ball when roy passed it to him. for this reason roy took some pains to put it to him easily and where he could best catch it, a piece of thoughtfulness that more than once brought a shy glance of gratitude from the youngster's big, round eyes. but if roy gave courtesies he received none. the lanky youth seemed to be trying to slam the ball at roy as hard as he knew how and once roy caught a gleam of malicious amusement from the squinting eyes. "just you wait a minute, my friend," he muttered. despite the tall boy's best endeavors he was unable to make roy fumble. no matter where he shot the ball nor how hard he sent it, roy's hands gripped themselves about it. after one especially difficult handling of the pigskin roy looked up to find mr. cobb watching him with evident approval. the big fellow who had taken exception to the crimson sweater was not in the squad and roy concluded that he was one of the last year team. presently the order came to reverse and the balls began going the other way. here was roy's chance for revenge and he didn't let it slip. the first two balls he passed to his tall neighbor quite nicely, but when the third one reached him he caught it in front of him and without turning his body sped it on swift and straight for the tall one's chest. the tall one wasn't expecting it quite so soon and roy looked properly regretful when the ball went bobbing away into the center of the circle and the shaggy-haired youth went sprawling after it, only to miss it at the first try and have to crawl along on elbows and knees until he had it snuggled under his body. the tall one rewarded roy with a scowl when he got back to his place, but roy met the scowl with a look of cherubic innocence, and only mr. cobb, watching from outside the circle, smiled as he turned away. after that roy kept the tall one guessing, but there were no more fumbles. presently mr. cobb called a halt. "that'll do, fellows. i want to get your names now, so keep your places a moment." out came a note book and pencil and one by one the candidates' names were entered. roy looked on while he awaited his turn and thought that he was going to like mr. cobb. the instructor was rather small, a trifle bald-headed and apparently a bunch of muscles. his scarcity of hair could hardly have been due to advanced age for he didn't look a bit over thirty. in his time he had been a good quarter-back on his college eleven and one of the best shortstops of his day. the small youth at roy's right, after darting several diffident looks in his direction, at length summoned courage to address him. "you're a new boy, aren't you?" he asked. "brand new," answered roy smilingly. "how about you?" "oh, i've been here two years." the knowledge lent a degree of assurance and he went on with less embarrassment. "i was a junior last year and couldn't play. you know, they won't let the juniors play football here. mighty mean, i think, don't you?" "well, i don't know," answered roy. "i played when i was twelve, but i guess it's pretty risky for a kid of that age to do it. how old are you?" "fourteen. do you think i'll stand any show to get on the team?" "why not? you look pretty solid. can you run?" "not very fast. ferris said i wouldn't have any show at all and so i thought i'd ask you; you seemed to know about football." "did i? how could you tell?" asked roy surprisedly. "oh, by the way you--went at it," answered the other vaguely. "oh, i see. who's ferris?" "s-sh!" the small youth lowered his voice. "that's he next to you; otto ferris. he's trying for half-back. he almost made it last year." "is he on the crew?" asked roy. "yes, number three. he's a particular chum of burlen's." "you don't say? and who's burlen?" the other's features expressed surprise and something very much like pain. "don't you know who burlen is?" he asked incredulously. "why, he's--" but roy's curiosity had to go unsatisfied for the moment, for mr. cobb appeared with his book. "well, sidney, you're out for the team at last, eh?" "yes, sir; do you think i can make it, sir?" "who knows? you'll have to get rid of some of that fat, though, my boy." mr. cobb turned to roy. "let's see, i met you last evening, didn't i?" "yes, sir." "i thought so; and the name was--er--brown wasn't it?" "porter, sir." "oh, porter; i remember now. how old are you?" "sixteen, sir." "played before, haven't you?" "yes, sir." "where abouts?" "in new york, on my grammar school eleven." "what position?" "quarter, first; then left half." "which was the best?" "quarter, i think, sir." "what class are you in?" "second senior." "thank you; that's all." the coach passed on and sidney claimed roy's attention again. "do you think i'm very fat?" he asked anxiously. "i should say you had about ten or twelve pounds that might as well come off," answered roy. "does drinking vinegar help?" "i never tried it," laughed roy. "but exercise is a heap surer." "all right, fellows," called the coach. "ferris, you take charge of the squad until i come back. let them fall on the ball a while. i want gallup and rogers to come with me." a sturdily-built youth stepped out of the group and mr. cobb looked around a trifle impatiently. "rogers!" there was no answer. roy thought the coach was looking at him, but couldn't think why he should. then he heard sidney's voice at his elbow. "he means you! he never remembers names. you'd better go." doubtfully roy stepped forward. "oh, there you are!" exclaimed mr. cobb. "what's the trouble with your ears? not deaf, are you?" "no, sir," answered roy meekly. "that's good. you must keep your ears open here and step lively when you're called. i'm going to give you two a try on the first squad. come on." and mr. cobb strode briskly off down the field. chapter ii roy makes an enemy and a friend a few minutes later roy found himself acting as quarter-back on one of the two squads made up of last season's first and second. the boy in front of him, playing center, was a big youth who had a half hour before insulted his precious sweater and who roy now discovered to be horace burlen. burlen hadn't shown himself especially delighted at roy's advent, but so far had refrained from addressing him. for a time the work went well enough. each squad, since there were not enough players present to make up two full elevens, held nine men, five in the line and four behind it, and the work consisted of snapping the ball back by center and handing it to one of the backs by quarter. no signals were used and the passing was slow, the idea being merely to accustom the players to handling the ball. roy was instructed in the holding of the pigskin and in passing and the backs in receiving the ball and placing it against the body. roy showed an aptitude for the work which more than vindicated mr. cobb's judgment and for ten minutes or so, during which time roy's squad traversed the length of the field, there were few fumbles and few mistakes. but presently, when mr. cobb had taken himself off to the other squad, the cry of "ball!" went up and roy was on his stomach snuggling the oval in his arms. the backs took their places again and the ball went back to center. this time there was no hitch, and full-back, followed by left and right halves, trotted through the line between guard and tackle. but on the next play the erratic pigskin again eluded roy's hands, and after that fumbles and the cry of "ball! ball!" became so frequent that mr. cobb's attention was attracted and he came over. "what's the trouble here? who's doing all that fumbling?" he demanded. "my fault, sir," answered roy. "what's the matter?" "i can't seem to get my hands on to it, sir. i don't think--i don't think it is coming back very well." horace burlen turned wrathfully. "you're no good, that's what's the trouble with you!" he exclaimed. "i'm sending that ball back same as i always do." "well, try it again," said the coach. strange to tell there were no more fumbles as long as mr. cobb was by, but almost as soon as his back was turned the trouble began again. fumbles, perhaps, were not so frequent, but almost always there was delay in getting the ball from center to back. finally horace burlen stood up and faced roy disgustedly. "say, kid, can't you learn to handle that ball?" he asked. "haven't you ever seen a football before?" roy strove to keep his temper, which was already at boiling point. "i'll do my part if you'll do yours," he said. "you're trying to see how poorly you can pass." "oh, get out! i played football when you were in the nursery! maybe if you'd take that red rag off you'd be able to use your arms." somebody behind him chuckled and roy had to shut his lips resolutely to keep back the angry words. finally, "ball to left half, through left tackle," he called. horace grunted and stooped again over the pigskin. again the ball came back, this time trickling slowly along on the turf. the next time it came back high and to the left and was fumbled. roy said nothing as he recovered it and pushed it back to center, but it was plain that the fellows, whispering amongst themselves, were losing interest in the work. roy, without turning his head, became aware of the presence of a newcomer behind him. he supposed it was mr. cobb and hoped the coach would notice the manner in which burlen was snapping back. this time the ball was deliberately sent back to roy as hard as horace could send it with the result that it bounded from his hands before he could close his fingers about it and went wiggling off across the turf. roy, arising to go after it, almost ran into a tall, good-looking youth of apparently eighteen, a youth with clean-cut features and snapping grey eyes. "that will do, horace," said the newcomer dryly. "you can rest awhile. you're pretty bad." the center, facing around with a start of mingled surprise and dismay, met the unsmiling eyes of the captain with an attempt at bravado. "hello, jack," he said. "it's about time you came. they've given us the worst apology for a quarter you ever saw. why, he can't hold the ball!" "yes, i noticed it," replied jack rogers. "and i noticed that you seemed to have an idea that this practice is just for fun. you'd better take a couple of turns around the track and go in. o ed! ed whitcomb! come over here and play center. fernald, you take ed's place on the other squad." the changes were made in a trice. after a muttered protest that the captain paid no heed to and a threatening look at roy, horace burlen took himself off. the captain went into the left of the line and practice was taken up again. after that there was no more trouble. presently mr. cobb called a halt and the candidates were put at punting and catching, which, followed by a trot twice around the quarter-mile cinder track, completed the afternoon's work. [illustration: "'that will do, horace,' said the newcomer. 'you can rest awhile.'"] roy had worked rather hard and, as a result, he found himself pretty well out of breath when the second lap was half over. he had gradually dropped back to last place in the straggling procession and when the end of the run was in sight he was practically alone on the track, almost all of the others having turned in through the gate and made for the gym. roy had just finished the turn at an easy jog when he heard cries of distress from the direction of the stables behind him. "spot, drop it! oh, you bad, wicked cat! john! john! where are you, john? spot! _spot! o-o-oh!_" the exclamations ended in a wild, long-drawn wail of feminine anguish. "a girl," thought roy. "wonder what's up. guess i'd better go see." turning, he struck off from the track at a run, crossed a triangle of turf and found himself confronted by the wide hedge. but he could see over it, and what he saw was an odd little enclosure formed by one end of the barn and two walls of packing cases and boxes piled one upon another. in the center of the enclosure stood a girl with the bluest of blue eyes, the reddest of red hair and the most despairing of freckled faces. at first glance she seemed to be surrounded by dogs and cats and pigeons; afterwards roy found that the animals were not so numerous as had first appeared. the girl saw roy quite as soon as he saw her. "oh, quick, _quick_!" she commanded, pointing toward the roof of a low shed nearby. "spot has got one of the babies and he's killing it! can't you hurry, boy?" roy looked doubtfully at the broad hedge. then he retreated a few steps, took a running jump, landing three-quarters way across the top and wriggled himself to the ground on the other side in a confusion of circling pigeons. "where?" he gasped when he had gathered himself up. "there!" shrieked the girl, still pointing tragically. "can't you climb up and get it away from him? can't you do anything, you--you stupid silly?" at last roy saw the reason for her fright. on the edge of the shed roof, lashing his tail in ludicrous ferocity, crouched a half-grown cat, and under his claws lay a tiny young white rabbit. roy looked hurriedly about for a stick, but nothing of the description lay at hand. meanwhile the red-haired girl taunted him to action, interspersing wails of despair with pleas for help and sprinkling the whole with uncomplimentary reflections on his courage and celerity. "aren't you going to do _anything_?" she wailed. "are you going to stand there all night? oh, please, _please_ rescue him!" the reflection on roy's celerity weren't at all merited, for scarcely a quarter of a minute had passed since his advent. but if "the baby" was to be rescued there was no time to lose. the cat, apparently not understanding what all the noise and excitement was about, still held his captive and looked down wonderingly from the edge of the roof. roy hesitated for just an instant longer. then he seized the first apparently empty box that came to hand, turned it upside-down at the corner of the shed, and, amidst more despairing shrieks than ever, leaped onto it. perhaps he was scared by the sudden appearance of roy's head over the edge of the roof, perhaps by the renewed and more appalling clamor; at all events the cat abandoned his prey on the instant and took off along the roof. roy managed to save the rabbit from a bad fall by catching it in one hand just as it rolled over the edge and in another moment was holding it forth, a very badly frightened little mass of white fur and pink eyes, to its distressed mistress. but strange to say the mistress seemed more anguished than ever. what she was saying roy couldn't for the life of him make out, but it was evidently something uncomplimentary to him. in another moment the mystery was explained. following the excited gestures of the red-haired girl, roy turned just in time to see the box upon which he had stood topple and fall. whereupon from out of it stalked a highly insulted red and green parrot, quite the largest roy had ever seen. the bird emerged with ruffled plumage and wrathful eyes, cocked his head on one side and remarked fretfully in a shrill voice: "well, i never did! naughty poll! naughty poll!" then he chuckled wickedly and rearranged his feathers with a formidable beak. after that he turned and viewed roy with a glittering, beady eye, and, "stop your swearing! stop your swearing! stop your swearing!" he shrieked at the top of his voice. this outburst was so unexpected and excruciating that roy gave back before it. but as though satisfied with the dismay he had caused the parrot broke out into a shrill burst of laughter and waddled toward the girl, who had now transferred her attention to the rescued rabbit. "i--i didn't know he was in the box," stammered roy. "no, i don't suppose you did," answered the girl grudgingly. "boys are so stupid! you might have killed him! come here, methuselah, and tell me all about it. did the wicked boy frighten you most to death? did he? well, he was a wicked thing, so he was." the parrot closed his beak carefully about one of her fingers and was lifted to her arm, where he sat in ruffled dignity and stared at roy with malevolent gaze. the rescued rabbit lay meanwhile, a palpitating bunch of white, in the girl's other hand. presently, having examined him carefully for damages and found none, she stepped to one of the boxes and deposited him on a litter of straw and cabbage leaves. "i've had such horrid luck with the babies," she said confidently, her indignation apparently forgotten. "there were three at first. then one died of rheumatism--at least, i'm almost sure it was rheumatism,--and one was killed by a rat and now only poor little angel is left. i call him angel," she explained, turning to her audience, "because he is so white. don't you think it is a very appropriate name?" roy nodded silently. like the parrot, he had had his temper a bit ruffled; the girl's remarks had not been especially complimentary. if she guessed his feelings she showed no signs of it. instead, "you're a new boy, aren't you?" she asked. "yes," answered roy. "what's your name?" "roy porter." "mine's harry--i mean harriet emery; they call me harry. harriet's a beast of a name, isn't it?" roy hesitated, somewhat taken back. "oh, you needn't mind being polite," continued the girl. "i hate polite people--i mean the kind that say things they don't mean just to be nice to you. harriet is a beast of a name; i don't care if i was named for aunt harriet beverly. i hate it, don't you? oh, i forgot! you're one of the polite sort!" "no, i'm not," answered roy, laughing. "i don't like harriet any better than you do. but i like harry." "do you?" she asked eagerly. "honest? hope to die?" "hope to die," echoed roy gravely. "then you may call me harry." "thanks. is doctor emery your father?" "yes. only they don't call him doctor emery--the boys, i mean." "don't they? what do they call him?" "emmy," answered harry with a giggle. "it's such a funny name for papa! and mamma they call 'mrs. em.'" "and they call you harry?" said roy for want of something better to say. harry's head went up on the instant and her blue eyes flashed. "you'd better believe they don't! that is, not many of them. they call me _miss_ harry." "oh, excuse me," roy apologized. "_miss_ harry." harry hesitated. then, "those that i like call me harry," she said. "and you--you rescued the baby. so--you may call me harry, without the miss, you know." "i'll try to deserve the honor," replied roy very gravely. harry observed him suspiciously. "there you go being polite and nasty," she said crossly. then, with a sudden change of manner, she advanced toward him with one very brown and somewhat dirty little hand stretched forth and a ludicrous smirk on her face. "i forgot you were a new boy," she said. "i hope your stay with us will be both pleasant and profitable." roy accepted the proffered hand bewilderedly. "there," she said, with a little shake of her shoulders and a quick abandonment of the funny stilted tone and manner, "there, that's done. mamma makes me do that, you know. it's awfully silly, isn't it?" methuselah, who, during the conversation, had remained perched silently on the girl's shoulder, now decided to take part in the proceedings. "well, i never did!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "can't you be quiet? naughty poll! stop your swearing! stop your swearing!" this resulted in his banishment, roy, at harry's request, returning the borrowed box to its place, and the parrot being placed therein with strict injunctions to remain there. "doesn't he ever get away?" asked roy. "oh, yes, sometimes. once he got into the stable and went to sleep on the head of john's bed. john's the gardener, you know. and when he came in and saw methuselah sitting there he thought it was an evil spirit and didn't stop running until he reached the cottage. my, he was scared!" and harry giggled mischievously at the recollection. then roy was formally introduced to the numerous residents of the enclosure. snip, a fox terrier, had already made friends. lady grey, a maltese angora cat, who lay curled up contentedly in one of the lower tier of boxes, received roy's caresses with well-bred condescension. joe, one of her kittens, and a brother of the disgraced spot, showed more interest and clawed roy's hand in quite a friendly way. in other boxes were a squirrel called "teety," two white guinea pigs, a family of rabbits, six white mice and a bantam hen who resented roy's advent with a very sharp beak. and all about fluttered grey pigeons and white pigeons, fan-tails and pouters and many more the names of which roy quickly forgot. and while the exhibition was going on roy observed the exhibitor with not a little interest. harriet--begging her pardon! harry--emery was fourteen years old, fairly tall for her age, not overburdened with flesh and somewhat of a tomboy. considering the fact that she had been born and had lived all her short life at a boys' school the latter fact is not unnatural. i might almost say that she had been a trifle spoiled. that, however, would be rather unkind, for it was just that little spice of spoiling that had made harry so natural and unaffected. the boys called harry "a good fellow," and to harry no praise could have been sweeter. as might have been expected, she had grown up with a fondness for boys' sports and interests, and could skate as well if not better than any pupil ferry hill had ever known, could play tennis well, could handle a pair of oars knowingly and wasn't _very_ much afraid of a swiftly-thrown baseball. her muscles were hard and illness was something she had long since forgotten about. but in spite of her addiction for boys' ways there was still a good deal of the girl about her, and she was capable of a dozen different emotions in as many minutes. roy decided that she was rather pretty. her hair was luridly red, but many persons would have called it beautiful. her eyes were very blue and had a way of looking at you that was almost disconcerting in its frank directness. her face was brown with sunburn, but there was color in the cheeks. a short, somewhat pugnacious little nose, not guiltless of freckles, went well with the red-lipped, mischievous mouth beneath. for the rest, harry was a wholesome, lovable little minx with the kindest heart that ever beat under a mussy white shirt-waist and the quickest temper that ever went with red hair. roy's examination of his new acquaintance was suddenly interrupted by the subject, who swung around upon him with an expression of great severity. "do you know," she asked, "that the boys aren't allowed in here without permission and that if papa finds it out you'll be punished?" roy shook his head in bewilderment. "and," continued harry impressively, "that john is coming along the lane, and that if he sees you here he'll have to report you, and--" "what shall i do?" asked roy, looking about for an avenue of escape. "why," said harry, laughing enjoyably at his discomfiture, "just stay where you are. i'm the one who gives permission!" chapter iii a midnight hazing after the lights were out that night roy lay for quite a while in his bed in the senior dormitory reviewing the day. he was tired as a result of the football practice and he had a lame tendon in his left leg which he believed he had sustained in his flying leap onto the hedge when going to the relief of angel, and which bothered him a little now that he had stopped using it. but his weariness and soreness hadn't kept him from eating an enormous dinner in the dining hall down stairs, any more than it was going to keep him from going to sleep in a few minutes. during dinner he had begun to feel at home. he had found himself at mr. cobb's table, which later on would be weeded out to make room for the football players, and had sat next to captain rogers, who had spoken to him several times quite affably, but not about football. the other fellows, too, had shown a disposition to accept him as one of them, if we omit horace burlen and otto ferris, and by the time roy had scraped the last morsel of pudding from his dish he had commenced to think that life at ferry hill might turn out to be "both pleasant and profitable," as harry had phrased it. after dinner he had spent the better part of an hour in the study room on the first floor composing a letter home. that finished, he had wandered down to the river and had been mildly rebuked by mr. buckman, an instructor, for going out of bounds after eight o'clock. there had been prayers at nine in the two dormitories and after that, in the midst of shouts and laughter and general "rough house," he had undressed, washed, donned his pajamas and jumped into the narrow white enamelled bed to which he had been assigned. tomorrow lessons would begin and he wondered how he was going to fare. he had entered on a certificate from his grammar school and had been put into the second senior class. if he could keep up with that he would be ready for college in two years. roy's father pretended to think him backward because he would not enter until he was eighteen, and delighted in telling him of boys who had gone to college at sixteen. but roy's mother always came to his defence. there was no sense, she declared warmly, in boys going to college before they were old enough to understand what it meant and to derive benefit from the life. and roy's father would shake his head dubiously and mutter that he had never expected a son of his to be a dullard. greek and english were what roy was afraid of. latin and mathematics held no terrors for him. as for the other studies, he believed he could worry along with them all right. his mother had hinted hopefully of a scholarship, but roy knew his capabilities better than she did and looked for no such honors. meanwhile the dormitory, full of whispers and repressed laughter for the first few minutes of darkness, had become silent save for a snore here and there. roy's thoughts wandered back to the football field and to horace burlen, who was lying somewhere near in the dark, and presently his eyelids fell together and he was asleep. how long he slept he never knew, but when he awoke suddenly to find hands gently shaking him by the shoulders it seemed that it must be morning. but the dormitory was still in darkness and the breathing of the sleepers still sounded. "get up and don't make any noise," commanded a voice at his ear. sleepily, he strove to get his thoughts together. for a moment nothing was very clear to him. then the command was repeated a trifle impatiently and roy began to understand. "what for?" he asked, temporizing. "never you mind. just you do what we tell you, and mind you make no fuss about it. there are a dozen of us here and we won't stand any nonsense." roy hadn't given any thought to hazing, but now he concluded that, to use his own inelegant expression, he "was up against it." of course, if it was the custom to haze new boys there was no use making a fuss about it, no use in playing baby. the only thing that bothered him was that the speaker's voice sounded unpleasantly like horace burlen's and there was no telling to what lengths that youth's dislike might lead him. however, his companions, whoever they were, would probably see fair play. so roy, with a sigh, tumbled softly out of bed. he could just see indistinct forms about him and hear their breathing. "hold still," said the voice, and roy, obeying, felt a bandage being pressed against his eyes and secured behind his head. then, with a hand grasping each arm, he was led silently across the floor. down two flights of stairs he was conducted, through the lower hall and then the chill night air struck his face. more steps, this time the granite flight in front of the hall, and his bare feet were treading uncomfortably on the gravel. so far there had been no sounds from his captors. now, however, they began to whisper amongst themselves and, although he couldn't hear what was being said, he gathered that they were undecided as to where to take him. the procession halted and all save the two who stood guard beside him drew away. the night air began to feel decidedly chill and he realized that cotton pajamas aren't the warmest things to wear for a nocturnal jaunt in late september. presently the others returned and they started on again. in a moment the path began to descend and roy remembered with a sinking heart that he had trod that same path earlier in the evening and that at the end of it lay the river! by this time his teeth were chattering and he was quite out of sympathy with the adventure. for a moment he considered escape. but if, as the leader of the expedition had stated, there were a dozen fellows in the party, he would be recaptured as sure as fate. unconsciously he held back. "none of that," said the voice threateningly, and he was pulled forward again. for a few steps he tried digging his heels in the ground, but it hurt and did no good anyhow. so he went on without further resistance. in a minute the procession stopped. then he heard the keel of a boat grate lightly on the pebbles. "step up," was the command. roy obeyed and felt the planking of the float under his bare feet. then, "get into the boat," said the voice. roy did so very cautiously and found a seat. oars were dipped into the water and the boat moved softly away from the landing. "can you swim?" asked the voice, and this time roy was certain that it was horace burlen's. for an instant he wondered what would happen if he said no. probably they would devise some punishment quite as uncomfortable as a ducking in the lake. the latter wasn't very terrifying, and, at all events, the water couldn't be much colder than the air was! so, "yes," he answered, and heard a chuckle. "good, you'll have a chance to prove it!" for what seemed several minutes the boat was paddled onward. by this time, thought roy, they must be a long way from shore, and he suddenly wondered, with a little sinking at his heart, whether the current was very strong thereabouts and how, when he was in the water, he was to tell in which direction the land lay. then the oars had ceased creaking in the rowlocks and the boat was rocking very gently in the water. "stand up," said the voice. hands guided him as he obeyed and steadied him. "when i count three you will jump into the water and swim for land," continued the leader. "you've got to take this thing off my eyes, though," protested roy. "that may not be," answered the voice sternly, and roy caught a giggle from behind him which was quickly suppressed. "then i'm hanged if i'll do it," he said doggedly. "better to jump than be thrown," was the ominous reply. roy considered. "which way do i swim?" he asked. "where's the landing?" "that you will discover for yourself. we may tell you no more." "don't see that you've told me much of anything," muttered roy wrathfully. "how do you fellows know that there isn't a big old rock here? want me to bust my head open?" "we are in clear water," was the answer. "and"--and now the formal phraseology was abandoned--"if you don't hurry up and get ready we'll plaguey soon heave you in head over heels." "oh, go to thunder, you old bully!" growled roy. "go ahead and do your counting. i'd rather be in the river than here with you." "take him out farther," said the voice angrily. but the order wasn't obeyed. instead there was a whispered discussion and finally the voice said: "all right. now then, all ready, kid! one!... two!... three!" the grasp on roy's arms was relaxed, he raised them above his head and sprang outward. but just as he was clearing the boat a hand shot forward and grasped his ankle just long enough to spoil his dive. then he had struck the water flat on his stomach and, with the breath gone from his body, felt it close over his head. chapter iv roy changes his mind for an instant his arms thrashed wildly. then he was standing, gasping and sputtering, with the bandage torn away and the ripples breaking against his thighs! from the bank, only a few feet away, came roars of laughter, diminishing as his captors, having drawn the boat up onto the little pebbly beach, stumbled up the path toward the school. and roy, shivering and chattering, stood there in a scant three feet of icy water and impotently shook his fist in the darkness! at first, as he scrambled with his bare feet over the sharp pebbles to the shore, he could not understand what had happened. then he realized that all the rowing had been in circles, or possibly back and forth along the shore. for some reason this made him madder than if they had really made him dive into deep water beyond his depth. they had made a perfect fool of him! and all the way back up the hill and across the campus he vowed vengeance--when his chattering teeth would let him! a few minutes later, divested of his wet pajamas, he was under the covers again, striving to get some warmth back into his chilled body. when he had tiptoed noiselessly into the dormitory whispers had greeted him and unseen persons had asked softly whether he had found the water warm, how the walking was and how he liked diving. but roy had made no answer and soon the voices had been stilled. sleep was long in coming to him and when it did it brought such unpleasant dreams that he found little rest. at breakfast, when the announcements were read by mr. buckman, roy found himself one of four boys summoned to call on dr. emery at the office in school hall after the meal was over. looking up he encountered the eyes of horace burlen fixed upon him threateningly. roy smiled to himself. so they were afraid that he would tell on them, were they? well, they'd see! when roy's turn to enter the office came, after a few minutes of waiting in the outer room in company with the school secretary, he found himself a little bit nervous. perhaps the principal had already learned of last night's mischief and held him to blame in the matter. but when, five minutes or so later, roy came out again he looked quite contented. in the outer office he encountered mr. buckman, who nodded to him, paused as though about to speak, apparently thought better of it and passed on into the principal's room. roy hurried over to the senior dormitory, armed himself with books, pad and pencils and managed to reach his first class just as the doors were being closed. lessons went well enough that first day, and when, at four o'clock, roy trotted onto the gridiron for afternoon practice he hadn't a worry in the world. perhaps that is one reason why he did such good work at quarter on the second squad that jack rogers patted him once on the shoulder and told him to "keep it up, porter," while mr. cobb paid him the compliment of almost remembering his name! "good work, proctor!" said the coach. there were several absentees that afternoon, notably horace burlen and otto ferris, and there was much discussion amongst the fellows as to the reason. before practice was over the report had got around that the absent ones had been "placed on inner bounds." roy didn't know just what that meant, but it sounded pretty bad, and he was almost sorry for the culprits. when, after practice was over, roy did his two laps with the others, he looked across the hedge as he passed the stables. the doves were circling about in the late sunshine and the wicked spot was sunning himself on the edge of the shed roof, but the girl with the red hair was not in sight. at supper roy found a decided change in the attitude of the fellows toward him. instead of the friendly, half curious glances of the night before, the looks he received were cold and contemptuous. for the most part, however, the fellows avoided noticing him and all during the meal only jack rogers and mr. cobb addressed him, the former to inquire where he had played football before coming to ferry hill and the latter to offer him a second helping of cold meat. later roy accidentally overheard a conversation not intended for his ears. he was in the study room, whither he had taken his books. the window beside him was open and under it, on the granite steps outside, was a group of the younger boys. "emmy called them to the office at noon," one boy was saying, "and raised an awful row with them. said hazing was forbidden, and they knew it, and that he had a good mind to send them all home. he tried to get them to tell who started it, but they wouldn't. so he put them all on inner bounds for a month." "how'd he know who was in it?" asked another boy. "why, the new chap squealed, of course!" was the contemptuous answer. "horace burlen says so. says he doesn't know how he guessed the other fellows, but supposes he recognized him by his voice. a mighty dirty trick, i call it." "that's the way with those public school fellows," said a third speaker. "they haven't any principles." "it's going to just about bust up the eleven," said the first boy. "why, there's burlen and ferris and gus pryor and billy warren all football men!" "mighty little difference otto ferris's absence will make, though." "oh, he'd have made the team this year, all right." "well, a month isn't very long. they'll get back in time to play the big games." "s'posing they do, silly! how about practice? if hammond beats us this year it will be that porter fellow's fault." "i don't believe he told on them," said a low voice that roy recognized as sidney welch's. "he--he doesn't look like that sort!" "doesn't, eh? then who did tell? think they peached on themselves?" was the scathing reply. "you'd better not let horace hear you talking like that, sid!" roy stole away to a distant table with burning cheeks and clenched hands. when bedtime came things were even worse. all the time he was undressing he was aware that he was the subject of much of the whispered discussion around him and the hostile glances that met him made silence almost impossible. but silent he was, doing his best to seem unaware of what the others were thinking and saying. he passed down the dormitory to the wash-room with head held high and as unconcerned a look as he could manage, but he was heartily thankful when mr. cobb put his head out of the door of his room at the end of the dormitory, announced "bed, fellows," and switched off the electric lights. roy wasn't very happy while he lay awake there in the darkness waiting for sleep to come to him. he had made a sorry beginning of school life, he reflected bitterly. to be sure, he might deny that he had told on burlen and his companions, but what good would it do when every fellow believed as they did? no, the only way was to brave it out and in time win back the fellows' respect. but how he hated horace burlen! some day, how or when he did not know, he would get even with burlen! meanwhile sleep came to him after a while and he fell into troubled dreams. the next day his cup of bitterness was filled yet fuller. harry cut him! he met her on the way across the campus at noon. she was immaculately tidy in a blue skirt and a fresh white shirt-waist and her red hair fell in a neat braid at her back. she carried a bundle of books under her arm and snip, the fox terrier, ran beside her. roy nodded with a friendly smile, but his only reward was an unseeing glance from the blue eyes. the color flamed into roy's face and he hurried on with bent head. i think harry regretted her action the next instant, for when he had passed she turned and looked after him with a little wistful frown on her face. on the football field life wasn't much pleasanter than in hall. roy had already worked himself into the position of first substitute quarter-back, and bacon, the last year's quarter, was looking anxious and buckling down to work in a way that showed he was not over-confident of holding his place. but when the men before and behind you had rather make you look ridiculous than play the game you are in a hard way. and that was roy's fix. whitcomb, who was playing center in burlen's absence, was inclined to treat roy rather decently, but there were others in the squad who never let slip an opportunity to worry him. the way his signals were misunderstood was extraordinary. not that it mattered so much these days, since practice was in its most primitive stage, but after three afternoons of such treatment roy was ready to give up the fight. after practice on saturday he waited for jack rogers outside the gymnasium and ranged himself alongside the older boy as he turned toward the dormitory. jack shot a quick glance at him and nodded. [illustration: "roy lifted his hat, and nodded with a friendly smile, but his only reward was an unseeing glance from the blue eyes."] "i thought i'd better tell you," began roy, "that i've decided to give up football." "think so?" asked the captain dryly. "yes," replied roy, looking a little bit surprised. there was nothing further from the other and roy strode on at his side, trying to match his long stride and somewhat embarrassedly striving to think of what to say next. "you see," he said finally, "there's no use in my trying to play quarter while the fellows are down on me. it's just a waste of time. i--i don't seem to be able to get things right." what he meant was that the others were doing their best to get things wrong, but he didn't want to seem to be complaining of them to rogers. the latter turned and observed roy thoughtfully. "that your only reason?" he asked. "yes." "well, let's stop here a minute if you've got time." the two seated themselves on a wooden bench under the trees a few yards from the entrance to the dormitory. "you're new here," continued jack, "and there are some things you don't know. one of the things is this: we've got to win from hammond this fall if we have to work every minute between now and the day of the game. they beat us last year and they didn't do it very squarely. that is, they played a great big fellow named richardson at right guard who had no business on their team. we protested him, but it did no good. he was a student of the academy at the time, and although we knew he was there just to play football, we couldn't do anything beyond making the protest. as it turned out we were right, for richardson left hammond a week after the game, and this year he's playing on a college team. he was a big fellow, twenty years old, weighed two hundred pounds and simply played all around our men. he used up two of them before the game was over. he played mighty dirty ball, too. our captain last year was johnny king--he's playing with cornell this year--and he was plucky clean through. the whole school was in favor of refusing to play hammond, and cobb was with us. but king said he'd play them if they had the whole yale varsity to pick from. when we went out for the second half with the score eleven to nothing against us he said to me: 'jack, you'll be captain next year, and i want you to remember to-day's game. get a team together that will lick hammond. work for it all the fall. never mind what other teams do to you; keep hammond in mind every minute. lose every other game on the schedule if you have to, but beat hammond, jack! i'll do all i can to get coaches for you, and i'll come down myself for a day or two if i can possibly manage it. what do you say?' i said 'all right, johnnie,' and we shook hands on it. hammond scored again in that half, and after it was over we had to carry johnnie back to the gym. well?" he stopped and looked inquiringly at roy. "i guess i'll go ahead and play," answered roy. "that's better. you're one of us now, and that means that you've got to work yourself blue in the face if necessary to make up for what hammond did to us last fall. i can't promise you that you'll get into the game, although i don't see why you shouldn't, but even if you don't, even if you stay on the second all season you'll be doing just as much toward winning the game as any of us--if you'll do your best and a little more. and it mustn't make any difference to you how the fellows treat you or what they say. you're there to play football and run your team. of course, what takes place between you and the others is none of my business and i shan't step in to help you, not once; but just as soon as i find that they are risking the success of the eleven you can count on me to back you up. i won't stand any nonsense from them, and they know it; or if they don't know it now they mighty soon will. they say you gave away the fellows who hazed you the other night. i don't know whether you did or didn't, and i don't want you to tell me. i don't care. you can play football, and that's enough for me. i wouldn't care this year if you had stolen the cupola of school hall. i have nothing to do with what you are off the football field. if you'll do your honest best there i'll stick to you as long as you live. will you?" "yes," answered roy. "good! shake hands! now let's go on." "about that hazing affair, though," said roy as they left the seat. "i'd like to tell you--" "i don't want to be told," answered jack curtly. "if you told on burlen and the others maybe you had reason, and if you're a decent sort of a chap they'll get over it in time. if you didn't you've got nothing to worry about. if a chap plays fair and square fellows pretty soon know it. see you at supper. so long." jack turned down the path toward the cottage and roy ran up the steps of burgess hall with a lighter heart than he had had for several days. [illustration: "'if you'll do your honest best there, i'll stick to you as long as you live.'"] chapter v chub eaton introduces himself roy had stayed to speak to mr. buckman after the geometry class had been dismissed, and so, when he reached the entrance of the hall on his way out, he found the broad granite steps well lined with boys. nearly a week had passed since the hazing episode and the beginning of the present ostracism, and during that period roy had become, if not used to it, at least in a measure inured. the smaller boys--the juniors--were the worst, and they, roy felt certain, were being constantly egged on by horace burlen and his chums, of whom otto ferris was apparently the closest. horace himself refrained from active animosity. when he met roy he pretended to consider the latter beneath notice and did no more than sneer as he turned his head away. but otto never allowed an opportunity to be mean to escape him. and to-day, an opportunity presenting itself, he seized upon it. roy, looking straight ahead, passed down the steps, trying hard to forget that well nigh every eye was fixed upon him. he had reached the last step but one and the ordeal was almost over when otto saw his chance. the next instant roy had measured his length on the gravel path below and his books and papers lay scattered about him. he scrambled to his feet with blazing cheeks and eyes and strode toward otto. the latter, too, got to his feet, but showed no overmastering desire to meet the other. instead he retreated a step and began to look anxious. "you tripped me up," charged roy angrily. "who tripped you up?" asked otto. "you fell over my foot. you ought to look where you're going." some of the older boys, their sympathies aroused by roy's fall, moved between the two. the youngsters gave vocal support to otto until commanded to "cut it out." roy attempted to push by one of the boys, but was restrained. "run along, porter," counselled the peacemaker. "it was a shabby trick, but you won't do any good by scrapping." "supposing you keep out of it," suggested roy angrily. "now don't you get fresh," answered the other warmly. "you can't scrap here, so run along as i told you. i dare say you only got what was coming to you." "he deserved it, the sneak!" cried otto, who, divided from the enemy by strong defences, had recovered his bravery. roy heard and threw discretion to the winds. he ducked under the arm of the boy in front of him and had almost reached otto when he was caught and dragged back. otto, standing his ground because he could not retreat, looked vastly relieved. roy struggled in the grasp of his captors. "you let me go!" he cried. "it's none of your affair. why don't you let him look after himself, you bullies?" "that'll do for you, freshie," responded one of the older boys named fernald. "don't you call names or you'll get in trouble." "you'd better do as he says," counselled a quiet voice at roy's side. "there wouldn't be any satisfaction in licking ferris, anyway; he's just a coward. come along and pick up your books." there was something quietly compelling in the voice, and roy, ceasing to struggle, looked about panting into the round, good-humored face of a boy of about his own age. "come on," said the boy softly. and roy went. together they rescued the scattered books and papers, while on the steps discussion broke out stormily; otto was being "called down" by the older boys and volubly defended by the youngsters. when the books were once more under his arms roy thanked his new friend and, without a glance toward the group on the steps, turned toward the dormitory. when he had gone a few steps he became aware of the fact that the round-faced boy was beside him and looked about in surprise. "i'm going your way," said the other smilingly. "going to get my sweater on and go out in the canoe awhile. do you paddle?" "no, i never tried it," answered roy, rubbing the blood from his knuckles where they had been scraped on the gravel and shooting a puzzled glance at the other. "well, never too late to learn," responded his companion cheerfully. "come along down and take a lesson. it's a dandy day for a paddle." "thanks, but i've got to study a bit." "oh, leave that until to-night. no practice, is there?" "no, most of the fellows went to maitland with the first eleven." "maitland will beat us, probably. we always lose the first two or three games. why didn't they take you along?" "didn't need me, i guess. bacon is the regular quarter, you know." "yes, but i don't see why they need to play him all through the first game. well, here we are. get a sweater or something on and meet me down here." they had paused on the landing outside the junior dormitory and roy hesitated. then, "you live here, do you?" he asked. "yes, i have a corner bed by the window, and last year, when they wanted to put me upstairs, i kicked. so they let me stay; told me i could be useful keeping an eye on the kids. you'll come, eh?" "well, i--i guess so. it's good of you to ask me." "not a bit. i hate to go alone; that's all." he turned smilingly into the dormitory and roy went on upstairs, got rid of his books and scrambled into his red sweater. it wasn't necessary to pass school hall on the way down to the river, and roy was glad of it. he felt that in losing his temper and slanging the older fellows on the steps he had also lost ground. instead of making friends he had possibly made one or two new enemies. then the realization that the boy beside him was showing himself more of a friend than any other fellow in school, with the possible exception of jack rogers, brought comfort, and, in a sudden flush of gratitude, he turned and blurted: "it was mighty nice of you to take my part and i'm awfully much obliged." "shucks, that wasn't anything! i'm always for the under dog, anyhow--if you don't mind being called a dog." "no," answered roy. then he added a trifle bitterly, "i guess some of them call me worse than that." "oh, they'll get over it," was the cheerful reply. "just you pay no attention to 'em, mind your own affairs and look as though you didn't give a rap." "that's what laurence said," replied roy thoughtfully. "sensible chap, laurence," said the other smilingly. "who might he be?" "my brother. he's in harvard." "oh, yes, i remember some one said your brother was 'larry' porter, the harvard football man. i guess that's how you happen to put up such a dandy game yourself, eh?" "i don't think i've done very well," answered roy. "but--it hasn't been all my fault." "nonsense! you've played like an old stager; every fellow says that." "really?" asked roy eagerly. "of course! i've heard lots of the fellows say that bacon will have to do better than he ever has done to keep his place. and i know what you mean about its not being all your fault. but i guess the chaps on your squad will behave themselves after the dressing down jack gave them the other day." "were you there?" "no, i don't very often watch practice. i don't care much for football, i'm afraid. baseball's my game. no, i wasn't there, but sid welch was telling me about it. sid's a very communicative kid." "he's trying to make the team," said roy, smiling. "he asked me one day if drinking vinegar would make him thinner." "he's a funny little chump," laughed the other. "not a bad sort, either. he has the bed next to mine, and he and i are pretty good chums. by the way, you didn't tell me what it was your brother said." "oh, why, he said once that if i wanted to get on i must keep a stiff upper lip and mind my own affairs. and--and he said 'when you're down on your luck or up against a bigger fellow grin as hard as you can grin.'" [illustration: "'of course i wasn't christened chub.'"] "good for him!" cried the other. "i'd like to meet him. that's what i say, too. no use in looking glum because you're put out at the plate. just smile and keep your mouth shut, and likely as not you'll make good the next time. besides, if the other chap sees you looking worried it makes him feel bigger and better. yes, that's good advice, all right. by the way, i know your name, but i guess you don't know mine; it's chub eaton." "are you a senior?" "same as you, second senior. of course, i wasn't christened chub; my real name's tom; but the fellows began calling me chub the first year i was here because i was kind of fat then, and i didn't mind. so it stuck. well, here's the canoe. just give me a hand, will you? we'll put her over the end of the float." the boat house was deserted, but out in mid-stream was a pair-oar and a rowboat, the latter well filled. roy helped in the launching and soon they were afloat. "it's an awful handsome canoe, isn't it?" asked roy. "pretty fair. i thought the color would fetch you; it's just a match for your sweater. got the paddle? well, try your hand at it. just stick it in and push it back. you'll get the hang after a bit. we'll get out around the island so as to catch the breeze. i hate calm water." it was a glorious afternoon. september was drawing to a close and there was already a taste of october in the fresh breeze that ruffled the water as soon as they had swung the crimson craft around the lower end of fox island. toward the latter the owner of the craft waved his paddle. "that's where we have fun april recess," he said. "if you know what's good you'll stay here instead of going home. we camp out there for almost a week and have more fun than you can shake a stick at. hammond usually comes over and tries to swipe our boats, and two years ago we had a regular battle with them. take it easier, or you'll get sore muscles. that's better." roy obeyed directions and soon discovered that paddling if done the right way is good fun. before the autumn was gone he had attained to quite a degree of proficiency and was never happier than when out in the canoe. but to-day his muscles, in spite of training, soon began to ache, and he was glad when the boy at the stern suggested that they let the craft drift for a while. presently, roy having turned around very cautiously, they were taking their ease in the bottom of the canoe, the water _lap-lapping_ against the smooth crimson sides, the sunlight slanting across the glinting ripples and the cool down-river breeze making the shelter of the boat quite grateful. they talked of all sorts of things, as boys will at first meeting, and as they talked roy had his first good chance to look his newly-found friend over. chub eaton was sixteen, although he looked fully a year older. he was somewhat thick-set, but not so much so that he was either slow or awkward. he was undeniably good-looking, with a good-humored face, from which a pair of bright, alert brown eyes sparkled. his hair was brown, too, a brown that just escaped being red, but which did not in the least remind roy of harry's vivid tresses. chub looked to be in the fittest physical condition and the coat of tan that covered his face and hands made roy seem almost pale in comparison. chub had an easy, self-assured way of doing things that roy couldn't help admiring, and was a born leader. these same qualities were possessed by roy to a lesser extent, and that, as the friendship grew and ripened between the two, they never had a falling-out worthy of the name, proves that each must have had a well-developed sense of fairness and generosity. as i have said, their conversation touched on all sorts of subjects, and finally it got around to horace burlen. "horace has the whole school under his thumb," explained chub. "you see, in the first place he is emmy's nephew, and the fellows have an idea that that makes a difference with emmy. i don't believe it does, for emmy's mighty fair; and besides, i've seen him wade into horace good and hard. but he's school leader, all right. the juniors do just about whatever he tells 'em to and are scared to death for fear he will eat 'em up. it's awfully funny, the way he bosses things. i don't believe there are half a dozen fellows in school who wouldn't jump into the river if horace told them to. and the worst of it is, you know, he isn't the best fellow in the world to be leader." "how about you?" asked roy. "you're not one of his slaves, are you?" "me? bless you, no! horace and i had our little scrap two years ago and since then he has given me up for lost. same way with jack rogers. jack's the only chap that can make horace stand around. jack could have taken the lead himself if he'd wanted to, but the only thing he thinks of is football. horace hates him like poison, but he makes believe he likes him. you see, horace was up for captain this year and would have got it, too, if johnny king hadn't made a lot of the team promise last fall to vote for jack. it wasn't exactly fair, i guess, but johnny knew that horace would never do for football captain. so that's the reason horace has it in for him." "well, he will never get me to lick his boots for him," said roy decisively. chub looked at him smilingly a moment. then, "no, i don't believe he will. but you'll have a hard row to hoe for a while, for horace can make it mighty unpleasant for a chap if he wants to." "he's done it already," answered roy. "oh, that's nothing," was the cheerful reply. "wait till he gets to going. he can be mighty nasty when he tries. and he can be fairly decent, too. he isn't a coward like otto ferris, you see; he's got a lot of good stuff in him, only it doesn't very often get out." "he's a second senior, isn't he?" "yes, he's been here six years already, too. he isn't much on study, and emmy gets ripping mad with him sometimes. two years ago he didn't pass and emmy told him he'd keep him in the second middle for six years if he didn't do better work. so horace buckled down that time and moved up. well, say, we paddle back. you stay where you are if you're tired; i can make it against this little old tide all right." but roy declared he wasn't tired and took up his paddle again. as they neared the school landing the rowboat came drifting down from the end of the island, the half dozen lads inside of it shouting and laughing loudly. suddenly roy started to his feet. "sit down!" cried chub sharply. roy sat down, not so much on account of the command as because he had started the canoe to rocking, and it was a choice between doing that and falling into the river. "their boat's upset!" he cried back. "so i see," answered chub. "but it isn't necessary to upset this one, too. besides, they can all swim like fishes." nevertheless he bent to his paddle and, with roy making ineffectual efforts to help him, fairly shot the craft over the water. but long before they had neared the overturned boat it became evident that their aid was not required, for the boys in the water, laughing over their mishap, were swimming toward the beach and pushing the capsized boat before them. chub headed the canoe toward the landing. "you see," he explained, "no fellow is allowed to get into a boat here until he can swim, and so, barring a swift current, there isn't much danger. that's sid in front. he's a regular fish in the water and it's even money that he upset the thing on purpose. he'd better not let emmy know about it, though. by the way, how about you? can you swim? i forgot to ask you." "yes, i can swim pretty fair," answered roy. "all right. i took it for granted you could. you look like a chap that can do things. do you play baseball?" "no; that is, i've never played on a team. of course, i can catch a ball if it's coming my way." "good! why not come out for the nine in the spring? will you?" "i don't believe there'd be much use in it," said roy. "i know so little about the game." "that's all right. you could learn. half the fellows who try have never played before. and i know you can start quick and run like a streak. i saw you make that touchdown day before yesterday. you'd better try." "well," answered roy, as they lifted the canoe from the water and bore it into the boat house, "maybe i will. only i don't think the captain would be very glad to see me." "don't you worry about the captain," laughed chub. "he's too glad to get material to be fussy." "who is captain?" asked roy. "i am," said chub. "that's how i know so much about him!" chapter vi methuselah has a sore throat football practice was hard and steady the next week, for maitland had trounced ferry hill 17 to 0, and as maitland was only a high school, albeit a rather large one, the disgrace rankled. jack rogers wasn't the sort of chap to wear his heart on his sleeve, and so far as his countenance went none would have guessed him to be badly discouraged. but he was, and roy, for one, knew it. and i think jack knew that he knew it, for once in a lull of the signal practice he looked up to find roy's eyes on him sympathetically, and he smiled back with a dubious shake of his head that spoke volumes. things weren't going very well, and that was a fact. the loss of horace burlen during that first month of practice meant a good deal, for horace was a steady center and an experienced one. to a lesser extent the absence of pryor and warren, horace's friends in exile, retarded the development of the team. by the end of the second week of practice a provisional eleven had been formed, for mr. cobb believed in getting the men together as soon as possible, having learned from experience that team work is not a thing that can be instilled in a mere week or two of practice. whitcomb was playing center on the first squad in horace's absence. roy was at quarter on the second, with a slow-moving young giant named forrest in front of him. but forrest was good-natured as well as slow, and in consequence he and roy got on very well, although they never exchanged unnecessary remarks. the back field had learned that jack rogers would not stand any nonsense, and if they had any desire to make things uncomfortable for the quarter-back they didn't indulge it on the football field. the second stood up very well in those days before the first, in spite of the fact that sometimes there weren't enough candidates to fill the places of injured players. with only forty-odd fellows to draw from it was remarkable that ferry hill turned out the teams that it did. meanwhile life was growing easier for roy. even the younger boys had begun to tire of showing their contempt, while the fact that chub eaton had "taken up" the new boy went a long way with the school in general. chub was not popular in the closest sense of the word; he was far too indifferent for that; but every fellow who knew him at all liked him--with the possible exception of horace--and his position of baseball captain made him a person of importance. consequently, when the school observed that chub had selected roy for a friend it marvelled for a few days and then began to wonder whether there might not be, after all, extenuating circumstances in the new boy's favor. and besides this roy's work on the gridiron had been from the first of the sort to command respect no matter how unwilling. and it was about this time that another friend was restored to him. roy had come across harry but once or twice since she had passed him in the campus, and each time he had been very careful to avoid her. but one morning he ran plump into her in the corridor of school hall, so plump, in fact, that he knocked the book she was carrying from her hand. of course there was nothing to do but stoop and rescue it from the floor, and when that was done it was too late to escape. as he handed the book back to her he looked defiantly into the blue eyes and said, "good morning, miss harriet." strange to say, he was not immediately annihilated. instead the blue eyes smiled at him with a most friendly gleam, and, "good morning," said harry. then, "only i oughtn't to answer you for calling me 'miss harriet'; you know i hate harriet." "excuse me, i meant miss _harry_," answered roy a trifle stiffly. it was hard to forget that cut direct. "that's better," she said. "you--you haven't been down to inquire after the health of the baby since you rescued him." "no, but i hope he's all right?" "yes, but methuselah is awfully sick." "he's the parrot, isn't he?" asked roy. "what's wrong with the old sinner?" "he's got a dreadful sore throat," was the reply. "i've tied it up with a cloth soaked in turpentine half a dozen times, but he just won't let it be." "are you sure it's sore throat?" asked roy gravely. "yes, his voice is almost gone. why, he can scarcely talk above a whisper!" roy thought to himself that that wasn't such a catastrophe as harry intimated, but he was careful not to suggest such a thing to her. instead he looked properly regretful. "don't you want to see him?" asked harry, in the manner of one conferring an unusual favor. roy declared that he did and harry led the way toward the barn, her red hair radiant in the morning sunlight. on the way they passed two of the boys, who observed them with open-eyed surprise. harry's favor was not easy to win and, being won, something to prize, since she stood near the throne and was popularly believed to be able to command favors for her friends. methuselah certainly did look sick. he was perched on the edge of his soap box domicile, viewing the world with pessimistic eyes, when harry conducted the visitor into the enclosure and sent the pigeons whirling into air. harry went to him and stroked his head with her finger. "poor old 'thuselah," she murmured. "did he have a sore throat? well, it was a nasty, mean shame. but he's a naughty boy for scratching off the bandage harry put on. what have you done with it? you haven't--" she looked about the box and the ground and then viewed the bird sternly--"you haven't eaten it?" methuselah cocked his eyes at her in a world-wearied way that seemed to say, "well, what if i have? i might as well die one way as another." but roy discovered the bedraggled length of linen a little way off and restored it to harry. "i'm so glad!" said the girl with a sigh of relief. "i didn't know but he might have, you know. why, once he actually ate a whole ounce of turnip seeds!" "hurt him?" asked roy interestedly. "n-no, i don't believe so, but i was awfully afraid it would. john, the gardener, said he'd have appendicitis. but then, john was mad because he needed the seeds." methuselah had closed his eyes and now looked as though resolved to die at once and get it over with. but at that moment snip trotted out from the barn, where he had been hunting for rats, and hailed roy as a long-lost friend. perhaps the incident saved the bird's life. at least it caused him to alter his mind about dying at once, for he blinked his eyes open, watched the performance for a moment and then broke out in a hoarse croak with: "stop your swearing! stop your swearing! stop your swearing! stop your swearing!" it was such a pathetic apology for a voice that roy had to laugh even at the risk of wounding harry's feelings. but harry, too, found it amusing and joined her laugh with his. whereupon methuselah mocked them sarcastically in tones that suggested the indelicacy of laughing at a dying friend. "i think," said harry, "he'd like you to scratch his head." roy looked doubtfully at the bird and the bird looked suspiciously at roy, but when the latter had summoned up sufficient courage to allow of the experiment methuselah closed his eyes and bent his head in evident appreciation and enjoyment. "i don't believe you're nearly so sick as you're making out," said roy. "i believe you're an old bluffer." and the bird actually chuckled! harry doused the bandage with turpentine again and once more tied it around methuselah's neck. "now don't you dare scratch it off again," she commanded severely, shaking her finger at him. "well, i never--" began the bird. but weariness overcame him in the middle of the sentence and he closed his beady eyes again and nodded sleepily. "i don't believe he slept very well last night," confided harry in a whisper. "maybe he was cold," roy suggested. "i've thought of that. i don't usually move them indoors until much later," said harry thoughtfully, "but the weather is so cold this fall that i think i'll put them in to-day. maybe he's been sleeping in a draft. mamma says that will almost always give you a sore throat." they walked back to the cottage together and on the way harry was unusually quiet. finally, when roy had pleaded a recitation, she unburdened her mind and conscience. "i--i'm sorry about the other day," she said suddenly. roy, who had turned away, looked around in surprise. "i mean when i didn't speak to you one morning," explained harry bravely. her cheeks were furiously red and roy found himself sharing her embarrassment. "oh, that's all right," he muttered. "no, it isn't all right," contradicted harry. "it was a low-down thing to do and i was sorry right away. only you didn't look and so--so i--i didn't call you. i--i wish you had looked. it was all horace's fault. he said--said--" "yes, i guess i know what he said," interrupted roy. "but supposing what he said is so?" "i wouldn't care--much," was the answer. "but i know it isn't so! is it?" roy dropped his eyes and hesitated. then, "no," he muttered. "it isn't so, harry." "i knew it!" she cried triumphantly. "i told him i knew it afterwards! and he said girls weren't proper persons to judge of such things, and i don't see what that's got to do with my knowing--what i know, do you?" roy had to acknowledge that he didn't. "and you're not cross with me, are you?" she demanded anxiously. "not a bit," he said. "that's nice. i don't like folks i like to not like--oh, dear me! i'm all balled up! only i mustn't say 'balled up.' i meant that i was--confused. anyway, i'm going to tell all the boys that it isn't so, that you didn't squeal--i mean _tell_--on horace and the others! and i think it was a nasty trick to play on you! why, you might have caught your death of cold!" "or a sore throat, like methuselah," said roy, smiling. "or you might have been drowned. once there was a boy drowned here, a long, long time ago, when i was just a kid. it was very sad. but you weren't drowned, were you? and so there's no use in supposing, is there? but i'm going to tell the boys that--" "i'd rather you didn't, please, harry," broke in roy. harry, who was becoming quite enthusiastic and excited, opened her eyes very wide. "not tell?" she cried. "why not?" "well," answered roy hesitatingly, "i--i'd rather you didn't." "no reason!" said harry scornfully. "if they think i'd do such a thing," muttered roy, "they can just keep on thinking so. i guess i can stand it." harry looked puzzled for a moment; she was trying to get at his point of view; then her face lighted. "splendid!" she cried. "you're going to be a martyr and be misunderstood like--like somebody in a book i was reading! and some day, long after you're gone--" harry looked vaguely about as though searching for the place roy was to go to--"folks will discover that you're innocent and they'll be very, very sorry and erect a white marble shaft to your cherished memory!" she ended much out of breath, but still enthusiastic, to find roy laughing at her. "i guess i'm not hankering for any martyr business, harry. it isn't that exactly; i don't know just what it is. but if you won't say anything about it i'll be awfully much obliged." "well, then, i won't," promised harry regretfully. "only i do wish you were going to be a martyr!" "i shall be if i don't hurry," answered roy. "i have math with mr. buckman in about half a minute." "pooh! no one's afraid of buck!" said harry scornfully. "cobby's the one to look out for; he's awfully strict." roy was already making for school hall. "you'll come and see methuselah again soon, won't you?" "yes," called roy. "and you'll play tennis with me some day, too?" "i don't play very well." "never mind," answered harry, "i'll teach you. good bye!" chapter vii coaches and players october went its way, a period of bright, crisp, golden weather filled with hard work for the football players. there were defeats and victories both in that early season, but on the whole the team showed up fairly well. burlen and warren and pryor returned to practice at the end of their probation and, although each was more or less stale, their presence in accustomed positions heartened the team. otto ferris, too, returned, but his advent was not portentous, since the best he could do was to make the second as a substitute back. bacon still held his place at quarter, although in two games he had been kept out of the play, his position being filled by roy. the latter had done excellent work, but he had not had the experience gained by bacon, and this, together with the fact that he and horace did not work smoothly together, made it pretty certain that bacon would go into the game with hammond. roy was not greatly disappointed, for he had scarcely dared hope to make the first team that fall. next year bacon would be gone from school, and then, barring accidents, the place would be his. meanwhile, ever mindful of his promise to jack rogers, roy worked like a trojan on the second and ran that team in such a way that a score against the first at least every other day of practice became something to expect. had roy been able to work with horace as he did with forrest, bacon's position would not have been so secure. roy was like a streak of lightning when he once got away for a run, and, like a streak of lightning, was mighty hard to catch. at this he quite outplayed bacon. the latter seldom managed to make his quarter-back runs tell, but he knew his men from long experience and used them like a general. chub eaton, inspired by his friendship for roy, became a regular attendant at practice and even travelled on more than one occasion to a neighboring town with the team. chub, however, didn't approve of roy's presence on the second. "it's all poppycock," he declared warmly. "you can play all around bacon and i don't understand why cobb and jack don't see it. you're too easy-going, roy. you ought to make a kick; tell 'em you want what's coming to you; make 'em give you a fair try-out on the first. i tell you, my young friend, you don't gain anything in this world by being over-modest. get out and flap your wings and crow a few times till they take notice of you!" at all of which roy smiled calmly. the two had become inseparable. whenever it was possible they were together. in the evening they sat side by side in the study room and afterwards roy spent his time on the edge of chub's bed in the junior dormitory until the bell rang. there were many stolen hours in the canoe and always, rain or shine, sunday afternoon found them on the river, floating down with the stream or paddling about the shores engaged in wonderful explorations. roy had recovered from his first nervousness regarding studies and was getting on fairly well. he was never likely to astonish any of the instructors with his brilliancy, but what he once learned he remembered and he was conscientious where studies were concerned. his mother mentioned the scholarship less frequently nowadays in her letters and his father asked sarcastically whether they taught anything besides football at ferry hill, but was secretly very proud of his son's success in that line. so november came in with a week of chill, wet days, days when outdoor practice meant handling a slippery ball and rolling about in puddles of water, but which sent them in to supper with outrageous appetites. green academy came and saw and conquered, pottsville high school was sent home beaten, cedar cove school was defeated by a single point--jack himself kicked the goal that did it--and lo, the schedule was almost at an end, with only the big game of the season, that with hammond, looming up portentously ten days distant! the whole school was football mad. every afternoon of practice saw boys and instructors on the field either playing or watching; only severe illness kept a ferry hill student away from the field those days. every afternoon some graduate or other appeared in a faded brown sweater and after watching practice awhile suddenly darted into the fracas and laid down the law. and there were long and earnest consultations afterwards between the grad and jack and mr. cobb, and fellows who were not too certain of their places trembled in their muddy shoes. and there were changes, too, in the line-up, and more than one pair of muddy shoes either went to the side-line or scuffled about with the second. but only one of the changes became permanent; for mr. cobb had selected well. roy never forgot the day when johnny king made his appearance. it was just a week to a day before the hammond game. roy was one of the first on the field that afternoon, but jack and mr. cobb were ahead of him, and with them was a big, broad-shouldered youth in his shirt sleeves. roy groaned in sympathy with the first team, knowing from experience that they would have an unpleasant time of it. the grad had the look of a chap who knew football, knew what he wanted and was bound to have it. then the players assembled, went through a few minutes of catching and punting and signal line-up, and finally faced each other in two eager, determined lines. mr. cobb blew his whistle and the first came through the second for a yard outside of left tackle. by this time roy had learned the identity of the graduate, and when he could he examined him with interest, remembering what jack rogers had told of the last year's captain. for awhile king had little to say; he merely followed the game as it went back and forth in the middle of the field. then came a try around the second's left end and roy, running in, brought the first's left half-back to earth. the tackle was a hard one and the half-back lost the ball and sprang to his feet to find roy edging toward the first's goal with it under his arm. it was the second's first down then, and roy sent full-back crashing against the opposing left-guard for a yard and a half. that began an advance that the first was unable to stay. roy was everywhere, and time and again, when the whistle had blown, he was found at the bottom of the heap still trying to pull the runner ahead. but a fumble by the second's left-tackle, who had been drawn back for a plunge, changed the tide and the ball went back to the first almost under her goal posts. a halt was called, johnny king conferred a moment with mr. cobb and roy was summoned to the first, bacon slipping across to the other line. but roy could have told king then and there that the change wouldn't pay, for he knew horace burlen. and it didn't. king frowned and puzzled during three plays. then his brow lighted. "change those centers," he commanded. forrest, amazed and embarrassed by the unexpected honor, changed places with horace. "somebody tell him the key number for the signals," said king. "forrest, let's see you wake up; you're slower than you were last year. now get in there and do something!" and forrest smiled good-naturedly and bent over the ball. things went better at once, and, forrest and roy working together like well fitted parts of a machine, the ball went down the field on straight plays and over the line for the first score. but forrest had to work, for horace, smarting under the indignity of a return to the second, fought over every inch of the ground. the ball was taken from the first and given to bacon. and then there was a different story to tell. bacon piled his men through center, horace getting the jump on forrest every time and crashing through in spite of the efforts of the secondary defense. king shook his head and frowned. then he called jack rogers out of the line and talked to him for a minute, while the players repaired broken laces and had their heated faces sponged off. roy, making the rounds of the men, cheering and entreating, caught by accident a portion of the conversation between the two. "that's where you've made your mistake," king was saying sorrowfully. "you've failed to see the possibilities in forrest. slow? sure he is; slow as an ice wagon! but you could have knocked a lot of that out of him. he's too good-natured; i know the sort; but mark my words, jack, if you can get him mad he'll play like a whirlwind! oh, it's too late now; bacon and burlen are your best pair. only--well, there's no use regretting. you've picked a pretty good team, old man, and if you can ginger them up a bit more, get more fight into them next saturday, you'll stand to win. remember this, jack; a fresh center that knows the game, even if he is slow, is better than a tuckered one. give forrest a chance in the second half, if you can; and put porter in with him. they're a good pair. too bad porter can't work better with burlen; he's a streak, that kid! well--" roy moved out of hearing and presently he and forrest were back on the second and they were hammering their way down the field again. the first fifteen-minute half ended with the ball in possession of the second on the first's twenty-yard line. the players trotted to the side-line and crept under their blankets and sweaters, king and rogers and cobb talking and gesticulating a little way off. roy found himself next to forrest. the center, rubbing thoughtfully at a strained finger, heaved a sigh. "sorry i disappointed johnny," he said. "but, shucks! why, i couldn't stand up ten minutes against that hammond center! i know what i'm good for, porter; i don't try to deceive myself into thinking i'm a great player; only--well, i'm sorry i couldn't do better for johnny king." "you'll do a heap better next saturday," answered roy. "pshaw! they won't let me into it!" "you wait and see," said roy. "and if you go in i guess i will. and if we do get into it, forrest, let's show them what we can do, will you?" forrest turned and observed the other's earnest countenance smilingly. "i'll do the best i know how," he said good-naturedly, "but i guess they'll do better to leave me out." "oh, you be hanged!" grunted roy. "you'll fight or i'll punch you!" "oh, i guess i'll get my fill of punches," laughed forrest. "they say that hammond center is a corker at that game!" "i believe you're scared of him," taunted roy. but forrest only shook his big head slowly. "oh, i guess not," he answered. "come on; time's up." the first scored again soon after play was resumed, jack rogers getting through outside left-tackle for a twelve-yard plunge across the line. then the ball went to the second and, with the injunction to confine his plays to straight plunges at the line, roy took up the fight. but the first were playing their very best to-day; perhaps the presence of the old captain had a good deal to do with it; at all events, the second's gains were few and far between and several times it lost the ball only to have it returned by order of the coaches. they were trying out the first's defense and although twice roy stood inside of the first's ten-yard line, the practice ended without a score for the second. "i thought you'd made the first that time," said chub as he and roy walked back to the campus together later. "you would have, too, if horace hadn't passed like an idiot." "i knew he would," said roy. "there wasn't much use trying to do anything with him in front of me. if only forrest would get some snap into his playing! great scott, he's a regular tortoise!" "well, there's a week yet," said chub hopefully. "there's no telling what may happen in a week." "there won't anything happen as far as i am concerned," answered the other a trifle despondently. nor did there. when practice was over on thursday roy stood with the second and answered the cheer given them by the first, and afterwards he and forrest walked over to the gymnasium together trying not to feel blue. "well, that's over with for this year," grunted forrest. "tomorrow we'll be gentlemen and strut around in some decent clothes." he looked thoughtfully at his torn and faded brown jersey. "i guess this is the last time i'll wear you, old chap," he said softly. but forrest was mistaken, for the next afternoon he and roy and four other members of the second were out on the gridiron again walking through plays and learning the new signals of the first. jack rogers wasn't going to lose the morrow's game on account of lack of players. there was a solid hour and a quarter of it, and when roy went to bed at half-past nine, a half hour earlier than usual, formations and signals were still buzzing through his brain. the gridiron, freshly marked, glistened under bright sunlight. november could not have been kinder in the matter of weather. there had been no hard freeze since the rains and the field was as springy under foot as in september. over on the far side a big cherry and black flag fluttered briskly in the breeze and beneath it, overflowing from the small stand onto the yellowing turf, were hammond's supporters. opposite were the ferry hill hordes under their brown and white banner and with them a sprinkling of townsfolk from silver cove. here were doctor emery, mrs. emery and harry, the latter armed with a truculent brown and white banner; nearby was mr. buckman acting as squire to a group of ladies from the town. beyond was roy, one of a half-dozen blanketed forms; still further along, squatting close to the side-line, was chub eaton, and from where he sat down to the farther thirty-yard line boys with brown and white flags and tin horns were scattered. and between the opposing ranks were two dozen persons upon whom all eyes were fixed. eleven of them wore the brown jerseys and brown and white striped stockings of ferry hill school. eleven others wore the cherry-colored jerseys and cherry and black stockings of hammond academy. two more were in ordinary attire save that sweaters had taken the places of coats. these latter were the officials, both college men, the umpire showing in his sweater the light red of cornell, and the referee, by the same means, proving allegiance to columbia. the two teams had been facing each other for fifteen minutes, during which time the ball had hovered continuously in mid-field. and now for the fourth time it had changed hands and bacon was crying his signals. from the ferry hill supporters came a rattling cheer; "rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! ferry hill! ferry hill! ferry hill!" [illustration: "even harry joined her shrill voice, the while she waved her flag valiantly."] and from across the field of battle swept back, mocking and defiant, hammond's parody "rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah rah, rah! very ill! very ill! very ill!" then cheers were forgotten, for kirby, ferry hill's full-back, was tearing a gash in the red line outside of right-guard. he was almost free of the enemy when pool, the opposing quarter, dragged him down. but twelve yards is something to gladden the heart when for a quarter of an hour half-yard gains have been the rule. ferry hill forgot to cheer; she just yelled, each boy for himself, and it was more than a minute before chub, leading, could get them together. this time hammond forgot to mock and instead sent up a long, lusty slogan that did her credit: "rah, rah, rah! who are we? h-a-m-m-o-n-d! hoorah, hoorah! hammond academy! rah, rah, rah!" another break in the cherry-hued line and ferry hill was down on the opponent's thirty-yard line jack rogers holding the ball at arm's-length as he lay on the turf with half the hammond team upon him. then came two unsuccessful attempts to get through the center, followed by a double-pass that barely gained the necessary five yards. chub was busy now and so were all the others on that side of the gridiron. even harry joined her shrill voice, the while she waved her flag valiantly. again the brown charged into the enemy's line, but this time her attack was broken into fragments and whitcomb was borne back for a loss of six yards. a tandem on right-tackle failed to regain more than a yard of the lost ground and pryor, left half-back, fell back for the kick. it was a poor attempt, the ball shooting almost straight into air. when it came down the hammond right-tackle found it, fought his way over two white streaks and was finally pulled to earth on the forty-yard line. then the tide of battle turned with a vengeance. back over the field went hammond, using her heavy backs in a tackle-tandem formation with telling effect. the gains were short but frequent. the wings caught the worst of the hammering, for at center hammond found it impossible to gain, although jones, her much-heralded center-rush, was proving himself a good match for horace burlen. jack rogers, at left-tackle, was a hard proposition, but fernald, beside him at left guard, was weak, and not a few of the gains were on that side. on the other side hadden at tackle was playing high, and although gallup was doing his best to break things up, that wing gave badly before hammond's fierce onslaught. the backs saved the day time and again, bringing down the runner when almost clear of the line. hammond tried no tricks, but pinned her faith to straight football, relying upon an exceptionally heavy and fast set of backs. down to ferry hill's twenty-five yards swept the line of battle, slowly, irrevocably. there, bacon shrieking his entreaties and jack heartening the men with slaps on backs and shoulders, the brown-clad line held against the enemy and received the ball on downs. maybe ferry hill didn't leap and shout! down the side-line raced chub and his companions, waving flags and awakening the echoes with discordant, frenzied tootings on their horns. and mr. cobb, quietly chewing a grass-blade, smiled once and heaved a sigh of relief. the brown's first attempt netted scarcely a yard. her second, a quarter-back run, came to an inglorious end, bacon being nailed well back of the line. then, with six yards to gain on the third down, pryor once more fell back for a kick. this time he got the ball off well and the opponents went racing back up the field. hammond's quarter gathered it in, reeled off some ten yards and was brought down by warren. once again the advance began, but now there were fewer gains through the left of the brown line; fernald had found his pace and he and jack rogers were working together superbly. the other side was still vulnerable, however, and soon, before the fifty-five-yard line had been passed, the ferry hill supporters saw with dismay that hammond was aiming her attack, and not without success, at the center of her opponent's line. horace burlen was weakening, and although fernald and gallup, on either side, were aiding him all in their power, hammond's tandem plunged through his position again and again for small gains. bacon's voice, hoarse and strained, coaxed and commanded, but down to the forty yards went the cherry and black, and from there to the thirty-five, and from there, but by shorter gains now, to the thirty. "hold 'em! hold 'em! hold 'em!" was the cry from the wavers of the brown and white banners. but it was far easier said than done. once more within sight of a score, hammond was desperately determined to reach that last white line. to the twenty-five yards she crept, and then she was almost to the twenty. a long plunge through center and the fifteen was close at hand. and then, while the wearied and battered defense crawled to their feet, a whistle shrilled sharply and the half was over! and jack rogers as he limped across the trampled turf to the bench thanked his star for the timely intervention. the players disappeared through the gate to the gymnasium, followed by mr. cobb and a handful of graduates. on the other side of the gridiron the hammond warriors, wrapped in their red blankets, sat in a long row and were administered to by rubbers and lectured by coaches. on the ferry hill side the boys were singing the school song and interspersing it with cheers and blasts of tin horns. chub sought out roy. "everybody says you'll go in this half," he whispered. "if you do, sock it to 'em!" "i won't get in unless forrest does," answered roy. "well, he's sure to, isn't he? why, horace is almost done up already!" "maybe, but ten minutes of rest brings a fellow around in great shape, and i wouldn't be surprised if he lasted the game out." "last nothing! look at the way hammond was plowing through him! say, that's a great tandem of theirs, isn't it?" "pretty good." "pretty good! i should think so!" "it wouldn't be so much against a team that got started quicker. our line's too plaguey slow and half of them are playing away up in the air. look at hadden! rogers ought to make him get down on his knees. hello, here they come." "can we keep them from scoring, do you think?" asked one of the substitutes anxiously as the brown-stockinged players trotted back through the gate. "yes, i guess so," roy answered. "but i don't believe we can score ourselves." "well, a tie is better than being beaten," said the first youth hopefully. "no it isn't," said chub. "it's the meanest kind of an ending. you've done nothing and the other fellow's done nothing and you're no better off than you were when you started. we played eleven innings with hammond year before last and quit six to six. my, but we were mad! and tired! i'd rather they'd licked us." "hope i get a show," muttered the other wistfully. he was a substitute end and only his lack of weight had kept him off the team. "there's cobb laying it down to 'em," whispered chub. "watch his finger; you'd think he was in class, eh? any new men going in? yes there's--no, it isn't, either. blessed if every man isn't going back! oh, hang!" "some of them won't be there long, i guess," said roy. "well, i must go back and get some noise. the lazy chumps don't half cheer. hope you get on, old chap. so long!" presently the ferry hill cheer was ringing across the field, and chub, his coat thrown aside, was out on the side-line leading as only he could. over the fading white lines the two teams arranged themselves. from the hammond side came a last burst of noise. spectators scurried back to points of vantage. the referee raised his hand. "ready, ferry hill?" jack answered "ready!" "ready, hammond?" "all right," called the cherry's right-end and captain. the whistle sounded and the game was on again. the greater part of the second half was almost a repetition of the first. both teams were playing straight football and it would be difficult to say which was the more aggressive. for a time, the ball was in ferry hill's territory, and then for another ten minutes, in hammond's. there were many nerve-racking moments, but each side, whenever its goal seemed in danger, was lucky enough to get the ball on downs and, by a long punt, send it out to the middle of the field. jack rogers kicked off to hammond's left half-back who made fifteen yards behind good interference and landed the ball on his own thirty-five yards. back went the right-tackle, the tandem swept forward and broke into fragments against the brown's left wing. no gain. once more it sprang at the line and this time went through between gallup and hadden for two yards. third down and three to go. a fake kick gave the ball to the right half and that youth reeled off four yards before he was downed. the next attack, at the center, netted a yard and a half; the next, at the same place, two yards; the rest of the distance was gained outside of left tackle. so it went for awhile and once more the ball was in ferry hill territory. hammond was plugging steadily now at center and right side, burlen, gallup and hadden all receiving more attention than they coveted. at last a long gain through hadden left that youth crumpled up on the turf. the whistle blew and a big sub, tearing off his sweater, raced onto the field. hadden was up in a minute, only to discover that his way led toward the side-line. the sub, walker, was a trifle harder proposition for hammond, and for awhile that side of the line showed up well, but by the time the tide had swept down to the thirty-five-yard line hammond was once more gaining almost as she liked through right-tackle and guard. there were no gains longer than four yards, and such were infrequent owing to the good work of the backs, but almost every attack meant an advance, and not once did hammond fail of her distance in three downs. but on the thirty-yard line ferry hill called a halt. the play was directly in the middle of the field and the goal-posts loomed up terribly near. hammond's first try failed, for bacon guessed the point of attack and ferry hill threw her whole force behind burlen. foiled there, hammond tried right-tackle again, shoved walker aside and went through for a scant two yards. it was third down, and over on the side-line roy measured the distance from cross-bar to back-field and watched for a place-kick. but hammond, true to her plan of battle, made no attempt at a kick but sent her tandem plunging desperately at the line. it was a mistake, as events proved, to point the tandem at jack rogers, for although the attack gained something by being unexpected, it failed to win the required distance. jack gave before it, to be sure, and spent a minute on the ground after the whistle had blown, but when the referee had measured the distance with the chain it was found that hammond had failed of her distance by six inches! bedlam let loose on the ferry hill side as bacon ran in from his position almost under the goal-posts, clapped his hands and cried his signals. pryor fell back to the fifteen-yard line, there was a breathless moment of suspense, and then the ball went arching up the field, turning lazily over and over in its flight. hammond captured it on her forty yards but was downed by the ferry hill left-end. then it began all over again, that heart-breaking, nerve-racking advance. and this time the gains were longer. at center hammond went through for a yard, two yards, even three. once a penalty cost hammond five yards, but the distance was regained by a terrific rush through gallup, that youth being put for the moment entirely out of the play. later, down near ferry hill's forty-five-yard line, a fumble by pool, the plucky, hard-playing hammond quarter, cost his side ten yards more. and although pool himself managed to recover the ball it went to the opponent on downs. i think that fumble was in a measure a turning point in the game. hammond never played quite as aggressively afterwards. she had gained a whole lot of ground at a cost of much strength, only to be turned back thrice. it began to look as though fate was against her. and a minute later it seemed that fate had decided to favor her opponent. for when pryor kicked on first down the breeze suddenly stiffened and took the ball over the head of pool. the latter turned and found it on the bound near the ten yards, but by that time the ferry hill ends were upon him and he was glad to call it down on his fifteen yards. the sight of the two teams lined up there almost under hammond's goal brought joy to the hearts of the friends of the brown, and the cheering took on a new tone, that of hope. but the ball was still in the enemy's hands and once more the advance began. they hammered hard at burlen and gained their distance. they swooped down on walker and trampled over him. they thrust gallup aside and went marching through until the secondary defense piled them up in a heap. but it was slower going now, there was more time between plays, and knowing ones amongst the watchers predicted a scoreless game. and there was scarcely twelve minutes left. roy, his blanket trailing from his shoulders as he moved crouching along the border of the field, prayed for a fumble, anything to give his side the ball there within striking distance of the hammond goal. but hammond wasn't fumbling to any extent that day; wearied and disappointed as they were, her players clung to the ball like grim death. on her twenty-five yards she made a gain of three yards through center and when the pile of writhing bodies had been untangled horace burlen still lay upon the sod. roy turned quickly toward forrest. that youth was watching calmly and chewing a blade of grass. failing to catch his eye, roy looked for mr. cobb. already he was heading toward them. the substitute end tied and untied the arms of the brown jersey thrown over his back with nervous fingers. but the coach never looked in his direction. "forrest!" he called. and forrest slowly climbed to his feet. "porter!" and roy was up like a flash, had tossed aside his blanket and was awaiting orders. chapter viii forrest loses his temper and roy keeps his promise the coach led roy and forrest to the field and gave them his orders. "get in there, you two," he said briskly, "and show what you can do. there's small hope of scoring against hammond, but if the chance comes work their ends for all there is in it. what you've got to do--_got_ to do, mind!--is to keep them away from your goal-line. forrest, if you ever moved quick in your life do it now. you've simply got to get the jump on jones. he's a good man, but recollect that he's been playing pretty nearly an hour and is dead tired. he'll play foul, too, i guess; burlen's face is pretty well colored up. but don't you dare to slug back at him; understand?" forrest nodded smilingly. "and as for you, porter, just you play the best game you know how. keep the fellows' courage up; that's half of it. i'm taking rogers out--he's not fit to stand up any longer--and you'll act as captain. i guess you'll know what to do on defense, and if you get the ball remember the ends. try it yourself on that formation for tandem on guard; and give whitcomb a chance, for i think you can get through between tackle and end. don't be afraid to take risks; if you get the ball risk anything! go ahead now!" roy and porter trotted toward the group of players. as they approached burlen and rogers were coming unwillingly off, the former looking pretty well punished and the latter limping badly. jack rogers turned from his course to speak to them. "good boy, forrest!" he panted. "we've got to stop them and you can do it. porter, remember your promise!" roy nodded and sprinted into the group. "all right now!" he cried cheerfully. "get into it everybody and stop this. you fellows in the line have got to play lower. get down there, walker, you're up in the clouds. charge into 'em now! stop it right here! you can do it. look at 'em! they're beaten right now!" "only we don't know it," growled a big guard, wiping the perspiration from his face onto the sleeve of his red jersey. roy grinned across at him. "you will know it pretty soon, my friend," he answered. "all right now, fellows! every man into it!" then he retreated up the field and watched. hammond had replaced her left-tackle and left half with fresh men, and, when the whistle blew, went at the work again as though she meant business. a straight plunge by the new left half gained a yard through gallup. then the tandem formed again and again the hammering began. presently roy saw that forrest had been picked out for attention and was getting a lot of it. two gains through him in quick succession brought the ball back to the thirty yards. roy raced up to the line, pulled forrest about by the shoulder and shook a fist in the face of that amazed young giant. "forrest, if you let 'em through here again i'll lick you till you can't stand up!" shouted roy, his blue eyes blazing. "you coward! get in there and do something! put that man out. get the jump on 'em! he's half dead now!" forrest forgot to smile. "all right," he growled. after the next attack at center roy again ran up. forrest turned with a bleeding nose and a new light in his eyes. "you don't need to scold," he said quietly. "he just handed me this." "what are you going to do?" asked roy scathingly. "do?" grunted forrest, mad clear through. "i'm going to put him out of commission." "no slugging, remember!" "i won't slug; i'll just play ball!" and he did. there were no more games through center while play lasted. time and again jones, the big hammond center, was literally lifted off his feet by forrest's savage onslaught; twice the pass was practically spoiled. forrest was angry, and being angry forgot both his good-nature and his slowness. hammond soon transferred her attention to the wings again and found a fairly vulnerable spot where jack rogers had given place to a substitute. but there was no chance for her to score and she knew it. now she was only killing time, determined to keep the ball in her possession and guard her goal until the whistle blew. and she would have done it, too, had not forrest lost his temper. that blow on the nose hurt and he set out to make life as unpleasant as possible for his adversary. he didn't slug once, but he pushed and hauled and upset jones until that gentleman was thoroughly exasperated. over and over he appealed to the officials to watch forrest. "he's interfering with the ball," he declared. but the officials couldn't see it that way. and finally, when the ball had been worked back to the center of the field and the word had gone around that there was only five minutes of time left, forrest spoiled a snap-back, the ball trickled from pool's hands and forrest plunged through and fell upon it. roy raced in, crying signals as he came. time was called while the hammond center and the hammond captain made vain appeals to have the ball returned to them, claiming interference with the snapper-back. but, as before, they were denied and the two teams lined up again, this time with the ball in forrest's hands. "_7-6-43-89!_" called roy, and whitcomb, with the pigskin snuggled in his elbow, was racing around left end. all of eight yards gained, and the crowd on the side-line went wild with delight! flags waved and horns shrieked, and over it all, or so roy thought, could be heard the shrill voice of harry! it was a time for risks, the coach had said. and roy took them. over and over he attempted hazardous plays that ought not to have succeeded, but that did, partly, perhaps, because of their very improbability! twice more whitcomb was sent outside of left end; once pryor got through for four yards between right tackle and guard; and once kirby, full-back, hurdled jones for a good gain. it made joy in the ferry hill camp and the wavers of the brown and white banners had visions of a score. but they were not considering the fact that the timer's watch proclaimed but two minutes left and that that official was walking out toward the teams proclaiming the fact. two minutes was not time enough for ferry hill to rush the ball from the forty yards down to the goal line for a score, even when the backs were getting two, three and even four yards at a plunge. but even those who up until the last moment had hoped that the brown by merit or fluke would win out could not but feel almost satisfied at the ending of the game. for now ferry hill was outplaying hammond man for man, in spite of the fact that what superiority there was in age and weight was with the rival team. both elevens were tired, but ferry hill was the least so, and to her admirers it seemed that her warriors fought harder, more determinedly every moment. chub, watching anxiously between vocal efforts, came to this conclusion and turned to sidney welch, who, having failed to make the team, was patriotically doing his best to cheer it on to victory. "sid," said chub, "if we had another quarter of an hour to play we'd lick 'em sure as fishing! why, we're playing better every minute! and look at roy porter! the chump is just getting warmed up! did you ever see a team run any finer than that, eh? and look at the way he gets around himself, will you? why, he's all over the shop and into everything! he reminds me of snip out in the barn. i saw snip kill a rat, bite the cow's leg, chase a fly and scratch his ear all inside of ten seconds one day. and roy's just like him. and, just between you and me, sid, the fellows are working better for him than they did for bacon, but maybe it's because they're finding their pace. if only whitcomb could get away around the end! the whistle will blow, i'll bet a cookey, just when we're on the edge of a score! why doesn't roy try a quarter-back run, i wonder? look at jack rogers; he's over there on the ground, see? i'll bet he doesn't know whether he's on his head or his feet, and i don't believe he could tell you his name this minute if you asked him. fact is, my boy, i feel rather better myself for talking every minute; it sort of keeps my heart out of my mouth. and as for you, sid, that button will be off in just about two more turns. here, let's give 'em a cheer." chub leaped to his feet and in a moment the slogan was thundering across the field to where eleven brown-clad figures were forming once more against the foe. and it did them good, that cheer; it proclaimed confidence and affection, and it heartened them so that when the dust of battle had blown aside the man with the ball lay across the thirty-yard line! it was maddening. only thirty yards to go, only six trampled white lines to cross, and not time enough to do it, unless--roy called for time to tie a lace and while he bent over his shoe he thought hard. ever since he had taken charge of the team he had been studying the disposition of the enemy's force. he had one more trump to play, a quarter-back run. he had kept it for the last because he did not want to appear to be seeking personal glory. for that reason he had given every one of the backs, as well as the two tackles, a chance. but while they had made good gains they had failed to get clear for a run. and now he was surely entitled to a try himself. not that he was very hopeful of succeeding where the others had failed, for pool, the rival quarter, was a veritable wonder and time and again had called the play in time to allow the back-field to spoil the run. but time was almost up--there could scarcely be more than a minute and a half remaining--and it was now or never. the ball was on hammond's twenty-eight yards and well over to the left of the gridiron. pool had halved the distance to his goal and was standing there on his toes, somewhat over toward the right, watching like a lynx. the whistle blew and roy called his signals. right tackle fell back of the line and left half and full formed behind him in tandem. the attack was straight at center, and with forrest heaving and shoving and half and full pushing from behind tackle went through for two yards. again the same formation and the same point of attack. but this time hammond's backs were there and the gain was less than a yard. it was third down and a trifle over two to go. once more the signals and the tandem. but as the backs, led by right tackle, plunged forward, roy, with the ball hidden at his side, dodged behind them and sped along the line toward the right. for a moment the ruse went undiscovered, but before he had reached his opening between tackle and end pool had seen him and had started to head him off. then, as luck would have it, roy's own right end got in his way and roy was forced to run behind him. that settled the fate of the attempt at a touchdown. pool was close up to him now. roy ran across the field in an attempt to shake him off but to no purpose. he had not gained a foot, and he knew it. there was no use in heading toward the side of the field any longer; he must try to capture the necessary two yards. so, swinging quickly, he headed in, got one of the yards, made a brave attempt to dodge the wily pool and came to earth. "hammond's ball; first down!" called the referee. roy trotted back up the field, trying his best not to show his disappointment. hammond was not going to take any risks there in front of her goal and so her quarter fell back for a punt. pryor ran back to cover the left of the field. roy heard the signals called and then saw the ferry hill forwards plunge through in an endeavor to block the kick. then the ball was arching up against the darkening sky. for a moment it was impossible to judge of the direction. then roy was running to the right and back up the field. it was a splendid punt and must have covered all of fifty yards, for when it settled into roy's arms he was near his own thirty-five-yard line. for once the tuckered hammond ends were slow in getting down and for a moment roy had an open field. with pryor leading he dashed straight up the middle of the gridiron. at least he would put the ball back in hammond territory. ten yards, and then pryor met the first of the enemy. roy swerved and dodged the second. then the foe was thick in front of him. the ferry hill players turned and raced beside him, forming hasty interference, and for a while he sped on unmolested to the wild shrieks of the watchers. then the hammond left half broke through and dove at him. somehow, in what way he could never have told, he escaped that tackle, but it had forced him toward the side of the field. the fifty-five-yard line was behind him now. back of him pounded the feet of friend and foe alike; ahead of him were the hammond right half and quarter, the former almost at hand. roy edged a bit into the field, for the side-line was coming dangerously near. then he feinted, felt the half-back's clutch on his knee, wrenched himself loose and went staggering, spinning on. he had recovered in another five yards and was running swiftly again. he had little fear of being caught from behind, for he believed himself a match for any runner on the hammond eleven, but in front of him was pool, coming up warily with eager outstretched hands, striving to drive him out of bounds. roy cast an anxious glance toward the goal-line and his heart leaped. already he was passing the thirty or twenty-five-yard line and the final white streak looked encouragingly near. then he shifted the ball to his right arm and turned acutely toward the middle of the field. pool was directly in his path now as roy, fighting for breath, sped on straight for the goal. for one brief instant of time the quarter's eyes burned into his. then the decisive moment had come, and roy, taking a deep breath, gathered himself. forward shot the enemy in a splendid diving tackle, clutching fingers outspread. but the fingers grasped empty air, for as he left the ground, roy, the ball clutched tightly against his breast, leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a foot! [illustration: "roy ... leaped upward and forward, clearing him by a foot."] from there to the goal-line was only a romp, although he had to fight hard for breath and although the defeated right half-back was close behind him all the way. straight between the posts he staggered, placed the ball on the turf and rolled over on his back beside it. somewhere they were cheering madly and nearer at hand people were shouting. then, recovering from his momentary giddiness, roy opened his eyes, shut them again because someone was slapping a great cold, wet sponge over his face and then sat up. someone gave him a hand and he got on to his feet, swayed a little dizzily and then found himself in the grip of what at first seemed a bear and afterwards turned out to be jack rogers. "you remembered your promise, porter," jack was saying softly, "and i'll not forget mine. you're a trump!" pryor failed miserably at the try for goal, but who cared? surely not jack rogers, leading the cheer for his defeated rivals; nor roy, dodging his fellows as he tried to steal away to the gymnasium; nor harry, waving her brown and white flag and shrieking lustily; least of all the throng of fellows who, with banners flying and tin horns sounding, danced madly around the field in the november twilight. chapter ix red hair and white rabbits a fellow can't make a touchdown in the last thirty seconds of play, and so win the game for his school, without affecting his position. no matter what he was before, after that he's a hero and a saint and a public benefactor all rolled into one. roy's case was no exception. he woke up saturday morning a rather unimportant and quite unpopular person. he climbed out of bed sunday morning to find that, metaphorically, the world was his! as soon as the bell had rung the difference was apparent. there was no more dressing in silence, no more waiting till the others were through for a chance at the wash-room. it was "morning, porter! how are you feeling after it?" "hello, mr. quarter-back! how'd you sleep?" "here, stearns, get out of here and give porter a show; he's been waiting hours!" and in the midst of it chub came tumbling upstairs half dressed to sit on roy's bed and delay matters so that they barely scraped into dining hall between the closing doors. well, you and i aren't going to begrudge him the satisfaction the changed conditions brought him. life has been using him rather badly for six weeks or so and he surely deserved some compensation. the only fly in the ointment was the thought that, after all, the sudden popularity was his only as a clever quarter-back, that, for the rest, he was still, to the fellows, the tale-bearer. but in this he was not altogether correct, for the majority of boys argued that any chap who could display the qualities that roy had shown on the football field must of necessity be all right, and that if he had told on horace and otto and the others he must have had some good reason for it. but roy couldn't know this, and so he was rather unresponsive through it all and held himself aloof from all save chub and jack rogers and tom forrest. he was polite enough, but if any of his admirers hoped at that time to make friends with him they were doomed to disappointment. but there was still another that roy admitted to a certain degree of friendship, and that other was sidney welch. sid became a most devoted admirer, followed roy about like an amiable puppy and was content to sit and watch him in awed admiration as long as roy would let him. sid, whose overwhelming ambition was to make the first eleven and aid in defeating hammond, had hero worship in its most virulent form. after two or three days of sid's attention roy got so that he would dodge out of sight when he saw the youngster coming. it required some bravery on sid's part to show open admiration for roy, for horace still ruled the school, and the juniors especially, with an iron hand, and sid was, as he well knew, courting dire punishment. but it was a time of open revolt against horace's supremacy and sid, with many others, escaped chastisement. horace hated roy worse than ever, hated tom forrest because that youth had succeeded where he had failed, and, now that he had nothing to gain by seeming friendliness toward the football captain, even threw down the gauntlet to jack rogers, who, happy as a clam over the outcome of the game and over the receipt of a letter from johnny king, paid no attention to horace. otto ferris, disgruntled over his failure to make even the second team save as a substitute, shared horace's sentiments with enthusiasm and aided that youth to the best of his ability in his efforts to discount roy's triumph. but it was a hard task that they had set themselves, for roy had won gratitude as well as admiration. ever since the previous autumn when hammond had triumphed unfairly over the ferry hill eleven the school had looked forward almost breathlessly to revenge. and now it was in no mood to withhold adulation from the one who had secured it for them. and so, ere a week had passed, the revolt had grown to well-defined proportions. the nucleus of the anti-burlen camp was comprised of roy, chub, rogers, forrest and sid, for at the end of three or four days sid had thrown off the yoke. to this handful of revolters came others as the days passed; bacon, the quarter-back, who had been almost the first to wring roy's hand and congratulate him, whitcomb, fernald and post, of the eleven, and a few others. there were no open hostilities between the opposing camps, but before the christmas vacation arrived the school was sharply divided and every fellow there had been forced to take sides with either horace or roy, for in some manner roy had come to be considered the leader of the opposing force. but before this other things had happened which had a bearing on the matter. about a week after the hammond game dr. emery arose one morning after breakfast, at which time it was customary for him to make announcements, and said that he wished to correct an erroneous impression which had prevailed for some time. "at the commencing of school this fall," said the doctor, absent-mindedly polishing his glasses with a napkin, "there occurred an unpleasant incident. one of the new boys was taken from his bed in the senior dormitory by a number of the older boys and given a bath in the river. as hazing has always been prohibited at ferry hill the guilty ones were promptly punished. it has only been within the last day or so that i have learned of an unfortunate thing in connection with the matter. it seems that the student who was hazed was suspected of having given information leading to the discovery of the culprits. as a result, i am informed, this student has until very recently--in fact until the game with hammond academy--been held in disgrace by his fellows. i am not going to discuss here the justice or injustice of the attitude assumed by you; my purpose is to remove the stigma of deceit from an innocent boy. this boy, when summoned before me the morning following the incident, declared that he believed he knew the leader of the escapade, having recognized his voice. the identity of the others he did not know. when asked for the name of the leader he declined to give it. and, in accordance with our custom, he was not pressed." a suppressed hum of applause swept over the dining hall. roy stared fixedly at a salt-cellar. "fortunately," continued doctor emery, "the instructor in charge of the junior dormitory, mr. buckman, happened to be awake when the party returned and so identified most, if not quite all, of its members. he reported the matter to me, as he was required to do, and i meted out such punishment as the offense merited. naturally, had i known before that the student was being made to suffer i would have made this explanation at once. as it was, and as i have said, i learned of it only yesterday, and then not from one of the school, from whom, it would seem, information of such a nature should come, but from one whom, it appears, has the welfare of the school closer at heart than most of you, my daughter." "bully for harry!" cried chub quite audibly. and the sentiment met with instant applause that grew in volume until the instructors commanded silence. "i believe," went on doctor emery, with a slight smile, "that since the game with hammond academy the student in question has become re-established in the respect and--ah--affection of the school." (the applause threatened again to drown the speaker.) "and so it seems scarcely necessary for me now to bespeak for him a reversal of opinion." ("no, sir!" this from the irrepressible chub.) "you will, i am sure, each one of you, wish to make such amends as possible for your former treatment of him. he, i trust, holds no resentment. indeed such a sentiment would not become him, for, while his refusal to try to put himself right with his fellows shows a certain commendable pride, yet it was hardly fair under the circumstances. that is all, i think, on that subject. i wish to see the following at my office after breakfast." then came the names of half a dozen fellows, which none, barring, possibly, the fellows themselves, heard. for each table--and there were five of them--was eagerly discussing the news; and it was wonderful how many there were who had "known all along that porter wasn't that sort!" but the public vindication, while it disabused the minds of a few who still doubted, and explained what had happened to those who had already ceased to blame roy in the matter, did not bring about any apparent difference in the school's treatment of him. he already stood first in school opinion and all the vindication in the world couldn't have placed him any higher. he had won the game from hammond; that was sufficient for most fellows. in view of doctor emery's disclosure you have already found me guilty of having neglected to enumerate with roy's adherents one of the staunchest and most important. for it was no little thing to have harry on your side, even if she was only a fourteen-year-old girl; and that has been proved already and will be again before the story is at an end. but it was unfortunate that harry's good offices should have led to an estrangement between her and roy. it all came about in quite the most unforeseen manner. roy had promised to play tennis with her the afternoon of doctor emery's announcement. they had had quite a few contests already and harry had proved herself more than a match for roy. to-day they met outside the cottage, harry bringing her own racquet and one for roy, since tennis had scarcely been included in his education and he possessed no racquet of his own. unfortunately roy started the conversation by accusing harry of having broken her promise. that was an awful accusation to bring against her, since she had an almost quixotic regard for the given word. stung, she made no effort to set herself right, only declared sullenly that she had done no such thing. roy had not greatly cared, but her curt denials aroused his impatience. [illustration: "'my, what a temper!'"] "but, harry," he protested, "you must have! he said so!" "i didn't! i didn't! i didn't!" "but, harry, that's nonsense, you know." "i didn't break my promise," she answered angrily. "well, then i'd just like to know how he found out. of course i don't care much if you did tell him, only--" "you've just as good as said i've told a lie!" cried harry, turning suddenly with reddening cheeks. "i haven't, harry." "you have, too! so! and you--you're very impolite!" "oh, pshaw, there's no use in getting mad about it. i only said--" "i'll get mad if i want to," said harry hotly. "and i guess i can keep a promise as well as you can. you're just stuck-up because you made that old touchdown!" "i'm not!" "you are!" "my, what a temper! just what you'd expect of a girl with red hair! why, i wouldn't--" but he stopped there, for harry's face went suddenly white with rage and she gasped as though he had struck her. "now look here, harry," he began contritely. but harry had found her tongue and he got no farther. "oh, you coward!" she cried, trembling. "you--you beast! i know my hair's red, and i don't care if it is! and, anyway, i'd rather have it red than just no color at all, like--like a fish!" "harry, i didn't mean--" "don't you speak to me again, ever and ever! i don't want to see you! i hate you, hate you, hate you, roy porter, and i'll never speak to you again as long as i live!" "oh, if you want to be nasty about it," muttered roy. but harry had turned and was running swiftly along the path, trying her best to keep back the angry tears that threatened every moment to disgrace her. roy watched her go, whistled softly, and then followed slowly after. "what a little spit-fire!" he muttered with a laugh that was half angry and half regretful. "i don't see what i said, anyhow, except that her hair was red. and it is, as red as fire! if she wants to stay mad she may for all i care." and then, two days later, there occurred an incident which still further widened the breach between them. mr. buckman opened his desk in room b in school hall and stared in amazement. it was the first recitation and the class in geometry watched interestedly. the instructor held forth a white rabbit in each hand. "who put these in here?" he demanded sternly. there was no answer. the class was smiling broadly, but mr. buckman's expression prohibited the laughter they longed to indulge in. "it was a very funny joke," continued mr. buckman scathingly, "only, unfortunately, one of the rabbits has been stupid enough to die and so is unable to appreciate it. the other one appears to be on the point of dying. i presume that they belong to miss harriet. i fancy she will appreciate the joke heartily. i hope to be able to discover the perpetrator of the delicate jest, in which case he will undoubtedly get all the applause he desires." mr. buckman bore the rabbits out of the room and the class, much soberer, looked questioningly about and whispered inquiries. but everyone professed ignorance on the subject. "ought to have his head punched, whoever he is," growled chub to roy. and the latter heartily agreed. when the class was dismissed harry was waiting, with a white face and blazing eyes, in the corridor. she made for roy instantly. "they're both dead," she cried, "and i hope you're satisfied. of all nasty, mean things to do, roy porter, that's the very meanest! i should think you'd be ashamed of yourself! i should think you'd be ashamed to look at me!" "i don't know anything about it," protested roy earnestly. "i'm awfully sorry, harry, honest!" "do you think i believe that?" demanded harry, brushing aside the tears that would leak out in spite of her. "you did it to get even with me, i know you did! i don't care what you do to me, but it was cowardly to kill my poor rabbits!" "harry, i give you my word--!" "i don't want your word! i wouldn't believe you, roy porter! you're a mean, contemptible thing!" "oh, very well," said roy angrily, walking away. "you can think whatever you like; i don't care!" but he did care, nevertheless. after dinner he spent a few minutes in the office, but his straightforward denial convinced doctor emery of his innocence. the affair remained a mystery, although chub professed to have no doubts in the matter. "nobody but horace would think of such a thing," he asserted. "and if harry had any sense she'd know it." but harry was apparently firmly convinced of roy's guilt and all he received from that young lady during the next week was black looks. meanwhile an event of much interest to the school was approaching and the incident of the white rabbits was soon forgotten by it. every year, on the afternoon of thanksgiving day, was held the cross country run. there was a cup for the individual winner and a cup for the class five of whose entries finished first. ferry hill had developed cross country running into something of a science. the annual event always awakened much interest and the rivalry between the four classes was intense. there were no handicaps, all entries starting together from the steps of the gymnasium, taking off north-east for three miles to the village of carroll, from there to a neighboring settlement called findlayburg and so home by the road to the gymnasium, a total distance of six miles. at carroll and findlayburg they were registered by the instructors. in deference to the cross country event thanksgiving dinner was postponed until evening. it was customary for the football players to remain in training for the run, and this year they had all done so with the exception of forrest, gallup and burlen, whose weights kept them out of the contest. no one was prohibited from entering and even the youngest boy in school was down for the start. one year the junior class had captured the cup and ever since then succeeding junior classes had striven mightily. as always there were favorites, and this year chub, roy and a middle class boy named townsend were considered to have the best chances. roy himself was doubtful of his prowess, for, while he could sprint and even do a quarter of a mile in good time, he had never tried long-distance running. but chub gave him a lot of good advice, assured him that he stood a good chance to win and ended up with: "anyhow, it's the best training in the world and will do you a whole lot of good even if you don't get the cup." so for a week preceding the day of the contest the countryside was sprinkled with boys panting up the hills, loping through the woods and trotting doggedly along the frosty road. and at two o'clock on thanksgiving day afternoon thirty-four boys awaited the word in front of the gymnasium. chapter x the cross-country race there were boys of all ages between twelve and eighteen in the group which awaited the word from horace burlen. and there were all kinds and descriptions of costumes. it was a frosty nippy day, cloudy and with occasional gusts of wind, but nevertheless several of the runners wore cotton running trunks and short stockings, and the expanse of bare leg between hose and trunk required lots of rubbing and slapping to keep the blood in circulation. others were warmly attired in knickerbockers and sweaters. roy had taken chub's advice in the matter of apparel, and wore short trousers, woolen stockings, his crimson sweater and a pair of spiked running shoes. chub was similarly dressed, as was jack rogers and a number of others. the juniors had evolved a wonderful plan whereby certain of their runners were to save themselves until the final turn toward home and were then to pitch in and beat everything in sight, and they were gathered in a group plotting excitedly in whispers. sid welch was asking every fellow who would pay attention to him whether he thought he could last through the race. sid had worn off eight pounds during the football season, but had already begun, greatly to his despair, to put them back again. chub told him that if he'd run the last part of the race backwards he might finish--some day. and jack assured him that they would see that dinner was kept warm for him. "i'm going to keep with you fellows," said sid, "if you don't mind." and he glanced devotedly toward roy. "you honor us," answered chub with a low bow. "just keep right alongside roy and if he tries to run away from you make him take your hand. what do you weigh now, sid?" "find out," answered sid impolitely. whereupon chub tried to catch him and sid led him a wild chase through the crowd, finally seeking protection behind roy. roy, however, refused to be drawn into the affair and sid was duly made to apologize for his cheek. by that time horace was giving instructions again. "the course is the same as last year," he announced. "at carroll you must give your names to mr. cobb, who will be on the porch of the windsor house and at findlayburg you must give them to mr. buckman at the corner store. the finish will be at the gate here. no fellow whose name doesn't show on both mr. cobb's and mr. buckman's list will stand any show, so you want to be sure you get checked. all ready now, fellows. get back of the gravel there, townsend and young. are you ready? go!" the throng moved forward at a trot, pushed and scrambled through the gate and went across the field. at the farther side was the first obstacle, a high rail fence, and sid had his first mishap there at the outset. he reached the top of the fence beautifully and then deliberately fell over on the other side into a mass of brush and wayside weeds. chub paused to pull him out and put him on his feet again and roy waited for them. as a consequence, when they had crossed the road, surmounted a stone wall and had begun to breast the long slope of meadow on the other side the three were well toward the rear of the crowd. by the time the hill-top was reached the field of runners was well spread out and not a few of the younger boys were already losing interest in the affair. jack rogers was well toward the front now and chub suggested to roy that they close up with him. so there was a little sprint along the ridge of the hill and they soon found themselves alongside jack and with barely a half-dozen runners ahead of them. but the sprint had played havoc with sid's wind and he was puffing like a young porpoise. "slow work so far," called jack. "why don't you set the pace awhile?" asked chub. "i'll take it through the woods," jack answered, "if you'll take it from there to the village." "all right. say, sid, you'd better drop our acquaintance now. you've done beautifully and i wouldn't be surprised if you came in pretty near first--counting backward. but you don't want to overdo it at the start, you know." sid shot a doubting and suspicious glance at him, shook his head and puffed on. now that he had got his second wind, roy found it exhilarating, this trotting up and down the slopes in the cold november afternoon. there was a fine glow in his face, the gusts of cold wind that met him now and then felt good as they ruffled his hair and the half-frozen turf offered firm hold to his spikes. he would have liked to speed ahead and try conclusions with the middle class boy who was in the lead, for he was not in the least tired and felt now as though he could run for weeks. but they had covered only a scant mile and three-quarters, according to chub, and that meant plenty of hard work ahead. down a hillside sprinkled with rocks and low bushes they went, forded a sandy stream, scrambled over a tumble-down wall and entered the woods. here jack, with a sprint, took the lead and made fast going. for the first hundred yards it was difficult work, but after that they found themselves on a grass-grown road which wound and twisted about over stumps and fallen logs. many a youth took a cropper hereabouts, and among them was sid. when roy saw him last he was sitting on a rotted tree which had proved his waterloo sadly watching the procession go by. and a procession it was by this time, for the runners were strung out in single file for a quarter of a mile. roy and chub were running fourth and fifth as they left the woods and found themselves on the edge of a wheat field with the church tower of carroll a half a mile away. jack dropped back and chub took his place at the head of the line. it seemed to roy that chub let up on the pace a little, but it may have been only that it was easier going here along the edge of the field. at all events, roy was glad of it, for the work was beginning to tell on him. and he was still gladder when chub, at the corner of the field, leaped the wall and went trotting down a lane and from there into a country road. in another minute or two they were jogging along the village street and roy could see mr. cobb, paper and pencil in hand, on the steps of the old brown hotel near at hand. quite a little group had formed about him and the runners swept along to a chorus of criticisms, laughter and applause. as they passed mr. cobb, they cried their names and were answered; "eaton!" "eaton!" and the instructor checked the name on the list he held. "pryor!" "pryor!" "townsend!" "townsend!" "rogers!" "rogers!" "porter!" "porter!" "how are we making it?" sang out jack as he passed. "a minute and a fraction behind the record!" was the reply. "hit it up, chub!" shouted jack. "go to the dickens!" answered chub. "who wants the lead?" "i'll take it," pryor replied. "all right." and chub dropped back to roy. "minute and a fraction--be hanged!" he gasped. "i'll bet--we're right on--time! how you coming?" "getting tuckered," answered roy. "how much farther?" "not quite--three miles. ouch! stepped on--fool stone!" "better save your wind, you two," advised jack. "wish i had some to save," thought roy. then there occurred the first division in the ranks. pryor left the road and scrambled over into a field. jack, chub and roy followed, but townsend kept to the road and others as they came up followed him. "what's the matter--with the road?" asked roy. "longer," chub answered briefly. they jogged up a steep hill, turning to the right at the top and then went down at a brisker pace, roy wishing his sweater wasn't quite so heavy. all the spring had gone from his feet now and the exhilaration was forgotten. it was just hard work. the downward slope lasted for quite a way and roy judged that pryor was letting himself out in the hope of reaching the road again before the others who had kept to it arrived. there was a bad bit of brush to struggle through, and then came the wall and the road. as they climbed over they looked backward, but only a farmer's wagon was in sight. "beat 'em!" gasped chub. on the road they slowed down considerably and roy gave silent thanks. he knew now that he would never be able to keep up with chub and the others, but he was determined to stick it out as long as he could. presently a little group of buildings came into sight ahead; a store, a blacksmith shop, a tumble-down shed and three houses. mr. buckman was awaiting them in front of the store, supported by the storekeeper and a handful of loungers. "are we ahead?" shouted pryor as they came up. "yes, and ahead of the record," was the answer. "all right, pryor. all right, rogers, eaton and porter." then they were past, trotting along a frosty, rutted country road. "anyone want the lead?" grunted pryor. "how about you, roy?" asked jack. but roy shook his head dumbly and chub moved up to the head of the group. the wind had increased and was blowing icily out of the north-east, but it was almost behind them and so helped them along. pryor nodded towards a dead beech tree beside the road. jack nodded back. "two miles more," he said. "road or hill?" asked chub, looking around a moment. "don't care," answered pryor. "hill," said jack. at a turn of the road chub left it to the right and the others followed. "is this--shorter?" asked roy. "about--even thing, i think," answered pryor. "a whole minute shorter," said jack. roy sighed for the road as he dragged his feet up a little hill and saw before him a rough bit of country in which rocks and stunted bushes sprang everywhere. for the next quarter of a mile they were always either going up hill or going down; level ground was not on the map thereabouts. jack took the lead again presently and chub fell back to where roy was heroically striving to keep his place. at last roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels into a clump of bushes, and sat up with the last bit of breath knocked out of him. chub had stopped, grinning. roy shook his head and waved his hand for the other to go on. "hurt?" asked chub anxiously. [illustration: "at last roy stumbled over a root, went head over heels into a clump of bushes."] roy shook his head, found a little breath and gasped: "i'm--all right. go ahead. i'll--follow--presently." chub glanced hesitatingly from roy to the others. then he nodded and went on. at a little distance he turned, waved a hand to the right and shouted something about the road. roy nodded indifferently and then fell back onto the turf and didn't care a rap what happened. it was blissful just to lie there, stretch his aching legs and get his breath back. anyone who wanted that dinkey pewter mug could have it, as far as he cared. only--well, he did wish he could have finished! then it occurred to him that he could, that if he went on he might even finish well up on the list. he judged that five minutes had passed since the others had left him. he already felt better and had regained his wind remarkably. well, he'd just go on and have a try; maybe he could help win the mug for the second seniors. so he climbed to his feet and set off in the direction taken by chub. but a minute or so later he concluded that he had lost the way, for now the wind instead of being behind him was coming against his left cheek. of course the wind might have swung around, but it was much more probable that he had unconsciously borne to the left. the best thing to do, he thought, was to get back to the road, which was somewhere in the direction he was going. so he pushed on, his trot becoming a walk as the bushes grew thicker and thicker about him. ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed and he had found no road. up and down little hills he went, across open stretches and through tangles of leafless bushes. he kept the wind against his left cheek and went on. it was getting toward twilight and was still cloudy and cold. his legs began to feel stiff and his feet would drag in spite of him. a half an hour must have passed--he had left his watch at school and so could only guess--and he was still travelling over wind-swept upland. he began to feel a bit uncomfortable; the prospect of spending the night up there wasn't enticing. observing a little bush-crowned hill that looked higher than any he had yet found, he made his way to it. from the top he could perhaps see the road, or, failing that, discover where the river lay. so he climbed up the rise, his feet slipping over loose gravel. at the top he paused and looked about him. there was no road to be seen, but behind him were a few twinkling lights, perhaps a mile away, and--yes, surely, that was the river over there, that ribbon of steely-gray! he would get to the river, he decided, at its nearest point and then follow along the bank until he found the school, if he did not stumble across a road or a house or something before that. so he got the direction firmly fixed in his mind, broke through the bushes in front of him, gave a cry of terror, grasped ineffectually at the branches and went plunging, crashing downward to lie in a silent, motionless heap thirty feet below. chapter xi harry finds a clue when chub left roy lying gasping for breath in the bushes and took up the race again he was a good hundred yards behind jack and pryor, who were just dropping from sight beyond the brow of one of the little hills. "keep over that way--get back to the road," he turned and shouted. he saw roy nod wearily. then he set out in earnest to make up lost ground. that was the hardest bit of the whole run for chub and it took him the better part of a mile to make up that hundred yards. jack and pryor did their level best to maintain their advantage. but when they were back on the road once more chub was running even with them. pryor tried to slip aside and make him take the lead and set the pace, but chub was too wary. it could scarcely be called running now, for with less than a mile to go it became a question with each one of them whether they could stay on their feet long enough to finish and their pace was a slow jog that was little like the springy gait with which they had started out. there was no breath wasted now in talk. they cast quick looks at each other, searching for signs of weakness and discouragement. it was every man for himself, pryor struggling along with drooping head for the glory of the middle class, jack resolved to win the honor for the first seniors, and chub equally determined to gain it for the second seniors. a quarter of a mile from the school, just as they turned into the silver cove road, pryor's time came. he faltered once, stumbled, and chub turning aside to avoid him, slowed down to a walk, his breath coming in agonized gasps. chub and jack went on without a turn of the head, side by side, their eyes glued doggedly on the red-tiled tower of the gymnasium visible now above the tree-tops a few hundred yards away. then the road turned a bit and a group of waiting boys marked the corner of the school grounds. chub looked at jack and the latter shook his head with a wry twisted smile. but when chub threw his head back and strove to draw away from him jack responded gallantly and refused to own himself beaten. so they had it nip and tuck down to the corner, pounding the hard road like cart horses and yet making but slow work of it, while the audience shouted them on, scattering away from the rail fence that they might have plenty of room. and they needed it. twice chub strove to throw his leg across the topmost bar and twice he failed. jack, with set teeth, got over on the second attempt, and when chub came tumbling after him he had a good six yards of lead. ahead, at the gate across the field, stood doctor and mrs emery and harry. "hurry! hurry!" cried the latter, dancing excitedly about. "oh, it's jack rogers and chub eaton! hurry, jack! hurry, chub! oh, _can't_ you run faster?" "which do you want to win, my dear?" asked her mother smilingly. harry answered breathlessly without turning. "oh, i don't know! both!" meanwhile across the gridiron chub and jack, accompanied by applauding friends and partisans, were fighting it out gamely. chub had almost made up the distance between him and jack when the track was reached. across the cinders they staggered, the gate and finish but a few yards away. then fortune, thus far quite impartial, turned her face to chub. jack stumbled on the wooden rim of the track and, while he saved himself from falling, gave chub his chance, and in another second the latter youth was through the gate and lying with tossing arms on the lawn. jack finished a scant yard behind him and keeled over in his turn. horace burlen set down the times on the list he held and others sprang to the aid of the exhausted runners. then all eyes turned again toward the corner of the field, for someone was struggling over the fence there. down he jumped and came trotting across, apparently much fresher than chub and jack. it was townsend, of the middle class. when he was half way across the field a fourth runner appeared, made several attempts to surmount the bars, leaned against them a moment, and found his breath and then came over. "it's pryor," said horace. "that's two for the middlers, and one each for the first and second seniors." "what was chub eaton's time?" asked forrest as townsend finished. "four and three-eighths minutes better than the record made four years ago by gooch," answered horace. "well, i'm glad roy porter didn't win," said harry vindictively. chub rolled over on his elbows. "he went down and out--two miles back," said chub. he looked across at jack, who was sitting up and breathing like a steam-engine. "sorry i beat you, jack. i wouldn't have if you hadn't stumbled." jack nodded with a smile. "glad you won, old man," he said. "it was a tough old run, and you can bet i'm glad it's over. phew! but i'm tuckered." "same here. that last mile was the dickens. there's someone else coming--two, three of them! one of 'em's fallen off the fence. gee! i thought i'd never get over that thing!" he got up, followed by jack, and passed through the gate. "hello, townsend! how was the road?" "rutty as anything and mighty hard running. i got a stitch in my side about a mile back and had to let up for a while. passed pryor moseying along down near the corner. who's that coming?" "porter, by jove!" cried chub. "porter nothing!" said horace. "that's warren. and the next two are glidden and chase. that makes first and second seniors and middlers tied for first so far. chase is a junior, isn't he?" "yes," answered townsend. chase, a youngster of thirteen, made a plucky race across the field and beat glidden of the second senior class by three yards. then for a while no more finished. chub and jack and the others disappeared into the gymnasium, and doctor and mrs. emery returned to the cottage. harry, however, still remained. it was getting dim now, and when, after five or six minutes had passed, more runners reached the fence it was impossible to identify them. but when they drew near a shout went up. two of them were first seniors, one was a middler and one a junior. the first seniors needed but one more runner now to give them the cup. and a few minutes later he came in the person of bacon and received the biggest sort of a welcome. from then on until almost dinner time the others straggled in to find the finish deserted and to crawl weariedly up the gymnasium steps. harry had taken her departure when bacon had finished, returning to the cottage through the gathering twilight, looking, unless her face belied her, rather disappointed, and telling herself over and over that she was awfully glad roy porter hadn't won. dinner that evening was a jolly meal. every fellow was frantically hungry for his turkey and sweet potatoes and mince pie and the appropriate "trimmings." the first seniors drank their sweet cider out of the mug they had captured, passing it from one to another like a loving cup. perhaps there was no one there who had a bigger appetite or more to tell in the way of adventures than sidney welch, and he talked a steady streak until chub told him he'd choke himself. it was not until dinner was well-nigh over that roy's absence was noted by any save chub. but when, at half-past nine, he had not returned, the matter was reported to doctor emery and the telephone became busy. but neither carroll nor silver cove knew anything of the missing boy. the principal waited until eleven o'clock, and then a searching party was made up. mr. cobb and mr. buckman took charge and with four of the older boys and chub, who was taken along to show where roy had last been seen, left the cottage at a little after eleven. they carried two lanterns and jack rogers had slipped a revolver into his pocket which, he said, could be heard where a shout couldn't. but he said nothing to the instructors about it, since firearms were forbidden and jack feared confiscation. mr. emery saw them off from the cottage porch and instructed mr. cobb to telephone him from carroll or silver cove if he had a chance. it was as dark as pitch as they made their way across the field and found the road, and the wavering light from a couple of lanterns seemed only to accentuate the gloom. once away from the school they began to call at intervals but got no response. chub and jack had some difficulty in finding the place where they had returned to the road from the uplands, but at last they discovered it and the party took off up the hill. it was soon after that that mr. buckman stopped and asked: "how many are there in this party, anyhow?" "should be seven of us," answered mr. cobb. "why?" "because, unless i'm much mistaken, i counted eight a minute ago. who's that over there, the last one?" "warren, sir." "no, i don't mean you. who's next to you?" there was a moment's silence. then, "blest if i know, sir," answered warren in puzzled tones. "it's me," said an apologetic voice. "who's me?" asked mr. cobb moving toward the speaker. "harry," was the answer. "harry! harry emery?" exclaimed mr. cobb, forgetting his politeness. "yes, i--i thought i'd come along." "well, if that isn't the greatest! did the doctor say you could come?" "i--i didn't ask him," answered harry. "please don't send me back, mr. cobb. i won't be in the way a bit and i can walk miles!" "send you back! why, i can't send you back now--that is--not alone. i suppose you'll have to come, but supposing your mother finds you're missing?" "oh, she won't," answered harry cheerfully. "she thinks i'm in bed and asleep. and i was--that is, i was in bed." "well, come along then, but see that you stick close to us," grumbled mr. cobb. "we don't want to loose any more persons to-night!" so harry trudged along at the tail of the party, keeping close to jack rogers and chub and starting nervously when she heard strange noises in the bushes along the way. it was slow going and when they were well up on the hills the night wind stung hands and faces. it was well upon midnight when chub announced that they should have reached the place where he had left roy. but a locality looks very different at night by the light of a wavering lantern than it does in the daytime, and when they had cast about for a while, calling and shouting, chub was forced to acknowledge that he wasn't certain of the place. "it ought to be about here," he said anxiously, "but somehow this doesn't look like it. it doesn't seem to me it was quite so hilly; and there weren't any trees about that i remember." after a quarter of an hour more of unsuccessful search mr. cobb and mr. buckman held a consultation and decided that the best thing to do, unless they wanted to get lost themselves, was to stay where they were and wait for dawn. so they found a sheltered spot in the lee of a big rock and made themselves as comfortable as they could. warren suggested a fire and a half-hour was spent in finding fuel within the radius of lantern-light. finally, however, the flames were leaping and the sparks flying and the party regained some of their ebbing spirits. [illustration: mr. cobb and the search-party looking for roy.] "if he sees the light he will look it up," said mr. buckman. "that was a good idea of yours, warren." "what i'm afraid of," said mr. cobb, "is that he has met with an accident of some sort. seems to me that if he had the use of his limbs he would have reached the school before this, or at least have communicated with us. well, we'll have to make the best of things until the light comes. better take a nap, fellows, if you can." but they were in no mood for napping. the leaping flames lent their tinge of romance to a situation already sufficiently out of the common to be exciting and the boys wanted to live every moment of it. the uncertainty as to roy's fate added a qualm of uneasiness, but when once warren had got well into his story of the wyoming outlaws who lived in a cave and robbed trains and stage coaches, even chub forgot the purpose of the expedition for whole minutes at a time. i think harry unconsciously dozed several times, although she always denied it indignantly. now and then one of the party would mend the fire and then crawl back to the protection of the ledge and the waving bushes. mr. cobb followed warren with some stories of cornwall wreckers which he had read, and after that every member of the party save harry, who happened to be very quiet about that time, contributed some tale of dark deeds. presently jack made the discovery that it was possible to see the branches of the wind-whipped bushes behind them. chub climbed to the summit of the ledge and announced that there was light away down on the horizon toward the east. then followed an hour of waiting during which the world gradually turned from black to gray. the fire died out for lack of fuel and the boys snuggled into the collars of their sweaters, for it seemed to grow more chill each moment. then, when objects a few yards away could be distinguished, mr. cobb suggested that they "break camp." so they spread out in a line and took up the search again, calling as they went. the light grew quickly and in the east the sky took on a tinge of rose. mr. cobb stopped once and picked something from the ground. "must be slate quarries about here," he said. "there's a lot of broken pieces here and loose gravel. yes, here's a hole," he went on, walking forward, "but they only went down a few feet. i wonder if there are more of them?" suddenly there was a cry from the other end of the line. "mr. cobb, come see what i've found!" it was harry's voice and mr. cobb made his way to her where she stood at the edge of a thicket of leafless brambles. "what is it, harry?" he asked. for answer she held up a tiny bit of crimson yarn. "what do you make of this?" asked the instructor, looking at it in a puzzled way. "i think it came from his sweater!" declared harry triumphantly. "it was on that branch there." "good for you, harry!" cried chub, who had joined them ahead of the others. "roy had his red sweater on and it's money to muffins that thread was pulled out as he went by." "he didn't go by, though," said harry. "he went through. don't you see how the bushes are trampled down? come on!" chapter xii a night in the quarry when roy regained consciousness and opened his eyes he found himself in pitch darkness. his head felt strangely dizzy and for a moment he lay still and strove to recall what had happened to him. then he remembered and with a sudden fear at his heart moved cautiously. but although every bone in his body felt bruised he was able to climb to his feet. the effort however, left him so weak and dizzy that he reached out for support, found a branch and clung to it while a minute or two passed. and in clinging to it he became aware of the fact that his left hand hurt him a good deal. presently, when he could stand without holding on, he felt of the aching member and found it swollen and sore to the touch. the trouble seemed to be at the wrist and he wondered whether in falling he had landed on it and broken it. but it didn't feel broken, for he could bend it and even wriggle his fingers, although it pained horribly to do it. probably it was only a sprain or a dislocation; that could keep. meanwhile he would like very much to know where he was. when he had fallen he had caught a glimpse of a dark pit, the sides of which were hidden here and there by bushes. it had been the briefest sort of a glimpse, for he had stepped over the edge and, without a second's warning, had plunged downward into twilight darkness. he remembered clutching at a branch which came away in his hand, and he remembered crashing through a bush which had broken but not stopped his fall. of what happened after that he could remember nothing. now he stepped cautiously forward, feeling in front of him with hands and feet. the ground was loose and uneven. three short steps brought his hands in contact with a smooth expanse of stone. his fingers could find no place to clutch, even though he managed to fit the toe of one shoe into a niche a foot or so above the ground. he moved to the right through the darkness. but the wall of stone continued. now and then it became uneven and his hands scraped over rough edges, but it offered no chance of escape. on and on he went. he knew that he must be describing something of a circle, since he was in a pit of some sort, but it seemed that he was edging straight away from where he had fallen. at last he found bushes and for a moment he had hope. but, although he wormed his way upward through them for the space of a few feet, at last he brought up against a perpendicular wall of rock and he was forced to retreat. he became conscious of a dim feeling of fright and strove to fight it down. his hands were moist and the perspiration stood on his forehead in little cold drops. he stopped and leaned against the wall behind him. as he did so he became aware of hundreds of little noises about him and a cold shiver travelled down his back. then, "pshaw!" he muttered. "there's nothing here but birds and such things. even snakes don't come out after dark. i guess i'm settled for the night and i might as well make the best of it. i dare say i've already been around this old hole half a dozen times. no, i haven't, though, for i've only found those bushes back there once. i'll go on, i guess; maybe there's a regular macadamized road out of here." he moved on, whistling softly to keep from feeling discouraged. but his left wrist and hand pained frightfully, and presently he stopped and tried to find a position for it that would ease the ache. finally he found his handkerchief, tied it about his neck and placed the injured arm through the improvised sling. it helped a little. after that he continued his search, but rather half-heartedly. he longed for light and fell to wondering what time it was. presumably he had fallen in there about half-past four or maybe five. but there was no knowing how long he had lain unconscious. it might be eight o'clock or it might be well toward morning! he wished he knew! above his head, how far he could only guess, the night wind was whipping the bare bushes. now and then a gust came down and made him shiver, but on the whole it was not uncomfortable down there as long as he was moving about. but he couldn't keep that up much longer, for his head was aching, his legs were stiff and lame and every movement sent little thrills of pain down his arm from elbow to fingers. he was glad now of his thick sweater and wished his legs were as warm as the upper part of his body. for a while he sat on a little rock near the wall along which he had been travelling. then he began to feel drowsy. that was fine, he thought; if he could only go to sleep he could forget his discomforts, and perhaps when he awoke it would be morning. so he felt about on the broken stone and moist gravel that formed the floor of his prison half fearsomely, afraid of encountering uncanny things in the dark. but his hands found only soil and rock and scant vegetation and he laid himself down gingerly out of respect to his aching body and closed his eyes. but for a while the discomforts of his couch made themselves too apparent to allow of slumber. queer, stealthy little noises sounded about him and he imagined all sorts of things creeping toward him through the darkness. once or twice he kicked his feet and cried "scat!" loudly. then he laughed at himself for his nervousness and strove not to think of the sounds. he wondered who had won the race and whether they had missed him at school: whether chub had caught up with jack and pryor; what chub was thinking about his disappearance. then he started out of his drowsiness. surely he had heard his name called! he sat up and listened intently. then he called at the top of his voice half a dozen times. but he heard nothing more, and presently he lay down again with a sigh, eased the position of his throbbing arm and went quietly to sleep. and the very next moment, as it seemed to roy, he heard his name called again, quite loudly and distinctly this time, and opened his eyes, blinking, to find his prison filled with the grey, misty light of morning and to hear voices above him. then came his name again, in the unmistakable tones of mr. cobb, and he had time to marvel smilingly that the football coach had really got his name right for once before he sat up and answered loudly. then came sounds of crashing branches and roy jumped dizzily to his feet. "look out!" he shouted. "there's a hole here. look where you're going, mr. cobb!" then mr. cobb was kneeling above at the edge of the quarry looking down upon him anxiously and harry's face appeared behind his shoulder, a rather white, frightened countenance in the pale light. "hurt, porter?" asked mr. cobb. "no, sir, just shaken up a bit." "well, thank heaven! can you climb out anywhere?" mr. cobb's eyes travelled dubiously about the pit. "i don't believe so," answered roy. "i tried to find a place last night." he turned and looked about him. and his face went white at what he saw. [illustration: "'look where you're going, mr. cobb!'"] in shape the quarry was a rough oval, its walls so steep that at first glance escape even in daylight seemed impossible. in many places the top of the wall overhung the bottom. now and then a clump of grass or weeds showed against the dark and discolored face of the rock, and in a few places good-sized bushes had grown out. but all this roy saw later. at present he was standing with his back to the bank, staring in fascinated dread at the center of the quarry. from the walls, all around, the ground sloped downward toward the center and only a few feet away from him was the margin of a pool some thirty feet in diameter. there was no slime on the top, no weeds about its edge and in the dim light of early morning the water looked black and ugly. roy stepped nearer and looked down into its depths. far below him jutting edges of rock loomed up but the bottom was not in sight. shuddering, he retreated. had he fallen a little farther away from the bank, or had he rolled over after falling, they would not have found him so easily. he muttered a little prayer of thanks to the providence which had watched over him during the night and had guided his stumbling footsteps in safety. then his head felt dizzy and he sat down suddenly on the bank of broken and crumbled slate and went off into a faint. when he came to, mr. cobb was dabbing his face with a wet handkerchief and jack rogers and chub were slapping his hands and arms. perhaps it was the latter method which brought him around, for a dislocated wrist doesn't take kindly to blows! he yanked his injured hand away with a cry of pain and mr. cobb removed the sopping handkerchief. "all right now, eh?" he asked kindly. "hello, what's wrong there?" he took the boy's hand and examined it, his fingers probing skilfully. "how'd you do that? fall on it?" "i don't know," answered roy. "it isn't busted, is it?" "no, dislocated. feel that bone sticking up there? we'll have to fix that right now, i guess. hurts, doesn't it? give me a couple of handkerchiefs, you chaps." chub and jack produced theirs and mr. cobb took a long leather wallet from his coat pocket and emptied it of its contents. "just hold your hand out straight," he directed. then, with one hand above the wrist and the other about the fingers he pulled steadily until the wrist slipped back into place. roy winced a little, but after the lump had disappeared his whole arm felt easier. mr. cobb laid the leather wallet about the wrist and bound it tightly with the handkerchiefs. "that'll do until we get back," he said. "put it back in that sling of yours and keep it there, porter. now we'll see if we can get you out of here. do you think you can walk?" for answer roy climbed to his feet. "all right, only remember that you've had a pretty good shaking up and haven't had anything to eat since yesterday noon, and don't try to do too much. we'll see if we can't boost you up over here." he led the way to the other side of the pool and roy saw that a rough path zigzagged down the face of the bank there. so steep it was, however, that they had to help each other here and there, and it seemed a long time before mr. buckman and the others, awaiting them at the top, were able to reach down and pull them over the edge of the rock. roy subsided breathless on the grass and looked about him. the sun was just topping the rising hill beyond and the world looked very sweet to him at that moment. "that's where you went over," said mr. buckman, pointing across the pit. "we followed you up to the edge. you must have struck against that bush there and broken your fall; the branches are all broken, i noticed; a good thing you did, too, i guess." "i remember falling into some branches," said roy. "that's the last thing i do remember; when i woke up it was pitch dark." "what's that?" asked mr. cobb. "lose consciousness, did you? did you hit your head? here, let's have a good look at you, my boy." and, presently, "i should think you did! doesn't that hurt when i press it?" "a little," answered roy. "hum! guess you've got a pretty tough skull. look at this place, eaton. must have come down on a small stone, i should say. well, that'll wait until we get home. i wonder if we can carry him between us? maybe one of you chaps had better run back and tell them to send the phaeton." but roy protested that he could walk every inch of the way and finally mr. cobb consented to let him try it, and the return journey began. chub walked beside roy, anxiously solicitous. most of the party were frankly sleepy and worn out now that the excitement was over. harry appeared to have lost interest in the whole affair. not once, so far as roy knew, did she even so much as glance in his direction. "what's harry doing here?" he whispered to chub. and chub recounted the happenings of the night; how harry had joined the party unknown to them, how they had built a fire and waited for light and finally how harry had discovered the bit of yarn torn from his sweater. "it was fairly easy after that," said chub. "we could see here and there where you had broken through the bushes, and once or twice we found your footprints. we knew they were yours on account of the spikes. if it hadn't been for harry i guess you'd have been waiting yet. though maybe you could have got up that bank alone." roy trudged on in silence for a while. then, "who won?" he demanded eagerly. chub grinned. "i won the individual cup and first seniors got the class cup," he said. "jack and i had it nip and tuck all the way to the gate, and if he hadn't stumbled over the track he'd have beat me." "i'm glad you got it," said roy. "i was afraid you wouldn't catch up with them, after staying so long with me." "i was a blamed idiot to leave you," answered chub savagely. "i didn't deserve to win anything. why, you came mighty near killing yourself!" "yes, i guess i did," said roy thoughtfully. "but it wasn't your fault, you silly ass. i got all mixed up and couldn't tell where i was. and then, the first thing i knew i--i wasn't anywhere!" "tell me about it," said chub. but just then mr. cobb told roy he had better not tire himself by talking and so chub had to wait to hear his chum's adventures. an hour later roy was fast asleep in his bed. they had served him with some milk-toast, scanty fare for a boy who had missed two meals, and he had promptly turned over and gone to sleep. in the middle of the forenoon the silver cove doctor appeared, re-dressed his wrist, put something on his head and left a tumblerful of some sort of nasty-tasting medicine. and the next day roy was up and about again apparently as good as new save for his injured arm. this was carried in a sling for over a week, but he didn't mind that much. the second morning after his rescue he went over to the cottage and asked for harry. presently she came down to the parlor where he was awaiting her in front of the soft coal fire and he tried to remember the formal speech of gratitude he had fashioned. but it had gone completely from him. so he just held out his hand and said he was jolly much obliged to her for what she had done. "everybody says that if you hadn't seen that bit of red yarn i'd have been there yet," he declared. harry shook his hand formally, said she hadn't done anything, that she was very glad he had had such a fortunate escape and asked politely after his injury. "oh, the arm's all right now," said roy. after that conversation languished until mrs. emery came down and made roy tell her all about it. and during the narrative harry disappeared. it was quite evident that she hadn't forgiven him, thought roy, as he took his departure. he didn't look back as he went down the drive and so failed to see somebody with red hair peering down from between the curtains of an upstairs window. chapter xiii forming the hockey team "candidates wanted for the hockey team. all those who have played or would like to play please attend a meeting in the gym at 4 p.m. on friday. "j. s. rogers, "t. h. eaton, "roy porter." this notice appeared on the board in school hall the last day of november, and when, four days later, the meeting was called to order by jack rogers, there were some twenty-five fellows adorning the wooden benches in the locker room. a handful of the number had come for want of anything better to do, for it was a dismal, wet afternoon offering little encouragement to those whose tastes turned toward out-of-door pursuits. for once the line separating the "burlenites" and the "porterites" was not closely drawn, for there were not a few of the former present, their desire for a chance to play hockey overcoming their allegiance to horace. needless to say, however, neither horace nor otto was on hand. "somebody turn that switch," began jack, "and give us some light. that's better. this meeting has been called by a few of us who want to get up a hockey team. i don't know much about hockey myself and so i'll let porter do the talking. he started the thing, anyhow, and he ought to have the fun of speechifying to you. but i'd like to say that, as you all know, hammond has been playing hockey for five or six years and has challenged us almost every year to play her. if hammond has a team we ought to have one too. and if we have one maybe we can lick her at hockey just as we have at football." (deafening applause.) "there's no reason why we shouldn't. here, roy, you tell them the rest." roy got up rather embarrassedly and faced the meeting. "well, all i've got to say is that hockey is a dandy game and we ought to have a team--if only to lick hammond. (renewed applause.) it isn't a difficult game to learn if a fellow can skate half decently and it doesn't require much of an outlay. we've talked to mr. cobb and he has secured permission for the formation of a team. and he knows something about the game himself and will help us all he can. our idea was to build a rink along the river about where the old ferry landing is. doctor emery says we can use what lumber there is in the landing and shed to build the rink with. and i think there'll be more than we need. then we'd get a pump and pump water in from the river." "why not play on the river?" asked a boy. "well, that was the idea in the first place," answered roy, "but mr. cobb thought we'd better have a regular rink. it's hard to play without boundaries because your puck gets away from you and you have to chase it all around the shop. then, too, mr. cobb says that half the time the ice would be too rough or too much broken up to allow of playing on it. we've figured it up and think the outside cost of the whole thing, rink, pump, goals and sticks won't be much over eighty dollars." "how you going to raise it?" asked one of the audience. "that's what we've got to decide on," said roy. "i suppose we couldn't get nearly that much by subscription?" several shook their heads, and, "i don't believe we could," said chub. "but we might get half of it. if every fellow gave a dollar--" "seems to me," said the boy who had raised the question, "that the fellows who make the team ought to do the subscribing." "i don't think so," said jack. "if we made the football and baseball teams pay all their expenses i guess we wouldn't have them very long. it ought to be worth a dollar to every fellow here to have a good hockey team." "that's so," assented chub. "well," went on roy, "i wanted to hear what you'd say about it, but i didn't think we could get the money that way, not all of it, i mean. so i thought of another scheme. why couldn't we get up an entertainment of some kind and charge admission. how would that do?" "great!" "swell!" "fine and dandy!" "chub can sing 'the old ark's a-movin'!" "cole can do his card stunts!" "cut it out, fellows," said jack. "let's get the matter settled; it's getting late." so they got down to business again and jack, chub and roy were formed into an entertainment committee. after that roy took the floor again. "how many of you fellows will come out for practice?" he asked. practically every hand went up. "how many have played hockey?" twelve hands. "all right. we'll divide into two teams, first and second, and as fast as the fellows on the second show that they can play well they'll get onto the first. we probably won't be able to begin work on the ice until after christmas recess. but as soon as we can get some money we'll send for goals and sticks and pucks. then we'll put one of the goals up here on the floor and practice shooting. later we'll have another meeting, after practice has begun, and elect a captain and a manager. and as soon as we get the manager we'll send a challenge to hammond. now you fellows give your names to chub eaton before you go out, and watch for notices on the board in school hall." that was the beginning of the ferry hill school hockey association, which still flourishes and has to its credit several notable victories. it was roy's idea from the first. he had played hockey a good deal and had seen many of the college and school games, and he had been surprised to learn that ferry hill had never had a team. it was easy to enlist chub in the project of forming a club, and not very difficult to interest jack. mr. cobb had been quite enthusiastic but doubtful of success. "they've tried to form a hockey team two or three times," he said, "and never did it. but i don't want to discourage you chaps. i'll get permission from the doctor, so you go right ahead. try to get the whole school interested in it; that's the only way to do." by the middle of december the old ferry house and landing had been demolished and the planks had been built into a three-foot barrier or fence enclosing a space sixty feet wide by one hundred and twenty feet long. all that remained was to flood the enclosed ground with water to the depth of four or five inches and allow it to freeze. a hand suction pump had been ordered from a dealer at silver cove, but there was delay and in the end it did not reach the school until two days before vacation. however, as december proved unusually mild, there was no harm done. meanwhile the goals, pucks and sticks had arrived and practice at shooting and stick-handling was held five afternoons a week in the gymnasium. at the second meeting of the candidates the entertainment committee was able to report a plan for the entertainment. there was to be a minstrel show followed by a series of tableaux in the gymnasium the night before the beginning of christmas recess. "now," said jack, who was explaining, "you chaps will have to get busy and interest every fellow you know in the affair. we want a good big crowd for the minstrels; we ought to have at least two dozen fellows. there will be another meeting here to-morrow night and i want each of you to bring me the names of fellows who are willing to take part. and you must let me know what they can do, whether they can sing or recite or do sleight-of-hand tricks, you know. and now i want to propose that we make harry emery an associate member of the club. you see, we realized that we wouldn't be able to do much in the way of costuming without her help, so we laid the matter before her. and she went right into it; suggested the tableaux feature and offered to take part herself. (laughter from the audience.) so i think she ought to be taken in." "we ought to make mr. cobb and mr. buckman associate members, too," suggested chub. so harry and the two instructors were duly admitted, and the meeting went into the plans for the entertainment. sid, one of the most enthusiastic members present, reminded everyone that he could play the banjo, and jack promised to let him do his worst. roy was elected temporary captain and manager and jack temporary treasurer. then an assessment of fifty cents each was levied and jack spent the best part of three days collecting the sums. he, roy, chub and two others had gone down into their pockets and advanced the money for the goals, sticks and pucks, and with christmas recess drawing near they were anxious to get some of it back. the rink was to be paid for in january and the pump on its arrival. it was going to be necessary to collect something over sixty dollars from the entertainment, and the committee was getting anxious. there was little time for rehearsal, and, with horace and otto doing all in their power to throw cold water on the scheme, roy and his friends had plenty to worry them. but harry proved a brick. she went into it to the present exclusion of all else and made things hum. she talked it up everywhere she went with the result that the affair was extensively advertised before it was well on foot. harry attended a girls' academy at silver cove, and she wasn't satisfied until every pupil there had faithfully promised to attend the entertainment. she also persuaded mr. buckman to take part, something that jack and the others had failed at. mr. cobb had already consented to sing and do a monologue. then harry devised costumes and found them, levying on the wardrobes of most of her friends and acquaintances. and in spite of the fact that she and chub and jack and roy met at least twice a day she still maintained her air of polite indifference toward the latter. when the morning of the day of the entertainment arrived affairs seemed in the wildest chaos and even harry lost her head for awhile. some of the promised participators had backed down at the last moment, the principal soloist had a bad cold, the stage was still unbuilt, several of the costumes were yet wanting and harris and kirby, down for a duet and dance, weren't on speaking terms! and just as though all that wasn't enough to drive the committee distracted, chub had appeared at breakfast with a long face and announced that he had forgotten to mail the poster to hammond academy. in support of the assertion he produced it, stamped and addressed. it had been lying in his pocket for three days. as hammond with its seventy-odd students had been counted on to send quite a delegation, this was a hard blow. but jack, with the cheerfulness of desperation, obtained permission to deliver the poster by messenger and sent sid welch across the river with it at nine o'clock. that was certainly a day of troubles. luckily there were few recitations for anyone. jack and chub spent most of the morning directing and aiding in the erection of the stage at the end of the gymnasium. the stage was a sectional affair which, when not in use, was stored in the furnace room. unfortunately one section seemed to be missing, and putting the thing together was, as chub said, like joining one of those geographical puzzles. "you know the things, jack; they're cut up with a scroll-saw into all sorts of wiggly pieces, and florida insists on getting next to new hampshire and illinois won't fit anywhere except between south carolina and georgia." "there must be a piece of this missing," answered jack. "i'm going to have another look." and presently he came back staggering under what looked like a length of board walk. "funny you fellows couldn't find this," he said disgustedly as he swung one end around against the wall and brought down six pairs of dumb-bells. "it was right in plain sight; they were using it for a carpenter's bench." "it _is_ funny," growled warren. "wonder they didn't make an ice-chest or a sewing-machine out of it!" after that it was plain sailing until they came to the curtain. it was a beautiful thing, that curtain, fourteen feet wide and twelve feet long and bearing a picture of niagara falls in blue, green, purple and pink surrounded by a wreath of crimson cabbages--only they were supposed to be roses. despite its beauty, work up and down it would not. half way up it began to range itself in artistic folds, apparently forgetting all about the wooden roller at the bottom. once it came down unexpectedly on chub's head, and chub danced around and shook his fist at it and declared that he'd cut holes in it for two cents. no one offered to put up the two cents and so the curtain was saved. in the end jack manufactured a new pulley-block and after that the foolish thing worked charmingly every other time. "all we'll have to do," said warren disgustedly, "will be to make believe pull it up before we really mean to." "kind of disconcerting to the fellows on the stage," commented jack, "but i guess that's what we'll have to do." the drop curtain, showing a lovely sylvan glade in unwholesome shades of green, went up without trouble at the back of the stage, but the pieces at the sides, very frayed trees with impossible foliage, refused to stand up. "we'll have to make props," said chub. "i don't blame the old things for wanting to lie down; it makes me tired just to look at them." but when, finally, the stage was set and the boys stood off at a respectful distance and examined it it really looked very well. chub admired the effect of distance and wondered where the path led to. warren said he'd like to meet the man who had chiseled out the statue under the trees and another fellow wanted to go bird-egging. then they arranged the chairs and benches in rows. they had gathered chairs of all descriptions from all over the school and the effect was finely democratic. doctor emery's leather arm chair hobnobbed socially with a plain pine chair from the dining hall and mr. buckman's favorite hour-glass chair appeared to be trying to make an impression on harry's rattan rocker, the latter looking very dressy with its pink silk head-rest. [illustration: "they had gathered chairs of all descriptions from all over the school...."] they went to dinner feeling rather more encouraged and found that sid had returned with good tidings. hammond had learned of the entertainment several days before and had been waiting eagerly for an invitation to attend. and every fellow was coming, declared sid. roy, who had taken a flying trip to the town for red and blue cheesecloth, reported excellent progress on the last of the costumes. and post, who couldn't eat any dinner because he had been filling himself up all day with cough syrup and licorice lozenges, thought he might be able to sing, after all. the last rehearsal was at three o'clock, and after it was over jack shook his head dismally. "i never saw such a bum show in my life," he declared gloomily. "and talk about singing! say, i wonder if we can bribe post to stay away to-night?" "why, i thought everything went beautifully!" declared harry. "you wait until to-night; they'll do a lot better." "the chorus work was all right," said chub. "and the tableaux were simply swell. i do wish, though, that bacon wouldn't look as though he was going to die every minute!" "but those jokes!" groaned jack. "oh, never mind; i've heard lots worse ones," answered roy cheerfully. "not outside of a sunday newspaper supplement, i'll bet," said jack. "that one about mr. cobb and miss webb, and falling in love with her the first time he 'spider' is the limit. i heard that when i was three years old!" "that's all right; folks like 'em old at a minstrel show," answered chub. "old wine to drink, old books to read, old jokes to--" "to cry over," prompted jack. "all right. no use in cutting up rough now. we'll have to make the best of a bad show. just so long as harris and kirby don't start to using their fists on each other during their turn i suppose i can't kick." "well, let's go to supper," said roy. chapter xiv the entertainment and how it ended entertainment for the benefit of the ferry hill school hockey association in the gymnasium, wednesday evening, december 22d. programme part i. overture: "_uncle sammy_," orchestra for one night only! the world-famous aggregation of senegambian entertainers known as the darktown minstrels, just returned from their triumphant tour of europe, asia, africa and new jersey, where they delighted royalty and barely escaped with their lives! one night only!! read the names!! _interlocutor_ mr. rogers _bones_ messrs. post and harris _tambourines_ messrs. eaton and whitcomb _disturbers-of-the-peace_ messrs. cobb, buckman, thurlow, forrest, gallup, kirby, warren, pryor, bacon, stone, harris, shattuck, patten and welch. _solos_ (the audience permitting) by messrs. cobb, post, thurlow and forrest. _duets_ (at any cost) by messrs. buckman and cobb, harris and kirby. _monologues by_ mr. cobb _imitations by_ mr. eaton to be followed by the first appearance in this part of the country of professor carlos cole, prince of prestidigitators, in astounding card tricks, marvellous feats of sleight-of-hand and appalling wonders of white and black magic never before seen on any stage and not likely to be again! (the management earnestly requests members of the audience not to loan the professor either money or hats. the management will not be responsible for the return of such articles.) the whole to terminate in a beautiful and fantastic revelry of song and mirth entitled: "_christmas eve on the plantation!_" intermission. part ii. overture: "_medley of college airs_" orchestra college tableaux. 1. _yale_ mr. bacon 2. _harvard_ mr. porter 3. _princeton_ mr. eaton 4. _cornell_ mr. warren 5. _columbia_ mr. gallup 6. _dartmouth_ mr. forrest 7. _vassar_ miss emery ensemble. song: "_the school on the hill._" the audience will please join in the singing. _stage manager_ mr. rogers _assistant stage manager_ mr. eaton _property man_ mr. porter _electrician_ mr. pryor _prompter_ mr. thayer _wardrobe lady_ miss emery automobiles and launches may be ordered for 10:45. there's no harm in ordering. the audience is earnestly requested not to throw garden truck or hennery produce. bricks may be obtained from the gentlemanly ushers. attendants will report promptly to the management any inattention on the part of the audience. persons unable to resist weeping at the jokes will please step outside. rain checks may be had at the door. a merry christmas! the public acted very considerately that evening. whether the report had got around that ferry hill needed sixty dollars for her hockey team i can't say, but it's a fact that when the curtain went up--only twenty minutes late!--there were exactly one hundred and twenty-eight persons in the gymnasium who had paid for admission, and as the price was fifty cents apiece the one hundred and twenty-eight persons meant just sixty-four dollars in the cigar box on the table by the door! hammond turned out in force, almost sixty of her boys attending; miss cutler's school for young ladies was well represented by twenty-two of harry's schoolmates under the protection of miss letitia cutler herself; the village contributed generously; while as for ferry hill, every youth not holding an official position of some sort--and there were few that didn't--was on hand, even horace and otto being unable to resist the promises of the programme, while the culinary and dormitory force, as well as john, the gardener and general factotum, were huddled about the door. down in the second row sat doctor and mrs. emery and some friends from the village. walker and fernald made most presentable ushers, and, as their duties consisted principally of supplying programmes and answering questions, they did finely. i'm not going to attempt a description of the first part of that entertainment. in the first place it was beyond description, far too stupendous and awe-inspiring for my pen to do justice to. from the time the curtain rose--as correctly as though it had never misbehaved!--revealing the world famous aggregation of senegambian entertainers until--well, until it fell hurriedly two hours later, everything went beautifully. of course there were little misadventures, but such are expected and only add to the hilarity of an amateur show. when chub's tambourine flew whirling out of his hand and fell into mrs. emery's lap it seemed an excellent joke. when warren fell over a chair and landed on all fours in front of the descending curtain, everybody applauded uproariously. when, in the plantation sketch, the roof of the log cabin fell in because post had thoughtlessly leaned against the door-frame, and sid, in the role of aunt dinah, floundered terrifiedly out through the window with a spirited rending of feminine garments, the audience rocked in merriment. [illustration: "chub's tambourine flew whirling out of his hands."] the orchestra, a silver cove combination of piano, flute and violin, did wonderfully considering the fact that it had attended but one rehearsal. the solos, especially mr. cobb's and tom forrest's, were cordially received. harris and kirby buried the hatchet temporarily and got through "shine, silv'ry star" most brilliantly and had to give an encore. mr. cobb and mr. buckman did a ludicrous negro song which brought the house down, though not in the same way as post had. the chorus work was good and the jokes took just as well as though they had been all fresh and new. some few of them were. when post asked rogers if he knew what the principal article of diet was at the school across the river, and when he was finally prevailed on to dispel the interlocutor's ignorance and replied "hammond eggs," the visitors from hammond shrieked their appreciation. when harris explained that ferry hill was the brightest school in the country because the students had their wits sharpened by emery, the doctor chuckled most appreciatively. even the punning joke to which jack rogers had taken exception and which related the matrimonial adventures of mr. cobb and a fictitious miss webb went well. chub's imitations were distinctly clever, that of mr. buckman coaching the crew throwing the ferry hill portion of the assemblage, at least, into convulsions. sid "did his worst," according to promise, and made a hit more by his earnest desire to please than by any musical results obtained from his banjo. mr. cobb's monologues were screamingly funny and he had hard work getting away from the audience. professor carlos cole, better known as charlie cole of the middle class, didn't quite make good all the promises of the programme, but executed some clever tricks of palming and even managed, with some difficulty, to extract one of harry's pigeons out of an empty bottle--with the aid of a voluminous handkerchief which fluttered suspiciously when produced. the sketch entitled "christmas eve on the plantation" went better than anyone dared hope, principally, perhaps, for the reason that about everybody forgot his lines and did what and how he pleased. the first half came to a triumphant end with the entire company of entertainers filling the little stage and vigorously proclaiming that they were "going to live, anyhow, until they died." during the intermission black-faced youths emerged from the dressing-room under the balcony and visited friends in the audience and the orchestra performed its "medley of college airs." the programme's announcement of college tableaux had whetted the audience's curiosity, and when the hall darkened, the bell tinkled and the curtain--still on its good behaviour--rolled noiselessly up, there was a general craning forward of heads. the painted back drop had given way to a curtain of white cloth. in front of it stood a large oblong frame of wood covered with gilt paper. behind the latter, like a picture in its frame, stood bacon on a little white-draped dais impersonating a yale oarsman. his costume was a blue sleeveless jersey with a white y stitched on it, white trunks, turned-down socks and rowing shoes. in his right hand he supported an oar with a blue blade. a gas pipe had been run around the inner side of the frame and the dozens of little jets threw a brilliant light on the motionless figure. the applause was instant and hearty. bacon kept the pose for a minute while the orchestra played "boola," and then the curtain fell again. presently it went up to reveal roy in his crimson sweater, moleskin trousers, crimson stockings and tan shoes. a white h adorned the front of the sweater and under his arm was a football. again the applause, quite as hearty as before, while the strains of "up the street" came from the orchestra. chub, who came next, represented a princeton baseball player, striped stockings on his sturdy legs, gray shirt over his black jersey, a gray cap set rakishly over his smiling face and a mask and ball under his arm. the applause seemed to be more a tribute to chub, the captain of the ferry hill nine, than to the picture he made or the college he represented. after the music of "old nassau" had ceased the curtain fell once more. then followed warren as a cornell oarsman, gallup as a columbia tennis player and tom forrest, with a sixteen-pound hammer behind him, poised for a throw. forrest wore dartmouth's colors and made an unmistakable hit. but the audience was agog for the next picture. harry had devised the tableaux and had insisted upon being allowed to appear as vassar. and although to jack and chub and roy a girl's college had seemed out of place on the programme, yet they were too grateful to harry for her assistance to think of refusing her. and when the curtain rolled up for the last time they were all very glad they hadn't. for harry was the success of the evening. she was standing two-thirds-face to the audience, a black mortar-board cap on her head, a flowing black gown reaching to her feet and a book under her arm. the pose was grace itself. but the crowning glory of the picture was harry's hair. she had coiled it at the back of her little head, thereby adding several years to her apparent age, and the intense light of the sizzling gas-jets made it glow and shimmer like red gold. a very bright, happy and demure-looking vassar student she made, and a pretty one, too. roy, watching from the wings, could hardly believe that the smiling, grown-up young lady in front of him was the red-haired little minx who had "sassed" him so sharply in the stable yard that first day of their acquaintance! the applause grew and grew; at the back of the hall john, the gardener, had forgotten his awe of the surroundings and was "hurrahing" loudly, egged on by the admiring women servants. and then suddenly the applause gave place to cries of alarm. persons in the front row sprang to their feet. those behind them pushed back their chairs and, without knowing the cause, became imbued with the panic of those in front. someone cried "fire!" and instantly the place was in an uproar. [illustration: "it was roy who dashed across the stage."] but those in the wings had seen as quickly as those in the audience, and it was roy who dashed across the stage, picked harry bodily from the dais, laid her down and crushed the flames out of her black gown with his hands before scarcely any of the others had recovered from their momentary panic. harry, white-faced but silent through it all, was helped unharmed to her feet and the curtain came down with a rush. it had been "a narrow squeak," as chub excitedly termed it, but, save for a fright, harry was none the worse for the happening. but the same could not be said for her black gown. it had fluttered against one of the gas-jets, caught fire and had been burned away for a space of several feet up one side. doctor and mrs. emery joined roy, mr. cobb and jack as they conducted harry to the dressing-room and they were both embarrassingly profuse in their praise of roy's presence of mind. the doctor insisted on shaking hands and it was then that the discovery was made that while the rescued had escaped injury the rescuer had not. both of roy's hands were pretty badly scorched, although roy tried to convince them that they weren't. mr. cobb sent for oil and bandages and harry, in order to reassure the audience, was led before the curtain, where she received applause more hearty than ever. the incident had effectually ended the evening's performance and the singing of the school song was omitted. when harry came back to the dressing-room, still pale and rather sober, she walked over to roy who was seated awaiting the "first aid to the injured," and, to his surprise, leaned impulsively over and kissed his cheek. "please, roy," she whispered, "thank you very, _very_ much! and--and i'm sorry i was so low-down mean!" chapter xv a defeat, a victory and a challenge it's a peculiar fact that no matter how glad a chap may be to get home he's equally delighted to get back to school. at least, that's the way with most fellows, and it was the way with roy. vacation seemed over almost before it had begun, and then, one bright, snowy january morning when the new year was but a few days old, he woke up to find himself snuggled under the yellow comforter that adorned his bed in the senior dormitory. and before he could gather courage to slip even one foot out into the cold there was a rush on the stairs and chub, all blue pajamas and grins, was on him like a small tornado, had thrown the coverings in all directions and had dragged him out on to the unsympathetic floor. jack bore down to see justice done and tom forrest, holding a bath towel about him, paused on his way back from the wash-room to watch and give encouragement. roy and chub had it out on the next bed and chub eventually begged for mercy from beneath a feather pillow. and subsequently they dashed downstairs together and reached the dining room just on the nick of time, feeling like hungry colts. yes, it was mighty good to be back again, even though mid-winter exams were due in a few days. roy had missed chub and jack and the others, and even his brother's breathless narrative of the yale-harvard game from the point of view of a crimson right-tackle who had become next year's captain hadn't seemed half so wonderful as it would have a year before. chub's badly-spelled letter regarding the outlook for the ferry hill hockey team had been much more interesting. the rink was flooded that afternoon, a round two dozen boys working with a will at the pump which drew water from the river and ran it through an iron pipe into the enclosure. it was a cold day--the thermometer read eight degrees above at four o'clock--and although the river was frozen only along the banks and out near fox island, there was no doubt but that they would have a nice sheet of ice for the morrow's practice. chub borrowed a thermometer from the kitchen window--without telling anyone about it--and hung it outside his own casement. sid solemnly affirmed that chub was leaning out of the window reading the thermometer by moonlight every time he woke up. and as chub observed scathingly that sid was never known to wake up from the time he went to sleep until he was pulled on to the floor in the morning, sid's statement doubtless held some truth. chub was at roy's bedside the next morning long before the rising bell had rung. as he had no business there at that time, he moved and spoke very cautiously. "it's four below, roy!" he whispered. "huh?" asked roy sleepily. "it's four below zero, you lazy chump!" "who? what?" "the thermometer! what did you think i was talking about?" "thought you might mean the dormitory," answered roy, now thoroughly awake, drawing the bed clothes closer about him and shivering. "pshaw, you're not cold! come on; get up." "bell rung?" "no, but it will in a minute." "then you'd better sneak out of here before cobb sees you. there's ferris got his eye on you now." "if he tells on me i'll break his neck," answered chub from between chattering teeth. "what time is practice?" "four o'clock." "all right. guess i'll sneak back. i'm going to play cover-point, eh?" "yes, i guess so--as long as you last." then he dived under the clothes for protection. that afternoon the hockey team got down to real business. it was rather confused business, to be sure, for many of the two dozen candidates had never played the game before and some few of them were none too sure on their feet, or, rather, skates. but mr. cobb was on hand, and roy explained and instructed too, and soon some order grew out of chaos. [illustration: roy giving instruction in hockey.] after that every week day afternoon saw the candidates at work on the rink, save once or twice when thaws softened the ice. hockey took hold of the school with a vim, and those who were not entitled to use the rink secured sticks and pucks and went at it on the river. at the end of two weeks of practice a first and a second team had been chosen and games between them occurred daily. three candidates dropped out; the others, not of first choice, were retained as substitutes and always got into the games for a short while at least. meanwhile roy's temporary captaincy had been made permanent by unanimous vote, jack had been elected manager and chub treasurer. a challenge was drawn up and delivered to hammond academy, was accepted and three games were arranged to settle the ice hockey supremacy. the first was scheduled for january 20th, and although a thaw had set in the evening before and made the skating surface far from perfect, the contest came off at three o'clock on the date set. the team which started the game for ferry hill was made up of rogers, right end, warren, right center, kirby, left center, porter, left end, eaton, cover-point, bacon, point, hadden, goal. but almost all of the substitutes had their chances before the game was over. roy, warren and chub played finely, and hadden, considering the fact that he had never before played goal in a hockey game, did excellent work and stopped some difficult shots. but hammond's players were all experienced and the result was not long in doubt. ferry hill really deserved commendation for keeping hammond's score down to eight and for getting two goals herself, the latter in the last period of play. there were many faults to correct and that game served an excellent purpose if it did no more than show up the weak places on the ferry hill team. the stick-work was still pretty ragged, the forwards let their over-eagerness get them into many an off-side play, they failed to follow up as they should have and bacon, at point, continually allowed himself to be drawn out of his position. but every fellow had played hard and the faults were all such as could be largely remedied in subsequent practice. a few days later a challenge to play a game with prentice military academy on the latter's rink came by telephone and jack accepted. the team, attended by fully two-thirds of the school, journeyed down to prentice the following saturday afternoon and won its first game by a score of 6 to 4. this sounds better than it really was, for prentice couldn't boast of a very strong team. however, the result of the game encouraged ferry hill, and the fellows went to work again on monday afternoon with redoubled vigor. jack rogers, who had not been playing as well as he was capable of, found himself about this time and developed rapidly into a hard, fast forward, passing brilliantly and making an excellent team-mate for warren, who, next to roy, was the best member of the team. by the time the second hammond game arrived many of the more glaring faults had been eliminated. bacon had fallen back to substitute, his place at point having been won by gallup. ferry hill crossed to hammond that afternoon for the second game of the series resolved to even things up by winning one contest at least of the three. and, in spite of the fact that she was on unfamiliar ice, and that the cheers of ferry hill's handful of supporters were quite drowned out by the throng of hammondites, she succeeded. the first half ended with the score 3 to 1 in favor of the cherry and black, after ferry hill had played on the defensive almost every minute of the time. but in the last period ferry hill took a brace, got the puck away from her opponent a few minutes after play began and scored her second goal. she followed this less than two minutes later with a third, so tying the score. after that play was fast and furious. ferry hill forced it hard. the next try-at-goal was by hammond, and although it looked as though the puck entered the cage and bounded out the goal was not allowed. hammond had a good deal to say about that and play came to a standstill for several minutes. but the referee, a gentleman of their own choosing, held to his decision. but even had that goal been awarded to hammond the game would still have gone to ferry hill, for jack rogers and warren, playing together like veterans, took the puck down the rink when play was resumed and shot a goal that couldn't be questioned. that goal was jack's second. hammond made it interesting for the brown and white after that, making try after try, but hadden stopped everything that reached him. with only a very few minutes to play kirby stole the rubber from a hammond forward, passed it to roy across the rink and followed up in time to receive it back again near the center. he lost it for an instant, recovered it, shot it against the boards ahead of roy, who found it as it carromed away, checked the hammond point and gave roy a clean chance at the cage. roy took the chance and lifted the puck past goal's knees. there was no more scoring and 5 to 3 were the final figures. ferry hill went home very well pleased with herself, and no one received more praise than hadden, whose steady, brilliant work at the goal had contributed more than anything else to the victory. the final game of the series was not due until two weeks later and during those two weeks ferry hill worked like trojans. but before that final contest was decided ferry hill and hammond had again met on the ice and tried conclusions, and although there was no hockey in this contest it was quite as exciting while it lasted. it came about in this way. hammond's right end and captain was a big yellow-haired giant named schonberg, a brilliant player and a wonderful skater, if the tales one heard of him were true. possibly the fact that in the recent game roy, who opposed him, had outplayed him, wounded his vanity. at all events horace burlen approached jack rogers one morning a few days after the game with an open letter in his hand and a frown on his brow. "look at this thing from hammond, will you, jack," he said. "they've challenged us to a skating race on the river. any time and any distance we like, they say; hang their cheek!" jack stopped and read the letter. "well, i guess they've got us there," he said. "i don't know of any fellow who would stand the ghost of a chance against that chap schonberg." "well, i hate to refuse," replied horace importantly. "it seems to me we ought to accept the challenge even if we get beaten." "i suppose we ought," said jack, "but you'll find it pretty hard to find a fellow willing to try conclusions with schonberg." "i'd try it myself," said horace carelessly, "but i'm terribly out of practice; haven't been on the ice more than two or three times this winter." "you be blowed!" answered jack impolitely. "why schonberg would leave you standing! me, too, for that matter. i'll talk the thing over with roy porter." "think he would stand any show?" asked horace. "roy? i don't know. he's a pretty good skater on the rink, but i don't know what he can do at any distance." "well, if he likes to try, he may," said horace magnanimously. "i'll tell him so," replied jack dryly. "you needn't send any answer for a day or so, and meanwhile we'll see what can be done. it seems too bad not to even try; i'd hate to have hammond think we were afraid of her or that we weren't willing to risk a defeat. yes, i'll speak to roy and see what he suggests." "well, of course you understand," said horace, "that the matter is in my charge. if you can find anyone, all right; only you'd better let me know about it before you call the thing decided; i might not approve of the fellow." "oh, that's all right. maybe, after all, you'd better find a chap yourself. i'm rather busy just now with exams--" "no, you go ahead," interrupted horace quickly. "what i was trying to get at was--well, you understand, jack; porter doesn't like me, you know, and i don't know what he might do; you spoke of consulting him, you know." "well, if we find any fellow he'll probably be one of the hockey men, and as roy's the captain it seems to me--" "oh, all right. you see what we can do." half an hour later jack was talking it over with roy. "i don't know what you can do at racing," he said, "but if you think you'd make any sort of a showing i think you'd ought to try. but you can do as you like." "i wouldn't stand any chance with that dutchman," answered roy, "but if you can't find anyone else i'll race him. i don't mind being beaten." so the matter stood for the rest of the day, in fact until the next forenoon. then roy was paying a call on the menagerie between examinations at the invitation of harry, who had lately become the proud possessor of a litter of three angora kittens. roy's advice was wanted in the delicate matter of deciding which one of the three was to be kept and which two were to be given away to friends at miss cutler's. that momentous question decided and the attractive points of the three little bunches of fur having been set forth by harry, roy made the rounds of the "cages," as he called the various boxes and receptacles which held the pets. methuselah had long ago recovered the full use of his voice and was willing to prove the fact on any occasion. he had become quite attached to roy and would sit on the edge of his box with eyes closed in seraphic bliss as long as roy would scratch his head. to-day he talked incessantly from the time they entered the "winter quarters," which was an old harness room in a corner of the smallest stable, until they left to walk back over the ice-crusted boards to school hall. it was during that walk that roy chanced to tell of hammond's challenge. harry was intensely patriotic and the situation worried her for several minutes. "there isn't a boy here that can skate," she said scornfully. "they're all duffers. unless--" she shot a glance at roy--"unless you can?" "not much," answered her companion. "i can work around a rink all right enough, but i never skated in a race in my life." "then we'll be beaten," said harry dolefully. "and i hate that iceberg boy!" "schonberg," corrected roy laughingly. "well, some kind of an old berg. i wish--" harry paused and walked for a minute in silence. then she turned with sparkling eyes. "i know!" she cried. "what do you know?" "there's just one--person here that would stand any chance with iceberg." "who is he?" "it isn't a he," answered harry mysteriously. "not a he? then who--what--?" "it's me, stupid!" "you? but--" "now don't you go and make a lot of objections," cried harry. "i know i'm not a boy, but i belong to the school--and i can skate; you ask any of the boys; ask chub or jack--or horace. so it's all settled. all you've got to do is to write and tell hammond that we'll race her any afternoon that the ice will bear. but you needn't say it's me, you know. see? tell them we haven't decided yet--no, that wouldn't be the truth, would it, for we have decided; at least, i have. just tell them that--that we'll race them, and don't say anything about who." "that's great," laughed roy, "and if jack--and horace--are willing, i am. and i hope you'll beat him, harry. how far do you want to race? they said any distance." "then we'll decide that when the time comes," answered harry. "maybe a mile, maybe a quarter; we'll see how the ice is, and the wind and all that. and you'd better arrange it for a week from to-day, and i'll just practice up all i can. that's all settled then, isn't it?" "it certainly sounds so," laughed roy. "and," he added as the clock in school hall tower rang eleven, "i wish you'd settle my latin exam as easily!" chapter xvi "just for the school!" there was a stiff, biting wind blowing straight down the river, nipping the fingers and toes of the crowd about the landing and whirling away the smoke from the chimney of the boat-house. overhead the winter sky was leaden and sullen clouds were driving southward. underfoot the ice rang hard as steel, and, save for a space in mid-river, was as smooth as a mirror. it was well on toward four o'clock and already the shadows along the banks hinted of coming night. hammond and ferry hill were hobnobbing about the boat-house stove or out on the ice in front of the landing. the terms of the race had been arranged and the big, yellow-haired schonberg was idly cutting figures in and out of the group to keep himself warm. the race was to be a half-mile long, starting here at the ferry hill landing, crossing straight as a strip of weak ice would permit to a point on the hammond side of the river and returning again to the landing, finishing at a mark indicated by an empty nail keg and a broken soap box set some twenty yards from shore. all that remained of the preliminaries was for ferry hill to produce her entry. mr. cobb, who was to act as starter, timer, judge and everything else of an official sort, looked at his watch and announced that it was time to start. schonberg stopped his capers, removed his sweater and skated to the mark, looking about with pardonable curiosity for a sight of his adversary. horace and harry emerged from the throng and joined him. "this is mr. schonberg, harry," said horace. "schonberg, my cousin, miss emery." harry bowed gravely in her best society manner and schonberg made a futile grab at his knit cap. "happy to meet you," he muttered. then, possibly for want of something better to say, he turned to horace and asked: "when are you chaps going to be ready?" "we're ready now," answered horace soberly. schonberg looked about him. the crowd had surrounded the mark by this time and mr. cobb had his watch in hand. "where's your man, burlen?" asked custis, hammond's senior class president. "right here," answered horace, indicating harry. "miss emery is our man." hammond howled with laughter. harry's cheeks reddened and her eyes flashed. "you're joking, aren't you?" asked custis. "not at all," replied horace impatiently. "but, i say, burlen, that's poppycock, you know! we didn't challenge a girl's school!" "that's all right," said burlen. "we said we'd race you, and we will. miss emery is doctor emery's daughter and she belongs to the school just as much as any of us. if you're afraid to race her--" "don't be a fool! of course we're not afraid, but--but it's such nonsense!" "course it is," broke in schonberg. "i didn't come over here to race a girl!" "then you shouldn't have agreed to our terms," answered jack, joining the discussion. "we told you plainly in our letter that we would race you if you'd allow us to name our entry any time before the race. we've decided and there she is. if you have any idea, schonberg, that you've got an easy thing--well, just try it. miss emery's our best skater, and she's so good that we're not ashamed to acknowledge it. and as we knew that schonberg was an a-1 skater we thought our best wouldn't be any too good." "oh, all right," said custis, with a shrug of his shoulders, "if you insist i guess we're willing." "i'm not," said schonberg. "i won't race a girl." and schonberg held out for many minutes and had to be argued with, and coaxed by, half the hammond contingent. but finally he yielded, though with ill grace, and took his place at the mark. "all right," he said. "i'm ready." harry took her place a yard away, the throng pushed back and mr. cobb drew out his starting pistol. those of the boys who were on skates, and most of them were, prepared to follow the contestants. harry wore a brown sweater and a short gray skirt. her skating boots were securely fastened to a pair of long-bladed racing skates. her head was bare and the wind blew her red tresses about her face as she awaited the signal. there was a little spot of intense color in each cheek and her blue eyes flashed venomously when schonberg turned to glance at her half contemptuously. if she had needed any incentive to do her level best within the next few minutes schonberg's pronunciation of the word "girl" had supplied it. harry was insulted and indignant, and roy, watching her from a little distance, guessed something of her feelings and took hope. no one really expected harry to win. that a fourteen-year-old girl should beat a seventeen-year-old boy was out of the question. schonberg, too, was known to be as good a skater as hammond had had for many years. but every fellow had implicit faith in harry and knew that she would give the hammond skater as hard a race as he had ever had. mr. cobb raised his pistol. "on your mark! get ready! set!" then the pistol spoke sharply on the winter air and the two contestants, the brown sweater and the red jersey, shot ahead in a mad scramble. the throng followed and for a moment the ring of steel on the hard ice was the only sound. then the racers, having found their paces, settled down to work. they were side by side, a bare three yards dividing them. just behind them skated the foremost of the spectators, roy and warren and jack leading. if schonberg had entertained any idea of having the race to himself he was disillusioned during the first fifty yards. once he threw a glance at the girl. after that he settled down to work and wasted no time. he skated wonderfully well and even the throng of ferry hill boys behind could not but envy him his speed and grace. body well over, legs gliding back and forth from the hips, head up and arms kept rather close in, schonberg fairly flew over the ice. and beside him sped harry. harry was not the accomplished skater that her rival was. she was graceful and she had speed, but she showed far more effort than did the hammond boy, her strides being shorter and her little brown-clad arms swinging back and forth like bits of machinery. half way across it became necessary to hold well to the right to avoid the patch of weak ice, but harry was the last to leave the straight course and schonberg had to either spurt ahead of her and bear up-river or fall behind. he chose the latter alternative, eased his pace a moment, shot behind her and made for the lowest point of safe ice. for a moment longer harry clung to her straight course. then she swung up-stream a trifle and followed him a yard behind, seemingly paying but little heed to the streaks of snow-ice ahead. schonberg rounded the danger point and made straight for the farther bank where the limb of a black birch had been placed a few yards from shore to serve as a turning mark. harry had lost ground during the last few moments, in spite of the fact that she had held closer to the direct course between shore and shore, and was now fully twenty feet behind. few of the audience went beyond mid-stream, but stopped there and watched the racers reach the farther mark, swing around inside of it and turn back across the river. from where roy and jack stood it looked as though harry had made up a little of her lost ground, but it was hard to tell at that distance. "he will simply skate away from her coming back," said jack. "she's making a dandy race, though," roy responded. "i didn't think she'd do as well as she has, did you?" "yes, but i've seen harry skate before this. gee! just look at the way that dutchman is coming!" already schonberg was half way across to them, heading for where they stood at the up-stream end of the snow-ice. behind him, how far behind it was difficult to determine, came harry, a brown and gray spot in the deepening twilight. jack and roy turned and followed the others slowly back toward the finish. when next they looked around schonberg was almost up to them and harry-"where the dickens is she?" cried roy. "there," answered jack, pointing. "what's she up to? she can't be going to try that weak ice!" but plainly she was. not one foot from the direct line between turning point and finish did harry swerve. schonberg was well up-stream from her, but no nearer the finish, for he had gone out of his way to avoid the weak ice. roy shouted a warning and jack waved wildly, but harry, if she saw, paid no heed. straight onward she came, her skates fairly twinkling over the ice, her little body swaying from side to side. then, before any of the watchers could even turn back to head her off, she was skimming over the white streaks of soft snow-ice. roy and jack and one or two others sped downstream toward her. roy strove to remember what it was best to do when folks went through the ice and wondered where there was a rope or a plank. once his heart stood still for an instant, for harry had stumbled and nearly fallen. but she found her pace again almost instantly and came on, skirting a black pool of open water. she was gaining on schonberg at every ring of her skates, and that youth, who had now discovered her tactics, was making for the finish with all his might. before roy or jack had reached the margin of the dangerous stretch harry had left it behind her and was once more on hard ice. as she swept past at a little distance she glanced up and smiled triumphantly. "go on, harry!" they cried in unison, and turned and sped after her. [illustration: "schonberg made a last despairing effort when twenty feet from the line."] she had gained many yards over schonberg and as their converging paths brought them nearer and nearer together this gain became apparent. roy and jack skated as hard as they could go, and, being untired, were close up behind harry when the finish line was a bare fifty feet away. almost beside them came schonberg, his head down and every muscle tense with his efforts to reach the line ahead of his adversary. but he was a good six yards to the bad. hammond and ferry hill filled the twilight with their clamor and the wooded bank threw back the frantic cries of "come on, schon!" "go it, harry!" "skate! skate!" and skate they did, the cherry-red jersey and the brown sweater. schonberg made a last despairing effort when twenty feet from the line and fairly ate up the ice, but even as he did so harry brought her feet together, pulled herself erect and slid over the finish three yards ahead, beating her adversary, as chub said, "in a walk!" the throngs surrounded the racers, and harry, flushed of face, panting and laughing, was applauded and congratulated until the din was deafening. then schonberg pushed his way through the ranks of her admirers, his red face smiling stiffly. he held out his hand to harry and removed his red cap. "you're a bully skater, miss emery," he said. "but i guess you wouldn't have won if you hadn't taken a short cut." "no, i wouldn't," answered harry with the magnanimity of the conqueror. "you'd have beaten me easily." schonberg's smile became more amiable. "anyway, i can beat any of the fellows here," he said, recovering some degree of self-sufficiency. and no one contradicted him. "you took big risks when you came across that rotten ice," he went on. "i wouldn't have tried that for a thousand dollars!" "you wouldn't?" asked harry, opening her blue eyes very wide. "why, i'd do it any day--and just for the school!" chapter xvii the hockey championship is decided roy had passed his examinations without flunking in a thing, and while that may not sound like much of an achievement to you who doubtless are accustomed to winning all sorts of honors, it pleased him hugely. they had proved pretty stiff, those exams, and he had trembled in his shoes considerably when the day for the announcement of results had come. but it was all right. to be sure, 68 in english wasn't anything to brag about, but he was happier over that than the 92 in latin, which was his highest mark. jack received one of the six scholarships, which carried with it beside the honor sufficient money to cancel the year's tuition fee. chub, too, was happy. he was happy because he had failed only in mathematics where he had feared to fail all along the line. i don't know whether roy's mother was pleased; possibly not; possibly she had not entirely relinquished her hopes of a scholarship for him. but roy's father, if his letter was to be believed, was in the seventh heaven of bliss. roy scowled a good deal over that letter, for it sounded a bit sarcastic here and there! mentally he resolved to do a whole lot better and get higher marks in june. "i just wish dad had that exam to buck against," he muttered. "i'll bet he'd make a mighty mean showing! maybe then he wouldn't write such letters!" the letter, though, had accomplished just what mr. porter had intended it should; it had made roy dissatisfied with his showing and resolved to do better the next time. and, in case i fail to record the fact in its proper place, be it known here and now that he did do better, considerably better, so well, in fact, that his mother's waning hopes of scholarship honors flourished anew. those examinations left horace burlen in a peck of trouble. he had failed in two studies and was consequently ineligible for crew work until he had made them up. and as horace was crew captain and number three in the boat, the whole school became interested in his predicament. to his honor be it said, however, that he buckled down at once to make them up, and mr. buckman, who was the rowing coach and adviser, helped him to what extent the rules allowed. crew practice began usually in the first week of march, leaving less than a month for horace to square himself in the two studies. those who didn't like him smiled wickedly and "guessed there'd be a new captain chosen next month." horace's friends and adherents, consisting nowadays of about a third of the students, declared that he wouldn't have any trouble and advised the scoffers to "just watch him!" meanwhile there was the ice hockey supremacy to be determined. ferry hill had scored another victory, this time over the whittier collegiate institute team, twelve goals to nine, and had practised diligently and enthusiastically every possible moment. and so when, on a bright, cold saturday afternoon, hammond crossed the river for the third and deciding contest, ferry hill was in high feather and was looking for a victory. pride goeth before a fall. ferry hill's team was made up as in the first game of the series save that gallup was at point in place of bacon, who had fallen back to the second team. the ice was hard and smooth, the barriers were lined with spectators, the cheers of hammond and ferry hill arose alternately into the still, frosty air. harry watched breathlessly with spot in her arms and mr. cobb tossed a puck into the center of the rink and skated back. "ready, hammond?" "ready, ferry hill?" then the whistle piped merrily, warren secured the puck and passed it back to kirby and the game was on. skates rang against the ice as the brown-clad forwards spread out across the rink and raced for the opponent's goal. kirby passed to roy, roy passed across to warren, warren overskated, rogers doubled back and rescued the disk, passing it across to roy again, hammond's right-end charged, roy slipped past him against the barrier and got the puck once more, eluded the cover-point and passed to warren, warren worked the puck to within ten feet of the net and, with half the team hitting and hacking at his stick, shot the first goal. ferry hill, 1; hammond, 0. but hammond broke up the attack very nicely the next time, secured the puck and charged down the rink like a troop of cavalry. gallup was decoyed to the left, hadden was caught napping and the whistle blew. ferry hill, 1; hammond, 1. hadden remorsefully kicked the snowy disk of rubber out from the net and smote it wrathfully with his stick. "my fault, roy," he said. "that's all right," answered the captain. "gallup, you were out of place that time. remember that you take the puck and not the man. all together now, fellows, get after them!" hammond secured the puck at the face and for several minutes the battle raged hotly, now here, now there. hadden stopped two tries neatly, chub stole the disk from a hammond forward and took it down the rink, skating like a cyclone--if cyclones may be said to skate--only to miss his try at goal by a bare two inches. twice play was stopped for off-side work and once warren was cautioned by mr. cobb against roughness. then, when the hammond point had lifted the puck far down the rink, gallup was slow in returning it and the speedy schonberg was down on him like a flash, had stolen the puck from under his nose and, charging past chub, who had come to the rescue, had shot it between hadden's feet for the third goal. after that fortune favored hammond while the half lasted. her players worked like one man instead of seven and when the whistle blew the score looked frightfully one-sided; hammond, 5; ferry hill, 1. "i guess they're too much for us," panted jack as he struggled into his sweater. roy nodded soberly. "i never saw better team-work," he muttered. "well, it's all in a lifetime." "well, look at the experience they've had," said kirby. "i'll bet that next year we'll--" roy turned on him sharply. "that'll do for you," he answered. "never mind next year, think of the next half. time enough for next year when we're beaten. i dare say they will beat us, but if you think, kirby, that i'm going to be satisfied with any such score as they've piled up on us now you're mightily mistaken. what we want to do is to get the jump on those chaps and everlastingly push them around the shop!" mr. cobb, who had come up in time to hear the remark, smiled approval. "that's right," he said. "you forwards must get together better and you must take chances. there's not much use waiting to get in front of their goal before shooting because they've got a fine defense and a dandy point. force the playing, shoot whenever there's the ghost of a chance and check harder. you must be careful about the way you treat those fellows along the boards, warren; i wouldn't have been far wrong if i'd laid you off for a couple of minutes that time." "i guess you didn't see what he was doing to me," said warren. "no, i didn't. but you know mighty well that we don't stand for slugging here, no matter what the other chap does." "that's all right," muttered warren, "but if any chap thinks he can slash my shins all the time and not get hurt he's a good bit mistaken." "well, don't you try it on when i'm coaching or refereeing," warned mr. cobb coldly. "if you do--look out!" warren made no reply. the substitutes and members of the second team had taken possession of the rink and bacon was guarding goal against the assaults of half a dozen swooping, charging players. at the far end hammond was perched along the barrier, laughing and fooling, already practically certain of victory. roy, watching, set his jaws together and resolved that if hammond added to her present score it would be only after the hardest playing she had ever done! "you're not going to let them win, are you, roy?" roy turned to find harry beside him with spot wriggling and twisting in her arms. roy petted him and had his cheek licked before he replied. then, "i'm afraid we can't keep them from beating us, harry," he answered, "but we're going to make a lot better showing in this half than we did in the last." "does your wrist hurt?" asked harry, glancing solicitously at the silk bandage about it. roy shook his head. "no, but it isn't right strong yet and mr. cobb thought i'd better wear this rather than run any danger of putting it out of place again. how's methuselah?" "fine and dandy," answered harry cheerfully. "you must come and see him; i think he gets rather dull sometimes. i've got some more white mice. that makes sixteen. i wish i knew what to do with them. dad says i'll have to kill them, but i just couldn't do it." "why not turn them loose?" asked roy. harry giggled. "i tried that and some of them came back and went up to john's room and he found one in his boot in the morning. he was terribly mad about it. john's very short tempered, you know." "he must be," laughed roy. "yes. and then yesterday he found two in the grain-chest and told dad. i don't think it was nice of him to tell, do you? and dad says i'll have to kill them." "i tell you what," said roy. "you keep them until warm weather and we'll take them off somewhere and let them loose. i don't believe they'd ever get back again." "but they might die!" "i don't believe so. anyway, they'd have a fighting chance, and if you kill them they won't have. see?" "john said i ought to buy an owl," said harry disgustedly, "and feed them to him. as though i would!" "john's a brute," said roy. "how about the squabs?" "oh, they're coming fast! there are twelve already. i--i wish they wouldn't hatch. i hate to have them killed." "mighty fine eating, squabs," said roy teasingly. harry shot an indignant glance at him. "any person who'd eat a squab," she cried, "deserves to be--to be--" but roy didn't learn what such a person deserved, for at that moment mr. cobb summoned the teams out again. roy peeled off his crimson sweater, looked to his skate straps and called to jack. when the latter had skated up roy talked to him earnestly for a moment. "all ready, porter?" cried warren. "about six or eight feet from the corner of the goal," finished roy. "and bang it in without waiting for anything. understand?" jack nodded and the two skated to their places. warren and the opposing left-center laid their sticks on either side of the puck and the whistle sounded. there was an instant of shoving and pushing and then the puck shot back to the hammond side. over to the boards it went, the hammond forwards strung out and dug their skates into the ice and the puck came down to the ferry hill goal, flying back and forth from one forward to another like a shuttle. chub checked the hammond right-center and the two went to the ice together, a confused mass of legs and arms and sticks. gallup slashed wildly at schonberg's stick, hadden crouched between the iron posts and the puck went flying over his shoulder into the snow outside. the whistle piped and the disk was dug out of its refuge and returned to the ice just in front of the ferry hill goal. chub and gallup fell back to protect hadden, and roy and schonberg faced off. there was a moment of wild hacking of stick against stick, then the puck slid through roy's skates, and schonberg, reaching around him, made a quick slash that sent it rolling into the corner of the goal. hammond, 6; ferry hill, 1. hadden vented his disgust by smashing his stick and had to have a new one. back to the center of the ice went the puck, while the hammond supporters cheered and laughed. again hammond get possession of the disk at the face and again the cherry jerseys sped down the rink. then _smash_! went roy into schonberg and the puck was his and he was dribbling it along the boards. a hammond forward charged him, but roy passed the puck inside, passed outside himself and recovered it beyond. from the other side of the rink came jack's voice. "all right, roy!" past cover-point went roy, and then, just as point flew out toward him, he shot the puck at an angle against the boards just back of goal. he went down the next moment before the savage bodychecking of point, but he didn't mind, for the puck, carroming against the barrier, had shot out at the other side of goal where jack was awaiting it and was now reposing coyly in the farthermost corner of the netting. ferry hill went wild with joy. six to two sounded far more encouraging than had six to one. hockey sticks waved in air as the players skated back to their places. "that's the stuff, fellows!" called roy. "good shot, jack! now let's have another one!" but there were no more goals for a while, although the game went fast and furious. gallup received a cut over the left eye that sent him out of the game and bacon took his place. then the hammond left-center was put off for two minutes for tripping and ferry hill thought she had found her chance to score again. but hammond's remaining six played so well that ferry hill was held off until the penalized player returned to the game. along the boards the watchers were kicking their shoes to bring warmth to their feet. the sun had dropped behind the wooded hills across the river and the rink was in shadow. presently ferry hill had the puck in the middle of the ice and her forwards flew to their places. down the rink they charged, the disk flying from kirby to warren, from warren to jack rogers and ultimately from the latter's stick past goal's knees into the net. hammond, 6; ferry hill, 3. there were eight minutes more to play. ferry hill seemed to have found her pace at last; perhaps the last two goals had encouraged her. at all events she played as she had never played all season. roy was a streak of greased lightning, jack was a tornado, warren and kirby shot about as though they had wings on their shoes instead of mere steel runners, chub was a bull-dog and a fierce and speedy one, bacon seemed to have eyes in the back of his head and hadden was invulnerable. ferry hill was forcing the playing now and for minutes at a time she appeared to have things all her own way. only the hammond goal-tend saved the day for the cherry and black. time and again he was the only defense left and time and again he turned seeming success into failure for the swooping enemy. then came another carrom back of goal, again jack was on the spot and once more the ferry hill sticks danced in air. hammond, 6; ferry hill, 4! hammond was beginning to show herself tuckered. her right-center was plainly played out and gave his place to a new man. even schonberg exhibited signs of failing strength and no longer played with the dash and brilliancy with which he had begun the contest. and as the enemy weakened ferry hill strengthened. schonberg went to the ice and his stick flew out of his hand while roy flew on with the puck slipping along in front of him. kirby sent cover-point out of the play, the disk slid along the snowy ice to warren and he lifted it at goal. goal-tender stopped it with his knee, slashed it aside and crouched at the corner of the net. roy turned on his heel, found the puck as it flew by and rushed back to goal. the whole hammond team was about him and sticks banged and whizzed. it was a bedlam of cries and whacks and the grind of steel on ice. science was forgotten for the moment; hammond was fighting tooth and nail to drive back the invader. once the puck was wrested from ferry hill and shot back up the ice to the middle of the rink, but chub was awaiting it and brought it back, speeding along like an express train. he passed to kirby in time to fool a hammond forward, dodged, received the puck again and charged down on goal, dispersing the foe by the sheer impetus. sticks flew about his feet and point threw himself at him. then came a quick side pass to roy, the sharp sound of stick against puck and the ring of the iron post as the hard rubber disk struck it and glanced in. five to six, and ferry hill coming all the time! how the brown-decked boys along the sides yelled! mr. cobb consulted the time-keeper. "two minutes left!" he called. "time enough to win in!" shouted roy. "sure!" answered jack triumphantly. with sticks gyrating they sped back to their positions. but hammond was in no hurry now and the time-keeper kept his eyes carefully on his stop-watch until finally the whistle shrilled again. then back to the fray went the brown jerseys and over the ice sped the ferry hill skates. a rush down the rink and again the hammond goal was in danger. a quick swoop of warren's stick and the puck was winging straight for the goal. but a gloved hand met it and tossed it aside. roy swung circling back and passed across to jack. another shot, this time wide of the net. schonberg and jack fought it out in the corner and jack rapped the disk out to warren. the hammond cover-point checked his stick and secured the disk, shooting it down the rink. a hammond forward got it but was off-side. warren joined him and they faced near the center. a quick pass to jack and the forwards turned and dug their blades into the ice. down they came, charging and passing, past cover-point, past point, and then-out shot goal and away to the left rolled the puck. roy, turning after it, shot a quick glance at the time-keeper. then he was fighting with a hammond man for possession of the elusive black disk, their bodies crashing against the boards and their sticks flying hither and thither. but warren came to the rescue, poked the puck out from under the hammondite's skate and passed it across to kirby in front of goal. another try and another stop by the cherry's goal-tend. and so it went and so went the precious seconds. and then, suddenly, with the puck within a yard of goal once more and roy's stick raised for a shot, the whistle rang out! "time's up!" announced mr. cobb. roy turned fiercely. "it can't be up!" he cried, skating toward the referee. "it is, though," was the answer. "that's perfect nonsense!" said roy hotly. "you said there was two minutes left just a minute ago!" "that'll do, porter," said mr. cobb coldly. roy dropped his eyes, swallowed something hard in his throat and examined a cut on his hand. then, "beg pardon, sir," he said. "this way, fellows! a cheer for hammond--and make it good!" well, it wasn't very good. but then you can scarcely blame them when another second would perhaps have tied the score. but they cheered, and hammond answered it; and the hockey season had ended with a defeat for ferry hill. schonberg skated over to roy and held out his hand. "you had us on the run, porter," he said. "if we'd played five minutes longer you'd have won. you've got a slick team, all right! how about next year? you're going to keep the team up, aren't you?" "sure," answered roy. "and we're going to lick the stuffing out of you!" the rival captain laughed good-naturedly. "that's right. we've had a dandy time playing you chaps and we'll be ready again next year. good-bye." "good-bye," answered roy as graciously as he could. "glad you fellows came over." he turned and found jack beside him. "say, jack," he asked, "what's the longest period of time you can think of?" "i don't know," answered jack soberly. "what's the answer?" "one year," was the glum reply. chapter xviii on fox island spring came suddenly that year. they woke up one morning to find the river flowing warmly blue and free of ice, the walks running with crystal water and the bricks steaming in the fervid sunshine. winter had disappeared over night and spring had come to its own again. with the awakening of the new season came the awakening of new interests. the crew candidates, who for weeks past had been toiling ingloriously at the rowing machines in the basement of the gymnasium, went trooping down the path to the river and launched their shells. the baseball candidates who had been throwing and batting in the cage and sliding to bases over the hard floor trotted out to the field in search of a dry spot whereon to hold their first outdoor practice. with the former went horace burlen, free at last, in spite of his enemies' croakings, of all conditions, and hadden and gallup and whitcomb and otto ferris and others. with the baseball candidates went chub, roy, bacon, kirby, post and many more. and--oh, yes--sid welch! sid had entertained hopes of making the second crew, but such hopes had been sadly shattered. and as sid had to be trying for something to be content he naturally went in for the only first-class sport left. "i think," he confided to chub, "i think i'd like to play shortstop." "just as you say, sid," chub answered gravely. "all you'll have to do will be to beat bacon out for the position. you're sure you wouldn't rather pitch? post and kirby, you know, aren't so much of a muchness but what you could beat 'em with a little practice." "well, anyhow, i don't see why i couldn't be a fielder," answered sid good-naturedly. "you'll give me a show, won't you, chub?" "course i will, sid," answered chub heartily. "you come along out and we'll see what you can do. first of all, though, we'll take a little of that fat off you." "i've been trying to get rid of it," sid replied earnestly and sadly, "but it doesn't seem to do any good. i haven't eaten any bread or potato or puddin' for days and days!" "never mind the bread and potato, sid," said chub with a laugh. "i know a better way." "what?" asked the other interestedly. "chasing flies, my boy!" was the answer. march was kind to them. it gave them a clear two weeks of fair weather at the end. to be sure, the wind howled dismally sometimes and it was often cold enough to make fingers stiff, but it allowed them to stay out of doors and that was the main thing. april, however, started in meanly. ten days of drizzle and wet fields affected even chub's temper. but everything, even a spell of rainy weather, must come to an end some time, and the second week of april brought back sunny skies and mild days. and after that affairs went briskly on the diamond. roy had kept his promise to his chum, a promise made on the occasion of their first meeting and re-made several times since. for chub had got it into his head that roy had the making of a baseball player and never allowed him to forget for a moment all winter long that he had agreed to try for the team. "you ought to make a good baseman," chub said once, looking over his friend with the eye of a connoisseur. "maybe third--or even first. you've got height and a good long reach; and you're quick and heady. patten's the only fellow i know of who's after first base. he was substitute last year. he's not bad, but he's not an expert by a long shot. just you come out, old man, and see what you can do." and roy promised for the twentieth time. training table was started the middle of april, with mr. cobb in command. by that time the candidates had been weeded out until there were but fourteen left. the "culls," as chub called them, went toward the making up of the second team. there was practice every afternoon save sunday, usually ending with a short game with the second nine, the latter strengthened by the presence of mr. cobb, who played first base or pitched as occasion required. roy bought a rule-book early in the season and studied it diligently, following it up later with an invaluable blue-covered pamphlet which told him exactly how to play every position on the team. in the end, however, he discovered that the best way to learn baseball is to play it. chub started him at left-field and kept him there until he had learned to judge a ball, catch it and field it home. it was hard work, but roy liked it. sometimes, however, he doubted whether he would ever vindicate chub's belief in him. there seemed an awful lot to learn and he envied the ready thought displayed by the fellows who had been playing the game for several years. i think that chub would have strained a point to keep roy with him as long as it did not endanger the success of the team, for by this time the two were well-nigh inseparable. but it very soon became evident that no favoritism was necessary; roy deserved a place on the nine by virtue of his ability. by the middle of april he was having a try at first and two weeks later he had succeeded to the position vice patten removed to the outfield. it didn't take him long to accustom himself to the place and its requirements. as chub had said, he had height and reach, was quick and steady and clear-headed. of course there was talk; disgruntled fellows who had failed at making the team sneered at chub's favoritism, and horace found time from his rowing duties to try and stir up discord amongst the baseball men. but patten, who had more cause than anyone else to feel dissatisfied, had nothing to say. he had sense enough to realize that chub had given the position to the best man, and enough of the right sort of spirit to be satisfied, so long as it was for the good of the team and the school. patten went out to right-field, stifled his disappointment and "played ball." chub must have been right. unless he "has it in him" no boy can learn to play baseball well in three months, as roy did. perhaps, though, mr. cobb's coaching deserves more credit than i am giving it. he certainly worked hard with roy. and so did chub. and the other members of the nine, amongst whom roy was highly popular, helped, perhaps unconsciously, to give him self-confidence in the early days of his novitiate. so, it seems, the fates worked together to fashion him into a baseball player much to the regret of mr. buckman who had entertained hopes of securing him for the second four. but although roy liked the water well enough and was never more contented than when out with chub in the crimson canoe, he was more at home on the turf. perhaps the first or second four lost a good oar when roy chose baseball instead of rowing; be that as it may, it is certain the nine found a good first baseman. april recess began on the twenty-second and lasted nine days, from friday afternoon to the second monday morning, although, as the fellows were required to be back at school by sunday noon, eight days come nearer to the mark than nine. crew and baseball candidates were supposed to remain at ferry hill during this recess and most of them did so. roy was undecided whether to stay or go home. chub begged him to remain, putting it to him first on the score of duty to the nine and then citing the camping-out on fox island as an inducement. roy's mother decided the matter for him eventually by writing that she was going south for six weeks. she suggested that roy join her at a south carolina winter resort, but roy had no desire for a week of hotel existence and so threw in his lot with chub, gallup, bacon, post, kirby and the others. jack rogers went home and so did sid, who had been working hard on the second nine and showing quite a little promise. doctor and mrs. emery took a week's vacation, but harry was left behind--greatly to her delight--because her holidays did not come until later. mr. cobb, too, disappeared from the scene and the charge of the school was left in mr. buckman's hands. saturday was the first day of the recess and roy and chub spent the morning on the river. they paddled down stream for a mile or more in the canoe and fished, but with scant success. in the afternoon came baseball practice which ended with a six-inning game with a silver cove team. sunday was rather dull for it rained torrents. chub, roy, gallup and post donned rubber coats or old sweaters in the afternoon and took a long tramp inland. but monday morning dawned bright and fresh and as soon as breakfast was over the fellows, under mr. buckman's direction, began the overhauling of the camping outfit. the four big tents were pulled from their quarters in the boat house, spread out on the landing and gone over for holes or weak places. then lost pegs were replaced, new guy-ropes supplied and a broken ridge-pole was mended. dinner was rather a hurried meal that day, for every fellow--and there were twenty-odd left at school--was eager to get into camp. at three o'clock the tents and outfits were loaded into row boats and transferred to the island. all afternoon boats went back and forth on errands; baking powder had been forgotten, gallup wanted his camera, someone had left one of the hatchets on the landing, cook had neglected to grind the coffee before packing it, four more blankets were needed, mr. buckman wanted a roll of adhesive plaster and a bottle of arnica. meanwhile the tents were erected, the old cook-stove was set up and fuel gathered. at five o'clock, kirby, under mr. buckman's tuition, began the preparation of the first meal. roy and chub and half a dozen others built the camp fire in the open space between the tents, piling up the brush and slanting the dead limbs above it until the whole looked like an indian wigwam. then came supper; bacon, potatoes, tea, milk and "spider cake," the latter an indigestible but delightful concoction of thin flour batter poured into the frying pan and cooked until nice and soggy. after supper the camp-fire was lighted, the fellows spread themselves out on the ground about it and the camp went into executive session. chub was elected little chief--mr. buckman was big chief--and roy became medicine man. then four chiefs of tribe were elected and the honors fell to roy, horace burlen, kirby and pryor. these, in turn, selected their warriors and were assigned to tents--or tepees, as they preferred to call them. roy chose chub, gallup, bacon and post; burlen selected ferris, hadden, whitcomb and walker; kirby and pryor made up their households of what material was left, each having five instead of six companions as there were twenty-two boys in the party. mr. buckman cast his lot with burlen's utes. roy's tribe was christened seminole, kirby's ojibway and pryor ruled despotically over the navajos. mr. buckman explained the camp rules. there weren't many of them, but they were strict. the chiefs of tribes could grant permission to leave the island but were required to report the names of those leaving to the big chief. every tribe must delegate one of its warriors each day to be fisherman; fishermen must fish not less than two hours and turn their catch over to the little chief. every warrior or chief must strip his bed before breakfast and hang his blankets in the sun. each tribe must select a member to be cook and take his turn at preparing the meals; also an assistant whose duty it was to help and wash up the utensils. prompt attendance at meals was imperative. offenses would be judged by a council composed of the big and little chiefs, the medicine man and the four tribal chiefs and punishment would be meted out by them. in the absence of the big chief the little chief took command; in the absence of both authority was vested in the medicine man. at nine o'clock the fellows sought their quarters and made their beds, for which purpose plenty of pine and hemlock boughs had been cut and piled in the clearing. each tent was supplied with a lantern which swung from the ridge-pole. a rustic bench held a half-dozen tin wash-basins and a looking-glass was hung from a tree nearby. by half-past nine preparations for the night were complete and the boys gathered again about the dying fire and, kneeling, recited the lord's prayer. then good-nights were said and the tribes separated. for some time the sound of laughter was heard. then quiet fell over fox island and a big moon, coming up over the tree tops, threw the four tents into dazzling whiteness and paled the glow of the dying embers where the camp fire had been. [illustration: "quiet fell over fox island"] chapter xix a night alarm fox island lay about two hundred yards off shore and perhaps thrice that distance up-stream from the landing. it contained between an acre and a half and two acres, was beautifully wooded, stood well above flood tide and was surrounded on two sides by beaches of clean white sand. doctor emery had purchased the island some years before, primarily to keep away undesirable neighbors, and had soon discovered that it was a distinct addition to the school's attractions. the spring camping-out soon became one of the most popular features of the year. the next morning chub and bacon did the honors of the island, conducting roy from end to end and pointing out the historical spots. he saw victory cove, so named because it was the scene of the first struggle between hammond and ferry hill for the possession of the latter's boats, a struggle in which the campers came out victorious. ("the next year," explained chub, "they got the best of us and swiped four boats and we had to go over and get them back. but that didn't change the name of the cove.") he saw outer beach, gull point, hood's hill, named in honor of a former school leader and little chief, the grapes, a bunch of eight small rocks just off the westerly corner, treasure island and far island, two low, bush-covered islets of rock and sand lying up-stream from the farther end of the island and divided from it by a few feet of water through which it was possible to wade when the river is not very high, round harbor, turtle point, turtle cove, round head, inner beach, mount emery, a very tiny mountain indeed, and school point. that completed the circuit of the island. but it took them well over an hour because they took it very slowly and neglected nothing. they took off shoes and stockings and waded to treasure and far islands, they scrambled up mount emery, hunted for turtles in turtle cove--without even seeing one--and tried broad-jumping on the inner beach. it was ten o'clock when they got back to camp and found most of the fellows preparing for a bath. they followed suit and presently were splashing and diving in the water off inner beach. it was pretty cold at first, but they soon got used to it. afterwards they laid in the sun on the white sand until thurlow thumped on a dish pan with a big spoon and summoned them to dinner. bathing suits were kept on until it was time to return to the main land for afternoon practice. the island was practically deserted then, for but few of the campers were neither baseball nor crew men. "who's going to stay here?" asked chub before he pushed off the boat. four boys answered. "well, you fellows keep a watch for hammond. they'll be paddling over here pretty soon, probably to-day or to-morrow, to see where we're keeping the boats. if they come around don't let them see you, but watch what they do." the quartette promised eagerly to keep a sharp lookout and chub and roy dipped their oars and rowed across to the landing. when they returned at five o'clock the two four-oared crews were just coming back up-stream to the boat-house, looking as though they had been through a hard afternoon's work. behind them came mr. buckman in his scull, his small brown megaphone hanging from his neck. across the darkening water they could just make out the three hammond boats floating downstream toward their quarters. "who'll win this year?" asked roy, as they took up the rowing again. "hammond, i guess," answered chub. "they usually do. they did last year. you see they've got almost a hundred fellows to pick from, while we have never had over fifty. that makes a difference." "two years ago, though," said bacon, "they say our crew was thirty seconds faster than theirs. and we were light, too. i don't believe the size of the school has much to do with it." "well, it stands to reason that the school that has the most fellows must have the better material," said chub. "look at the way it is in baseball." "that may be," said bacon, "but a whole lot depends on the spirit of the fellows and the coaching." "course it does, but no matter what the spirit is, or how good the coaching may be, four poor oarsmen can't beat four good ones. that's common sense." "well, but a good coach like buckman--" began bacon. "is burlen a good rower?" interrupted roy. "great," answered chub. "dandy," said bacon. "best we've got," supplemented post. "but i don't believe he makes a good captain," said gallup. "whitcomb told me the other day that he gets mad as anything when buckman calls him down." "it's like him," said bacon. "he never could stand being told anything. jack's the only fellow that could ever make him do anything he didn't want to." "they say hammond's four this year is the best they've ever had," said roy. "they always say that," answered chub sceptically. "the first of the season," amended gallup. "later they begin to howl about the fellows going stale, breaking their ankles or spraining their wrists. gee, you'd think to hear them talk a week before the race that they didn't have a man in the boat who wasn't a corpse or a cripple for life!" "that's so," laughed bacon, "but you don't want to forget that year before last williams did the same thing. he gave it out that two of our men had malaria and wouldn't be able to row. they didn't have malaria but they couldn't row much when the time came, so he didn't tell a very big lie." "that sort of thing makes me tired," said roy disgustedly. "what's the use in trying to make the other fellow think you're dying. he doesn't believe it, anyway; and even if he does it isn't fair playing." "that's so," said chub heartily. "it's babyish." "oh, i don't know about that," said post. "it's part of the game, and--" "no, it isn't," interrupted roy. "it has nothing to do with the game. and it's just plain, every-day dishonesty!" "i don't see how you make that out," objected post. "now, supposing--" but the discussion of ethics was interrupted by the grating of the boat's keel on the sand. gallup jumped out into six inches of water and pulled the boat up on the beach and the rest scrambled out. nothing had been seen of hammond's spies and so they went to bed without posting guards that night. "i don't see," observed roy as he was undressing, "why we don't tie the boats up if we're afraid of having hammond swipe them." "well, it wouldn't be fair, i guess," chub answered. "you see we've always left them on the beach. if we tied 'em hammond wouldn't have any show to get them." "you talk as though you wanted her to get them," said roy in puzzled tones. "we do; that is, we want her to try and get them. if we take to tying them to trees and things hammond will stop coming over and we'll miss more 'n half the fun of the camping. see?" "you bet!" grunted post. "what's to keep her from coming over to-night, then," pursued roy, "and taking the whole bunch while we're asleep?" "because she doesn't know where they are, silly!" replied chub. "you don't expect those fellows are going to row across here and then go hunting all about the island in the dark, do you? they always come spying around in the daytime first and see where the boats are hauled up." "it won't be dark to-night," said roy. "there's a dandy big moon." "that's so, but hammond never has tried it without looking about first and i guess she won't this year." "i wish i was a hammondite for about three or four hours," said roy grimly. "i'd open your eyes for you!" whereupon he was quickly tried for a traitor and sentenced to be walloped with a belt. the walloping process occupied the succeeding ten minutes and when concluded--not altogether successfully--left the tent looking as though a cyclone had visited it. but chub's prediction proved correct. the boats were there in the morning, all five of them. "those hammond fellows are a set of chumps," grunted roy. "why don't they send you a note and tell you when they're coming? they might as well do that as send fellows over in a boat to rubber around." "get out! how are we going to know when they're coming?" asked chub. "suppose we see them peeking about to-day; maybe they won't come for three or four nights." "then how do they know you won't move the boats in the meantime?" "why--why we never do!" "oh, i guess i don't know the rules of the game," sighed roy. "sounds as though you were all woozy." it was raining that morning when they arose, but the rain couldn't quench their enjoyment. a shelter tent was put up and they all crowded under it for breakfast. afterwards the utes challenged the seminoles to a game of ring-toss under the trees. roy was assistant cook that day and so he and post--post being chef--were out of it. the utes won and were much set up about it, issuing challenges indiscriminatingly at dinner. the four fishermen came in just before the meal with a big catch, and post, who knew less about cooking fish than anything else--and that's saying a good deal--was in despair. after dinner he and roy took them to the water and cleaned them, but neither thought to remove the scales. the fish were served for supper and there was a popular demand for the speedy lynching of mr. post. "i thought we ought to do something else to them," he explained in extenuation, "but i couldn't think what it was!" "you want to watch out pretty sharp," said horace burlen with deep sarcasm, "or they'll employ you to cook at the waldorf." "fish a la post," murmured chub. "half portion two dollars and a quarter." "they'd have to pay me more than that before i'd order any," responded gallup. "post and porter ought to take singing lessons," said thurlow. "why?" asked hadden unsuspectingly. "so they won't forget the scales next time," answered thurlow proudly. he was the recipient of four slices of bread and a portion of a cup of water, all unsolicited and unexpected. mr. buckman mildly objected, but appeared to think the punishment deserved. it had stopped drizzling during the afternoon and practice had been held on a very wet diamond. chub had sustained a wrenched ankle by slipping while running bases and was inclined to be down on his luck. roy tried to cheer him up, but had scant success. chub was convinced this evening that the nine was no good and that certain defeat at the hands of hammond stared them in the face. like most normally cheerful persons, chub was the gloomiest of the gloomy when he decided to be. at camp-fire thurlow brought out his banjo and got them all to singing. that seemed to raise chub's spirits some; it did him good, he declared, to howl. later it started in drizzling again and the campers went to bed early, tying the tent flaps securely ere they retired. it was black night when roy awoke. he couldn't even see the canvas overhead. he wondered what had awakened him and listened to the deep breathing about him for a moment. perhaps post had talked in his sleep; he often did. roy turned over again and closed his eyes. then he opened them quickly. from somewhere came a sound as though a boat was being drawn across the pebbles of a beach. he listened intently, but heard nothing more. he had imagined it, he told himself sleepily. but he wasn't satisfied. after a moment he heard it again, that grating noise. he reached toward post about to awaken him, thought better of it and scrambled noiselessly out of bed. after all it was hardly probable that hammond had visited them without giving the usual notice; it wouldn't be playing fair and chub would be frightfully pained and grieved! roy smiled to himself as he tried to find the cords which lashed the tent flap close. there was no use in waking the whole crowd up unless there was some reason for it. he would just look around a bit first--if he could ever get out of the fool tent! then the last cord gave way and he slipped out into the darkness. the camp-fire was long since out and the shower had drowned even the embers. it was no longer raining, but the ground was wet underfoot and the grass and low growth threw drops against his bare ankles. it was not quite so black outside here as it had been in the tent, and in the east a rift in the clouds hinted of the moon, but it was too dark to see much of anything. roy felt his way across the clearing, stumbled over a peg as he crept past the ute quarters and shook a shower of raindrops from a young pine as he went sprawling into the underbrush. it was very damp there on the ground and pine needles and grass and twigs were plastered to his body, but he lay still a moment and listened. surely, if there was anyone round they couldn't have failed to hear him crash into the bushes! all was still for an instant; then there was a subdued splash as though someone had unintentionally plunged his foot into water. roy cautiously lifted his head. now came a whisper; another answered from a distance; an oar creaked in its lock. only a fringe of pines and underbrush divided roy from the inner beach which was here some thirty feet wide. as noiselessly as possible he stood up and stared into the darkness ahead. it seemed that he could distinguish forms moving about, but he decided that an excited imagination was to blame. cautiously he pressed through the bushes, which being wet gave little sound as their branches whipped back. then he was on the edge of the pebbles. and as he raised his bare foot to step forward again the moon broke forth from the broken clouds and he stopped short, stifling the cry that sprang to his lips. in the sudden flood of dim light the edge of the stream seemed fairly alive with boats, while right in front of him, so near that another step would have reached him, a dark figure was kneeling in his path. chapter xx roy visits hammond roy's first impulse was to summon assistance, to rouse the camp; his next, to avoid detection. for the beach was empty of boats; every one of the five, the four steel rowboats and chub's canoe, had been lifted into the water and manned by the marauders, and by the time the fellows reached the scene they would be far out into the river. all this roy sensed in far shorter time than it has taken to tell it. scarcely a moment had passed since the moonlight had revealed the stooping figure in front of him. roy still stood poised for that forward step. the form at his feet resolved itself into a boy with a woolen sweater and a cloth cap. he had laid a piece of paper on the beach and was piling pebbles upon it. had he glanced up quickly he could not have failed to see roy, even though the latter stood in partial shadow. roy held his breath and waited. in the boats the dark forms of the invaders were motionless, startled doubtless by the sudden advent of the moonlight. then the boy at roy's feet straightened himself up with a little laugh, and, without glancing back, crept down the beach toward the boats. and as suddenly as it had come the moon went, and once more the darkness enveloped everything. roy took a deep breath and, with pulses leaping, crept silently after the other. the moon had played into his hands. he kept to the right, heading toward the last of the boats as he remembered its location. the hammond boy had gone straight down the beach and roy had no desire to overtake him. in a moment his feet were in the water, splashing softly. vague forms came and went in the darkness and his hands groped toward them. it is probable, however, that he would have waded straight into the middle of the stream had not a low voice hailed him. "here you are, jim, get in here!" roy turned toward the voice, stumbled over a sunken stone and collided with the side of a rowboat. "don't make so much noise, you plunger!" said the voice. "give me your hand." roy gave it and was promptly hauled over the side of the boat. someone pulled him down upon a seat. "all right!" whispered the voice. "all right, fellows!" called someone in the next boat softly. and there came the sound of creaking rowlocks. "got your oar?" whispered the fellow who shared roy's seat. roy felt around and found it and began to row. "look out, you fellows!" called a voice from the darkness beside them, and they ceased rowing while another boat crossed ahead of them. "more to the right," commanded a boy behind roy and roy pulled hard on his oar. presently a little breeze came into their faces and roy guessed that they were rounding the lower end of the island. very silently they went. after a little roy turned his head and saw a light here and there on the farther shore. he judged that they were by this time about half way across. the fellows about him began to converse in whispers, gradually forgetting caution as they left the island farther and farther behind. "won't they be a surprised lot of chumps in the morning!" asked someone with a laugh. "they sure will," answered another hammondite. "they'll be 'very ill' for a long while." "i never thought we'd do it," said the boy who was working an oar next to roy. "i don't see yet why they didn't hear us." "they weren't expecting us," said another. "i tell you that was a foxy idea of jim's, to find out where they kept the boats from the other shore, now wasn't it?" "who went over, jim?" asked roy's companion. roy's heart sank, but luckily someone behind answered for him. "he went over himself, he and smith. rowed over a mile up-river, left the boat, came down across the fields. they watched for an hour and saw the ferry hill fellows come back from school and haul the boats out. oh, it was an all-right scheme!" roy looked at the sky, hoping mightily that the moon wouldn't come out until they had reached the other shore. there was still a lighter patch up there, but the moon seemed pretty well extinguished for the time being. if only they wouldn't insist on his talking! [illustration: "roy held his breath and waited."] "do we have to give the boats back right away, jim?" asked a voice from the bow. roy hesitated, hoping that as before someone would answer for him. but no one did. so he plucked up his courage. "guess so," he replied, rather huskily. "say, you've got a peach of a cold, haven't you?" asked his neighbor. "did you get wet?" "sopping," growled roy. "too bad. you come up to my room when we get back and i'll give you a dose of medicine. i've got some dandy stuff! nasty's no name for it, but it'll do you good." "thanks," muttered roy. meanwhile the others were discussing the yielding of the prizes of war. "they'll probably be around in the morning for them," said one boy. "i vote we all go down to the landing and receive them." "sure; we always do," said another. "much you know about it," said a third. "you weren't here two years ago, and we didn't get them last year." "well, i guess i've heard about it, haven't i?" was the indignant response. "easy at the oars, fellows," a voice in the bow cautioned. "we're almost in." "where the deuce are we?" asked another voice. "here's the landing over here!" the information came from some distance down stream and roy and the other rower headed that way. then their bow bumped into one of the other boats, and presently, after several moments of confused rowing and backing, they were alongside the float. roy dropped his oar and sprang out. "say, someone strike a light!" suggested a voice. "i'll see if i can find the boat-house lantern." an exclamation of pain and a crash told the rest that he had gone in search of it; and at the same moment roy's companion shoved the boat they were in up on shore and rushed toward the platform, leaving roy alone with the boat, while the attention of the others was centered upon the effort to get a light. "i've got a match," called a boy, and roy dove wildly into the darkness just as a tiny point of light flared up. where he was going he didn't know; but luckily the branches of a tree whipped his face and he groped his way into a damp thicket and subsided panting upon the ground. he had gone some twenty yards. back on the landing they were lighting the big square lantern that hung on the front of the boat-house and the radiance from it allowed roy to watch what was going on. as nearly as he could judge there had been fully a dozen boys in the party and now they were securing their own boats and the ferry hill crafts along the edge of the float. "i think we ought to put them in the boat-house or somewhere," he heard one of the crowd say. "supposing they find out that we've swiped them and come over here before we're up." "oh get out!" someone answered. "they won't know anything about it until half-past six or seven. we'll be down here by that time." "where does this lantern belong?" asked a voice. "any old place. leave it here." "let's take it along to find the path with." "yes, and have crowley or murdock see it and get on to the whole thing! i guess not! blow it out and leave it by the boat-house." then came darkness again and the sound of feet drawing near roy's place of concealment. on they came, trooping up the path, laughing and talking softly. roy crawled gingerly back into the bushes. the first of the crowd passed within arm's reach, or so it sounded. then came others, stumbling and muttering. presently, "is that you, jim!" asked one of the passers. "that's me," answered a clear voice. "coming up to the room for that medicine?" "what medicine?" "for your cold." "say, you want to get to sleep, my boy. i haven't got any cold." "you said you had, you idiot! it doesn't sound so now, though." "i said i had a cold? when did i say so?" demanded jim. "why, in the boat, coming back. i said--" then they passed out of hearing and roy smiled all to himself there in the darkness. finally the last of the footfalls ceased sounding on the path and roy stretched his cramped limbs and eased his position. it wouldn't do to return to the landing yet, though; he must allow them at least an hour to get to bed and asleep. to be sure, the dormitories were not, he believed, in view of the landing, but it wouldn't do to take chances. so he made himself as comfortable as he could and waited. he was shivering now and his teeth chattered every time he opened his mouth to yawn. he wondered what time it might be; perhaps one o'clock, perhaps four. at any rate, he must wait an hour longer and he mustn't go to sleep while he waited. that was the hardest part of it, to keep awake. it seemed to him that he had never been sleepier in his life. the minutes passed while he strove to keep his eyes open. time and again he caught himself drowsing and threw off the temptation just in time. but the minutes went by, as they must even when a chap is sitting in a thicket in a suit of damp clothes, and minutes make hours. after a while he assured himself that the hour had passed, yet resolutely held his place for a while longer to be on the safe side. finally, shivering and cramped, he crawled out and picked his way back to the landing. if only he had matches! he thought ruefully. and the next moment his bare foot trod on something and stooping he picked up what he wanted! it felt like a good one, but he decided to find the lantern before he tested it. he didn't have to search long for the lantern, for he fell over it almost the next step he took. finding a sheltered place, he opened the lantern and tried the match. it lighted, flickered uncertainly a moment and then burned steadily. he held it to the wick, closed the door and raising the light looked about him. there were seven rowboats and chub's canoe made fast to the end of the float. it was a little difficult to tell which were ferry hill and which hammond craft, but roy didn't let that trouble him. for the next ten minutes he was so busy that he forgot his coldness. once the moon came out for a moment or two, but for the most part it was so dark that the lantern's rays seemed very feeble. finally, however, the last knot was tied and roy, blowing out the lantern, slid into one of the ferry hill boats and slipped oars into oarlocks. then, slowly, he headed away in the darkness, and one by one went each of the seven other boats, the canoe dipping along in the rear. for, thought roy with a chuckle, "what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." i'm not going to dwell on the next hour. fortunately there was no wind, and the slight tide was in his favor. there were one or two lights on the opposite shore, but as roy didn't know where they were they didn't help much, and it was more by good-luck than good management that he reached it at all. when the boat did grate on the shore he leaped out with painter in hand and made fast to a rock. then he returned to the boat and waited as patiently as he could for dawn. but he didn't have to do that, as it proved. he had been nodding here only half an hour perhaps when the moon, which all the night had been trying its best to elude the clouds, positively leaped into view with an effect so startling that roy almost fell out of the boat. the moon was floating across a little pond of purple-gray sky, the banks of which were piles of fluffy white clouds like snow. but he didn't waste much time in admiring the scene. swiftly he looked about him. he would have yelled with joy if he hadn't been so tired and sleepy, for there, not a dozen yards away along the bank was the boat-house. at first he decided to pull the boats out where they were and return to the island without them. then he determined to see the thing through if it took all the rest of the night. so he pushed off and headed up-stream. by keeping well in toward shore he was soon in the lee of the island where no breeze could reach him. after that, it was simple work. the moon stayed out long enough to guide him to shore and then retired again. a few minutes' work on the beach sufficed to bring all the boats out of the water. he worked quietly, for he had no wish to explain the night's happenings then; he wanted only to tumble into bed and go to sleep. softly he felt his way through the brush--it was too dark to find the path--crossed the clearing and at length found his tent and crept quietly into bed. the next thing he knew the canvas overhead was a moving pattern of sunlight and shadow and chub was pulling him out of bed by one foot. [illustration: "then, slowly, he headed away in the darkness"] chapter xxi ferry hill changes its leader the presence of the strange boats on the inner beach was not discovered until just before breakfast. roy had said nothing to anyone of the night's adventures. otto ferris was noisily hammering a spoon on a new dish-pan when kirby burst excitedly on to the scene. "mr. buckman, there are three new boats on the beach, sir!" "new boats?" "yes, sir, rowboats." "where did they come from? whose are they?" asked the instructor, bewilderedly. "i don't know, sir. they're not ours." "someone must have come in the night," said horace. "maybe campers." "well, after breakfast we'll have a look around," said mr. buckman. as soon as grace had been said roy spoke up. "those boats belong to hammond, mr. buckman," he said. "to hammond? how do you know, porter? what are they doing here?" "i brought them, sir." a howl of laughter arose. mr. buckman smiled genially. "i suppose there's a joke somewhere," he said. "get rid of it, porter." "well, yes, there is a joke, sir," answered roy quietly. "and i guess it's on hammond." something in his tone silenced the laughter and from one end of the trestle table to the other the fellows forgot the sizzling ham and eggs before them and looked eagerly at roy. "you've been up to something!" cried chub. "i've been up half the night," answered roy. excited yells and exclamations followed this announcement. fellows jumped from their places and crowded about him. "out with it!" they cried. "what's up? where did you find the boats? when was it?" and so roy began at the beginning, hugely enjoying the amazement the story created. time and again he was interrupted by excited questions; thrice chub literally fell on his neck and hugged him until torn away by eager members of the audience. and when the story was finished they dragged roy from the bench and sat upon him and pummelled him joyfully. he was more than satisfied with the sensation he had created; he was even glad for the sake of his aching ribs that it hadn't been any greater. and then he was dragged off to the beach and made to go through the narrative all over again, pointing out where he stood and where "jim" stood, mr. buckman following as interestedly as any. and in the middle of it they found the note under the stones. "found!" (it ran) "five boats. owner may have same by applying to hammond academy and describing property." "cheeky dubs!" growled post. chub, who during the last few minutes had been looking grave and sorrowful, broke in aggrievedly. "it was mighty mean of you to keep the whole thing to yourself, though," he said. "you might have let me in on it." roy had to explain the impossibility of doing so, but chub was disconsolate until, an hour or so later, a boat was seen leaving the hammond landing. then the entire camp went to the end of the island and watched in silent enjoyment the approach of the hammond boat. it held four fellows, and it didn't head straight for the island; evidently they weren't quite certain what had become of their boats. they passed the end of the island, each fellow apparently trying to look unconcerned, waved to the group on the point and kept on toward the other shore. but when the inner beach was in sight and the boats revealed to view they stopped rowing, talked a minute among themselves and then turned and rowed slowly toward the beach. the campers walked dignifiedly around to meet them. it was a sheepish-looking quartette that beached their boat and advanced toward the group. the leader was schonberg. beside him was a tall, good-looking fellow whom roy rightfully guessed to be "jim." schonberg spoke first. "hello, you fellows," he said sadly. "you're mighty smart, aren't you?" "so-so," answered horace amiably. "i s'pose we can have our boats?" asked schonberg. "help yourself," answered horace with a grin. schonberg saw the grin, strove to look unconscious and finally grinned back. that broke the ice. ferry hill howled its enjoyment and the three ambassadors joined in, though with less spontaneity. "come on up, you fellows," said chub. "let's chin." so they came up and sat down at the edge of the bushes. "it's one on us," said schonberg, "isn't it, jim?" jim laughed, plucked a blade of grass, stuck it in the corner of his mouth and said he guessed it was. "what i'd like to know, though," he added puzzledly, "is how the dickens you did it." "ask this fellow," suggested chub, nodding toward roy. the ambassadors looked inquiringly at roy. roy explained. the ambassadors opened their eyes, looked blankly incredulous and finally convinced. "well, i'll be blowed!" muttered jim. "that's what joyce meant when he asked about my cold!" "what do you think of that?" exclaimed schonberg. the other two shook their heads, plainly at a loss for words to adequately express just what they did think. then there were a lot of questions, which roy answered cheerfully, and finally schonberg got up. "well, you did us to a turn," he said frankly. "as for you, porter, you--" he hesitated; then--"you ought to come to hammond!" he finished, evidently bestowing the highest praise he could think of. "thanks," answered roy with a laugh, "but i was there last night and found it mighty cold." "if we'd known it was you," said jim, "we might have made it warmer for you." "that's just what i thought, and so i took particular pains not to tell anyone." ferry hill assisted hammond to launch her three boats. hammond expressed her thanks. each bade the other good-bye. hammond rowed away. then the formal politeness of the parting was suddenly marred by one of the ambassadors who had thus far scarcely spoken. he was a thin, scrawny youth and wore glasses. when the boats were a little way off shore and headed toward home he looked defiantly across at the group on the beach and shook his fist. "just you wait until next year, you fresh kids!" he shouted. schonberg told him to dry up and jim splashed him with water, but he of the spectacles would not be stilled. "we'll show you next time," he added venomously. ferry hill laughed; all save post. post blew a kiss. "all right, dearest!" he called back. "dearest" replied at some length, but his utterances were marred by jim who promptly pulled him backward into the bottom of the boat. so hammond, acknowledging defeat, took her departure, trailing her recovered war-craft dejectedly behind. ferry hill was in raptures all day long; and a week later when school had begun once more and the camp was only a memory, roy found himself a hero indeed. the returning students listened to the tale with wildest delight and horace burlen's supremacy was a thing of the past. only the veriest handful of loyal subjects remained about his fallen throne. ferry hill acknowledged a new leader, and his name was roy porter. horace accepted his overthrow with apparent good grace, but that he was far from reconciled subsequent events proved. roy took his honors coolly and modestly. a youth less well-balanced might have been badly spoiled. the younger boys followed roy about and hung breathless on his lightest word. quarrels and arguments were laid before him for adjustment and there were always one or more worshiping subjects at hand eager to run his errands. but roy did his own errands and refused to be spoiled by the adulation of his friends. horace's overthrow, however, pleased him well. he had never forgotten or forgiven that youth's insult to his crimson sweater, and revenge was sweet. meanwhile april passed into may and may ran swiftly toward june. hammond came over and played the first of a series of three games on the diamond and won decisively by twelve runs to five. neither post nor kirby proved effective in the pitcher's box and the playing of the other members of the team was listless and slow. ferry hill made as many errors as runs and secured only four hits off of rollins, the opposing pitcher; who, by the way, proved to be the "jim" of roy's midnight adventure. chub was in despair. mr. cobb rated the players soundly after the game and threatened all sorts of dire punishments if they didn't do better. roy had one error to his credit, but aside from that had played a fairly good game. the second hammond game was two weeks away and in the meanwhile every effort was made to better the team. practice became stiffer, and stiffer substitutes were tried in almost every position. up to the last week of may there had been little to choose between post and kirby, but in the game with highland academy on the twenty-eighth of the month, post showed such excellent form that it was decided to save him for the next hammond contest. affairs on the river were meanwhile promising far better. the first four was rowing finely, whitcomb at stroke, hadden at 2, burlen at 3 and gallup at bow. otto ferris had failed to get out of the second boat, where, with fernald, walker and pearse he was daily making the first row its hardest to win out in the practice races. on the track things were in poor shape. hammond would not compete with ferry hill in track and field games and so there was but little incentive for the latter school. still, a handful of boys went in for running, hurdling, pole-vaulting, jumping and shot-putting in preparation for the preparatory school meet. those boys who neither rowed, played baseball nor performed on the track--and there weren't many such--essayed golf or went fishing on the river or along one or the other of the two nearby streams. the streams were the more popular, though, for they afforded excellent sport with rod and fly, wissick creek especially yielding fine trout, principally for the reason that it ran for several miles through private estates and had been carefully preserved for many years. the best pools were posted and once in a great while a case of poaching came up before the principal, but as poaching was held to be a dire offence, punishable with expulsion, the fellows as a general thing contented themselves with such portions of the stream as were open to the public. of course, fishing on sunday was strictly prohibited, but sometimes a boy would wander away from school for a sunday afternoon walk with a fly-book in his pocket and an unjointed rod reposing under his clothes and making him quite stiff-kneed in one leg. such things will happen in the best regulated schools just as long as trout will rise to a fly and boys' nature remains unchanged. roy and chub and bacon and the others making up the first nine had no time, however, in those days, for fishing, either legal or illegal. they were busy, very busy. and the nearer the second hammond game approached, the busier they were. mr. cobb worked them right up to the eve of that important contest. if they lost it would not be for lack of hard practice. all ferry hill crossed the river in a blazing june sun, brown and white banners flying, to watch and cheer. even the crew men postponed rowing until after the game. it was a hard-fought battle from first to last, in which the honors went to the pitchers. hammond started with her second choice twirler, he giving place in the seventh inning to jim rollins. ferry hill used post all through and he didn't fail her. neither side scored until the fifth, and then ferry hill got a man to second on an error, and scored him by making the first hit of the game, a two-bagger that placed chub on second, where he stayed, while roy flied out to center-field and brought the inning to a close. in the sixth an error by bacon, at short, started things going for hammond. her first man up stole second. her next batsman sacrificed and sent him to third from where he scored on a long fly to the outfield which patten couldn't handle fast enough. then nothing more happened until the eighth, when bacon was hit by rollins, stole second, went to third on a sacrifice and scored on a passed ball. hammond failed to solve post's curves in their half of that inning, ferry hill had no better luck in the first of the ninth and hammond, in the last half of the ninth, placed a man on first and then went out in one, two, three order. ferry hill had won, but she had won on errors largely, and the outlook for the deciding game, when rollins would pitch all through, was far from bright. but at least ferry hill had rendered that third game necessary, and that was something to be thankful for. and the fact that she had played with vim and snap and had made but two errors was encouraging. ferry hill went home with banners still flying and her cheers echoing back from shore to shore. and roy, because he had accepted every chance and had played a faultless game at first-base, found himself more of a hero than ever. more practice followed, interspersed with minor contests with neighboring schools. ferry hill seemed to have found her pace, for she disposed of three visiting nines in short order, and on the saturday following the hammond victory traveled down-river and won from prentice military academy by the overwhelming score of 16 to 2. chub's spirits had risen since the last hammond game and it was his old self that tumbled upstairs from the junior dormitory the next morning before rising bell and snuggled into roy's cot. "get over, you log," he whispered, "and give me some room." "room! you've got the whole bed now! if cobb sees you--" "let him; who cares? say, roy, let's go fishing to-day. i feel just like it." "and get found out and put on inner bounds? no; thanks!" "we won't get found out, roy, my boy. we'll just go for a walk this afternoon and take a couple of rods with us. "i'll borrow one for you. i've got flies to burn. we'll go to a place i know, a dandy hole; regular whales there! what do you say?" "i say you're a silly chump to risk it." "tommy rot! come along!" "i'll go along, but i won't fish." "what a good little boy!" "that's all right, chub, but i don't want to go on bounds just when the hammond game is coming along. it's only a week, you know. you take my advice and be good." "i can't be good--to-day. i feel too kittenish," added chub with a gurgle of laughter. "there goes the bell. will you come?" "yes, but won't fish." "oh, pshaw! yes, you will. i'll borrow a rod for you anyhow." and chub slipped out of bed and scampered downstairs again. at three o'clock two boys sauntered idly away from school in the direction of the river. one of them held himself rather stiffly and his side pocket bulged more than usual. but there was no one to notice these trivial things. once on the river bank they doubled back and struck inland toward the silver cove road, chub leading the way. "gee!" he said, "i'll be glad when i can take these poles out! they're mighty uncomfortable." "did you bring two?" asked roy. "sure! when you see the way those trout bite you'll want to take a hand yourself. i borrowed tom's. otto ferris had to come nosing around and saw it, but he won't tell. if he does i'll make him wish he hadn't!" "he might tell horace," said roy uneasily. "if horace thought he could get me into trouble he'd do it mighty quick." "oh, he's a back-number," answered chub gaily. "this way, over the fence and across the pasture; it's only about a quarter of a mile from here." soon they were treading their way along the bank of a fairly wide brook, pushing through the alders and young willows. after a while chub stopped and jointed his pole. "you're going to fish, aren't you?" he asked. roy shook his head. "no, especially since there's a chance that ferris will tell horace. i don't want to get hung up for the hammond game. you go ahead, if you've got to, and i'll watch." "all right, if you won't. what's that?" he started and turned, peering intently through the bushes. "thought i heard someone," he muttered. "hope it wasn't cobb or buckman," said roy fervently. "oh, they don't spy," answered chub, selecting a grey fly from a pocket of the book that had swelled his pocket. "well, here goes for that nice black place over there where the little eddy is." the line flashed in the air and fell softly into the shadowed water. after that chub seemed to forget roy's presence entirely. roy leaned back with hands clasped behind his head and watched; that is, he watched for a while; then his eyelids closed and with the babble of the stream and the drowsy hum of insects for a lullaby he went to sleep. when he awoke the shadows had lengthened perceptibly and chub was not in sight. from the cramped condition of his neck and arm he judged that he had slept hard and long. he got to his feet and called softly. there was no answer. evidently chub had wandered further along stream. roy waited a while, then, as it was fast approaching supper-time, he started home. as he reached the fence back of the athletic field chub jumped into the road a few rods above and hurried toward him. "you're a great one," called roy. "i waited almost half an hour for you to come back there." "i'm awfully sorry," said chub. "you see i couldn't get even a nibble there and so i thought i'd go on up-stream. you were having a lovely sleep and i hated to wake you. i tried two or three pools and found nothing doing. didn't get even a bite all afternoon. and when i got back you were gone. what did you do with tom's pole?" "tom's pole?" echoed roy blankly. "yes, did you leave it there? i couldn't see it." "why, it wasn't there! at least, i don't think it was. are you sure you didn't take it with you?" "sure; i only had my own. that's funny. it's too late to go back now. i'll go up in the morning and see if i can find it. if i can't i'll have to buy him another one." "i'll do the buying," answered roy. "you borrowed the old thing for me." "nonsense; it's my funeral. you said you didn't want it, and i insisted on getting it for you. well, maybe i'll find it. come on, we'll have to hurry a bit." chapter xxii the poaching when otto ferris had happened into the senior dormitory in time to see tom forrest hand his fishing-rod to chub he had thought nothing of it. and when, having found the book he was after, he returned to the campus and ran into horace he mentioned the incident as a mere bit of unimportant news; on a drowsy sunday afternoon nothing is too slight to serve as conversation. horace settled himself with his back to a big elm tree and thought it over. if doctor emery should learn of the fact that chub and roy had gone fishing he would promptly punish them. but the punishment would be something not worth considering. but if, by chance, the two boys were detected fishing on private property, say on old farmer mercer's territory, they would suffer badly; they might even be expelled. horace didn't want anything as bad as that to happen to chub, for he only half disliked that youth, but he couldn't think of anything that would please him more than to see roy porter leave school in disgrace. in that case he could, he believed, very quickly regain his former leadership. in a few minutes he had thought out a scheme which might work, and which, if it did work, would probably bring about the results desired. it was risky, but horace wasn't a coward, whatever his other faults were. he looked about. otto was deep in his book under the next tree. horace smiled to himself and called across to him. otto listened to the scheme with avidity and promptly pledged assistance. "what you've got to do," directed horace, "is to get the sweater. he keeps it in the top tray of his trunk; i saw it there a couple of days ago when he opened it." "but supposing it's locked?" "i don't believe it's locked," answered horace. "anyhow, you go up and see. i'll wait here." "well, but--but why don't you do it?" blurted otto. "now don't you begin to ask questions," replied horace severely. "you do as you're told. if you don't you may have trouble keeping your place in the second boat." "that's all right," whined otto, "but you more than half promised to get me into the first, and you haven't done it." "i said i would if i could," answered the other coolly. "if you could row as well as whitcomb i'd give you his place, but i'm not going to risk losing the race just to please you. run along now." otto went, but was soon back again. "i can't do it," he said. "tom forrest's up there asleep on his bed." "lazy chump," muttered horace crossly. "wait; i'll come along." there was no doubt of the fact that tom was sleeping. his snoring reached them outside the door. horace and otto tiptoed in and the former considered the situation. then, motioning otto toward roy's trunk which stood beside the head of his cot, he placed himself so as to watch forrest and cut off that youth's view of the trunk. otto crept to the trunk. it was unlocked and the crimson sweater lay in the top of the till. down came the lid again noiselessly and otto retreated to the door, the sweater stuffed under his coat. horace crept after him. "all right so far," murmured horace as they went softly downstairs. "now we'll take a walk. can't you stuff that thing away better than that? you look like an alderman. here, i'll show you." he folded it flatly and laid it against otto's chest, buttoning his coat over it. "that's better. now we'll cross the field and take a nice quiet walk. and if anyone ever asks you where we went you remember to say that we walked down the silver cove road as far as the branch and came back again. we went very slow, remember, and were gone about an hour." [illustration: "it was unlocked and the crimson sweater lay in the top of the till."] but once on the road, instead of following it toward the village they crossed it and made up through the woods. when they reached the creek they turned up it and went stealthily, keeping a sharp lookout for chub and roy. as it was, in spite of their caution, they very nearly walked on to them at the deep pool, and had they not fallen instantly to the ground would have been detected. afraid to move away lest the rustling of the branches prompt the others to investigate, they had to lay there for fully a quarter of an hour while chub whipped the pool and roy went off to sleep. then they saw chub wind in his line, glance at roy and move toward them. luckily for them, however, chub took it into his head to try the opposite side and so crossed over on the stones and passed them by. they waited until he had slowly taken himself downstream. then horace sat up and saw the idle pole lying on the ground almost at roy's feet. it was otto who finally, after much persuasion and threatening, crept over and secured it without arousing the sleeper. then, making a little detour, they went on up the creek. five minutes brought them to the edge of farmer mercer's property and in view of a placard threatening dire punishment to trespassers. horace now donned the crimson sweater, threw his coat to otto and jointed up the pole. "wish i had a line and fly," he muttered. "they'll think he was a crazy sort of fisherman, i guess." leaving otto at the wall, he clambered over and stole on. a couple of hundred yards further on there was a place where the meadow came down to the stream and where there were neither bushes nor trees to screen it. it was in full view of farmer mercer's big white house which lay perhaps an eighth of a mile away across the meadow. here horace, a readily-distinguished crimson spot against the green of the farther trees, halted and went through the motions of casting his line. but all the time, you may be sure, he kept one eye on the white house. he had landed just one mythical trout and was preparing to cast again when his eye caught a dark figure stealing along the porch toward the meadow gate. out flew the non-existent line. through the gate hurried farmer mercer. then, as though catching sight of the latter for the first time, horace became apparently panic-stricken. he dropped his pole, picked it up again, looked this way and that for escape, made as though tossing a trout back into the stream, and finally, when the farmer was less than two hundred yards away, dropped his pole again and plunged into the bushes. "hi!" shouted the pursuer. "hi! come back, you rascal!" but horace refused the invitation. instead he made for the spot where otto was awaiting him, running, however, so slowly that the farmer had him in sight for fully a minute as he threaded his way through the trees along the creek. the farmer's cries continued and the farmer still pursued, trying his best to head off the fugitive. but he was running a losing race, for when horace picked up otto they ran in earnest and all the farmer had for his trouble was a discarded fishing pole minus line or hook and a vivid memory of a crimson sweater. the two boys made a short cut for the school, but, as luck would have it, when they reached the dormitory the troublesome tom forrest was wide awake. so horace, who had stowed the sweater under his own coat this time, had to smuggle it under his pillow and await tom's departure. but tom apparently had no present intention of leaving. and a few minutes later chub and roy clattered in. when they saw horace and otto they deferred telling tom about his pole, and chub laid himself down, very stiffly because of his own pole, on roy's bed. conversation languished. horace mentioned the fact that he and otto had been for a walk and chub replied that they too had taken a stroll. both sides waited for the others to leave. suddenly the supper bell rang. horace went to the wash-room and otto followed. chub slipped off downstairs and roy told tom about the pole. tom good-naturedly told him to let the old thing go. then roy, by the merest chance, noticed that his trunk was unlocked, turned the key, slipped it into his pocket and followed tom down to supper. a moment after when horace went to return the sweater to its place he found that he was too late. after a second of indecision he opened his own trunk and hid the garment down at the bottom of it. then he locked the trunk securely and, with otto at his heels, followed the others. it was at half-past nine the next morning that roy was summoned to the principal's office. a rather stout, hard-featured man of middle-age whom roy had never seen before to his knowledge, sat beside the doctor's desk. "porter," said the doctor, "does this belong to you?" he took a fishing-rod from the desk and held it out. roy looked at it and shook his head. "no, sir," he answered. "do you know whose it is?" "no, sir." "do you own a fishing-rod?" "no, sir." "where were you yesterday afternoon at--" the doctor looked inquiringly at the stranger. "four o'clock," prompted the latter gruffly, viewing roy with unfriendly gaze. roy hesitated and his heart sank. then, "i was asleep, sir," he answered. "ah!" the principal paused and tapped softly on the polished surface of the desk. then, "in the dormitory, you mean?" he asked. "no, sir, i wasn't in the dormitory." "not in the dormitory? but you just said you were asleep?" "yes, sir, i was." "whereabouts, then?" "by wissick creek, at what the fellows call the deep hole." the stranger snorted triumphantly. "why did you go there to sleep?" asked doctor emery. "why, sir, i--i was out walking and--and i laid down and got sleepy. so i just went to sleep." he knew that it sounded awfully silly and unconvincing. evidently the doctor thought so too, for he smiled gently and regretfully. "don't you think that's rather a strange tale to tell, porter?" "it's the truth, sir." "it's a tarnation lie, that's what it is," said the stranger vindictively. roy turned hotly. "it isn't a lie," he cried. "and i don't know what business it is of yours, anyhow!" "well, i rather guess it's my business--" began the other. but doctor emery held up a hand. "leave him to me, if you please, mr. mercer," he said quietly. "porter, this gentleman tells me that he discovered a boy, presumably one of my boys, fishing at the bottom of his meadow at about four o'clock yesterday afternoon. the boy saw him coming and ran away, leaving this pole behind him. the boy wore--" "ask him what he wore," interrupted farmer mercer. "just what i have on now," answered roy. "and this cap," he added, holding it forth. "yes, you had a cap all right," said the farmer. "but i don't suppose you happened to have on a red sweater, eh? a dark red one?" "no, i didn't, sir," replied roy. "you have such a sweater, i understand, however," said the doctor. "yes, sir, i have a crimson sweater." "that's what it was, crimson," said the farmer. "but i didn't wear it yesterday. i haven't had it on since camp." "have you loaned it to any one recently?" asked the doctor. "no, sir." "where is it kept?" "in my trunk." "could any one borrow it without your knowing of it?" "why, i suppose so, sir; that is, if my trunk was unlocked." "do you keep it unlocked?" "no, sir, not very often." "then you think it would have been impossible for anyone to have taken it without your knowledge?" "i think it would, sir." "do you know of anyone else in school who has a red sweater?" "no, sir. gallup has a red and white striped one." "there wasn't no stripes on the one i saw," said farmer mercer decidedly. "porter," said the doctor after a moment's silence. "i'm sorry that i can't bring myself to believe your story. is there anyone who can substantiate it? were you alone yesterday afternoon?" "i'm sorry, sir, that you won't believe me. i wasn't on this man's land yesterday, and i don't think i ever was. anyhow, i never fished on it. i've never fished since i came here." "i hope you are telling the truth," answered the doctor gently. "but circumstantial evidence is sadly against you. there is no one who can prove that you were at the deep hole at four o'clock?" "no, sir, no one knows that i was there at that time." chub, he reflected, had left him at least a quarter of an hour before and so couldn't have been sure of his whereabouts at four o'clock. "hm! that's unfortunate," said the doctor. he turned to farmer mercer. "i don't think i need trouble you to remain, sir. i regret deeply that this has occurred and assure you that punishment will be justly meted out to the culprit." the farmer arose. "it's got to be stopped, doctor," he said. "as for the culprit you've got him right here. that's the boy without a doubt. put him in his red sweater and i'll tell you mighty quick. just about his height he was, and kinder slimmish like. well, you know you own business best. good morning, doctor." and the farmer passed out with a final ugly look at roy. chapter xxiii on inner bounds by noon the news was all over school: roy porter was on inner bounds for the rest of the term! "emmy told him," confided sid importantly to a group of juniors and middlers awaiting the dinner summons on the steps of burgess, "that if it wasn't for his good record all year he would have suspended him!" "gee!" quoth the youngest boy in school, "that's pretty fierce, just for fishing on sunday!" "he was poaching," explained sid. "anyhow, emmy says he was. old mercer swears he saw him on his place yesterday afternoon. why, a couple of years ago there was a fellow _fired_ for poaching!" "gee!" echoed the youngest again in wide-eyed amaze. "well, sid, who'll play first?" asked another of the audience. sid shook his head dispiritedly. "patten, i s'pose. i think it's a beast of a shame, that's what i think! take a fellow off the nine just five days before the big game! of course hammond'll lick us." "sure!" was the concurrent opinion. "if patten goes back to first you may get his place at right-field," suggested the youngest boy. "maybe i will," answered sid gloomily, "but who wants to play if roy's out of it?" and the countenances of the audience answered: "who indeed?" "i'll bet if we wanted to we could get him back on the nine," said sid presently. "how?" asked half a dozen voices eagerly. "oh, i know a way," was the unsatisfying reply. "go on and tell us, sid!" "i would if you'd promise never to tell anyone, cross your heart and hope to die." everyone promised instantly and fervidly. "supposing, then," resumed sid, "that a whole raft of us were caught fishing on old mercer's place. what would happen?" "we'd all get suspended," piped up the youngest boy promptly. "inner bounds," suggested someone else. "huh! i guess not! it isn't likely emmy would suspend half the school," replied sid scornfully. "he'd see the injustice of it, of course, and give us all a good blowing up and let us go. and if he let us go he'd have to let roy off too. it would be a--a--" sid paused for a word--"it would be in the nature of a popular protest!" "that's so," said one of the number. "he couldn't punish all of us very well." "he might, though," muttered the youngest uneasily. "oh, we don't want you in it," answered sid contemptuously. "i'm going if the rest do," was the dogged answer. "we'd ought to get a whole lot of fellows, though," one of the middlers said. "yes, about twenty," answered sid. "we can do it, too, you bet! supposing we call a meeting of the middlers and juniors for this afternoon after supper?" "good scheme! whereabouts?" "at the boat-house. you fellows tell it around, but don't say what the meeting's about. if you do emmy'll hear of it, sure." then the dinner bell rang and the informal conclave broke up. "wait for me after dinner," whispered chub to roy at the table. "i want to see you." "all right," answered roy cheerfully. he was trying very hard to hide the fact that he was terribly down in the mouth. the half-curious, wholly sympathetic looks of his companions followed him all through the meal and he was glad when it was over. chub caught up with him on the steps and together they crossed the walk and found seats under one of the elms well away from possible eavesdroppers. "tell me all about it," demanded chub, scowling fiercely. so roy told him. "you don't think he will let you off in time for the game saturday?" asked chub. "no, i'm pretty sure he won't. he's dead certain it was me that mercer saw." chub jumped to his feet. "where are you going?" asked roy suspiciously. "to see emmy," was the answer. "i'll tell him that you didn't wear your red sweater and that you couldn't have been on old mercer's place because you were with me." "don't be a fool!" said roy. "what's the good of getting into trouble yourself? he'll ask what you were doing and you'll have to 'fess up; and then the nine won't have any captain on saturday." "i don't care," answered chub stubbornly. "i got you into the hole and the least i can do is to get you out." "but you wouldn't get me out! you'd just throw yourself in with me. look here, now, chub; emmy isn't going to take any stock in your story. he'll just think that we concocted it between us this morning. besides, you left me for almost an hour and you can't swear that i didn't go over to mercer's while you were gone. it's only a quarter of a mile from where you left me." "but you were asleep!" "so you say." "well, weren't you?" "yes, but emmy won't believe it. he'll think we were both out fishing and that i went to mercer's; and instead of being minus a first baseman on saturday the team will be short a first baseman and a second baseman too; also a captain." "but it isn't fair," cried chub. "i was the only one that fished, and now you're getting the blame for it. it was all my fault, anyhow; i made you go along when you didn't want to." "nonsense; i didn't have to go." "but you went to please me." "oh, well, what if i did?" "it isn't fair," muttered chub. "if i play in that game and you don't i'll feel like a brute." "you don't need to, chub. besides, there's the school to think of. you know plaguey well we'll get done up brown if you don't play--" "we will anyway, i guess," interpolated chub sadly. "--and that isn't fair to the nine and the school. you've got to do everything you can to win that game, chub. you don't suppose that i mind being out of it if we're going to win, do you?" "but we need you, roy! who's going to play first?" "patten, of course; he can do it." "he can't bat like you can." "he'll do all right," answered roy cheerfully. "now you keep your mouth shut, old man, will you?" "i suppose so," chub muttered. "but i hadn't ought to." "yes, you had, too. i'm not the main thing, chub; there's the school." "you're a brick," said chub. "all right; i'll keep mum as long as you want me to. but if you change your mind all you've got to do is to say so and i'll do all i can with emmy. promise to tell me if you change your mind?" "honor bright; but i sha'n't change it; i don't mind, chub, as long as we win." "win! thunder, we aren't going to win! we're going to get everlastingly walloped!" "no, we're not," answered roy hopefully. "we're going to win; you see." "look here," said chub after a moment's silence, "you didn't poach on mercer and i didn't. who the dickens did?" "i can't imagine. i dare say it was some fellow from the village." "with a crimson sweater on? not likely. i suppose it couldn't have been your sweater, eh?" roy shook his head. "how do you know?" pursued chub. "'cause mine was locked in my trunk." "sure?" "certain." "someone might have had a key that fitted the lock, though." "they might have, but--" roy paused and scowled thoughtfully. "come to think of it, chub, my trunk wasn't locked yesterday afternoon. i remember now. i locked it after we got back." "was the sweater there?" "i didn't look." chub whistled softly. "bet you anything some fellow swiped it and wore it," he declared. "let's go see if he put it back." they hurried up to the dormitory and roy unlocked his trunk, threw back the lid and opened the till. "i thought i left it here on top," he muttered, diving through the contents of the till. "maybe i put it underneath, though." out came the till and out came most of the contents of the trunk. but there was no crimson sweater. roy turned to chub in distress. "i don't care if they took it," he said, "but i hope they'll bring it back! i wouldn't lose that sweater for anything!" "lock your trunk again," said chub, "and let's get out of here. some one's coming. let's go somewhere and think it over." "if we only knew who was away from school yesterday afternoon," said roy when they were once more under the trees. "we know that ferris and burlen were," answered chub suggestively. "they said so." "and ferris saw you borrow that pole from tom!" said roy. chub sat up suddenly. "i'll bet that was tom's pole that old mercer brought with him!" he cried. "but you left it at deep hole, and i didn't leave there until long after four, i guess." "but you said you didn't see it when you left!" "that's so; i'm pretty sure it wasn't there," answered roy, thinking hard. "but how could anyone have got it?" "don't know, but i'll bet someone did. they might have sneaked up while you were asleep. horace burlen could do it." they looked at each other a moment in silence. then, "if he took the sweater i'll bet he's thrown it away," said roy sorrowfully. "he wouldn't be likely to bring it back again." "why not? he found the trunk unlocked and maybe thought he could put it back again without anyone knowing anything about it. see? that's just about what happened, roy. i'll bet he did the whole thing to get you in trouble." "wasn't tom in the dormitory when we got there?" "yes." "then maybe he was there when horace got back; and horace couldn't get at my trunk without being seen." "what do you suppose he'd do with it?" asked chub. roy shook his head. "put it in his own trunk maybe," he answered. "come on," said chub. back to the senior dormitory they hurried, for each of them had an examination at two and it was almost that hour now. the dormitory was empty and chub stood guard at the head of the stairs while roy crossed the room and examined horace's trunk. "locked," he announced softly. chub joined him and they stood for a moment looking at the trunk as though striving to get an x-ray view of its contents. "maybe we could find a key to fit it," whispered chub. "i wouldn't like to do that," answered roy, shaking his head. "no more would i," answered chub, "but i'd do it if i was just a little more certain that the thing was in there. i'd like to bust it open with an axe," he added savagely. then the two o'clock bell rang and they hurried downstairs. "keep mum about it," said chub, "and we'll get to the bottom of it yet." "the trunk?" asked roy with a weak effort at humor. "you bet!" was the answer. roy watched practice that afternoon. he stood on the school side of the hedge which marked inner bounds and, out of sight himself, saw patten playing on first. it was lonely work and after a while the figures on the green diamond grew blurred and misty. then, suddenly, brother laurence's advice came back to him and roy brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and turned away. "'when you're down on your luck,'" he murmured, "'grin as hard as you can grin.'" so he tried his best to grin, and made rather a sorry affair of it until he spied harry walking toward the tennis courts with her racket in hand. he hailed her and she waited for him to come up. "i'm awfully sorry, roy," she greeted him. "i told dad you didn't do it." "and he believed you at once," said roy despondently. [illustration:"'when you're down on your luck,' he murmured, 'grin as hard as you can grin.'"] "n-no, he didn't," answered harry. "he--he's a little bit stupid sometimes; i often tell him so." roy laughed in spite of his sorrow. "what does he say then?" he asked. "oh, he just smiles," answered harry resentfully. "i hate people to smile at you when they ought to answer, don't you?" roy supposed he did. and then, in another minute, they were side by side on the stone coping about the stable yard and roy was telling harry everything, even to the examining of horace's trunk and the reason for it. "that's it!" cried harry with the utmost conviction. "he did it! i know he did!" "how do you know it?" asked roy. "oh, i just do! i don't care if he is my cousin; he's as mean--!" "well, suspecting him won't do any good," said roy. "we can't see into the trunk. and, anyhow, maybe he didn't bring the sweater back at all." "yes, he did too," answered harry. "don't you see he'd want to put it back again so that you couldn't say that someone had taken it and worn it? it's there, in his trunk." "and i guess it'll stay there," said roy hopelessly. "he won't be fool enough to take it out now." "couldn't you make him open his trunk?" "i don't see how. i couldn't go and tell him i suspected him of having stolen my sweater; not without more proof than i've got now." "i suppose not," answered harry thoughtfully, her chin in her hand and the heel of one small shoe beating a restless tattoo on the wall. "you might--" she lowered her voice and looked about guiltily--"you might break it open!" "and supposing it wasn't there?" "but it is there!" cried harry. "i know it is!" "wish i did," grunted roy. "well, we'll just have to think of a way," said harry presently, arousing herself from her reverie. "and now i must go on, because i promised to play tennis with jack rogers. i'm sorry." "that's all right," answered roy. "i--i've got some studying to do, anyhow." harry turned upon him with alarm in her face. "now don't you go doing anything desperate, roy porter!" she commanded. "you just sit still and hold tight and--and it'll come out all right. you leave it to me!" chapter xxiv sid's "popular protest"--and what followed harry and jack played one set of tennis, which resulted, owing largely to harry's evident preoccupation, in an easy win for jack, 6--3. "look here, harry, you don't really want to play tennis, do you?" asked jack. harry started and flushed guiltily. "do you mind?" she asked. "not a bit," he answered. "what's bothering you? methuselah got a headache? or has lady grey eaten one of the white mice?" harry shook her head. "i wish i could tell you, jack, but it's not my secret," she answered regretfully and a trifle importantly. "do you--would you mind taking a walk?" "no; where to?" "over to the mercers'." jack thought he could guess then what harry was troubled about, but he said nothing, and they cut across the orchard, in which a few trees of early apples were already beginning to ripen their fruit, and headed for farmer mercer's. harry was a great favorite with mrs. mercer and was cordially greeted. they had root beer and vanilla cookies on the front porch, and then, leaving jack and mrs. mercer to entertain each other, harry ran off to the barn to find the farmer. she was back again in a few minutes and she and jack took their leave. "well, did you discover anything?" asked jack when they were once more on the road hurrying homeward. harry shot a startled glance at him. jack was smiling. "no," she answered disappointedly. "how'd you know?" "oh, i just guessed." "he insists that it was roy, but he didn't see him near to at all, so i don't see how he can tell." "don't you think it was roy?" asked jack. harry's indignant look was eloquent. "of course it wasn't! he says so!" there was a mysterious exodus of middle and junior class boys from the campus to the boat-house that evening after supper. and, when, an hour later, they came straggling back every face bore the impress of a high and noble resolution. it had been unanimously resolved--after a good deal of pow-wow--that they should proceed in a body on the following afternoon to farmer mercer's grounds and fish in wissick creek. behold them, then, at the time appointed, marching across the fields and through the woods for all the world like a band of young crusaders, each armed with a fishing pole and line! there were not enough "truly" poles to go around, so many of the party were forced to cut branches from the willows. on to prohibited territory they marched, eighteen strong, sidney welch, having sought and received permission to absent himself from practice, in command. in full view of the white farm-house they lined the bank of the stream and threw in their lines. to be sure, many of the lines were guiltless of flies or even worms, but that was a detail. the minutes passed. one boy actually hooked a trout, but was so surprised that the prey escaped before he could land it. and still the minutes passed, and the irate voice of the tyrant sounded not. the sportsmen began to tire and grew bored. many of them had never fished before and didn't care about it. a few tossed aside their rods and fell to playing stick-knife. and then, just when sid had decided to give up and lead his defeated hosts back to school, a figure ambled toward them across the meadow. "he's coming!" whispered sid hoarsely. fully half of the group exhibited unmistakable signs of alarm; half a dozen edged toward home and were summoned back by the stauncher members. "he can't do anything to us," said sid nervously. "we're too many for him--even if he is big!" "well, boys, what you doin'?" inquired the farmer amiably. there was a moment of constrained silence. then, "fishing," answered sid bravely. "caught anything?" asked the farmer as he joined the group and looked curiously at the huddled poles. "not yet, sir," answered sid. "too sunny, i guess," was the reply. the trespassers darted bewildered glances along their front. this awful calm was worse than the expected storm. "didn't take you long to get here, by gum!" said farmer mercer presently. "i didn't just bargain for having the whole school turn out to once, but i don't know as it matters. a bargain's a bargain. i give my word, and there it is. 'let 'em come once a week, then,' says i, 'but no more 'n that.' the way that gal sassed me was a caution!" the farmer's face relaxed into something very like a smile. "'if you gave 'em permission to come,' says she, 'they wouldn't care about it so much. it's the temptation that leads 'em,' says she. 'tell 'em they can come and they won't want to.' looks like she was mistaken there, though." "who--o?" stammered sid. "why, harry emery. that's the way she talked, like a regular book. said it was all my fault you boys got in trouble!" he chuckled hoarsely. "what do you think of that, eh? my fault, by gum! called me a--a 'perverter of youth,' or somethin' like that, too! couldn't do nothin' but give in to her after that! 'let 'em come and fish once a week, then,' says i, 'an' as long as they behaves themselves i won't say anything to 'em.' well, you ain't had much luck, to be sure, but i guess you're clustered kind o' close together. guess what fish you fellers catch won't hurt much of any!" [illustration: "'the way that gal sassed me was a caution!'"] and farmer mercer turned and ambled off, chuckling to himself. the trespassers looked from one to another; then, with scarcely a word spoken, they wound up their lines and, with poles trailing, crept crestfallenly home. and in such fashion ended sid's "popular protest!" * * * * * meanwhile events marched rapidly. school came to an end the following wednesday. in four days, that is on saturday, came the boat-race, in the forenoon; and the final baseball game, at three o'clock. examinations would end the day before. it was a breathless, exciting week. on the river the finishing touches were being put to what the school fondly believed was the finest four-oared crew ever destined to carry the brown and white to victory. on the diamond mr. cobb and captain chub eaton were working like beavers with a nine which, at the best, could be called only fairly good. tappen at first was doing his level best, but his best was far below the standard set by roy. the nine, discouraged at first by the loss of roy, was, however, fast regaining its form, and chub began to feel again that he had at least a fighting chance. it was a hard week for roy, for there was always the hope that fate would intervene and deliver him from his durance. but wednesday came and thursday came, and still the crimson sweater, upon the discovery of which so much hinged, did not turn up. roy vetoed chub's plea to be allowed to rip open horace's trunk, and harry's assistance, from which, for some reason, roy had hoped a good deal, had so far worked no relief. there were moments when roy was strongly tempted to accuse horace to his face and dare him to display the contents of that battered trunk of his in the senior dormitory. but there was always the lack of certainty in the other's guilt to deter him. of harry, roy caught but fleeting glimpses. but although she had no good news for him, no brilliant plans to suggest, she was by no means idle. she very nearly thought herself into brain fever. so absorbed was she in roy's dilemma that the permission wrung from farmer mercer to allow the boys to fish his stream passed entirely out of her mind until after school had closed. none of the members of the poaching expedition cared to talk about it, and so harry remained in ignorance of it for the time being. roy finished the last of his examinations on thursday afternoon, and, while he would not learn the results until next week, he was hopeful of having made a better showing than in the winter. afterwards he went to the limit of his prison on the river side and watched from a distance the placing of the course flags for the race. presently from down the river the brown-shirted crews swept into sight, rowing strongly in spite of their weariness. they had finished the last work before the race, although in the morning there would be a half-hour of paddling. number 2 in the first boat was splashing a good deal as the slim craft headed toward the landing, but it probably came from weariness rather than from poor form. the second crew looked pretty well done up and the coxswain's "let her run!" floated up to roy long before the landing was in sight. after that they paddled slowly in and lifted their shell from the darkening water as though it weighed a thousand pounds. from behind fox island, well over toward the farther shore, a row of white shirts caught a shaft of afternoon sunlight and roy watched the rise and fall of the oars as the hammond four returned home at a good clip closely pursued by the second crew. then, on his own side of the river, a single scull crept into view around the point and mr. buckman, handling the long sweeps with an ease and rhythm that seemed the poetry of motion, his little brown megaphone bobbing from the cord about his neck in time to his movements, shot his craft up to the landing. then, save for the launch gliding across to the hammond side, the river was empty and long lanes of sunlight were disappearing, one by one, as the sun sank behind the purple hills. roy had not watched baseball practice since that first afternoon. brother laurence's advice might be very excellent, but a chap couldn't always follow it; there were moments when the grins wouldn't come. and, somehow, when chub confided to him that evening that things were looking up, and couldn't help showing some of the cheerfulness he felt, roy was more lonesome and out of it than ever. the next morning after breakfast doctor emery announced that every student must be in the dormitories at ten o'clock and have his trunk and cupboard open for inspection; mrs. emery would examine the boys' clothing and take away for repairs such garments as needed them. the announcement was something of a surprise to the older boys, for never before had such an examination been made. it was the custom for the boys to lay aside each week whatever clothing needed mending, cleansing or pressing, but a general inspection was something unprecedented. many fellows made up their minds to get upstairs as soon as possible and remove certain things from their trunks; firearms and sensational literature, for instance, were prohibited and subject to confiscation if discovered. roy's heart leapt when he heard the announcement and he couldn't help glancing at horace. the latter youth, however, had apparently not heard it, for he was talking away with whitcomb at a great rate and his countenance showed no sign of dismay or uneasiness. but roy made up his mind to be near horace's trunk when mrs. emery looked through it! as he had nothing in his trunk he was unwilling for the authorities to see, he didn't go to the dormitory after breakfast. instead, he crossed over to the gymnasium in the hope of finding chub there. but chub wasn't to be discovered, and roy mooned about the campus for the better part of an hour and then went up to the dormitory. it was pretty well filled and the fellows were getting a good deal of fun out of the occasion. jack rogers called across and told him he wanted to see him after inspection. horace burlen had his trunk open and was sitting nonchalantly on the side of his cot. mrs. emery soon appeared and, with mr. cobb in attendance, began her rounds. the whole thing looked rather perfunctory to roy. perhaps the fellows' garments were in good condition; at least, few of them were laid aside for mending. when mrs. emery reached horace's trunk roy sauntered carelessly over and looked on. he imagined that horace looked a bit uneasy when mrs. emery began taking his clothing out of the till. "your things are in nice condition, horace," she said. "now what's underneath?" "there's nothing much there," answered horace. "everything's all right, mrs. emery." "well, i guess we'd better look at them and make sure," was the pleasant reply. "just lift out the till, please." horace obeyed with ill-grace, and roy, his heart beating hard, edged nearer. garment after garment came out to be piled neatly on the floor and finally the last one appeared. the trunk was empty and the crimson sweater was nowhere in sight! roy's eyes darted here and there in search of other recesses, but beyond a doubt he had seen everything the trunk contained. mrs. emery began to place the things back very carefully, one by one, as though even she were looking for that sweater. roy wondered. perhaps--of course that was it! harry had taken her mother into her confidence and the unusual proceedings had been instituted on his account! he felt very grateful to mrs. emery, but he was terribly disappointed. there was only one thing to suppose now, and that was that horace had thrown the sweater away instead of bringing it back to school with him. of course red sweaters weren't scarce, but that particular one had been very precious to roy and he felt its loss keenly. he went back to his own side of the room and dolefully locked his trunk. one by one the fellows went out. mrs. emery, having completed her task, collected a half-dozen garments and, still escorted by mr. cobb, took her departure. horace, too, followed, and only roy and jack were left. "did you want to see me, jack?" asked roy indifferently. "er--yes. just wait a minute." he went to the door and called: "o chub!" "coming!" bawled chub's voice from downstairs, and in a moment he came in. he was beaming like the cat that ate the canary. roy sighed. it was all well enough for chub and jack to stand there and grin at him, he reflected sadly; they hadn't lost a priceless crimson sweater and weren't on inner bounds. "have you told him?" asked chub breathlessly. jack shook his head. "told me what?" asked roy resentfully. for answer the two boys bade him rise from his cot. wondering, roy obeyed. then, between them, they lifted bedding and mattress. "look underneath," said chub. roy looked. and the next instant he had his crimson sweater in his hands and was looking bewilderedly from it to chub and from chub to jack and so back again at the sweater. chub and jack were grinning like satyrs and enjoying hugely his bewilderment. "how--how'd it get there?" whispered roy finally. "put it into your trunk and come on out," said chub. "we've got something to tell you." roy found his key and unlocked the trunk. but in the act of laying the sweater away he paused and drew back. under one shoulder was a long rip where the stitches had given way. "i--i think i'll take it over to mrs. emery," he said, "and get her to mend it. that's a beast of a hole!" "all right," said jack. "come on." so they took the precious garment over to the cottage, and as they went chub--jack assisting--explained. "it was harry's scheme, roy. she told her mother and mrs. emery got the doctor to issue that order about having the fellows unlock their trunks. but harry knew that if horace had the sweater he'd try and get rid of it before the examination. so she told jack and me to come up here right after breakfast and hide where we could see what was doing. well, we did. we got under gallup's bed where he couldn't see us and waited. we hadn't been there five minutes before up comes little horace. he looked around mighty carefully, you bet, and then he unlocked his trunk, dug down to the bottom of it and pulled out the sweater. jack nearly whooped when he saw it!" "that's right," agreed jack. "i came near spoiling the whole show!" "so horace tiptoed over to your bed, lifted up the mattress and stuck the sweater underneath. then he lit out. and he doesn't know yet that we saw the whole thing!" "i knew he had it!" muttered roy. "gee! i'm awfully much obliged to you chaps." "you want to thank harry, i guess," said jack. "it was her scheme." "that's so," said roy. "harry's a wonder! i suppose she's at school now. too bad, for she was dying to know what was going to happen and i promised to come over as soon as i could and tell her." mrs. emery smiled knowingly when she came to the door and roy handed the sweater to her, but she only said that she'd be very glad to draw the hole together for him and that harry would be delighted to hear that it was found. "i'll tell her as soon as she gets home from school," she added. "and--and please thank her for me," said roy. "is the doctor in?" asked chub "no, he's gone to town," was the reply. "but he'll be back very shortly. will you come in and wait?" "no 'm, thanks. we'll come back again at noon," answered chub. and when they had left the cottage he turned and thumped roy triumphantly on the back. "practice at three, old chap!" he cried. roy smiled happily. then, "i suppose he will let me off?" he asked doubtfully. "who? emmy? course he will! what's he got against you now? both jack and i saw horace put the sweater there, and we know that he was away from school sunday afternoon. what more proof is wanted?" "we've got horace done brown," said jack. "emmy won't do a thing to him!" "kind of hard luck, too," said chub, "with the race coming off in the morning; for of course emmy will yank him out of the boat the first thing." "then we'll lose the race, won't we?" asked roy. chub shrugged his shoulders. "sure to," he answered. "i'm kind of sorry for horace, but he deserves every bit of it. it was a mean trick to work." roy was silent a moment. finally, "well, i don't care so much now that i've got my sweater back," he said thoughtfully. "care about what?" asked jack. "oh, the rest of it; being on bounds and--and not playing to-morrow," answered roy. "you see, i'd just about made up my mind that i wasn't going to play, anyhow." "well, you're _going_ to play," answered chub cheerfully. "and i'm pleased purple. a few of those nice long hits of yours to-morrow will do a heap of good, roy." but roy didn't seem to hear. "no one knows about this but you and jack and me?" he asked. "that's all," replied chub. "and if we don't say anything about it, then, no one else will know." "don't say anything about it!" cried chub. "are you crazy?" "no, but there's the boat race to think of, chub; we don't want to lose that, i guess. and if they take horace out--" "now don't you be a silly ass!" interrupted chub in alarm. "let them lose the old race! i reckon we don't want to lose the ball game either, do we? now don't get sentimental and sloppy; horace deserves all that's coming to him!" "maybe," answered roy, "but i guess we'll just keep this to ourselves, if you fellows don't mind." "but you won't be able to play!" "i know," roy replied, "but i wasn't expecting to, you see. and--and, anyhow, i've got my sweater back!" "sweater be blowed!" exploded chub. "don't be a fool, roy! you're just fooling, aren't you, eh?" "no, chub, i'm not. i'm sorry to disappoint you, but--but i don't think it would be fair to the school to tell on horace and lose the race. i'd like to play mighty well, but--i guess we'll just keep this to ourselves, fellows!" chapter xxv the boat-race it was saturday morning. along the ferry hill shore, from the landing to a point half a mile further downstream where the finish flags flew, students and villagers, the former in most cases accompanied by friends or relatives, stood, sat or strolled at points of vantage. on the river white-sailed skiffs, chugging launches, gaudy canoes and more sober rowboats darted and drifted across the sunlit water. it was the hottest sort of a june morning and only the steady little northerly breeze kept the heat from being intolerable to the spectators along shore. the crews had gone up the river half an hour before, the men making the trip to the starting point in comfortable launches, their shells streaking along in tow. the time for starting the race was already past and everyone about the finish was eagerly awaiting the distant boom of the tiny brass cannon aboard the referee's launch which would announce to them that the struggle had begun two miles away. from where chub and roy sat in the midst of a throng of onlookers on a high point of rock near the finish line the entire course was in sight save for a space where fox island hid it. away up the broad blue ribbon of water tiny specks that danced and glittered in the blaze of sunlight told where the start was to be made, but only sid, who was the proud possessor of a pair of dilapidated field-glasses, could tell one boat from another. at last there was an excited grunt from that youth. "they're off!" he cried. "i saw the smoke from the cannon on the sylph!" and in confirmation of his statement a low _boom_ came down to them on the breeze. everyone jumped to his feet and gazed intently up-stream. but only such as had glasses were able to throw any light on the situation up there. sid was popular and voluble. "we're ahead, 'way ahead!" he cried excitedly. "about two lengths, i guess." "_hooray!_" shrieked patten. "no, we're not, either," said sid lamely. "i was looking at a launch. i can't see our boat at all!" "o--oh!" groaned the others. "yes, there it is! i think--it looks as though--" "well, out with it!" commanded chub. "i guess it's about a length behind," finished sid. but when half the course had been rowed it was possible to identify the two boats without the aid of field-glasses. side by side they were, or very nearly, and coming hard. someone in the ferry hill shell was splashing occasionally; they could see the water dash up into the sunlight. then, still rowing about even, they were lost to sight behind the island and suspense gripped the spectators. the seconds seemed minutes until, at last, the slim sharp bow of a boat shot into sight past the lower end of the island. followed a breathless moment until the back of the bow oar appeared. then the group groaned as one man. bow wore a white shirt; the hammond shell was in the lead. clear of the island it came and still the rival boat didn't follow. "guess our boat's sunk," muttered chub nervously. then another brown nose poked its way past the point and ferry hill, three lengths behind, but rowing hard, flashed into view. the crowd on the shore vented its relief in a long yell. maddox, the tiny coxswain, his megaphone strapped to his mouth, was bending forward and urging his crew onward. but three lengths is a good deal to make up in the last quarter-mile of a hard race, especially when one of the crew is plainly ragged. "just look at hadden!" moaned thurlow. "he isn't pulling a pound!" "thinks he's a blooming geyser, i guess," said chub disgustedly. "see him splash, will you? he's just about all in." but hammond's stroke was also showing the effects of the work and was rowing woefully short. inch by inch the brown shirts crept up on the white. at first, so slow was the gain, that no one noticed it. then chub let up a whoop of joy. "we're after 'em!" he cried. "we're gaining on 'em!" "yes, but we can't cut down that lead," answered roy, who had been freed from inner bounds for the race. "but we certainly are creeping up!" "you just bet we are!" shrieked sid. "why, we're only two lengths behind! we--we aren't that much!" "length and a half," grunted thurlow. the two boats were almost abreast of them now and only a couple of hundred yards remained. in and out dipped the red blades and the brown, forward and back bent the straining bodies, back and forth like shuttles slid the two red-faced, shouting coxswains. the strident tones of maddox came up to those on the hillside: "hit it up, now! hit it up! ten hard ones! one!... two!... three!..." ten hard ones made a difference. the bow of the ferry hill shell slid up to the stern of the rival boat. on the shore pandemonium reigned. shouts, yells, shrieks, bellows; entreaty, command; a vocal jumble that no one even heard! for below there on the flashing river the two boats were crossing the finish line, hammond a half length to the good! down went the white signal flag. "let her run!" cried the hammond coxswain. past the judge's boat floated the shells, victor and vanquished, while on the shore and in the watching craft spectators drew long breaths and turned homeward. in the ferry hill boat only horace burlen sat erect. whitcomb was leaning weakly on his oar, gallup's head was in his hands and hadden was huddled limply while maddox splashed water upon him. hammond was paddling slowly around in a circle, coming back. abreast of their defeated rivals they rested on their oars and cheered for ferry hill. and ferry hill cheered weakly for hammond. and the boat-race was a thing of the past. [illustration: "ten hard ones made a difference"] "another fifty yards and we'd have had them," said chub disappointedly. "surely," answered roy. "but we certainly rowed the pluckiest kind of a race. look at the way we overhauled them there at the last!" "fine!" said thurlow. "swell!" said sid. and in this way they found surcease for their disappointment; which was as it should have been. a race well rowed and won is something to be proud of; a race well rowed and lost may be quite as creditable. pluck and sportsmanship is always the criterion, not merely victory. many a time has a defeated crew or eleven taken off the first honors. ferry hill's game finish to a heart-breaking race--rowed, as the timers' watches proved, twelve seconds under record time for the course--more than atoned for her defeat. "after all," said thurlow, "it wasn't that our crew was poorer than we thought it was, but that hammond's was a blamed sight better. why, we must have finished six or seven seconds under the record!" "sure," answered chub more cheerfully. "it was a dandy crew and horace deserved to win. if the fellows know their business they'll re-elect him for next year. i don't like the chap a bit, but he certainly did row a fine race!" "that's right," responded the rest as they climbed the hill back to school. and by the time the campus was reached they were all smiling as though victory instead of defeat had fallen to their lot. all save chub. chub was very unhappy, but not over the race. "lots of good you did," he said to roy as they made their way across to the dormitory. "you might as well have squared yourself; we got beat anyhow." "maybe, but that doesn't change the--the ethics of the thing," replied roy. "ethics!" snorted chub. "i'll bet ethics won't help us to win from hammond this afternoon. oh, i dare say it's all mighty fine and heroic, roy, but it's blamed hard on me!" "i'm sorry." "oh, i dare say, but you're not half as sorry as i am," answered the other ruefully. "look here, now. the race is all over and done with. let's go see emmy now and tell him what we know. what do you say? shall we? he can't refuse to let you play." but roy shook his head. "i'd rather not, chub. i decided not to tell on horace and i'm not going to, ever. that's settled. besides, emmy wouldn't let me play now; he'd say i ought to have told him as soon as i found it out." "wish to goodness you had," groaned chub. "you're an obstinate beast, roy. if i didn't like you so well i'd punch your fool head for you!" chub wasn't the only one disappointed and disgusted by roy's stand. harry had almost given way to tears when she had learned of his resolution. "after all my trouble!" she had wailed. "i don't think it's very--very appreciative of you, roy porter!" but in the end she, like chub and jack, had been bound to secrecy, promising not to tell her father. that she hadn't been cautioned against telling anyone else had been merely because roy had known her ability to keep her own counsel. "i suppose he will let you come and watch the game, won't he?" asked chub as they parted on the stairway. "yes, he gave me permission to see both the race and the game," answered roy. "and i'll be there, never fear. i'm going to help hadden and cole with the cheering." "well, so long. i'll see you at dinner. we're going out at two-thirty. you'd better come along." the breeze died away about noon and when, at half-past two, the nine and substitutes went out to the field and the spectators began to assemble, the heat was almost unbearable. but it was a good baseball day, for after one has once begun to perspire freely he can play ball to the king's taste. hammond trotted on to the diamond soon after ferry hill and went to work practicing ferry hill remaining at the batting net until a quarter to three. then the two nines changed places and mr. cobb began knocking out the ball. the stands were well filled by three o'clock and fans were waving lustily. along one edge of the field hammond academy's supporters, nearly a hundred strong, squatted on the grass and strove to keep the burning rays of the sun from their faces by using their flags and pennants as screens. across the diamond ferry hill had assembled, fortunate in having the stand behind them to throw some shade where they sat. roy and hadden and cole were to lead the cheering and to this end had armed themselves with brown megaphones. coats were discarded, while on the seats green and white and brown sunshades made brilliant blots of color. in the center of the main stand sat doctor emery, mrs. emery and harry, and with them as guests of honor were doctor hammond, principal of the rival academy, and his wife. it looked at first glance as though harry had joined the enemy, in spite of the brown banner she carried, for in her lap was something hued much like the hammond's brilliant color. but it was only roy's sweater which, having been repaired, harry had brought along to return to its owner. an enterprising citizen of silver cove was doing a rushing business selling "ice-cold drinks! lemon pop, sarsaparilla _and_ root beer! who's next?" at two minutes past the hour chub and o'meara, respectively captains of ferry hill and hammond, met at the plate and watched the umpire spin a coin. "heads!" cried o'meara. "tails," said the umpire, stooping to rescue the coin. "what do you want?" "we'll take the field," replied chub. then out they trotted, nine sturdy young figures in grey suits and brown and white striped stockings, while roy, hadden and cole shook their megaphones and students and graduates and friends shouted enthusiastically. "ferry hill! ferry hill! ferry hill!" rang the slogan, "rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! ferry hill!" hammond answered promptly. then ferry hill cheered for hammond and hammond returned the compliment. the umpire walked down to his position behind pitcher, tossed a nice, shiny white ball to the redoubtable post, ferry hill's crack pitcher, and casually remarked: "play ball!" chapter xxvi the game with hammond _ferry hill_ _hammond_ eaton, 2b mullen, 3b bacon, ss o'meara, ss thurlow, 3b stone, cf pryor, lf young, rf kirby, cf hartley, 1b patten, 1b hyde, 2b cole, c taft, lf welch, rf smith, c post, p rollins, p post showed his ability in that first inning. not a man reached first. three strikes and out was the invariable rule, and ferry hill went wild with joy. if post could serve hammond's best batters in such fashion what hope was there for her tail-enders? but post was not the only one who could strike out batsmen. in the second half of the inning rollins disposed of chub, bacon and thurlow in just the same fashion, and so far the honors were even. ferry hill, who had loyally cheered each of the warriors as they stepped to the plate, looked less elated. the game speedily resolved itself into a pitchers' battle in which rollins had slightly the better of it. two innings passed without a man getting safely to first base. then sid, who was still rather bulky in spite of the hard work he had been through, got in the way of one of rollins' in-shoots and trotted to first ruefully rubbing his hip. he made a valiant effort to profit by post's scratch hit to shortstop but was easily thrown out at second. not satisfied with this, hammond played the double, catching post a foot from the base. that was in the last of the third. so far the game had dragged along uninterestingly. but now things began to happen. o'meara was the first man up for hammond. perhaps post let down for an instant. at all events, the hammond captain lined out the first hit of the contest, a long, low two-bagger which made the cherry and black flags wave ecstatically. then stone sacrificed and o'meara sped to third. young fouled out to patten, who made a brilliant catch after a long run. hartley hit to bacon who threw home. o'meara doubled back to third and hartley was safe on first. hyde, with a record of three strike-outs against him, managed to find something quite to his liking and knocked out a sharp grounder between chub and bacon. o'meara came home for the first run of the day amidst wild cheers from the hammond side, and hartley got to third. the coaching was incessant and post got a little bit rattled. taft bunted along first base line and post ran for it, scooped it up and threw, to patten. the throw was a little wild, but it seemed that patten should have got it. as it was it went over his head and had not sid been on the spot to back him up things would have been worse than they were. hartley scored, but hyde was put out at the plate, sid being the hero of the play. two runs to nothing. ferry hill went in with bacon up. a scratch hit to third followed by slow fielding took him safely to first. thurlow flied out to pitcher, pryor sacrificed and bacon reached second. kirby got four balls and took his base. patten struck out miserably. again, in the fifth, hammond scored and an error went down in thurlow's column. ferry hill had begun to have listless moments which boded ill for success. errors were becoming too frequent to be merely accidents; it was a case of discouragement. post, however, in spite of the gradual weakening of the most of the nine, held up his end nobly. and chub never for a moment eased his pace. but the rest of the team, if we except cole, who was catching post steadily and well, were plainly suffering from a fit of stage-fright. whether the attack was to be temporary or permanent remained to be seen. ferry hill's supporters were getting uneasy; three runs to nothing seemed a pretty long lead with the game more than half over! cole got his round of applause when he stepped to bat in the last of the fifth and it seemed to hearten him. rollins was still pitching the best of ball, but cole was a weak batter and the hammond twirler proposed to rest his muscles when the chance afforded. so he started out to dispose of cole with as little effort as possible. the first two deliveries went by and were called balls. then came a strike; then another ball. it was time for rollins to get down to work. cole let the next one pass him, hoping that it would give him his base, but the umpire announced strike two. cole gripped his bat a little farther toward the end and got ready. smith, the hammond catcher, read this to mean that he was resolved to strike at the next ball no matter what it looked like and signalled for a drop. it came. the umpire glanced at his tally and waved toward first. "four balls!" he called. roy and the other cheer leaders leaped to their feet as cole trotted down the line. "start it going now!" cried roy. "regular cheer and make it good!" they made it good. then they made it better. chub, back of first, was begging cole to take a longer lead and assuring him that rollins wouldn't throw. sid selected his bat and stepped up to the plate. there was one excellent thing about sid; he didn't know what it was to get really nervous. he had his instructions to sacrifice and proceeded to do so by hitting the first ball thrown and trickling it slowly toward third. third baseman and pitcher both made for it with the result that each interfered with the other and when the ball reached second cole had been there for ages. and sid, to his own surprise, was safe on first. with none out it looked like a score at last, and the cheering became continuous. but post, although a good pitcher and clever fielder, was a miserable batter. it took just four balls, three of them straight over the plate, to send him back to the bench. chub went to bat looking determined. with two foul strikes on him and two balls he found something he liked the looks of and let go at it. it resolved itself into a long high fly to deep center. stone was under it in time to gather it in, but not in time to field it home to prevent cole from scoring. ferry hill jumped and shouted. they had made a run at last! then bacon tried to bunt sid home and himself to first and only succeeded in rolling the ball out for a foul. after that he swung at a drop and missed it. he let the next two go by and found the fifth delivery for a safe drive into shortstop's territory, a drive that was so hard and ugly that it was beyond handling. sid romped home like a percheron colt and bacon got to first. thurlow killed time until bacon had stolen second, and then in an effort to knock the cover off the ball merely sent up a pop fly that was easily pulled down by second baseman. that ended the fifth inning, but ferry hill was vastly more encouraged. two to three wasn't so bad; a run would tie the score. but they were reckoning without mr. right fielder young. mr. right fielder young started the sixth in a way that made the hammond supporters hug themselves and each other ecstatically. he drove out a three-bagger over kirby's head. then when hartley found post's first delivery for two bases, sending young home, the ferry hill pitcher went up into the air. hyde advanced hartley and went out himself at first. taft waited and trotted to first and the bases were full. things looked dark for the home team just then. but there was some comfort in the fact that the batters coming up now were the poorest of the hammond string. smith, hammond's catcher, knocked a weak liner which bacon got on the bound and fielded home in time to cut off hartley. ferry hill took heart and cheered. rollins came to bat, struck at the first ball pitched and sent a foul far back of the boards. post steadied down now; possibly he forgot his nervousness in his desire to even matters with rollins for the summary way in which that youth had dealt with him. post scored another strike against his rival and then rollins let go at an out-shoot. the ball bounded off the tip end of the bat and went whirling along the first-base line. rollins lit out in the track of the ball. to field it patten had to run up a few steps directly in rollins' path. he got the ball on a low bound and tried to step aside and tag rollins as he passed. he tagged him all right but he didn't get out of his way in time, and the runner with head down collided with him and sent him sprawling three yards away. the inning was over, but patten was in a bad way. rollins' head had struck him between chest and shoulder and as a result his shoulder blade was broken. it was not serious, said the doctor, but it ended his playing for that day. patten begged to have his shoulder bandaged and be allowed to return to the game, but the doctor wouldn't consider the idea for a moment. and chub, watching patten being led away to the gymnasium for repairs, felt as though the very bottom had fallen out of things! pryor opened the last of the sixth with a "texas leaguer" behind first that gave him his base with seconds to spare. but kirby went out on strikes. carpenter, a substitute batting in patten's place, followed suit and the inning came to an inglorious end when cole sent a liner straight into rollins' glove. chub brought kirby in from center to first and placed carpenter in center. kirby was not a wonderful baseman by any means, but he was the best at chub's command. carpenter was merely a common or garden variety of player who couldn't be depended on to hit the ball, but could pull down flies when they came near him and field them home with some chance of their reaching the plate in course of time. chub was pretty well discouraged by this time; only mr. cobb kept a cheerful countenance. "it's never over until the whistle blows," he said. and chub was too miserable to notice that the coach had confused baseball with football. the seventh opened with the score four to two and ended with it seven to three. for post went quite to pieces and the only wonder was that hammond didn't score six runs instead of three. mullen, the head of the hammond batting list, found post for two bases, o'meara, the captain, hit him for two more, scoring mullen, and stone hit safely to right field. sid couldn't get under that ball in time, but he did field it back so as to keep o'meara on third. then post presented young with his base, and the bags were full. hartley hit to bacon and a double resulted, o'meara scoring. hyde, after hitting up six fouls, none of which were capable of being caught, lined out a hot ball that escaped chub by a foot. stone scored the third run of the inning. then taft obligingly brought the slaughter to an end by putting a foul into cole's mitten. sid opened the last half of the seventh for ferry hill by a splendid drive into deep left field that brought a throb of hope to the breasts of the wavers of the brown and white flags. but stupid coaching by bacon resulted in his being caught off of first. post surprised everyone by hitting to third and reaching his base ahead of a slowly fielded ball. chub flied out to left fielder. bacon got his base on balls. thurlow hit weakly to second who tried to tag his base, slipped and fell and only recovered his footing in time to keep post from scoring. pryor knocked a high fly back of third which that baseman allowed to go over his head and post came in with ferry hill's third tally. kirby struck out. score, 7--3. * * * * * harry had viewed proceedings with a sinking heart and when post went to pieces, making it evident that kirby would have to be taken from first and placed in the box if only to keep the opponents from entirely running away with the game, she felt desperate. perhaps she would have continued to feel that way with nothing resulting had she not, while glancing dejectedly about her, spied horace burlen in the throng below her. post had just reached first at the moment and in the resulting delight harry's departure was not noticed by the doctor or his wife. she called to horace over the heads of the throng surrounding him. "horace! please come here a minute. i want to speak to you!" when he had made his way out of the crowd and joined her she led him to a quiet corner at the back of the stand. harry's cheeks were flushed and her eyes were sparkling excitedly. "horace," she began breathlessly, "kirby will have to pitch and there's no one to take his place on first! we'll be beaten as sure as anything if roy doesn't play. you've got to tell the truth to dad, horace!" horace flushed a little but only laughed carelessly. "you've just got to, horace!" she cried. "if you don't tell i will. i don't care if i did promise roy!" "say, harry, what's the matter with you?" horace asked. "what are you going to tell?" "about this!" she held up the crimson sweater before him. "you know what i mean, horace, and there's no use in pretending you don't. you've got to go to dad this minute and tell him!" horace's eyes fell and the blood rushed to his cheeks. he turned away. "i can't stay here and talk nonsense with you," he muttered, "i want to see the game." [illustration: "'about this!'"] but harry seized him by the arm. "why won't you own up, horace?" she pleaded. "you might. roy saved you and--" "how did he?" asked horace, pausing. "why, by not telling. he knew yesterday. but he wouldn't tell; he wouldn't let us tell; he said if he did you'd lose your place in the boat and we'd get beaten. he made us promise not to tell dad, but i will, just the same, if you don't promise this minute to do it yourself!" "i don't know anything about the sweater," muttered horace. "oh, you big fibber! jack and chub were under the bed and saw you take it out of your trunk and put it under roy's mattress! and we told roy, and he wouldn't tell on you because he said--" "oh, i've heard all that once," he interrupted roughly. "i guess if he didn't tell he had a mighty good reason for it!" "i've told you why he didn't!" cried harry impatiently. "do you suppose he _wanted_ not to play to-day? he spared you and i think you might do that much to help him--and me--and the school." "it was just a sort of joke," murmured horace, his eyes on the ground. "i didn't know it was going to cause so much bother." he laughed uncertainly. "what's the good of making more rumpus now? roy can't win the game; we're beaten already." "you don't know!" insisted harry. "anyhow, it would be only fair and square; and you want to be that, don't you, horace?" "and get fired?" he asked glumly. "oh, sure!" "you won't be fired! why, it's almost the end of school!" horace was silent a moment, his gaze on the diamond where the hammond second baseman was picking himself up from the ground in a successful effort to head off post at the plate. "look here, harry," he said finally, "do you really think roy kept quiet so that i could stay in the race? honest injun?" "i know he did! chub and jack will tell you the same thing! honest and honest, horace!" there was another moment of hesitation. then horace squared his shoulders, laughed carelessly and turned away. "all right, harry," he said. "lead me to the slaughter!" * * * * * "you go into the box," said chub to kirby, "and for goodness sake hold 'em down, old man! post, you go out to center, will you? who've we got for first, sir?" and chub turned in perplexity to mr. cobb. "thurlow; let reynolds take his place at third." chub groaned. "maybe i'd better try it myself, sir. and let reynolds take second." but mr. cobb shook his head. "won't do," he answered. "you're needed where you are." "all right. where's reynolds? hello, roy! isn't this the limit? if only you hadn't been such an idiot!" "why?" asked roy, his face one broad smile. "why? why! oh, go to thunder! because if you were playing first we wouldn't be in such a hole, that's why." "i'm going to," answered roy. "going to what?" "play first, if you want me to." "want you to!" shouted chub. "but what about emmy?" "he's given me permission. horace has 'fessed up. it's all right." chub hugged him violently and deliriously. "oh, good boy!" he cried. "it's all right, sir!" he called to mr. cobb. "we won't need reynolds. porter's going to play!" mr. cobb hurried across from the bench and nearly wrenched roy's hand off. "doctor willing, is he? that's good! that's fine! do your best, porter, do your best. eaton's a bit discouraged, but i tell him it's not over till the whistle--that is, till the umpire--er--well, good luck!" and the coach hurried over to the scorer to arrange the new batting list. "come on, fellows!" cried chub. "let's win this old game right here!" and ferry hill trotted out to the field for the first of the eighth. chapter xxvii the crimson sweater disappears "seven to three," muttered roy as, drawing his big leather mitten on, he stepped to the base and held his hands out toward kirby. "that's four to make up to tie them." _sock_ came a ball against the hollow of his mitt. "if kirby does his part, though, and they don't get any more runs, we've got a chance." back went the ball to the new pitcher and once more it flew across to roy. "if i wasn't surprised when emmy sent for me! 'there seems to have been a mistake made, porter. i trust i have not discovered it too late for the success of the nine. if you are wanted, take a hand, and good luck to you. come and see me after supper, please.' 'what it means--(i beg pardon, kirb; my fault!)--i don't know; unless horace told on himself; he was there looking kind of down in the mouth. i'm certain harry didn't break her promise!" "all right, fellows!" shouted chub, throwing the practice ball to the umpire and trotting to his position. "after 'em hard, now. we're all back of you, kirb!" cole settled his mask into place and kirby sent three trial balls to him. then smith, the first of the hammond batsmen, stepped into the box. "hello, you!" called chub cheerfully as roy edged over toward him. "it's good to see you there, old chap. get after 'em, roy. we're not beaten yet!" "not a bit of it!" answered roy. "we'll have them on the run in a minute." a whole lot depended on kirby, and everyone realized that fact. if he could pitch his best game and hold hammond down to her present score there might be a chance of ferry hill's doing something in the next two innings. but kirby had had but a few minutes of warming up work and might prove stiff. he got one strike on smith and then sent him four balls, one after the other, seemingly unable to find the plate. smith trotted to first. chub called laughingly across to kirby. "that's right, kirb, give 'em a show." kirby smiled and dug his toe into the ground. rollins tapped the plate with his bat and shot a questioning look toward smith on first. kirby pitched wide, cole slammed the ball down to roy and roy swung at the runner. but smith was full-length in the dust with his fingers clutching a corner of the bag. roy tossed the ball to kirby. smith crawled to his feet, dusted his clothes and took a new lead. "strike one!" droned the umpire. smith trotted back to the bag. the coach sent him off again. "take a lead, take a lead!" he shouted through his hands. "he won't throw it! down with his arm, now! _look out!_" but the warning came too late. kirby had turned suddenly and thrown swiftly, and roy's downward swinging hand had found smith a good six inches away from base. "out on first," said the umpire. from the ferry hill side came the sound of clapping hands and cheering voices. smith walked back to the bench and roy, moistening his mitten in the inelegant but effective manner of the ball player, trotted out to his position. "one gone, cap!" he cried. "let's have the next one!" "all right, roy. next man, fellows!" the next man was easy for kirby. rollins already had one strike and one ball on him and kirby finished him up in short style, causing him to strike a full six inches above a deceptive drop and then putting a swift ball directly over the center of the plate and catching rollins napping. "well, well," cried chub merrily. "only one more, kirb. they can't touch you, old man!" but that wasn't quite so, for mullins, the head of the rival batting list, touched him for two bases. o'meara came up plainly resolved to do as well if not better, but only brought the first half to a close by popping up a high foul which thurlow had no trouble with. as the teams changed places the cheering broke out simultaneously from both sides of the diamond, and flags waved tumultuously. "who's at bat?" asked chub as he trotted to the bench. "carpenter," said the scorer. "no, i mean porter." "all right, roy," said chub. "take it easy," counselled mr. cobb. "all you want is to reach first. we'll get you on from there." "what's he like?" asked roy of chub as he stooped to select his bat. "oh, kind of hard. look out for slow balls; he's full of 'em and works 'em on you when you're least expecting 'em. you can hit him." "hope so," answered roy as he selected his stick and walked to the plate. as he faced the hammond pitcher, who grinned at him in probable recollection of the camp adventure, the ferry hill supporters started a cheer. "rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! porter!" roy felt a little warming tingle in the region of his heart. then he was swinging his bat back, for rollins had undoubled and shot the ball forward. chub staggered back out of its way. "ball!" droned the umpire. then came what was seemingly a straight delivery and roy swung at it. but it went down so suddenly when a few feet from the plate that his bat traveled several inches above it and threw roy off his balance. hammond jeered and laughed. "don't try to slug, roy!" called chub. "easy does it!" and so it proved. rollins sent a "teaser," one of his puzzling slow ones, but roy had the good fortune to guess it before it reached the plate. he met it with an easy swing and made for first. third baseman smothered it as it arose from the ground for the first bound and threw swiftly. but roy was like a streak when it came to running bases, and this fact, coupled with the fact that first baseman had to step wide of the bag to get the throw, made him safe. chub raced over to coach and seized the moment while the pitcher was returning to his box to whisper instructions. "don't wait for a hit; steal on the first ball." cole appeared at the plate and chub retreated to the coacher's box and knelt on the ground. "not too far," he counselled anxiously. "watch out! wait for the hit. charlie'll send you down." rollins looked over at him, but didn't throw. the new player was plainly timid and wouldn't give much trouble. so he turned his attention to cole. roy pranced nervously about on his toes a scant yard from base while the pitcher doubled himself into a knot. then, as the arm began to drop swiftly, roy leaped forward and shot for second. "he's gone!" cried the infielders. cole swung at the ball, which was a drop, the hammond catcher found it near the ground, side-stepped and sent it swiftly down to second. unfortunately for success, he delivered it head-high to shortstop and in the moment that it took for the latter player to swing down with it roy found safety. squatting on the bag he waited for proceedings to resume, dusting the brown soil from the front of his shirt and hearkening happily to the cheers which thundered from the ferry hill side. then he was up and taking a good long lead in response to the appeals of thurlow back of third. rollins evidently felt sore, for roy had done what few had succeeded in doing that spring; he prided himself on the fact that runners found it mighty hard work to steal bases on him! so he tried twice to catch roy napping on second, but failed each time. cole sent up a foul and then fanned out. sidney welch took his place. sid had made a good record to-day for a youngster and roy looked for a hit. it came at once. sid took a try at the first delivery and sent it speeding into short center field. center slammed the ball down to third, but roy was up again by the time it got there. post came to bat looking determined. roy danced along third base line and once narrowly escaped a put-out when rollins slammed the ball over to third. then post let drive at a straight one and lifted a high fly into short left field. he was caught out and neither roy nor sid had a chance to advance. "two gone!" shouted cole over at first. "everything goes!" "you've got to score, roy!" coached thurlow. "take a good lead now! that's it!" chub was at bat. rollins sent a strike over. chub tapped the plate. sid edged farther away from first. rollins pitched again. "he's gone" was the cry. "watch home!" sid was lighting out for second. shortstop ran in and catcher threw down to him. roy ran a few steps farther toward the home plate and stayed there, ready to go on or return to third. sid doubled back for first. shortstop sized up the situation, made as though to throw to third and then sent the ball to first. sid turned again toward second. roy was dancing about a third of the way home. "watch home!" shouted the catcher. but first baseman didn't hear, or hearing thought he knew better what to do. sid was between him and second baseman now, scrambling back and forth like a rat in a trap. first threw to second and-"home! home!" shrieked the rest of the players. second threw home, but he threw wildly and the ball struck the ground to the left of the catcher and went bounding back toward the fence. roy picked himself up and, patting the dust from his clothes, walked panting to the bench. sid had reached third. ferry hill shouted and capered and waved brown and white flags. the scorer credited ferry hill with one more precious tally and, amid noisy encouragement, chub stepped smiling back into the box. rollins was the least bit rattled for the first time during the game. chub found a nice one and sid raced home. out between right fielder and center fielder the ball fell to earth untouched and chub was on first. the cheering from the ferry hill side was wild and discordant, and it didn't stop for an instant until chub was caught stealing second and put out two yards from the bag. ferry hill's supporters were happier than they had been for an hour and a half. to be sure, hammond was still two runs to the good, but seven to five sounded a whole lot nicer than seven to three; and, besides, ferry hill's best batsmen were coming up for the last of the ninth. hammond went to bat with stone, her center fielder up. but kirby had found his pace. stone stood idle while two strikes and one ball were called on him. then he swung at what seemed to be made for his purpose. then he went back to the bench. young took his place. young was a good hand with the stick and even kirby's most puzzling balls couldn't keep him from first. he lined out the hottest kind of a sizzler over chub's head and was ready to go to second when post fielded it. but he decided to stay where he was for the present. perhaps had he known what was to befall hartley and hyde he would have risked more then. as it was, when he left first base it was not to take second but to trot out to his position in right field. for kirby struck out the next two batsmen in a style extremely pleasing to his friends and was the recipient of an embarrassing ovation when he walked to the bench. "here's our last chance," said chub a trifle nervously as he ran in. "you're up, bacon. do something now, for goodness sake!" well, not to prolong the suspense, bacon did something. he struck out; struck out as miserably as though his side didn't need two or three runs the worst way in the world. and he went back to the bench and chub and the others looking ready to cry. "hard luck," said chub, striving to seem cheerful. "rotten batting!" muttered bacon angrily. thurlow brought hope back, however, by getting to first on second baseman's juggling of a liner. pryor went to bat with instructions to bunt, tried it twice and then went out to third baseman. there were two out, a man on first and the tag end of the batting list was in sight. on the hammond side the cheering was loud and contented. on the opposite side the brown flags were drooping dejectedly and the stands were emptying. clearly, defeat was to be ferry hill's portion to-day. but kirby wasn't ready to acknowledge it. at least, he told himself, he would have one good bang at that ball. he could do no more than go out. so he slammed away at two deliveries, waited while a third went by and then hammered out a clean two-base-hit that sent thurlow ambling across the plate for the sixth tally. somehow, that seemed to change the entire aspect of things. homeward-bound spectators paused and edged back to the diamond. ferry hill's cheers, which for the last five minutes had been weak and quite evidently "machine made," now broke out afresh and the air became full of waving brown flags. it was "porter at bat!" now, and chub was whispering intensely in roy's ear, accompanying him to the plate and parting from him finally with a slap on the shoulder that was heard across on the stand. now, if there's one thing in the whole wide world calculated to give a chap a fit of nervous prostration it is to go to bat in the last half of the ninth inning with the knowledge that on his ability or inability to hit safely hangs victory or defeat. roy had that knowledge, and little chills crept up and down his spine when he considered it. so he tried not to. he tried to forget everything save that he was there to hit the ball; everything save that and what chub had whispered in his ear at the last. "'when you're up against a bigger man, roy, grin as hard as you can grin!' don't forget what your brother told you! that's all, you dear old chump!" so roy grinned. perhaps he grinned so much that he quite disordered his features, for he found rollins looking at him curiously as though wondering as to his sanity. but roy still grinned--and watched. rollins wound himself up and unwound himself, and the ball shot forward. roy judged it quickly and let it go by. the umpire vindicated his judgment. "ball!" he said. then came something of a different calibre and roy stepped down and hit at it. it went by without a jar. "strike!" said the umpire. again roy tried his luck, spun half around and recovered himself to find rollins doing the grinning. roy grew angry. to have rollins laugh at him was too much. he gripped his bat and took position again. then he remembered his grin. it was hard to get it back, but he did it. roy has an idea that that grin worried rollins; that as may be, it is a fact that the next ball went so wide of the plate that the catcher had to throw himself on the ground to stop it and kirby was safe on second. "two and two!" cried the catcher, setting his mask firm again. "right after him, jim. he's pretty easy." jim undoubtedly meant roy to strike at the next one, but roy didn't because the ball quite evidently had no intention of coming over the base. "three balls," remarked the umpire in a disinterested tone, just as though hundreds of hearts weren't up in hundreds of throats. for the first time since coming to bat roy had a gleam of hope. rollins had put himself in a hole and the next ball would have to be a good one. and it was. roy swung sharply to meet it, dropped his bat like a hot potato and streaked for first. out in left field a cherry and black stockinged youth was gazing inquiringly toward the afternoon sky. home raced kirby, around the bases streaked roy. he had seen the ball now and hope was dying out within him. left fielder seemed directly under it. but he would run as hard as he knew how, at any rate; there was no harm in that; and you never could tell what would happen in baseball. so roy went flying across second base and headed for third like a small cyclone in a hurry. and as he did so his heart leaped, for left fielder had suddenly turned and was running sideways and backward by turns out into the field. he had misjudged it badly. had he not done so i should have had a different ending to narrate. but he did, and when the ball came to earth he was not quite under it although he made a frantic effort to get it. and by the time he had picked it up and relayed it to shortstop roy was turning past third. and by the time shortstop had his hands about it and had turned, roy was almost at the plate. and by the time--but what's the use in drawing a story out in this way? roy beat that ball to the plate by at least two seconds. and in one more second he was being literally carried to the bench in the midst of a howling, shrieking, dancing mob of ferry hillites. perhaps ferry hill would have continued the game until her third man had been put out had she had a chance. but when the spectators take it into their heads to have a war-dance in the middle of the diamond, ball playing is extremely difficult. so chub shouted something to the umpire, the scorer slammed his book shut on a score of 8--7 and pandemonium had everything its own way. here and there a ferry hill player tried to sneak back to the gymnasium undetected, but in every case he was captured and placed high up on the shoulders of frantic, joy-crazed friends. there was no band there to lead that triumphant procession around and around the diamond, but no one felt the necessity for one. there was noise enough without it. roy, swaying unsteadily on the shoulders of a little group of hatless, red-faced youths, looked down on the sea of pushing, panting figures and grinned happily. chub, clinging desperately to the heads of two of his bearers, charged through the throng in roy's direction. "hello, there!" he bawled. "use your spurs and come on!" but roy's bearers needed no spurs. they charged the crowd and roy went bobbing through a little forest of upraised eager hands. then the procession took some semblance of form and began its march around the bases according to time-honored custom. as roy, following closely behind chub, passed third, he found doctor emery and his family beside him. the doctor was smiling broadly, mrs. emery was waving a diminutive banner and harry was dancing and shrieking, her red hair floating in disordered wisps about her face. she caught sight of roy on the instant and darted toward him. "wait! wait!" she commanded shrilly. roy's bearers waited, laughing and panting protestingly. harry reached up and tossed a crimson sweater about roy's shoulders. "i'm so glad, roy," she cried breathlessly. "and it's all mended; i did it myself!" roy nodded, drew the arms of his precious sweater across his chest and called his thanks. then, impatient of the delay, his bearers charged forward again and roy clutched wildly to keep his seat. thrice around the diamond the procession went, cheering and singing, and then it turned across the track and filed through the gate in the hedge and so through the june twilight and under the great elms to the gymnasium. [illustration: "roy's bearers waited"] and in the van of the line, like a vivid standard of victory, swayed the crimson sweater. left end edwards [illustration: the "forward pass"] left end edwards by ralph henry barbour author of the half-back, etc. with illustrations by charles m. relyea [illustration] new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america copyright, 1914, by dodd, mead and company contents chapter page i fathers and sons 3 ii off to school 13 iii stop thief! 24 iv out for brimfield! 40 v number 12 billings 51 vi clues! 62 vii the confidence-man 73 viii in the rubbing rook 86 ix back in togs 98 x "cheap for cash" 112 xi "hold 'em, third!" 125 xii canterbury romps on--and off 142 xiii sawyer vows vengeance 157 xiv a lesson in tackling 170 xv steve winnows some chaff 182 xvi mr. daley is out 202 xvii the blue-book 212 xviii b plus and d minus 225 xix the second puts it over 235 xx blows are struck 251 xxi friends fall out 267 xxii steve gets a surprise 285 xxiii durkin sheds light 297 xxiv the day before the battle 309 xxv tom to the rescue 323 xxvi at the end of the first half 334 xxvii steve smiles 346 xxviii the chums read a telegram 360 illustrations the "forward pass" _frontispiece_ facing page steve slipped on the tiling and fell sidewise into the water (page 166) 80 "lift!" instructed the quarter-back. "lift me up and yank my feet out from under me! use your weight and throw me back!" 178 it was steve, steve on his back, with only his head and shoulders above the water 324 left end edwards chapter i fathers and sons "dad, what does 'mens sana in corpore sano' mean?" mr. edwards slightly lowered his sunday paper and over the top of it frowned abstractedly at the boy on the window-seat. "eh?" he asked. "what was that?" "'mens sana in corpore sano,' sir." "oh!" mr. edwards blinked through his reading glasses and rustled the paper. finally, "for a boy who has studied as much latin as you have," he said disapprovingly, "the question is extraordinary, to say the least. i'd advise you to--hm--find your dictionary, steve." and mr. edwards again retired from sight. steve, cross-legged on the broad seat that filled the library bay, a seat which commanded an uninterrupted view up and down the street, smiled into the open pamphlet he held. "he doesn't know," he said to himself with a chuckle. "it's something about your mind and your body, though. never mind." he idly fluttered the leaves of the pamphlet and glanced out into the street to see if any friends were in sight. but it was sunday afternoon, and rainy, and the wide, maple-bordered street, its neat artificial stone sidewalks shimmering with moisture, was quite deserted. with a sigh steve went back to the pamphlet. it bore the inscription on the outer cover: "brimfield academy," and, below, in parenthesis, "william torrence foundation." "what does 'william torrence foundation' mean, dad?" asked the boy. again mr. edwards lowered his paper, with a sigh. "it means, as you will discover for yourself if you will take the trouble to read the catalogue, that a man named william torrence gave the money to establish the school. now, for goodness sake, steve, let me read in peace for a minute!" "yes, sir. thank you." steve turned the pages, glanced again at the "view of main building from the lawn" and began to read. "in 1878 william torrence, esq., of new york city, visited his native town of brimfield and interested the citizens in a plan to establish a school on a large tract of land at the edge of the town which had been in the torrence family for many generations. two years later the school was built and, under the title of torrence seminary, began a successful career which has lasted for thirty-two years. under the principalship of dr. andrew morey, the institution increased rapidly in usefulness, and in 1892 it was found necessary to add two wings to the original structure at a cost of $34,000, also the gift of the founder. dr. morey's connection with the school ended four years later, when the services of the present head, mr. joshua fernald, a.m., were secured. the death of mr. torrence in 1897, after a long and honoured career, removed the school's greatest friend and benefactor, but, by the terms of his will, placed it beyond the reach of want for many years. with new buildings and improvements made possible by the generous provisions of the testament the school soon took its place amongst the foremost institutions of its kind. in 1908 the charter name was changed to brimfield academy--william torrence foundation, the course was lengthened from four years to six and the present era of well-deserved prosperity was entered on. brimfield academy now has accommodations for 260 boys, its faculty consists of 19 members and its buildings number 8. situated as it is----" steve yawned frankly, viewed again the somnolent street and idly turned the pages. there were several pictures, but he had seen them all many times and only the one labelled "'varsity athletic field--gymnasium beyond" claimed his interest for a moment. at last, "they've got a peach of an athletic field, dad," he observed approvingly. "i can see six goals, and that means three gridirons. and there's a baseball field besides. the catalogue says that 'provision is also made for tennis, boating and swimming,' but i don't see any tennis courts in the picture." "all right," grunted his father from behind the paper. "i wonder," continued steve musingly, "where you get your boating and swimming. it says that long island sound is two and a half miles distant. that's a long old ways to go for a swim, isn't it?" mr. edwards laid the paper across his knees and regarded the boy severely. "steve," he said, "about the only thing i've heard from you since that catalogue arrived is the athletic field and the gymnasium. i'd like to refresh your mind on one point, my son." "yes, sir?" said steve without much eagerness. "i'd like to remind you that you are not going to brimfield academy to play football or baseball, or to swim. you're going there to study and learn! i don't propose to spend four hundred and fifty dollars a year, besides a whole lot for extras, to have you taught how to kick a football or make a home-hit. and----" "a home-run, sir," corrected steve humbly. "or whatever it is, then. i expect you to buckle down when you get there and learn. remember that you've got just two years in which to prepare yourself for college. if you aren't ready then, you don't go. that's flat, my boy, and i want you to understand it. so, if you have any idea of football and tennis as your--er--principal courses you want to get it right out of your head. now, for a change, suppose you have a look at the studies in front of you, and don't let me hear anything more about the gymnasium or the--the what-do-you-call-it field." "all right, sir." steve obediently turned the pages back. "just the same," he said to himself, "he didn't know what 'mens sana in corpore sano' meant any better than i did! bet you _he_ didn't kill himself studying when _he_ went to school!" with a sigh he found the "courses of study" and read: "form iv. classical. latin: vergil's aeneid, iv--xii, cicero and ovid at sight, composition (5). greek: xenophon's hellenica, selections, iliad and odyssey, selections, sight reading, reviews, composition (5). german (optional) (4). french: advanced grammar and composition, le siege de paris, le barbier de saville----" at that moment a shrill whistle sounded outside the library window and steve's eyes fled from the pamphlet to the grinning face of tom hall set between two of the fence pickets. the catalogue of brimfield academy was tossed to the further end of the seat, and steve, nodding vigorously through the window, jumped to his feet. "i'm going for a walk with tom, sir," he announced half-way to the hall door. mr. edwards, smothering a sigh of relief, glanced at the weather. "very well," he said. "don't get your feet wet. and--er--be back before it's dark." steve disappeared into the dim hallway and mr. edwards gave honest expression to his sense of relief by elevating his feet to the seat of a neighbouring chair, dropping the newspaper and, with a luxurious sigh, composing himself for his sunday afternoon nap. but peace was not yet his, for a minute or two later steve came hurrying in again. mr. edwards opened his eyes with a frown. "sorry, sir," said steve, "but tom wants to see the catalogue." his father nodded drowsily and steve, securing the pamphlet, stole out again with creaking sunday shoes. very quietly the front door went shut and peace at last pervaded the house. in the library, mr. edwards, dropping into slumber, was dimly conscious of a last disturbing thought. it was that he was going to miss that boy of his a whole lot after next week! "it's all right," declared tom hall as he took the catalogue from steve with eager fingers. "at least, i'm pretty sure it is. he said at dinner that he'd think it over, and when he says that it means--that it's all right. what do you say, eh?" "_bully!_" that was what steve said. and he said it not only once but several times and with varying degrees of enthusiasm and volume. and, as though fearing his chum would doubt his satisfaction, he accompanied each "_bully!_" with an emphatic thump on tom's back. tom, choking and coughing, squirmed out of the way. "here! ho-ho-hold on, you silly chump! you don't have to kill a fellow!" "won't it be dandy!" exclaimed steve, beaming. "we can room together! and--and----" "you bet! and we can have a bully time on the train, too. gee, i never travelled as far as that alone!" "i have! it's lots of fun! you eat your meals in a dining-car and there's a smoking-room where you can sit and chin as late as you want to and you get off at the stations and walk up and down the platform and you tip the negro porters and----" "wouldn't it be great if we both made the football team, steve? of course, you'll make it anyway, and i might if i had a little luck. townsend said last year i didn't do so badly, you know, and if----" "of course you'll make it! we both will; next year anyway. i'll bet they've got lots of fellows on the team no better than you are, tom. wait till i show you the athletic field. it's a corker!" and steve's fingers turned the pages of the school catalogue eagerly. "how's that?" he demanded at last in triumph. they paused under a dripping tree while tom viewed the picture, steve looking over his shoulder. "it's fine!" sighed tom at last. "gee, i hope--i hope he lets me!" "let's go over there now so you can show him this," suggested steve. but tom shook his head wisely. "not now," he said. "he don't like to be disturbed sunday afternoons. he--he sort of has a nap, you see." "just like dad," replied steve. "bet you when i get as old as that i won't stick around the house and go to sleep. say, tom, what does 'mens sana in corpore sano' mean?" "a sound mind in a sound body," replied tom promptly. "why?" "it's in here and i asked dad and he didn't know." steve chuckled. "he made believe he was peevish with me, so's he wouldn't have to fess up. dad's foxy, all right!" "well, you ought to have known, steve," said tom severely. "sure," agreed steve untroubledly. "that's what he said. let's take that a minute. i want to show you the picture of the campus." "let's sit down somewhere and look it over," said tom. "i told father that it was a school where they were terribly strict with the fellows and you had to study awfully hard all the time. i wonder if it is." "i don't believe so," answered steve. "they say so much about football and baseball and things like that you can tell they aren't cranky about studying. and look at the pictures of the different teams in here. there's the baseball nine, see? pretty husky looking bunch, aren't they? and--turn over--there you are--there's the football team. some of those chaps aren't any bigger than i am, or you, either. good looking uniforms, aren't they? say, dad gave me a lecture on not thinking i was going there to just play football. fathers are awfully funny sometimes!" "you bet! i wonder--i wonder--would you mind if we tore out a couple of these pictures before he sees it? i'm afraid he might think there was too much in it about athletics." "no, tear away! here, i'll do it. we'll take the pictures of the teams out. how about the athletic field? better tear that out too, do you think?" "well, maybe, just to be on the safe side, you know. don't throw 'em away, though. we might want to look at them again. let's go over to the library where we can talk, steve." chapter ii off to school possibly you are wondering why two boys, each of whom was possessed of a perfectly good home of his own, should select the tannersville public library as a place in which to converse. the answer is that steve's father and tom's father were in the same line of trade, wholesale lumber, and had a few years before fallen out over some business matter. since that time the two men had been at daggers drawn during office hours and only coldly civil at other times. steve was forbidden to set foot in tom's house and tom was as strictly prohibited from entering steve's. had the fathers had their way at the beginning of the quarrel the boys would have ceased then and there to have anything to do with each other. but they had been close friends ever since primary school days and, while they reluctantly respected the dictum as to visiting at each other's residences, they had firmly refused to give up the friendship, and their fathers had finally been forced to sanction what they could not prevent. at the time this story opens, the quarrel between the two men, each a prominent and well-to-do member of the community, still continued, but its edge had been dulled by time. both mr. edwards and mr. hall took active parts in municipal affairs and so were forced to meet often and to even serve together on various committees. they almost invariably took opposite sides on every question, but they did not allow their personal quarrel to interfere with their public duties. the boys had at first found the condition of affairs very irksome, but had eventually got used to it. it was hard not to be able to run in and out of each other's houses as they had done when they had first known each other, but there were plenty of opportunities to be together away from home and they made the most of them and were well-nigh inseparable. mr. edwards had declared, when announcing the fact in the preceding spring, that steve was to go to boarding school, that he was sending the boy away to remove him from the questionable association of tom hall. but steve gave little credence to that statement, for he knew that secretly his father thought very well of tom. the real reason was that steve had not been making good progress at high school, owing principally to the fact that he gave too much time to athletics and not enough to study. mr. edwards concluded that at a boarding school steve would be under a stricter discipline and would profit by it. steve's mother had died many years before, and his father, while perfectly able to command a large army of employees, was rather helpless when it came to exercising a proper authority over one sixteen-year-old boy! naturally enough, tom, when he had learned of his chum's impending departure in the fall for boarding school, began a vigorous campaign to secure parental permission to accompany him. mrs. hall had soon yielded, but mr. hall had held out stubbornly until almost the last moment. "i guess," he had said more than once, "you see enough of that edwards boy without going off to the same boarding school with him! if you want to go to some other school i'll consider it, tom, but i'm blessed if i'll have you tagging after steve edwards the way you propose!" but in the end he, too, capitulated, though with ill-grace, and for a week there were not two busier persons in all tannersville than steve and tom. steve had taken time by the forelock and had accumulated most of the necessary outfit, but tom had to attend to all his wants in six weekdays, and there was much scurrying around the shops by the two lads, much hurry and worry and bustle in the hall mansion. you had to take with you such a lot of silly truck, you see! or, at least, that is the way tom put it. the catalogue informed them that they must provide their own sheets, pillow-cases, spreads, towels, napkins and laundry bags, as well as take with them a knife, fork and spoon each. steve sarcastically wondered if the school gave them beds to sleep in! the situation was further complicated by the eleventh-hour discovery on the part of mrs. hall that tom's clothing, while quite good enough for tannersville, would never do for brimfield academy, and poor tom had to be fitted to new suits of clothes and shoes and hats and various other articles of apparel. they were to leave early monday morning, for in that way they could reach brimfield before dark. both boys, who had set their hearts on a night in a sleeping-car, with all its exciting possibilities, begged to be allowed to make their start monday evening, which would allow them to arrive at school tuesday forenoon in plenty of time. but neither steve's father nor tom's would listen to the suggestion. "then i'll get there a whole day before school opens," grumbled tom, "and have to stay there all alone monday night." "it won't hurt you a bit," replied mr. hall. "and the catalogue says that students will be received any time after monday noon. i'm not going to have you two reckless youngsters travelling around the country together at night." tom, recognising the inevitable, said no more. there was a somewhat awkward ten minutes at the station, for both mr. edwards and mr. hall, the latter accompanied by his wife, went down to see the boys off. the men nodded coldly to each other and then the odd situation of two boys who were to travel together side by side taking leave of their parents at opposite ends of the same car developed. tannersville is not a large town and those who were on the platform that morning when the new york express pulled in understood the dilemma and smiled over it. steve and tom were both rather relieved when the good-byes were over and the train was pulling out of the station. "blamed foolishness," muttered steve as he met tom where their bags were piled on one of the seats. "yes, don't they make you tired?" agreed the other. "say, how much did you get?" steve thrust his fingers into a waistcoat pocket and drew out a carefully folded and very crisp ten-dollar bill, and tom whistled. "i only got seven," he said; "five from father and two from mother. i guess that will do, though. the only things we have to pay for are dinner and getting across new york. got your ticket safe?" ensued then a breathless, panicky minute while steve searched pocket after pocket for the envelope which contained his transportation to brimfield, new york. the perspiration began to stand out on his forehead, his eyes grew large and round and his gaze set, tom fidgetted mightily and persons in nearby seats, sensing the tragedy, grinned in heartless amusement. then, at last, the precious envelope came to light from the depths of the very first pocket in which he had searched and, with sighs of vast relief, the two boys subsided into the seat. by that time tannersville was left behind and the great adventure had begun! there are lots of worse things in life than starting off to school for the first time when you have someone with you to share your pleasant anticipations and direful forebodings. it is an exciting experience, i can tell you! the feeling of being cast on your own resources is at once blissfully uplifting and breathtakingly fearsome. suppose they lost their way in new york? suppose they were robbed of their tickets or their pocket money? you were always hearing about folks being robbed on trains, while, as for new york, why, every fellow knew that it was simply a den of iniquity! or suppose the train was wrecked? it was tom who supplied most of these direful contingencies and steve who carelessly--or so it seemed--disposed of them. "if we lost our way we'd ask a policeman," he said. "and if anyone pinched our money or our tickets we'd just telegraph home to the folks and wait until we heard from them." "where'd we wait?" asked tom with great interest. "hotel." "they wouldn't let us in unless we had money, would they?" tom objected. "maybe we could find the united states consul." "that's only when you're abroad," corrected steve scathingly. "there aren't any united states consuls in the united states, you silly chump!" "i should think there ought to be," tom replied uneasily. "what time do we get to new york?" "two thirty-five, if we're on time. we ought to be. this is a peach of a train; one of the best on the road. bet you she's making a mile a minute right now." "bet you she isn't!" "bet you she is! i'll ask the conductor." that gentleman was approaching, and as they yielded their tickets to be punched steve put the question. the conductor leaned down and took a glance at the flying landscape. "about forty-five miles an hour, i guess. that fast enough for you, boys?" "sure," replied tom. "but he said we were going a mile a minute." "no, we don't make better than fifty anywhere. you in a hurry, are you?" "only for dinner," laughed steve. "where do we get dinner, sir?" "there's a dining-car on now," was the reply. "or you can get out at phillipsburg at twelve-twenty-three and get something at the lunch counter. we stop there five minutes." "me for the dining-car," declared steve when the conductor had moved on. "what time is it now, i wonder." it was only a very few minutes after eight, the discovery of which fact occasioned both surprise and dismay. "seems as though it ought to be pretty nearly noon, doesn't it?" asked tom. "yes. what time did you have breakfast? i had mine at half-past six." "me too. let's go through the train and see if we can find some apples or popcorn or something." the trainboy was discovered in a corner of the smoking-car and they purchased apples, chocolate caramels and salted peanuts, as well as two humorous weeklies, and found a seat in the car and settled down to business. they were both frightfully hungry, since excitement had prevented full justice to breakfasts. it was horribly smoky in that car, but steve declared that he liked it, and tom, although his eyes were soon smarting painfully, pretended that he did too. "i suppose we'll have to smoke at school," said tom without enthusiasm. steve considered the question a moment. "i don't believe we will unless we want to," he replied at last. "we can say it's because we're in training, you know. they don't allow you to smoke when you're trying for the football team or anything like that." tom sighed his relief. "it makes me horribly squirmy," he said. "i thought, though, that if all the fellows did it, you know, i'd better, too. in all the stories about boarding schools i've ever read, the fellows smoke on the sly and get found out. don't see much fun in that, though, do you?" "no." steve devoured the last of his apple and started on the peanuts. "i don't believe those stories very well, anyway. there's always a goody-goody hero that gets suspected of something he didn't do and knows who really did it all the time and won't tell. and then he saves another fellow from drowning or something and it turns out that it was that fellow who did it, you know, and he goes and fesses up to the principal and the principal asks the hero's pardon in class and the captain of the football team comes to him and begs him to play quarter-back or something, which he does, and the school wins its big game because the hero gets the ball and runs the length of the field with it and scores a touchdown. i guess boarding school isn't really very much like that, tom. i guess there's a heap more hard work to it than those fellows who write the stories tell you about. anyway, we'll soon find out." "still, i guess some of those things do happen sometimes," said tom a trifle wistfully, unwilling to relinquish the story-book romance. "fellows do get wrongly accused of--of things, and they do rescue other fellows from drowning--sometimes, and fellows do win football games. i'd like to do that and be a hero!" "sure! so would i. bet you, though, there won't be any of that kind of stuff at brimfield. i dare say we'll wish ourselves out of it long before christmas! if anyone wrongly accuses me of anything you can bet i'll make a kick. you won't see me getting punished for what some other fellow's done. that's all right in stories, but not for yours truly! not a bit of it, tom!" chapter iii stop thief! they descended on the dining-car at twelve o'clock promptly, being unable to remain away any longer, and gave an excellent imitation of a visitation of locusts performing their well-known devastating act. if any two travellers by land or sea ever received their money's worth in food it was steve and tom. they took the menu card and briskly demanded everything in order, and when, having finished their dessert, they made the discovery that a criminally careless waiter had deprived them of pineapple sherbert, they immediately and indignantly saw to it that the omission was corrected. afterwards, groaning with happiness and repletion, they dragged themselves back to their own car and subsided on the seat in beatific silence. an hour later they came out of their stupor to stare eagerly, excitedly out at the indications of the approaching metropolis. meadows strung with enormous and glaring signboards gave place to towns and presently there came a pause at a station where other trains whisked in and out with amazing frequency. then on again, and they were suddenly dipping into a tunnel, conscious of an unpleasant pressure against their eardrums. tom's expression of bewildered alarm moved a kind-hearted neighbour across the car aisle to lean over and explain smilingly that the train was now running under the river, a piece of information but little calculated to remove tom's fears had he given the slightest credence to it, which he didn't. "i guess," he muttered resentfully close to steve's ear, "he thinks we're a couple of 'greenies' for fair! going under a river!" and then, almost before tom's indignation had given way again to alarm, the tunnel was left behind and they were in new york at last, a dimly-lighted, subterranean new york filled with hurrying crowds, bustle, noise, confusion and importunate porters. even though the two boys emerged to the platform in a somewhat dazed condition, they had no intention of wasting perfectly good pocket money having their bags carried for them, and so started out to find the office of the baggage transfer company quite bravely. for a minute they had only to follow the hurrying throng of fellow-passengers, but soon this throng divided and went separate ways and steve and tom, resting their arms by depositing their hand luggage on the lower step of an apparently interminable flight of broad stairs, looked about for someone to question. but everyone seemed in a terrible hurry, and when, at last, steve ventured to put a query to a benevolent-looking elderly gentleman who clutched a tightly-rolled umbrella in one hand and an afternoon paper in the other, he almost had his head bitten off! in the end, they proceeded up the stairway and at last came upon a returning porter who gave them their direction. by the time they had reached the transfer company's office they had walked so far that tom wondered whether most of the city was not contained inside the station! presently, though, he saw that it wasn't. for they found themselves standing outside the terminal on a street that stretched, apparently, for millions of miles in each direction! they had received detailed advice from the man in the transfer company's office as to the best method of reaching the grand central station, and the directions had sounded quite easy to follow. but now the feat didn't look so simple, for the man had told them to take a car going in a certain direction and there wasn't a car in sight! moreover, when tom came to look for car-tracks there weren't any! he pointed out the fact to steve, and steve, at first a bit dismayed, at last shrugged his shoulders and observed his chum pityingly. "you don't suppose all the cars in this town run on tracks, do you?" he asked. "what do they run on then?" "why--er--you wait and see!" "that's all right, but it's almost three o'clock and our train goes from the other station at a quarter-past, and----" "well, we'll ask someone," said steve. but, oddly enough, there was no one to ask. for a town as large as new york that block of street was strangely deserted. a team or two passed and an elderly woman crept by on the opposite sidewalk, but no one came near them. finally steve muttered: "looks to me as if we were on the wrong street. maybe there are two doors to this old station, tom." "of course there are! let's walk down to that corner. there goes a car now!" and tom, as though his future happiness depended on catching that particular car, seized his bag and started down the street at a run. steve followed more leisurely, and when he reached the corner tom was talking to a policeman. it was all very simple. they had made the mistake of leaving the terminal by a wrong exit and had emerged on to a cross-town street. after that it was easy. a car lumbered up, the policeman stopped it for them, they climbed aboard, were hurled half the length of the aisle and fell into seats. a few minutes later they transferred to a cross-town line without misadventure. "they certainly make you step lively in this town," panted tom, clutching a strap and narrowly avoiding a seat in the lap of a very stout lady. "glad i don't have to live here!" steve, however, whose eyes were darting hither and thither in a desperate effort to lose none of the sights, was more favourably disposed toward the city. even when, owing to a blockade at one of the street intersections, it became evident that they could not possibly make the three-fifteen train to brimfield, steve refused to be troubled. "maybe," he said, "we'll have time to walk around a bit and see something. say we do it, anyway, tom?" "no, sir, this place is too blamed big! first thing we'd know we'd be lost for fair and never would get to brimfield. when i get to that station i'm going to sit down and stay there!" when they did reach it the three-fifteen train had been gone nearly ten minutes, and inquiry at a window labelled "information" elicited the announcement that the next train available for them would not leave until three-fifty-eight, since brimfield, it seemed, was not a sufficiently important station to be served by all the trains. "that gives us half an hour," said steve eagerly. "let's check our bags somewhere and go out and look around." "yes, and get lost! no, sir, not for mine!" "oh, don't be such a scarecrow! come on!" but tom was obdurate. "you go if you want to," he said, "but i'm going to sit down right here and wait. you can leave your bag and i'll look after it. only, if you don't get back by a quarter to four i'm going to the train, and i'll take your bag with me." "all right. i just want to go out front awhile. i'll be back in ten minutes. you stay here. and keep your eye on the bags, tom. i guess there's a lot of sneak-thieves around here." and steve looked about him suspiciously, his glance finally falling on tom's left-hand neighbour, a youth of perhaps nineteen years upon whose good-looking face rested an amused smile. instantly, however, the paper he was holding was raised to hide his face, and steve frowned. the fellow was, thought steve, altogether too well-dressed and slick-looking to be honest, and that smile disturbed him. he leaned down and whispered in tom's ear: "look out for the fellow next to you! i think he's a crook!" tom turned an alarmed glance to his left and a disturbed one on steve. "i--i guess," he said with elaborate carelessness, "i'll sit over there where it's lighter." whereupon he gathered the bags up and literally fled across the waiting-room, steve at his heels. in his new location, out of sight of the suspected youth, he said hoarsely: "i reckon he was a pickpocket, don't you?" "you can't tell," responded steve, shaking his head knowingly. "anyway, you want to keep an eye on those bags every minute. i'll be right back, though. want to see my paper?" and steve handed an _evening sun_, purchased on the car, to his chum and wound his way through the throng toward the entrance. left to himself, tom looked at the clock and saw that the hour was three-thirty-two, glanced apprehensively about him in search of possible malefactors, dragged the bags closer to his feet and unfolded the paper. but he couldn't find much to interest him in it. besides, he had to look at the clock every few minutes, and whenever a man in a uniform appeared with a megaphone and announced the impending departure of a train tom had heart disease, seized both bags and crouched ready for instant flight until he was assured that the word "brimfield" was not among the list of stations enunciated through the trumpet. it was after he had sunk back with a sigh of relief on finding that a train for "pittsburgh, chicago and the west" was not his that he discovered that an empty seat at his right had been occupied during his strained interest in the announcer. glancing around he saw that the occupant was the well-dressed, good-looking youth who had been seated next to him before. the youth seemed very interested in the paper he was reading, his gaze being apparently fixed on a column headed "tiger's football players report," but tom refused to be deceived. only the fact that a grey-coated station policeman was standing within hail kept him from a second flight. steve, he reflected nervously while he wound both feet around the bags, would return in a minute or two and then they could go to the train. tom devoutly wished himself and the bags there now. once he was conscious of the fact that the youth beside him was glancing his way, but he pretended not to be aware of it. then his neighbour spoke. "princeton ought to have a pretty good team this year," he observed genially. tom, his heart in his mouth, nodded. "y-yes," he said. "interested in football?" went on the other. tom dared a quick glance at the smiling face and shook his head. "no, thank you. i mean--yes, a little." he didn't want to talk because he had read that confidence men always engaged their victims in conversation before selling them counterfeit money or leading them to gamble away their savings. tom's eyes darted anxiously about in search of steve and he wondered how soon the smooth-voiced stranger would call him by name or ask after the folks in tannersville. he hadn't long to wait! "it's a great game," pursued the other. then, after a short pause: "say, i've met you before, haven't i? your face looks familiar." "no," answered tom shortly, digging his feet convulsively against the bulging sides of the bags on the floor. "my mistake, then. i thought perhaps you were from tannersville, pennsylvania." tom almost jumped, although he had been expecting some such remark. it was, he reflected agitatedly, absolutely marvellous the way these fellows learned things! in a moment the fellow would tell him his name! the fellow didn't, though. he only said: "tannersville is a fine town. ever been there?" tom shook his head energetically. "never!" he fibbed. "oh!" the confidence-man--for tom had fully decided that such he was--seemed disappointed. but he wasn't discouraged. "which way are you travelling?" he asked. tom did a lot of thinking then in a fragment of a minute. "philadelphia," he blurted. "philadelphia! why, say, you're in the wrong station. you ought to go to the pennsylvania terminal. i guess you're a stranger here, eh? tell you what i'll do. you come with me and i'll put you on a car that'll take you right there." "i--i've got to wait for a friend," muttered tom desperately, sending an appealing glance toward the policeman who had now begun to saunter slowly away. "that so? well----" the other got up with a glance at the clock and reached down for his suit-case. tom's gaze followed the direction of that hand closely. it was, he thought, odd that a confidence-man should carry a suit-case, but that might be only an attempt to avert suspicion. the bag held the inscription "a. l. m., orange, n. j." probably the bag had been stolen. tom fixed that inscription firmly in his mind. "i'll have to be going," said "a. l. m." "sorry i can't be of assistance to you, kid. i thought that maybe if you were going my way, out to brimfield, i could give you a hand with your bags." tom gasped! how did he know about brimfield? "thanks," he muttered. "i--i'll get on all right." standing there in front of him "a. l. m." looked very youthful to be such a deep-dyed villain and tom felt a bit sorry for him. but the villain was smiling broadly and, as it seemed to tom, a trifle mockingly. "better keep a sharp lookout for crooks," advised the other. "there are lots of 'em about here. see that old chap over there with the basket of fruit in his lap?" the stranger moderated his voice and leaned toward tom. tom, turning his head a trifle to follow the other's gaze, felt one of the bags between his feet move and made a grab toward it. but the stranger had not, apparently, touched it, unless with a foot. "that," he was saying, "is four-fingered phillips, one of the cleverest confidence-men in new york. well, so long!" the other moved away, walking nonchalantly past the station policeman who had now wandered back to his post. tom held his breath. but the policeman, although he undoubtedly followed the youth with his gaze for a moment, failed to act, and tom was not a little relieved. even if the fellow was a crook he seemed an awfully decent sort and tom was glad he hadn't been arrested. it was getting perilously near a quarter to four now and still steve had not returned. tom watched the long hand crawl toward the figure ix, saw it reach it and pass. he would, he decided then, give steve another five minutes. his gaze fell on "four-fingered phillips" and he viewed that gentleman perplexedly. he didn't look in the least like a confidence-man. he appeared to be about sixty years of age, eminently respectable and slightly infirm. he clutched a basket of fruit and an ivory-headed cane and seemed quite oblivious to everything about him. new york, reflected tom, with something like a shudder, must be a terribly wicked place! and then, while he was still striving to discern signs of depravity under the gentle and kindly exterior of the elderly confidence-man, a young woman, leading a little boy of some three or four years of age and bearing many bundles, hurried up to "four-fingered phillips," spoke, helped him to his feet and guided him away toward the train-shed. tom sighed. it was too much for him! of course he had read of female accomplices, but it didn't seem that a four-year-old child could be a part of the game! for the first time he wondered whether "a. l. m.," perhaps chagrined at his failure to decoy tom to some secret lair, had deceived him about "four-fingered phillips"! then it was ten minutes to four, good measure, and tom, in a sudden panic, seized his bags, gazed about him despairingly and made for the train-shed. he had given steve fair warning, he told himself, and now he could just fend for himself. but his steps got slower and slower as he approached the gate and when he reached it he set the bags down, got his ticket out and waited. after all, it would be a pretty mean trick to leave steve. at least, he'd wait there until the last moment. the minutes passed and the hands on the clock further along the barrier crept nearer and nearer to the time set for the departure of the brimfield accommodation. tom wondered when the next train after this one would leave. "going on this train, son?" asked the gateman. "yes," answered tom, and took a step toward the gate. then he stopped and shook his head. "no, i guess not," he muttered. "when does the next one go, sir?" "where to?" asked the gateman, punching the ticket of a late arrival. "brimfield." "four-twelve." the gate closed and the matter was irrevocably settled. tom took his bags and hurried back to the waiting-room and found his place again. no steve was in sight! "i'll give him ten minutes," said tom savagely. "then i'll go. and--and i won't come back the next time!" and then, just as the clock announced the hour steve appeared, a little flushed and breathless, but smiling broadly. "gee, you ought to have been with me, tom!" he said excitedly. "there was a peach of a fire just around in the next street! seven engines and a hook-and-ladder and hundreds of hose-carts and one of those water-towers! and most of the engines were automobiles, tom! it was corking!" "maybe it was," replied tom coldly. "i'm going to brimfield on the four-twelve. what you going to do? find another fire?" "why, no. when i saw i'd lost that other train i thought i might as well wait and see the fire out. there's lots of time, anyway. we'll have plenty of school before we get through with it, tom." "that's all right," responded tom bitterly, "but you're way off if you think it's any fun for me sitting around here and waiting for you while you have a good time going to fires!" "you said you didn't want to go----" "well, what if i did?" demanded tom, working himself into a very respectable fit of anger. "i _didn't_ want to go. but that's no reason why you should leave me alone for the rest of the day to--to stave off robbers and thieves and confidence-men and--and all!" "oh, well, come on," said steve. "we haven't done anything but lose a train----" "we've lost two trains!" "and the man says there's another at twelve minutes after." "and we'll lose that if you stand here talking much longer," declared tom peevishly. "take up your bag and come along. there's only six or seven minutes." "where is it? haven't you got it?" "got what?" "my bag," said steve crossly. "isn't it staring you in the face?" asked tom disgustedly, indicating the suit-case against the seat. "are you blind?" "that? that isn't mine. where----" steve looked at the bag in tom's hand and then around the floor. "_where's mine?_" "what!" tom was gazing in stupefied amazement at the bag between them. on the end appeared the legend: "a. l. m., orange, n. j." chapter iv out for brimfield! just as the conductor, snapping his watch shut, waved his hand to the engineer of the four-twelve two boys hurried down the platform and, with the assistance of a negro porter, climbed to the last platform of the moving train. from there, much out of breath, they entered the car, pushed aside a curtain and sank on to the seats of the smoking compartment. and as he did so each set a suit-case between his legs and the front of the seat in a way that suggested that only over his dead body could that bag be removed! the first of the two, the one with his back to the engine, was a nice-looking youth of fifteen--almost sixteen, to be quite accurate--with a broad-shouldered, slim-hipped body that spoke of the best of physical condition. he had a pair of light-brown eyes, a short straight nose, a nice mouth and a rather sharp chin. his face was tanned, and slightly freckled as well, and he was tall for his age. his full name was stephen dana edwards. his companion was an inch shorter, a little heavier in build, although quite as well-conditioned physically, and was lighter in colouring. his hair was several shades less dark than his friend's, although it, too, was brown, his eyes were grey and under the sunburn his skin was quite fair. his full name was thomas perrin hall. good, healthy, frank-looking youths both of them under normal conditions, but at this present moment very far from appearing at their best. each face held an expression of gloom and resentment; on mr. stephen edwards' countenance sat what might well be termed a scowl. and, after a minute, by which time the train had plunged into the tunnel and the travellers had somewhat recovered their breaths, the latter young gentleman gave voice to a remark which went well with his expression. "i like the way you looked after it," he said with deep sarcasm. mr. thomas hall, returning the other's scowl, drummed with his heels on the suit-case. "why didn't you stay and look after it yourself?" he asked angrily. "it isn't my fault that you went off chasing after fire-engines." "i didn't chase after fire-engines. you said you'd watch my bag and----" "i did watch it!" "oh, yes, fine! let someone pinch it right under your eyes! i notice you managed to keep your own bag all right!" "oh, dry up!" growled tom. silence ensued until a conductor appeared and demanded tickets. yielding their transportation, the boys were informed that they were in a parlour car and must pay twenty-five cents apiece to ride to brimfield. tom laid hold of his bag with a sigh, but steve unemotionally produced a quarter and so tom followed suit. when the conductor had disappeared again through the curtain steve said: "why didn't they tell us this was a parlour car? how were we to know?" "they just wanted our money, i suppose," replied tom bitterly. "everybody in this place is after your money. i wish i was home!" "so do i," agreed steve gloomily. more silence then, until, "i don't see how he ever did it," remarked tom. "i had both bags between my feet. he was certainly slick. i suppose when he told me to look at 'four-fingered phillips' i sort of turned around and switched my legs away from the bags. but he must have been mighty quick." "of course he was quick," said steve contemptuously. "i warned you against that fellow." "that's all right, but i'll bet he'd have played the same trick if it had been you instead of me," replied tom warmly. "i'll bet he wouldn't!" "all right!" tom shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window. they had the compartment to themselves, which, in view of the remarks which were passed, was fortunate. "it isn't all right, though," pursued steve. "that bag had all my things in it: pajamas, brushes and comb and collars and handkerchiefs and--and everything! i'd like to know what i'm going to sleep in!" "i dare say we'll get our trunks to-night," said tom soothingly. "if we don't you can have my pajamas." "what'll you wear?" asked steve more graciously. "anything. i don't mind. i say, steve, let's see what's in the bag he left!" "would you?" asked steve doubtfully. "why not? he's got yours, hasn't he?" steve lifted the suit-case to the seat beside him and tried the catch. it was not locked and opened readily. there wasn't a great deal in it: a pair of lavender pajamas at which steve sniffed sarcastically, a travelling case fitted with inexpensive brushes and things and marked "a. l. m.," a pair of slippers, a magazine, a soiled collar, one clean handkerchief and a grey flannel cap with a red b sewed on the front above the visor. "wonder whose they are," mused tom, as steve spread the trousers of the pajamas out and viewed them dubiously. they were several sizes two large for steve, but they might do if his trunk didn't come in time. "i suppose that fellow swiped this bag, found there wasn't anything valuable in it and thought he'd swap it for another." "maybe there was something valuable in it when he got it," said steve. he tossed the things back and closed it again. "it's a pretty good suit-case; better than mine. do you suppose it would do any good to advertise?" "i don't suppose so. besides, that cop said that he'd have them search the pawnshops. if the police don't find it i guess an advertisement wouldn't do any good, steve." "well, i suppose there's no use crying over spilled milk," replied the other, setting the suit-case back in its place. "after all i can buy new things for five dollars or so and i guess father will send me the money when i tell him about it." tom frowned thoughtfully. finally, "say, steve, if you won't tell him how it happened i'll pay for what you lost myself." "what for?" "i--i'd rather he didn't know, that's all." "oh! well, i won't tell him you had anything to do with it, tom. you didn't, either," he added after a moment. "it wasn't your fault, tom. it--it would have happened to me just the same way, i'll bet." "you could just say that the bag was stolen, couldn't you?" asked tom more cheerfully. "i mean you needn't go into particulars, you know. it doesn't really matter _how_ it happened as long as it _did_ happen." "no, of course not. i'll just say it was stolen while we were waiting for the train. i guess five dollars will be enough. let's see. pajamas cost two and a half, brushes----" "you getting off at brimfield, gentlemen?" asked the porter, putting his head through the curtains and waving a brush at them. "yes. are we there?" asked tom startledly. "pretty near, sir. want me to brush you off, sir?" "i guess so." by the time that ceremony had been impressively performed and two dimes had changed places from the boys' pockets to the porter's, the train was slowing down for the station. a moment later they had alighted and were looking about them. the station was small and attractive, being of stone and almost covered with vines, and beyond it, across the platform, several carriages were receiving passengers. a man in a long and shabby coat accosted them. "carriage, boys? going up to the school?" "yes," replied steve. "how much?" "twenty-five cents apiece. any trunks?" "two. can you take them up with us?" "i'll have 'em up there in half an hour. just you give me the checks." "the checks," murmured steve, a look of uneasiness coming to his face. "haven't you got them?" asked tom anxiously. steve nodded. "i've got them all right," he said grimly, "but these are the transfer company's checks. we--we forgot to get new ones at the station!" "thunder!" said tom disgustedly. "now what'll we do?" "i'll look after it, gentlemen," said the driver comfortingly. "i'll have the agent telegraph the numbers back and they'll send 'em right along. it'll cost about half a dollar." "will we get them to-night?" asked steve. "you might. i wouldn't like to promise, though. anyway, they'll be along first thing in the morning. thank you, sir. right this way to the carriage. i'll look after the bags." "not mine, you won't," replied tom grimly, tightening his clasp on it. "i wouldn't trust the president of the united states with this bag. anyway," he added as he followed steve and the driver across the platform to a ricketty conveyance, "not if he lived in new york!" by that time all the other carriages had rolled away, and while they waited for their driver to arrange with the station agent about the trunks they examined their surroundings. there wasn't much to see. the station was at the end of a well-shaded street, and beyond, across the right of way, the country seemed to begin. there were one or two houses within sight, set back amidst trees, and at the summit of a low hill the wheel of a windmill was clattering merrily. there were many hills in sight, all prettily wooded, and, on the whole, brimfield looked attractive. they searched vainly for a glimpse of the school buildings, and the driver, returning just then, explained in reply to their inquiry, that the school was nearly a mile away. "you could have seen it from the train if you'd been looking," he added. "it's about a quarter of a mile from the track on the further side there. get-ap, abe lincoln!" their way led down the straight and shaded street which presently began to show houses on either side, houses set in small gardens still aflame with autumn flowers and divided from the road by neat hedges or vine-clad fences. then there were a few stores clustering about the intersection of the present street and one running at right angles with it, and a post-office and a fire-house and a diminutive town hall. the old horse turned to the right here and ambled westward. "you boys are sort of late," observed the driver conversationally. "why, school doesn't begin until to-morrow, does it?" asked tom. "no. i meant you was late for to-day. about twenty boys came this afternoon, most of 'em on the train before this one. there was prouty and newhall and miller and a lot of 'em. you're new boys, though, ain't you?" they acknowledged it and the driver nodded. "thought i didn't remember your faces. i got a good memory for faces, i have. well, you're coming to a fine school, boys, a fine school! i guess there ain't another like it in the country. i been driving back and forth for nigh on twelve years and i know it pretty well now. know lots o' the boys, too. nice fellers, they be. always have a good word for me. generous, they be, too. always handin' me a tip and thinkin' nothing of it." steve nudged tom with his elbow. "that's fine," he said. "you must be pretty rich by now." "rich? me rich?" the driver shook his head sorrowfully. "no, sir, there ain't much chance o' gettin' rich at this business, what with the high cost of feed and all. no, gentlemen, i'm a poor man and i don't never expect to be aught else. get-ap, abe lincoln!" the village, or what there was of it, had been left behind now and the road was winding slightly uphill through woodland. the sun was slanting into their faces, casting long shadows. now and then a gate and the beginning of a well-kept driveway suggested houses set out of sight on the wooded knolls about them. the carriage crossed the railroad track and the driver pointed ahead of him with his whip. "there's the school," he said; and the boys craned forward to see. "gee, but ain't it big!" muttered steve. chapter v number 12 billings the woods had given way to open fields, and they could follow with their eyes the course of the road ahead as it turned to the left and ran, almost parallel to the railroad, past where a pair of stone gate-posts guarded the entrance to the academy. from the gate a drive went winding upward, hidden now and then by trees and shrubs, to where, at the crest of a hill, a half-dozen buildings looked down upon them with numberless windows. "that's main hall," said tom, "the big one in the centre. i remember it in the catalogue." "and that's the gym at this end," added steve. "it's a pretty good looking place, isn't it? what's the building where the tall chimney is, driver?" "torrence. there's rooms upstairs and a dining-room on the first floor. that chimney's from the kitchen at the back. then the building in the middle's main hall, as they call it. that was the original building. i remember when there wasn't any others. the one to the left of it's hensey hall. the fellows that lives there are called 'chickens,'" chuckled the man. "then there's billings beyond hensey, and the cottage, where mr. fernald lives, is just around the corner, like. you can see the porch of it if you look." but they couldn't, for at that moment the carriage turned to enter the gate and their view was cut off by a group of yellowing beeches. presently the carriage stopped in front of a broad flight of stone steps and the boys climbed out. "fifty cents, gentlemen," said the driver as he lifted the bags out. "thank you, sir. thank _you_, sir! i'll have your trunks up first thing in the morning. just walk right in through the door and you'll find the office on your right. they'll look after you there. much obliged, gentlemen. any time you want a rig or anything you telephone to jimmy hoskins. that's me. good-night, gentlemen, and good luck to you!" steve had contributed an extra quarter, which doubtless accounted for mr. hoskins' extreme affability. bags in hand they climbed the well-worn granite steps and entered a dim, unlighted corridor. an open door on the right revealed a room divided by a railing, in front of which were a half-dozen wooden chairs and beyond which were two desks, some filing cabinets, a book-case, a letter-press, some chairs and one small, middle-aged man with a shining bald head which was raised inquiringly as steve led the way to the railing. "how do you do, boys," greeted the sole occupant of the office in a thin, high voice. "what are the names, please?" as he spoke he took a card from a pile in front of him and dipped a pen in the ink-well. "stephen d. edwards, sir." "full name, please." "stephen dana." "very good. place of residence?" "tannersville, pennsylvania." "a wonderful state, pennsylvania. parents' names, please." "charles l. edwards. my mother isn't living." "tut, tut, tut!" said the school secretary regretfully and sympathetically. "a great misfortune, edwards. now, you are entering by certificate?" "yes, sir, from the tannersville high school." "and your age?" "fifteen; sixteen in----" "fifteen will do, thank you." he drew out a drawer in a small cabinet set at the left of the broad-topped desk and ran his fingers over the indexed cards within it, finally extracting one and laying it very exactly above the one on which he had been setting down the information supplied by steve. for a moment he silently compared the two. then he nodded with much satisfaction. "quite so, quite so," he said. "you will room in billings hall, number 12, edwards. you are provided with linen and other articles required?" "yes, sir, but my trunk hasn't got here yet." "quite so. one moment." he drew a telephone toward him, pressed a button on a little black board set at one end of the desk, glanced at the clock between the two broad windows and spoke into the transmitter: "mrs. calder? edwards, 12 billings, hasn't his trunk yet. will you have his room made up, please? eh? quite so! yes, 12 billings. just a moment." he turned to steve. "may i ask whether the young gentleman with you is your room-mate, hall?" "yes, sir." "and his trunk, too, is missing?" "yes, sir." "quite so. yes, mrs. calder, both beds, please. thank you." he hung up the receiver and pushed the instrument aside. "that is all, edwards. i trust you will like the school. should you want anything you may come to me here or you will find your hall master, mr. daley, in number 8 billings. now, if you please, hall." tom, in turn, answered the little man's interrogations and at last they were free to seek their room. "billings is the last dormitory to your right as you leave this building," said the secretary, "and you will find number 12 on the second floor at the further end. supper is served at six o'clock in the dining-room in wendell, which is the last building in the other direction. as we have very few students with us yet, the supper hour is shortened and it will greatly assist if you will be prompt." the boys thanked him and sought their room. a broad flagstone walk ran the length of the row of six buildings and along this they strode past the first building, which was hensey, to the one beyond. the dormitories were uniform in material and style of architecture, each being three stories in height, the first story of stone and the others of red brick. the entrance was reached by a single stone step, above which hung an electric light just beginning to glow wanly in the early twilight. inside, two slate steps led to the first floor level and here a fireproof door divided the staircase well from the corridor. a flight of stone stairs took them to the second floor. "rooms 11 to 20" was inscribed on the door and steve pushed it open and led the way down to a very clean, well-lighted corridor to number 12. there could be no mistake about it, for the figures were very plainly printed on the white door. under the room number was a little metal frame which they afterwards discovered was for the purpose of holding a card bearing the names of the occupants. steve pushed the door open and, followed by tom, entered. there was still enough light from the one broad window to see by, but steve found a switch near the doorway and turned on the electricity. it was a pretty forlorn looking place at first glance, but doubtless the fact that the two beds were unmade, that the window-seat was empty of cushions and that the two slim chiffoniers and the desk-table were bare had a good deal to do with that first impression. the boys set their bags down and looked about them rather dejectedly. finally, "i suppose when we get our things around it'll look different," murmured tom. steve grunted and tried a bed. "that feels pretty good," he said. "i hope mrs. thingamabob won't forget to make it. which side do you want?" "i don't care," replied tom. "there isn't any difference, i guess." there didn't appear to be. the door was at the right as you entered, and beside it was a good-sized closet. the room was about fifteen feet long, from closet to window, by some twelve feet wide. a brown grass rug filled most of the floor space. the wainscoting, of clean white pine, ascended four feet and ended in a narrow ledge or shelf, devised, as they afterwards discovered, to hold photographs or small pictures which the rules prohibited them from placing on the walls. the walls were painted a light buff. the furniture consisted of two single-width beds, two chiffoniers, a study table and two straight-backed chairs. the beds were against the opposite walls, the table in the geometrical centre of the rug, the chiffoniers occupied a portion of the remaining wall space on each side and the two chairs were set between beds and bureaus. the window was in a slight bay and there was a six-foot seat below it. the room was lighted by a two-lamp electrolier above the table, but from one socket depended a green cord, suggesting that a previous occupant had used a drop light. "i wonder," said steve, "where we are supposed to wash." "let's look for the bathroom," suggested tom. so they returned to the silent corridor and presently discovered a commodious bath and wash-room at the farther end. there were six set bowls and four tubs there, and tom thought it was pretty fine. steve, however, was in a mood to find fault and he objected to the bathroom on several different counts. for one thing, it was too far away. then, too, he didn't see how twenty fellows were going to wash at six bowls. tom, however, promptly demonstrated how one fellow could do it by returning to number 12 and bringing back his wash-cloth. in his absence steve had been experimenting with the liquid soap apparatus with which each bowl was supplied, and by the time tom got back was able to tell him why he didn't approve of them! by the time they had both cleaned up it was time to find the dining-hall, and so, leaving the light burning in brazen disregard of a notice under the switch, they clattered downstairs again and set off for the other end of the row, as the line of buildings was called. two or three boys were standing on the steps of wendell when they reached it and they were aware of their frankly curious gaze as they passed them. the dining-hall wasn't hard to find, for its double doors faced them as they entered the building. they left their caps on one of the big racks outside and rather consciously stepped inside the doorway. it was a huge room, seemingly occupying the entire first floor of the building, and held what appeared to be hundreds of tables. only four of them were occupied now, two across the hall from the door and two at one end. a boy of about seventeen or eighteen, wearing an apron and carrying a tray of dishes, saw them, and, setting down his burden, conducted them to one of the tables nearby. there were already five boys at the board and they each and all stared silently while steve and tom slid into their chairs. the newcomers surmised that they, too, were new boys, for, unlike the fellows at the next table beyond, who were laughing and chatting quite light-heartedly, they applied themselves grimly and silently to their food and seemed to view each other with deep distrust. steve and tom, striving against the embarrassment that held them, conversed together in whispers. "it's a whaling big room," said steve. "just like a hotel, isn't it? wonder what we get to eat." "bet you i'll eat it, whatever it is," replied tom. "i'm as hungry as a bear!" they weren't left long in doubt, for a second waiter appeared very promptly and set their repast before them. there was cold roast beef, a baked potato apiece, toasted muffins, milk and cocoa, preserves and cookies. by the time they were half through their supper most of the others had finished and hurried away, removing much of the embarrassment of the situation. steve ventured to stretch his legs comfortably under the table and turn his head to regard the occupants of the tables at the far end of the hall. "i guess some of those are teachers," he said. "gee, but i'd like some more meat. would you ask for it?" "i don't know. no one else did. these muffins are bully, only there aren't enough of them. i wonder if we'll sit here regularly." "i don't suppose so. we'll probably be shoved to one of those tables over there by the wall. what time do you suppose they have breakfast? we'll have to ask someone, i guess. didn't he say something about a hall master?" "yes, in number 8. we'll stop and ask him when we go back." there was a scraping of chairs at the end of the room and several older boys and two or three men came down the room toward the door. steve and tom turned to look and suddenly tom seized his companion's arm. "it's him!" he exclaimed. "who?" asked steve. "or--anyway it looks lots like him," continued tom breathlessly. "who looks like what?" demanded the other impatiently. "why, the tall fellow just going out now! see him? he--he looks just like the fellow in the station, the fellow who took your bag! the confidence-man!" chapter vi clues! "the confidence-man?" asked steve incredulously. "oh, you run away and play, tom! what would he be doing here? don't be a silly goat!" "well, i suppose it isn't he, but--but he certainly looked just like him." "pshaw, i saw him too, didn't i? well, that chap doesn't look anything like him." "then you didn't look at the fellow i meant," returned tom doggedly. "i--i believe it was he, steve!" "oh, sure," said steve sarcastically, "and the fellow behind him is a famous second-story burglar and the man with the flannel trousers on, who looks like a teacher, is a popular murderer. he escaped from sing sing this morning. and the little man with the grey moustache----" "that's all right," replied tom earnestly, "but you'll find i'm right. it--it was he, i tell you! there couldn't be two people as much alike!" "you'd better follow him then," laughed steve, "and ask him for my suit-case. tell him i want my pajamas, will you?" but tom refused to treat the matter so lightly. he was evidently quite convinced that he was really on the trail of the thief, and all steve's ridicule failed to move him from that conviction. he was too anxious to begin the search for the "confidence-man" to do justice to the rest of his supper, and when, at last, they were once more outside the building he gazed up and down the row eagerly and was disappointed to find that neither his quarry nor anyone else was visible in the half-darkness. as they passed torrence hall, however, an open window on the first floor sent a flood of light across the walk, and tom, crossing the narrow strip of turf that divided building from pavement, raised himself on his tiptoes and looked into the room. the next instant a face appeared with disconcerting suddenness within a foot of his own and the occupant of the room, who had been reclining on the window-seat, enquiring abruptly: "well, fresh, what do you want?" "n-nothing, thanks," stammered tom, withdrawing quickly. "keep your head out of my window then," was the indignant response, "or i'll come out there and teach you manners!" tom hurried away into the friendly darkness and joined steve, who was chuckling audibly. "did you find him, tom?" "no." and then, as steve continued to be amused, tom said with spirit; "i should think you'd be enough interested to help a fellow instead of giggling like a silly goat!" "oh, i'm not a sherlock holmes," replied steve airily. "detecting isn't in my line." "i should think you'd want to get your bag back, though. i tell you that was really the fellow, steve. don't you believe me?" "oh, yes!" "you don't, though," said tom bitterly. "all right, then. you find your own bag. i'm through." "oh, don't say that!" begged steve. "you were doing so nicely. look, there's a lighted window up there, tom. if you get a ladder now----" "aw, cut it!" growled tom. mr. daley was in when they rapped at the door of number 8, on the first floor of billings, and, accepting his invitation to enter, they found themselves in a very cosy, lamp-lighted, nicely furnished study, from which a smaller room, evidently a bedroom, opened. mr. horace daley was a young man with an embarrassed manner and a desire to appear quite at ease. he shook hands heartily, stumbled through a few words of welcome and arranged chairs for them. he asked a good many questions, invariably remarking "fine!" with deep enthusiasm after every answer and smiled jovially at all times. but the boys saw that he was much more embarrassed than they were and were secretly pleased and amused. when at last the instructor had finished the usual questions and was searching around in his mind for more, steve began asking for information. breakfast, responded mr. daley, was at seven-thirty and ran half an hour. chapel was at eight-fifteen usually, although there would be none to-morrow, as school did not officially begin until noon. the first recitation hour was nine o'clock. dinner ran from twelve-thirty to one-thirty. recitations began again at two and lasted until half-past three. supper was at six. between seven and eight the students were required to remain in their rooms and study, although on permission of the house master one could study in the library instead. all lights were supposed to be out at ten-thirty. and mr. daley hoped the boys would get on swimmingly and become very fond of brimfield. "i--ah--i want you to feel that i am ready and anxious to help you at any time, fellows. i--ah--want you to look on me as--ah--as a big brother and come to me in your--ah--perplexities and troubles, should you have any, and of course there are bound to be--ah--little worries at first. one has to accustom oneself to any--ah--new environment. don't hesitate to call on me for advice or assistance. sometimes an older head--ah--you see what i mean?" steve replied that they did and thanked him and, with tom crowding at his heels, withdrew. "he's a funny dub," confided steve, as they made their way up to the next floor. "guess he must be new here. what does he teach, tom?" "modern languages, i think the catalogue said. his first name is horace." "horace!" steve chuckled. "it ought to be percy. hello, they've fixed the beds up." the room looked far more habitable when steve had switched the light on. tom sighed luxuriously as he stretched himself out on one of the beds. "bet you i'm going to do a tall line of sleeping to-night, steve," he said. "this bed isn't half bad, either." "well, don't put your feet all over the spread," replied steve. "get up out of that and unpack your bag, you lazy duffer." "i will in a minute. i'm tired. say, what do you think of this place, anyway, steve?" "the school? oh, i guess it'll do. you can't tell much about it yet, i suppose. i'm going to snoop around to-morrow after breakfast and see the sights. i suppose things will be a lot different when the crowd comes. i guess we're the only fellows in this dormitory to-night." "scared?" asked tom, with a grin. "remember horace is downstairs to protect you." "huh! bet you he'd crawl under the bed if he saw a burglar! i wonder if the rest of the faculty is like him." "oh, i dare say he's all right when you get to know him," said tom, with a yawn. "say, pull down that window, steve. it's getting chilly in here." "get up and move around and you won't feel chilly," replied steve unsympathetically. "gee, i wish i had my pajamas and things." "you might have had them by this time if you'd helped me look for that fellow," said tom. "i'm just as certain as i am that i'm lying here that the fellow we saw in the dining-hall was the fellow who swiped your suit-case!" "oh, forget that," said steve disgustedly. "common-sense ought to tell you that a sneak thief you saw in new york wouldn't be having his supper here at brimfield!" "he was, though," replied the other stubbornly. "oh, run away! don't you suppose there are two people who look alike in this world?" "not as much alike as those two." "why, you didn't even get a good look at the fellow in the dining-hall. he had his back turned to you." "not when i saw him first, he didn't," answered tom with a vigorous shake of his head. "i saw his face before he turned at the doorway and _it was him_!" "you mean it was he, you ignoramus. all right, tom, have your own way about it. only someone ought to warn the principal about him. why, he might run off with a couple of the buildings some night!" "enjoy yourself," murmured tom. "but you'll find i was right some day, you old pig-headed chump!" "when i do i--i'll make you a present," answered steve, with a grin. "any present you'd give me wouldn't cut much figure, i guess," said the boy on the bed contemptuously. "is that so? say, what'll i do with this bag?" steve laid the suit-case in question on his bed and threw open the lid. "the pajamas look clean, anyway," he continued as he viewed them. "i suppose i'll have to wear them." he drew the cap out and set it on his head. "wonder what the b stands for, tom." "what bee?" asked tom lazily. "the b on this cap," replied the other, studying it. tom suddenly sat up on the bed. "why, brimfield, of course!" he exclaimed in triumph. "there now! was i right or wasn't i?" "shucks! it might stand for anything: brown, brooklyn, beans, brownbread, basketball----" "yes, and brimfield! and aren't the brimfield colours maroon-and-grey, and isn't that cap grey, and isn't that b maroon?" "it's red." "so is maroon, a brownish-red." tom had deserted his bed and was turning the cap about eagerly. "this belongs to some fellow here who has won his letter, steve," he said with deep conviction. "some fellow who has _lost_ his letter, you mean," replied steve with a laugh. "all right; it will save me from buying a cap when i make the football team. how does it look on me?" "it's too big," said tom. "it's about a seven, i guess. that's what that fellow would wear, i think." tom frowned thoughtfully. "are there any more clues?" he asked, dropping the cap and seizing the pajamas excitedly. "sure! there are brushes in the case and they mean that the fellow has hair on his head, tom. so there's no use looking for a bald-headed man, eh? that's what they call 'the process of elimination,' isn't it? say, what are you trying to do with those things? ruin them? please remember that i've got to wear them to-night." "looking for laundry marks," replied tom. "but there aren't any. i guess they're new ones." he dropped the pajamas regretfully and turned his attention to the other objects in the bag. "a magazine," he muttered. "'fine'!--as horace would say. the man can read. therefore he is not blind. elimination again! at this rate we'll know all about him in a minute, tom. gee, but you're a wise guy. have a look at the collar and tell me the fellow's name. go on!" "it begins with an m, anyway," muttered tom, studying the object in question. "ha!" exclaimed steve melodramatically. "the net is closing! he has hair on his head, is not blind, wears purple pajamas and spells his name with an m! the rest is easy, tom. put your hat on and we'll go out and get him." "oh, shut up, you silly goat!" tom had the magazine in his hands again and was glancing through it. suddenly, with an exclamation, he thrust it into steve's hands. "there! hold it up and let it fall open itself, steve!" "all right. what about it?" "look where it opened!" "page 64." "yes, but what's there?" "'men who have made football history, by----'" "there you are! don't you see! that's what he was reading. he's a football man and that b is his football letter!" "oh! but, say, tom, you're forgetting that this suit-case is supposed to have been stolen from someone else. then what?" "we don't know that it was. we just thought so. it looks now as if it really belonged to the fellow." "and he went and swapped it for mine? what would he do that for?" "maybe he thought yours might have something valuable in it," faltered tom. "maybe--say, steve, perhaps he got yours by mistake!" "sure!" replied the other sarcastically. "reached down and dragged it from under your feet, thinking all the while it was his. sounds very probable--i don't think!" "well, you can see for yourself----" "what was that?" interrupted steve. "what was what?" "i thought i heard a knock at the door." they listened. it sounded again. steve hustled the things back into the bag and slammed the lid shut in a twinkling. then, "come in!" he called. the door opened and a tall youth stepped inside. he carried a suit-case in one hand. tom gasped. it was the "confidence-man"! chapter vii the confidence-man "hi," greeted the visitor, with a smile, as he slid the suit-case across the floor and faced the two boys. "want to swap bags?" "that--that's mine!" exploded steve. "where'd you get it?" the visitor pulled a chair out from the wall and seated himself nonchalantly. "and that," he responded, nodding at the bag on the bed, "is mine. i didn't think the pajamas would fit you and i was mighty sure yours wouldn't fit me. so i dropped around to make an exchange." "you're the fellow in the station!" exclaimed tom accusingly. "right-o! i'm the 'sneak-thief.'" "i knew it!" declared tom triumphantly. "i saw you in the dining-hall and told steve it was you and he wouldn't believe it!" "wouldn't he?" laughed the visitor. "i suppose it's some sort of a silly joke," said steve bewilderedly. "would you mind telling me why you--why you took my bag?" "glad to, edwards. you _are_ edwards, aren't you? i thought so. and this chap's hall? well, my name's miller. so now we know each other. would you mind sitting down, you fellows?" steve sank on to the bed and tom retreated to the unoccupied chair, from where he viewed miller with fascinated attention. "it was this way, you fellows," explained miller. "i may be a bit thin-skinned, but i don't like being called a sneak-thief. edwards here told you, hall, to look after your bags because there were sneak-thieves around. and then he looked at me very impolitely. after he went away i saw that you really did suspect me of being something of the sort and it occurred to me that it might be amusing to teach you chaps not to pass compliments." "i didn't mean you to hear me," said steve confusedly. "i couldn't help it, as you spoke right out," replied miller drily. "well, so when hall changed his seat i went along and tried to talk to him. but he was foxy, hall was. he wasn't going to be fooled! when it got to be train time i spun him a yarn about a harmless old man across the room and got him to look at him. then i changed the bags. i thought you fellows would take the same train and i meant to give you back your bag then. but you weren't on it and so i suppose you were looking around the station for me. was that it?" "i didn't get back in time," said steve. "we didn't find out about the bags until the train had gone. then we did look around, and we told a policeman, and----" miller put his head back and laughed delightedly. "bully!" he cried. "you chaps are wonders!" "well, what would you have done?" asked tom indignantly. "how were we to know that it was a joke?" "oh, i'd have done the same thing, of course," answered the other soothingly. "only the idea of the new york police department being on the lookout for me struck me as a bit humorous." "tom says you asked him about tannersville," said steve. "how did you know he was from there?" "not difficult," chuckled miller. "it's on the end of his bag. and i knew he was coming to brimfield because there was a tag on the handle. i couldn't make out your names, but i could see 'brimfield, n. y.' all right." steve and tom smiled foolishly. "i never thought of that," murmured tom. "we--we thought you were a confidence-man!" "so i thought you thought," laughed miller. "well, here's your property, edwards. i dare say it was rather a mean joke to play on you, but you sort of invited it, you see." "i don't care now that i've got it back," responded steve philosophically. "tom was certain you were the fellow who took my bag when he saw you in dining-hall and he was all heated up about it. wanted to arrest you at once, i guess." "well, i was right, though, wasn't i?" demanded tom. "you said it couldn't be the same chap. but i _knew_!" "yes, you're some sleuth," agreed steve. "you were right and i was wrong, as you always are." "how about that present you were to give me?" inquired tom. "you'll get it, all right; just before christmas." then, to miller: "we--i had your things out of your bag," he said apologetically. "i thought i'd have to wear those pajamas." "they'd have been a bit large, i guess," laughed miller. "still, they are brand-clean and you could have wrapped them around you a few times and turned them up at the feet and hands. well, how have you chaps found everything? all right?" "yes, thanks," said steve. "we forgot to check our trunks at the grand central station, though, and so we're sort of hard-up for things to wear." "too bad." miller smiled. "i guess you chaps haven't travelled around much, eh?" "not much. this is the first time we've ever been so far east." "well, i don't blame you for getting a bit confused in new york. it's a tough old place to get around in unless you know the ropes. if you need collars or anything maybe i can help you out. i suppose, though, mine wouldn't fit." "we'll get on all right, thanks," replied steve. "our trunks will surely be along in the morning. the man who drove us up here had the agent telegraph back for them and said he'd fetch them as soon as they came." "jimmy horse? he will if he doesn't forget." "this fellow said his name was hoskins, i think," said tom. "yes, we call him jimmy horse. he will probably be along with them before noon. just depends on whether he remembers them and how busy he is. still, not many fellows get here before the eleven o'clock train and so he ought to find time to bring the trunks. if he doesn't show up soon after breakfast you'd better telephone to him. the booth's in main hall, around the corner from the office. i suppose you saw old 'quite so'?" "who?" asked steve. "mr. brooke, the secretary. we call him 'quite so' because he's always saying that. didn't you notice?" "i did," said tom. "i thought maybe he was mr. fernald, though." "no, you won't see josh much. he lives around the corner there in the cottage. you'll be lucky if you don't see him, too. when you call on josh it's usually because you've been and gone and done something. he will be at faculty reception to-morrow evening, though. that's in upper hall at eight o'clock. better go, fellows; everyone does. have you met your hall master, mr. daley?" "yes, we stopped in at his room after supper," answered steve. "is he----" he hesitated. miller laughed. "go on and say it, edwards! is he what?" "i was going to ask if he was liked." "oh, yes, daley's all right. rather shy, but he's young yet. this is only his second year. you'll like him better when you've known him awhile. what form are you fellows in?" "fourth. at least, we hope we are." "oh, you'll make it. they'll put you in, anyway, and then drop you back if you don't keep up. that's a pleasant little trick of theirs here. you'll have daley in french and german. take my advice and don't have fun with him just because you can. most of the new fellows try to make life a burden to him because he gets kind of rattled and tries to swallow his tongue when he talks. but they're generally sorry for it later. he stands about so much and then--bing! off you go to josh! and here's another tip, fellows. always be dead serious with 'uncle sim.' that's mr. simkins, greek instructor. if you can look as if you'd lost all your friends and bitten your tongue you'll make a big hit with him. he doesn't know a joke even when it's labelled and can't stand any flippancy. i made a pun in class once; i've forgotten what it was, but it was a bright and scintillant little effort; and uncle sim told me i'd end on the gallows. he's never forgotten that and still views me with deep suspicion." "we will try to remember," laughed steve. "i suppose you are in the sixth form?" "yes, this is my last year here. i ought to have been out last year, but i slipped a cog when i first came and got dropped a form. you see, i made the mistake of thinking that the principal branches were football, baseball and hockey. when i'd woke up to the fact that a little attention to mathematics and languages and such foolishness was required it was too late, and--plop!--sound of falling!" steve recalled a similar warning of his father's and silently made up his mind then and there to not make miller's mistake. "do you play football?" asked tom. "i mean, are you on the team?" "yes, i--i'm on the team." miller's smile had an odd quality that puzzled tom at the moment. "you chaps know the game?" "steve has played more than i have," replied tom. "he was on our high school team at left end last year. he's pretty good, steve is. i didn't make the 'varsity, but i played a couple of years with the scrubs." "tom plays a good game," said steve. "i suppose it's pretty hard to get on the team here." "about the same as anywhere," answered miller. "if you show the goods you're all right." he viewed steve speculatively and then turned an appraising gaze on tom. "you chaps look pretty fit for this time of year. what do you weigh, edwards?" [illustration: steve slipped on the tiling and fell sidewise into the water] "about a hundred and thirty-eight." "you look solid, too," said miller approvingly. "you chaps show up in togs day after to-morrow at four. look me up and i'll see that you get a good chance to show what you can do. where have you played, hall?" "at tackle, mostly. i played half a little last fall." "you look rather likely, i think. don't be disappointed if you don't make the first or second this year, fellows. keep going. there's your hall team. try for that. you'll get lots of good fun and experience. i tell you this not to discourage you but because we've kept a lot of last year's fellows and it's going to be harder than usual to break into the first team, i guess. and that means that a good many of the second team fellows will be disappointed and will have to stay where they are. hard on them, but lucky for the school. i don't know whether you chaps understand the football situation with us?" "i don't believe so," replied steve. "well, it's like this. when i came here four years ago there wasn't any team. before that, five or six years before, they'd played, but about that time football got into disfavour and the faculty stopped it. i believe they allowed the hall teams to play, but that didn't last long. my second year here they lifted the ban and we started a team. of course it didn't amount to much that first year and we got licked right and left. the next year, though, we did a good deal better, and last year we turned out a mighty good team. we lost only two games out of nine and tied one. unfortunately, though, one of the games we lost was the game with claflin, which is our big game of the year. claflin has beaten us three years running now and this year we're out for revenge with a rolling r. considering that we've played only three seasons, we've got a pretty good start. our coach is a dandy, a chap named robey; played with brown the year they downed pennsy; and he's been building up this year's team ever since he started in. at first we didn't have more than forty candidates to choose from. last year about sixty fellows turned out and this fall i guess we'll have nearer eighty. robey started the hall teams up again year before last and that helped a lot. the best of the hall team chaps went into the second last year, and now, this year, we've got fellows with three years' experience behind them. so, you see, edwards, we haven't got much football history at brimfield and our system is still pretty new, but we're getting on! and this fall if we don't lick claflin--well, if we don't, i'll have missed my guess." miller's lean, good-looking face had lighted up with enthusiasm during his recital, and, when he had ended, as though impatient to begin the campaign which was to end in the rout of the enemy, he got up and took a turn the length of the room. he didn't look the least bit in the world like a confidence-man to-night and the two boys marvelled at their earlier suspicions. miller was tall, lean with the leanness of muscles unhampered by useless flesh, and lithe. he had very clear brown eyes, a straight nose and high cheek bones that somehow reminded steve of the engraved portrait of john c. calhoun that hung in the library at home. altogether, from the top of his well-shaped head to the soles of his rubber-shod feet, he was good to look at, clean-cut, well-groomed, healthy and very much alive. steve found himself wishing that some day he might find himself playing shoulder to shoulder with miller. he hated to think what would happen to the enemy in such a case! miller paused at the table, thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled a trifle apologetically. "well, that's the way it is, you chaps," he went on. "so, whether you make the first or the second or neither, you keep on playing and trying. there's another year coming for you fellows; two of them, in fact. keep that in mind, and if you don't get what you want this year keep plugging. and don't fail to come out wednesday and do your best. you'll get a fair show and if you can play the game well enough you'll get places. now i must run along with my bag. i'm glad to have met you chaps. if i can help you in any way don't fail to call on me. you'll find me in 7 hensey. come and see me anyway. miller's the name. and, by the way, i'm glad you chaps took my little joke so decently and didn't get waxy about it. if you had, i'd probably have told it around and you'd have got a lot of joshing. as it is, no one knows it and no one will. good-night." and miller, his suit-case in hand, smiled, nodded and went out. they could hear him whistling merrily until the landing door had closed behind him. "i meant to ask him what position he played," said steve regretfully. "i'll bet he's a corker, though!" "i'll bet you he is," agreed tom warmly. "and he seemed a rattling good sort, too, didn't he?" "yes. and i'm glad i lost my bag. if i hadn't we mightn't have known him, seeing that he's a sixth form fellow." "i guess he's sort of prominent," mused tom. "he gives you the idea of being someone, doesn't he?" "oh, he's someone, all right! do you think he really wants us to call on him, tom? or--or was he just being polite?" "both, i guess. i don't suppose we'd better call unless he asks us again. we don't want to act fresh, you know. besides," and tom smiled mischievously, "i'm not sure we ought to associate with him." "why not?" asked steve incredulously. "well, seeing that he's a confidence-man----" chapter viii in the rubbing room after breakfast the next morning, a breakfast eaten with excellent appetites, the two boys set out on a sightseeing tour about the school. they went first to the gymnasium. the big front door was locked, but steve was not to be denied and eventually gained entrance through a little door at the rear which led into the boiler-room and from there found their way into the main basement where were situated the big swimming tank, a commodious baseball cage and a bowling alley. on the floor above they found themselves in a square hall, entered from the front door, from which other doors led to the gymnasium, the locker and bathrooms and a small office bearing the sign "physical director." from the hall a fireproof stairway ascended with a turn to the running-track and a large room which was evidently used as a meeting hall. settees were neatly arranged in front of a platform, a row of low windows admitted a flood of morning sunshine and against the walls hung many photographs of athletic teams. most of them showed groups of track and field men, although a few were of hockey sevens and there were three football teams in evidence. the explorers paid more attention to these photographs than the others, and steve, whose patriotism was already strong, read the inscriptions on the lower margins with disfavour. "huh!" he grumbled. "'brimfield 0; claflin 12'; 'brimfield 3; claflin 11'; 'brimfield 6; claflin 9.' bet you next time it'll be some different, tom!" "rather!" said tom stoutly. "let's go on down and see the gym." they tried the chest-weights and tested the bars and experimented with about everything they found down there, and then went into the adjoining compartment and peered into the shower-baths and passed on the merits of the steel lockers. "the fellow who built this gym knew what he was doing," declared steve approvingly. "some of these lockers have got things in them," he continued, peeping into one. "there's a bat in here, and a towel and some clothes." tom had wandered through a doorway at the end of the locker compartment and now summoned steve to join him. there was a high table in the centre of the small room and a set of metal shelves alongside which held numerous bottles and boxes. "it's the rubbing room," said steve. "here, get busy, tom!" and he hoisted himself to the table and stretched out on his back. "yes, sir," said tom. "where's it hurt you? this the spot?" and tom began such an enthusiastic manipulation of steve's ribs that the latter set up a howl and precipitately tumbled off the table. it was at that moment that an unpleasant voice startled them. "beat it, you fresh kids! you've got no business in here!" the speaker was a heavy-set youth of perhaps nineteen years of age. he had closely-cropped ashy-brown hair over a round face from which a pair of pale-blue eyes glowered upon them. he was standing in the doorway and his hands were thrust into the pockets of a pair of very wide-hipped knickerbockers. somehow, standing there with his sturdy, golf-stockinged legs well apart and his loose trousers pulled out at the sides, he reminded tom of a clown at a circus, and tom made the mistake of grinning. the big youth caught sight of the grin and stepped into the rubbing room with a deepening scowl on his face. "wipe it off!" he said threateningly. steve and tom looked at the table. "wipe what off?" asked tom, at a loss. "wipe that grin off your ugly face," answered the other. "and get out of here, both of you, and stay out. if you don't, i'll throw you out!" this somewhat astounding threat caused an exchange of surprised glances between the culprits. neither steve nor tom were quarrelsome, nor had they had more than a boy's usual share of fist battles, but the bullying speech and attitude of the round-faced youth was so uncalled for and exasperating that steve's temper got the better of him for the moment. "we weren't doing any harm here," he declared indignantly. "and we'll get out, but we're not afraid of you, even if you have got piano legs!" the big fellow pulled his hands from his pockets with an angry growl and, clenching his fists, strode toward the boys. but at that instant footsteps sounded in the locker room, and the bully's hands dropped and he turned his head toward the door just as a small, red-haired and freckle-faced little irishman came into sight. "hello, eric the red," he said jovially. "an' what might you be doin' down here, me boy?" "i'm telling these fresh kids to get out of here," replied the youth. "any objections?" the little irishman seemed surprised, and he smiled, but the boys noted that his small and rather greenish eyes narrowed. "none at all, at all, me boy. if i had i'd very soon tell you, d'ye see? but what harm are they doin'? sure, if i don't mind them bein' here, why would you?" "they haven't any business in this room, and you know it, danny. they're too fresh, anyway." "well, that's what we all are at some time. let the boys be. was you wantin' anything, boys?" "no, we were just looking around the place. this door was open and we came in. we didn't know there was any harm in it," concluded steve. "no more there was," said danny soothingly. "they were rough-housing all over the place," growled the big fellow. "if you can stand it i can, though. only"--and he turned a wrathful gaze on steve--"if you ever get fresh with me again you'll get the licking that's coming to you, kid." he turned away toward the locker room. "say, danny, got a key to my locker? i've lost mine and i want to get into it a minute." "i have not," replied danny cheerfully. "you'll have to have one fitted, me boy." "hasn't anyone a master-key?" demanded the other. "they have not. find patsy; he'll fit one for you in ten minutes." "that's a funny state of things," grumbled the big fellow. "they ought to have duplicates on hand. somebody's always losing a key, and----" the rest was lost as the youth disappeared into the further room. danny winked gravely at the two boys. "who is he?" asked steve curiously. "him? his name's sawyer, eric sawyer. he is sufferin' from a terrible complaint, boys, an' it makes him that cross a bear would run away from him, i'm thinkin'!" "what's the trouble with him?" "he has what the doctors do be callin' an ingrowin' grouch," replied danny soberly. "'tis due to over-exposure of the ego, they tell me, resultin' in an inflamed condition of the amoor proper, that same bein' french an' maybe beyond your comprehension." the boys laughed and danny swung himself to the table and patted it invitingly. "sit down, boys, an' tell me all about it," he said. "who may you be, now?" "his name is hall and mine is edwards," replied steve, as he and tom followed danny's example and swung their feet from the table. "we're new boys." "i suspected as much," replied danny drily. "an' where might be your place of residence?" "tannersville, pennsylvania." "think o' that now!" marvelled danny. "sure, you're a long ways from home. is this place you say anywhere near philadelphia?" "oh, no, it's a long ways from there. it's out in the western part of the state." "i was in philadelphia once to see the games at the college over there," pursued danny. "it's a fine town." "would you mind--telling us who you are?" asked tom. "i would not. i have no unseemly pride. my name is mister daniel parnell moore, and i have the extraordinary honour of bein' the trainer at this institution o' learnin' and fine arts, the fine arts bein' athletics, football, baseball, hockey _an'_ tinnis. an' now you know!" "thank you," said tom politely. "i hope you didn't mind my asking you." "not a bit! you may ask me anything you like, jim." "my name isn't jim," replied tom, with a smile. "it ain't?" the trainer seemed surprised. "sure, he said your last name was hall, didn't he? an' i never seen a hall whose front name wasn't jim." "i'm sorry," laughed tom, "but mine isn't; it's tom." danny moore shook his head sadly. "an' you," he said, turning to steve, "maybe you'll be tellin' me next your name ain't sam?" "it's steve." "it might be," agreed danny doubtfully. "but all the edwardses i ever knew was sams. but i'm not disputin' your word, d'ye mind! 'tis likely you know, me boy. an' what do you think o' this rural paradise o' knowledge?" "i guess we like it pretty well, what we've seen of it," answered steve. "have you been here long?" "two years; this is my third. it's a nice schools, as schools go. i never had much use for them, though. in the old country we never held with them much when i was a lad. i dare say you boys'll be tryin' to play football like all the rest of them?" "we're going out for the team," said steve, "although i guess, from what a fellow told us last night, we don't stand much show. he said that most of the last year's players were back this fall." "that's so. we lost but four by graduation. they were some o' the best in the bunch, though. 'tis queer how the ones that is gone is always the best, ain't it? who was this feller you was talkin' to?" "his name is miller. do you know him? i suppose you must, though." "miller? do you mean andy miller?" "i don't know. he didn't tell us his other name." "the initials were a. l. m., though," reminded tom. "that's right. is he a pretty good player?" "he does fairly well," answered danny moore carelessly. "not that i pay much heed to him, though. i see him around sometimes. i wouldn't think much of what he tells you, though. i don't. if you see him i'd be obliged if you'd tell him that." but there was a twinkle in danny's eye and steve resolved to tell miller no such thing. "what position does he play?" he asked. danny frowned thoughtfully. "it might be end, right or left. i forget. i pay no heed to the likes o' him. he's only the captain, d'ye see?" "captain!" exclaimed the two boys startledly, eyeing each other in amazement. "sure," said danny. "an' why not?" "er--there's no reason," replied steve, "only--he didn't say anything about being captain." "and why would he be after incriminating himself?" danny demanded. the boys digested this news in silence for a moment. then, "does that fellow who was just in here play?" asked tom. "he does. he plays right guard, and he plays it well. i'll say that for him. well, it's catchin' no fish i am sittin' here gassin' with you fellers. make yourselves to home. i must be gettin' on." "i guess we'll go, too," said steve. they followed the trainer up the stairway to the hall above. there he pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the big front door for them. "now, look at that, will you?" he exclaimed in amazement as he turned a small key over between his fingers. "i wouldn't be surprised if that key would fit them lockers down there. ain't that a pity, an' him wantin' it all the time?" the boys smiled and agreed gravely that it was. danny sighed, shook his head and dropped the keys back into his pocket. "if you have trouble with him," he said to steve, "hit for his head, boy, for you'll make no impression on the body of him." "thanks, but i don't expect he will bother me again." "i know. i'm only tellin' you. a word to the wise, d'ye mind? good luck to you, boys." "thanks. we're much obliged to you, mr. moore." "mr. moore! help! listen." and danny bent confidentially. "i won't be mindin' if you call me mister moore when we're by ourselves, d'ye see; but don't be doin' it in the presence of others. them as didn't know might think i was one of the faculty, d'ye see. call me danny an' save me self-respect!" when the door had closed behind them on the grinning countenance of danny, steve looked at his watch and exclaimed startledly. "nearly ten o'clock!" he said. "and we promised to telegraph to the folks this morning. let's see if the trunks have come and then hustle to the telegraph office." chapter ix back in togs brimfield academy was in full swing. the term was a day old and one hundred and fifty-three youths of various ages from twelve to twenty had settled down, more or less earnestly, to the school routine. in 12 billings trunks had been unpacked and the room had taken on a look of comfort and coziness, although several things were yet lacking to complete its livableness. for instance, an easy-chair of some sort was a crying necessity, a drop-light would help a lot, and a cushion and some pillows on the window-seat were much needed. tom argued that if the window-seat was furnished they would not require an easy-chair, but steve held out for the added luxury. both boys, steve by a narrower margin than he suspected, had made the fourth form, and this afternoon, as they expeditiously changed into football togs, their glances more than once stole to the imposing piles of books on the study table, books which hinted at many future hours of hard work. steve, pulling on a pair of much worn and discoloured canvas trousers, sighed as his eye measured again the discouraging height of his pile. it was almost enough to spoil in advance the pleasure he looked forward to on the gridiron! the athletic field lay behind the school buildings and was a fine level expanse of green turf some twelve acres in extent. there were three gridirons, a baseball diamond, a quarter-mile running-track and a round dozen of tennis courts there. a well-built iron-framed stand, erected in sections, and mounted on small wide-tread wheels could be moved about as occasion required, and at present was standing in the middle of the south side of the football field. on the whole brimfield had reason to be proud of her athletic equipment, field and gymnasium, as well as of her other advantages. the scene along the row as the two friends clattered out of billings was vastly different from that presented the afternoon of their arrival. now the walk was alive with boys, heads protruded from open casements and wandering couples could be seen lounging along the gate drive or over the sloping lawn that descended to the road. first practice had been called for four o'clock and the big dial in the ivy-draped tower of main hall pointed its hands to three-forty when steve and tom turned into the path between torrence and wendell leading to the gymnasium and the field beyond. already, however, the fellows were turning their steps that way, some in playing togs but more in ordinary attire, the latter, yielding to the lure of a warm september afternoon, bent on finding an hour's entertainment stretched comfortably at ease along a side line or perched on the stand. "that's pretty, isn't it?" asked tom, as they looked across the nearer turf to where the broad expanse of playing ground, bordered on its further side by a wooded slope, stretched before them. the early frosts had already slightly touched the trees over there, and hints of russet-yellow and brick-red showed amongst the green. nearer than that, more colour was supplied by an occasional dark red sweater amongst the groups loitering about the edge of the gridiron. "it surely is pretty," agreed steve. "i wonder if miller's there yet. he told us to look him up, you know." "maybe he will give us a send-off to the coach," suggested tom. "he could, you know, since he is captain. i guess it won't do us any harm--me, anyway--to have someone speak a word for us, eh?" "wonder what the coach is like," said steve, nodding agreement. "miller seemed to think he was pretty good. that's a dandy turf there, tom; level as a table. they haven't marked the gridiron out yet, though." "i suppose they don't need it for a day or two," replied the other, trying not to feel self-conscious as he neared the crowd already on hand. "i don't see miller, do you?" steve shook his head, after a glance about him, and, rolling his hands in the folds of his sweater, not because the weather was cold but because that was a habit of his, seated himself at the bottom of the stand. tom followed him and they looked about them and conversed in low voices while the throng grew with every minute. so far neither had made any acquaintances save that of andy miller--unless eric sawyer could be called such!--and they felt a little bit out of it as they saw other boys joyously hailing each other, stopping to shake hands or exchange affectionate blows, or waving greetings from a distance. they had made the discovery, by the way, that the proper word of salutation at brimfield was "hi"! it was invariably "hi, billy"! "hi, joe"! and the usual "hello" was never heard. eventually steve and tom became properly addicted to the "hi"! habit, but it was some time before they were able to keep from showing their newness by "helloing" each other. the stand became sprinkled with youths and the turf along the edge of the gridiron held many more. a man of apparently thirty years of age, wearing a grey norfolk suit and a cap to match, appeared at the corner of the stand just as the bell in main hall struck four sonorous peals. he was accompanied by three boys in togs, one of them captain miller. the coach was a clean-cut chap with a nice face and a medium-sized, wiry figure. he had sandy hair and eyebrows that were almost white, and his sharp blue eyes sparkled from a deeply tanned face upon which, at the moment, a very pleasant smile played. but even as steve and tom watched him the smile died abruptly and he pulled a black leather memorandum book from a pocket and fluttered its leaves in a businesslike way. miller had predicted that this fall some eighty candidates would appear, but he had evidently been over-sanguine. sixty seemed nearer the correct number than eighty. but even sixty-odd looked a good many as they gradually gathered nearer the coach. steve and tom slipped from their places and joined the throng. "last year's first and second team players take the east end of the field," directed mr. robey. "all others remain here. i'm going to tell you right now, fellows, that there's going to be a whole lot of hard work this fall, and any of you who don't like hard work had better keep away. this is a good time to quit. you'll save your time and mine too. all right now! take some balls with you, milton, and warm up until i get down there. now, then, you new men, give me your names. where's lawrence? not here yet? all right. what's your name and what experience have you had, my boy?" one by one the candidates answered the coach's questions and then trotted into the field where eric sawyer was in command. andy miller and danny moore stood at the coach's elbow during this ceremony, and when, toward the last, steve and tom edged up, they were greeted by both. "here's the fine lad," said danny, who caught sight of steve before miller did. "mr. sam edwards, coach, a particular friend of mine." steve, rather embarrassed, started to say that his name was not sam, but miller interrupted him. "so here you are, edwards? glad to see you again. i've been looking for you and hall to drop in on me. how are you, hall? robey, these two have had some experience on their high school team and i think they'll bear watching. shake hands with mr. robey, edwards." "glad to know you," said the coach. "what's your position, edwards?" "i've been playing end, sir." "end, eh? you look fast, too. we'll see what you can do, my boy. and you,--er----" "jim hall," supplied danny. "another close friend o' me boyhood, sir, an' a fine lad, too, be-dad!" "tackle, sir, mostly," replied tom. "it's a relief to find a couple who aren't bent on being backs," said the coach with a smile to miller. "all right, fellows. we'll give you all the chance in the world. report to sawyer now." steve and tom, with the parting benediction of a portentious wink from danny moore, joined the thirty-odd candidates of many ages and sizes who, formed in two rings, were passing footballs under the stern and frowning regard of eric sawyer. they edged their way into one of the circles and were soon earnestly catching and tossing with the rest. if sawyer recognised them as the boys who had aroused his ire in the rubbing room the day before, he showed no sign of it. it is probable, though, that their football attire served as a sufficient disguise. sawyer apparently took his temporary position as assistant coach very seriously and bore himself with frowning dignity. but it was not at all beneath his dignity to call erring candidates to order or to indulge in a good deal of heavy satire at the expense of those whose inexperience made them awkward. neither steve nor tom, however, fell under the ban of his displeasure. falling on the ball followed the passing, and, in turn, gave place to starting and sprinting. for this they were formed in line and sawyer, leaning over a ball at one end of the line, snapped it away as a signal for them to leap forward. by that time the warmth of the day and the exertion had tuckered a good many of them out and sawyer found much fault with the performances. "oh, get moving, you chap in the black shirt there! watch the ball and dig when i snap it! that's it! go it! _hard!_ all right for you, but about a dozen of you other chaps got left entirely. now get down there and throw your weight forward. haven't any of you ever practised starts before? anyone would think your feet were glued down! get in line again. ready now! go, you flock of ice-wagons!" fortunately for the softer members of the awkward squad, practice was soon over to-day, and steve and tom somewhat wearily tramped back with the rest across to the gymnasium, determined to have the luxury of a shower-bath even if they would have to get back into their togs again after it. "we'd better see about getting lockers," said steve. "i wonder where you go." "they cost a dollar a year," answered tom, who knew the contents of the school catalogue by heart, "and if we don't make the team we won't need the lockers." "sure we will. if we use the swimming pool we'll need a place to keep our clothes. and even if we don't make the big teams we'll play with the hall, probably. wish we had them now and didn't have to go back to the room to change. i'm tired, if you care to know it!" "so am i," panted tom. "sawyer worked us hard for a warm day." "yes, and did you notice that fat fellow? there he is ahead there, with the striped stockings. he was just about all in and puffing like a locomotive." "he was probably tender," said tom. "yes, he--tender! that'll do for you!" said steve indignantly, aiming a blow at tom's ribs which was skilfully evaded. "let's stop at the office in here and see if we can get lockers." they could. moreover, mr. conklin, the physical director, informed them, to their deep satisfaction, that the charge of one dollar each would be placed on their term bill if they wished. they wished with instant enthusiasm and departed, keys in hand, to find their lockers. they found the room thronged with fellows in various stages of undressing, while from the baths came deep groans and shrill shrieks and the hiss and splash of water. their lockers were side by side at the farther end of the last aisle; and, after making certain that the keys fitted them, they began to get out of their clothes, only to make the discovery when partly disrobed that they had no towels. "i'm going to ask someone to lend me one," said steve. "you can use an end of it if i get it. i'm going to have that shower or bust." a cheerful-faced youth draped in a frayed bathrobe came up at that moment and steve sought counsel of him. "towel? i'd lend you one in a minute, but mine are all soiled. you can see for yourself." he nodded toward the open door of his locker on the floor of which lay a pile of what were evidently bath towels. "i forgot to send them to the wash before i went away in the spring. if you ask danny he might let you have one. i guess he's around somewhere." steve found the trainer leaning against the doorway of the rubbing room. "'tis sam edwards!" greeted danny. "an' how did it go to-day, me boy?" "pretty good, thanks. could you lend me a couple of towels, mister--er--danny?" "i doubt have i got any, but i'll look an' see," and danny disappeared into the room behind him. "here you are, sam," he said in a moment. "they're small but select. fetch 'em back when you're through with 'em, if you please. they're school property, d'ye mind, and it's me that's answerable for them." steve promised faithfully to restore them and bore them back in triumph to where tom had paused in his undressing to await the result of the errand. a minute later they were puffing and blowing in adjoining baths, with the icy-cold water raining down on their glowing bodies. a brisk drying with the borrowed towels, a return to their uninviting togs and they were ready to be off. steve couldn't find danny, but he left the towels on the table in the rubbing room and he and tom climbed the stairs again. in the hall above there was a large notice board and tom stopped to glance at some of the announcements pinned against it. "here a minute, steve," he said. "look at this." he laid a finger on a square of paper which bore in almost illegible writing this remarkable notice: "what will you give? dirt cheap! terms cash! one fine oak morris chair, good as new. three cushions, very pretty. one pair of skates. eight phonograph records. large assortment of bric-a-brac. any fair offer takes them! call early and avoid disappointment. durkin, 13 torrence." "is it a joke?" asked steve doubtfully. "no, there are lots of them, see." sure enough, the board held fully a dozen similar announcements, although the others were not couched in such breezy language. there were chairs, cushions, tables, pictures, golf clubs, rugs and all sorts of things advertised for sale, while one chap sought a purchaser for "a stuffed white owl, mounted on a branch, slightly moth-eaten. cash or exchange for books." steve laughed. "what do you know about that?" he asked. "say, why don't we look at some of the things, tom? maybe we could save money. let's call on mr. durkin and look at his morris chair, eh?" "all right. come ahead. anything else we want?" "i don't suppose we could pick up a cushion that would fit our window-seat, but we might. i'll write down some of the names and rooms." "we might buy the white owl, steve. ever think you'd like a white owl?" "not with moths in it, thanks," replied steve. there was pen and ink on the ledge outside the window of the physical director's office and steve secured paper by tearing a corner from one of the notices. when he had scribbled down the addresses that sounded promising they set off for torrence hall. number 13 was on the second floor, and as they drew near it their ears were afflicted by most dismal sounds. "wha-what's that?" asked tom in alarm. "fiddle," laughed steve. "wonder if it's mr. durkin." the wailing sounds ceased as steve knocked and a voice called "come in!" when they entered they saw a tall, lank youth standing in front of a music-rack close to the window. he held a violin to his chin and waved his bow in greeting. "hi!" he said. "sit down and i'll be right with you. i've got one bit here that's been bothering me for an hour." he turned back to his music, waved his bow in the air, laid it across the strings and drew forth sounds that made the visitors squirm in the chairs they had taken. one excruciating wail after another came from the tortured instrument, the lank youth bending absorbedly over the notes in the failing light and apparently quite oblivious to the presence of the others. finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, he laid his bow on the ledge of the stand, stood his violin in a corner of the window-seat and turned to the visitors. he was an odd-looking chap, tall and thin, with a long, lean face under a mop of black hair that was badly in need of trimming. his near-sighted eyes blinked from behind the round lenses of a pair of rubber-rimmed spectacles and his rather nondescript clothes seemed on the point of falling off of him. "sorry to keep you waiting," he said politely, "but it's getting dark and i did want to get that thing before i quit. want to buy something?" chapter x "cheap for cash" "yes, we saw that you had a morris chair," replied steve. he glanced perplexedly around the room. there was no morris chair in sight, nor were any of the other articles advertised to be seen. "that is, if you're durkin." "that's me. the chair is downstairs in the storeroom. it's a corking chair, all right, and you're sure to want it. i'm sorry, though, you didn't get around before it got so dark, because the light down there isn't very good." "well, we could come again in the morning," said steve. "there's no hurry." "i think you'd better see it now," said durkin with decision. "it is a bargain and if you waited someone might get ahead of you. we'll go down." "er--well, how much is it?" "all cash?" "why, yes, i suppose so." "it makes a difference. sometimes fellows want to pay part cash and part promise, and sometimes they want to trade. if you pay cash you get it cheaper, of course." "all right. how much for it?" durkin looked the customers over appraisingly. "let's have a look at it before we talk about the price," he said. "if i said five dollars now, when you haven't seen it, you might think i was asking too much." "i surely would," replied steve firmly. "if that's what you want for it i guess there's no use going down to see it." "i didn't say that was the price," answered durkin. "i'll make the price all right. you fellows come and see it." and he led the way out into the corridor. steve glanced questioningly at tom, and tom smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "well, all right," said steve. "let's see it." durkin led the way to the lower hall and then down a pair of dark and very steep stairs to the basement. "you wait there," he instructed, "until i switch the light on. now then, this way." durkin took a key from a nail and unlocked the door of a room partitioned off in a corner of the basement. the boys waited, and durkin, having disappeared into the gloom of the storeroom, presently reappeared, dragging after him a very dusty brown-oak chair with a slat back, broad arms and a much-worn leather seat. "there you are," he said triumphantly, pushing the object into the faint gleam of light which reached them from the foot of the stairs. "there's a chair that'll last for years." "but you said it was a morris chair," exclaimed tom. "that's no morris chair!" "oh, yes, it is," durkin assured them earnestly. "i bought it from him myself last june." "bought it from whom?" asked steve derisively. "from spencer morris, of course. paid a lot for it, too. have a look at it. it's just as good as it ever was. the leather's a little bit worn at the edges, but you can fix that all right. it wouldn't cost more than half a dollar, i suppose, to put a new piece on there." "look here," said steve disgustedly, "you're a fakir! what do you suppose we want with a relic like that? you said you had a morris chair and now you pull this thing out to show us. is that all you've got?" "oh, no, i've got a lot of good things in there," answered durkin cheerfully, peering into the gloomy recesses of the storeroom. "how about some pictures, or a pair of fine vases, or----" "have you another arm-chair?" asked steve impatiently. "no, this is the only one. i've got some dandy cushions, though, for a window-seat. let me show you those." and durkin was back again before steve could stop him. tom was grinning when steve turned an indignant look upon him. "morris chair!" growled steve. "silly chump!" "here you are!" durkin came proudly forth, heralded by a cloud of pungent dust, and tossed three cushions into the chair. "look at those for bargains, will you? fifty cents apiece and dirt cheap." "we don't want cushions," growled steve disgustedly. but tom was examining them and presently he looked across at his chum. "we might buy these, steve. they're not so bad." steve grudgingly looked them over. finally, "we'll give you twenty-five cents apiece for them," he said. "twenty-five! why, they're worth a dollar!" "all right, you keep them." durkin hesitated and sighed. finally, as the boys showed a strong inclination to seek the stairway, "give me a dollar for the lot," he said. steve questioned tom with his eyes and tom nodded. "all right," said tom, "but it's more than they're worth." "you'd have to pay a dollar and a half if you bought them new," said durkin. "honest! now, about that chair----" "nothing doing!" interrupted steve decisively. "it's a good chair, and comfortable--say, sit down and just try it, will you?" durkin removed the cushions and steve, with a shrug, seated himself. when he got out tom took his place. it _was_ comfortable. "how much?" asked steve carelessly. "three-fifty, and dirt----" "give you a dollar and a half." durkin looked so pained that tom quite pitied him. but he only said patiently: "you don't want to buy, you fellows; you're looking for gifts. that chair at three dollars is a real, genuine bargain, and----" "you said three and a half before," tom corrected. "did i? well, it ought to be three and a half, but you may have it for three, even if i lose money on it." "no fear," grunted steve. "we'll split the difference and call it two." "make it two-fifty and it's yours." "couldn't do it. two or nothing." "all right," said durkin placidly. "take it along. now let me show you----" "no, sir!" laughed steve. "you don't show us another thing, durkin. pile the cushions on here, tom, and take hold." "wait till i lock this door and i'll give you a lift," said durkin. between them they got the chair upstairs and outdoors. then steve paid three dollars to durkin and the transaction was completed. "thank you," said durkin. "and, say, if you want anything else, you come and see me. i've got a lot of good stuff down there. and if you want to sell anything any time i'm your man. i'll pay you good prices, fellows. so long." the two boys felt rather conscious as they carried the chair along the row, but although they passed a good many fellows on the way, no one viewed their performance with more than mild interest. as they were about to lift their burden through the entrance of billings, however, the door opened from inside and a tall boy with a 'varsity football cap on the back of his head almost ran into them. drawing aside to avoid them, his eyes fell on the chair and he stopped short. "back again!" he exclaimed delightedly. "good old article. where'd you find it, fellows?" "bought it from a fellow named durkin, in torrence," replied steve. "so 'penny' had it?" the chap lifted the cushions heaped on the seat of the chair and viewed it interestedly. "well, you got a chair with a history," he said. "that belonged to me three years ago. i bought it from a fellow named lansing, and he got it second-hand from a shop in white plains. i sold it to spencer morris and i suppose penny got it from him. and the old article looks 'most as good as new! do you mind telling me how much you paid for it?" "two dollars," said steve. "he wanted three at first." the tall chap laughed. "two dollars! what do you know about that? i paid a dollar and a half for it and sold it to morris for a dollar. i'll bet penny didn't give spencer more than fifty cents for it. he's a wonder, he is! those cushions aren't bad. i'll give you a half for the red one." "we don't want to sell, thanks," said steve. "well, if you do, let me know. i'm in 4. my name's fowler." and he nodded and went on. up in their room, when they had set the arm-chair down and placed it to their liking, steve said: "think of that long-haired idiot getting two dollars out of us for this thing. i've a good mind to go back and tell him what i think of him." "what's the difference?" asked tom. "it's a perfectly good chair, and if we hadn't met that fowler chap we'd never known we'd been stung. it's worth two dollars, anyway, no matter what durkin paid for it." "i suppose it is," granted steve. "and it _is_ comfortable. look here; we'll have to have another one now, or we'll be scrapping to see who gets this!" "not if we can find a cushion for the window-seat," said tom. "we might see some more of those fellows you have on your list." "to-morrow," said steve. "it's almost supper time. i guess we didn't do so badly for three dollars. wasn't it funny, though, we should have run into a fellow who used to own it? wonder who fowler is." "i saw him at the field this afternoon," replied tom. "i guess he's on the first team. we could have made sixteen cents if we'd sold him the cushion he wanted." "you're as bad as durkin!" laughed steve. "wonder why he called him 'penny,' by the way. the fellow had a regular second-hand shop down there, didn't he? do you suppose all that truck in there belonged to him?" "i don't know. i know one thing, though, and that is that i'm mighty glad i don't room with durkin and have to listen to that fiddling of his!" "that's not much worse than your snoring," replied steve unkindly. the next day further search revealed a cushion which just fitted the window-seat, not surprising in view of the fact that the window-seats throughout the dormitories were fairly uniform in size. the cushion cost them two dollars. it was covered with faded green corduroy and in places was pretty well flattened out by much service. but it answered their purpose and really looked quite fine when in place. tom cast doubts on the positive assertion of the seller that it was filled with genuine hair, but steve said that didn't matter as long as it was comfortable. they piled their three pillows on it and stretched themselves out on it, one at a time, and voted it good enough for anyone. there was a good deal of dust in it, but, as steve said, if they were careful about getting up and down they wouldn't disturb it! by this time number 12 began to look quite sumptuous. they had placed several framed pictures and many photographs and trinkets against the walls and had draped the tops of the chiffoniers with towels. they had also made up a list of things to bring back with them after the christmas holidays, a list that included all sorts of articles from a waste-basket to an electric drop-light. the latter they had not been able to find in their bargain-hunting and could not purchase in the village even if they had sufficient money. their pocketbooks were pretty lean by the time they had been there a week, for, beside the expenditures for furnishings, they had, between them, paid two dollars for a year's subscription to the school monthly, and had made quite an outlay for stationery. tom, in fact, was practically bankrupt and had sent an "s. o. s.," as he called it, to his father. meanwhile, every afternoon save sunday they donned their togs and toiled on the gridiron. mr. robey was already bringing order out of chaos and the sixty-odd candidates now formed a first, second and third squad. steve and tom both remained in the latter for the present, nor did tom entertain much hope of getting out of it until he was dropped for good. steve had made something of a reputation as a player at home, and his former team-mates there firmly expected to hear that he had made the brimfield 'varsity without difficulty and was showing the preparatory school fellows how the game ought to be played. tom, too, expected no less for him, and perhaps, if the truth were known, steve entertained some such expectations himself! but tom wasn't deceived as to his own football ability and was already wondering whether, when he was dropped from the 'varsity squad, he would be so fortunate as to make his hall team. but there was a surprise in store for both of them. the first cut came about ten days after the opening of school, and the candidates dwindled from sixty-odd to a scant fifty. steve's surprise lay in the fact that he was not promoted to the second squad, tom's to the even more startling circumstance that he survived the cut! eric sawyer had been relieved from his superintendence of the awkward squad and had gone to his old position of right guard on the first team. the third squad was now under the care of a youth named marvin, a substitute quarter-back on last year's second team. he was a cheerful, hardworking little chap and the "rookies" took to him at once. he was quick to find fault, but equally quick to applaud good work, and under his charge the third squad, composed now of some fourteen candidates, began to smooth out. a half-hour session with the tackling dummy was now part of the daily routine and many a fellow who had thought rather well of himself suffered humiliation in the pit. steve was one of these. tackling proved to be a weak point with him. even tom got better results than he did, and every afternoon steve would scramble to his feet and wipe the earth from his face to hear marvin's patient voice saying: "not a bit like it, edwards. don't shut your eyes when you jump. keep them open and see what you're doing. once more, now; and tackle below the knees." and then, when the stuffed figure had been drawn, swaying crazily, across the square of spaded turf once more, and steve had leaped upon it and twisted his arms desperately and convulsively about it, "that's a little better," marvin might say, "but you'd never stop your man that way." steve was getting discouraged about his tackling and a little bit incensed with marvin. "he takes it out on me every time," he confided to tom one afternoon after practice. "lots of the fellows don't do it a bit better and he just says 'fair, jones' or 'that's better, freer,' and that's all there is to it. when it comes my turn, he just makes up his mind i'm not going to do it right and then rags me. didn't i do it just as well as you did to-day, tom?" tom, intensely loyal though he was, had to shake his head. "maybe you did, steve; i don't do it very well myself, but you--you don't seem to get the hang of it yet. you will, of course, in a day or two. i don't believe marvin means to rag you, though; he's an awfully decent fellow." but tom's day or two stretched into a week or two, and one by one fellows disappeared from the awkward squad, some to the private walks of life and the consolation of hall football and some, fewer in number these, to the squad ahead. brimfield played its first game of the year one saturday afternoon with thacher school, and came through with flying colours. but thacher presented a line-up considerably younger and lighter than brimfield's, and the victory brought no great glory to the maroon-and-grey. steve and tom watched that contest from the side-line, tom with absorbed interest and steve rather disgruntedly. his visions had not included any such situation as this! that evening steve made his first big mistake. chapter xi "hold 'em, third!" the term was a fortnight old when thacher went down in defeat, 10 to 3, and by that time both steve and tom had made acquaintances here and there, and so when, after study hour that saturday night, steve announced carelessly that he was "going around to hensey to see a fellow," tom took it for granted that his chum was off to look up some new friend. perhaps, since they usually made calls together, he wondered a little that steve didn't ask him along, but he didn't mind being left out on this particular occasion since he was having a good deal of trouble just then with trigonometry and wanted to put in more time on monday's lesson. when steve entered hensey he passed into the first corridor and knocked on the door of number 7. the card there held the names: "andrew loring miller--hatherton williams." a voice bade him enter and steve walked in. andy miller and his room-mate were both in, andy sprawled on the window-seat, which was much too short for his long body, and williams seated at the study table. andy jumped up as the visitor entered. "glad to see you, edwards," he said cordially. "shake hands with williams. hat, this is edwards of the fourth. sit down, won't you?" williams, who was a heavy, dark-complexioned youth of eighteen with a flat nose and a broad mouth, shook hands politely, murmuring something that steve took to mean that he was pleased to meet him, and sank back to his seat. steve took the easy-chair that andy pushed forward. "well, how are you?" asked the football captain genially. "haven't run across any more confidence-men, i hope." steve smiled none too heartily and cast a glance toward williams. but the latter's blank expression showed that the allusion meant nothing to him and proved that, as far as williams was concerned, miller had kept his promise of secrecy. "no, not yet," answered steve. "i thought i'd just drop in a minute and call." "of course. glad you did. how's your friend?" "tom! he's fine, thanks. i--he wasn't through studying, so i didn't wait for him." "and how's football going?" asked andy. "getting on pretty well?" "i think so. not so very well, though. i--i don't seem to please marvin very well with tackling." "oh, you'll get onto that all right," said andy cheerfully. "fact is, i don't think a fellow ever really learns much at the dummy. it's dumping a chap in real playing that shows you what's wanted. don't you think so, hat?" "dummy practice is a good thing," answered williams morosely. he sat tilted back on the chair, hands in pockets, staring at the floor. he seemed a gloomy sort of fellow, steve thought, and was relieved when williams added: "guess i'll run over to johnny's for a minute," and, muttering something about being glad to have met the visitor, found a cap and wandered out. "i suppose," said steve, when the door had closed, "it's necessary for a fellow to learn how to tackle, but it seems to me that if you aren't awfully good at it you might get a chance to show what you can do besides that." "i guess i don't quite understand what you mean," responded andy. "i mean that if i can't tackle the dummy well enough to please marvin," answered steve a trifle bitterly, "i do as well as lots of other fellows, and--and it doesn't seem fair to keep me back just for that. lots of fellows have been taken on to the second squad that can't play as well as i can, miller." "oh! i see." andy's eyes narrowed a little and he looked at steve more intently. "you mean that you aren't getting a fair show, edwards?" "it doesn't seem so to me. i played with my high school team for two years at left end and--and did pretty well. of course, i don't say that i'm as good as some of the fellows here, but i do think that i'm as good as--as a lot of them; and a heap better than three or four that have gone to the second squad lately. i don't get a chance to show what i can do where i am now, miller. marvin doesn't even let me into signal drill more than half the time, and then he puts me at half or tackle and i've never played either of those places. and when i told him so the other day he just laughed and said that one place was as good as another on the third! and he rags me every day about my tackling and--and i don't think it's fair! if he will give me a chance i'll pick up tackling all right. you say yourself that a fellow learns it more from playing than from dummy work." "so i did," said andy thoughtfully. then, after a moment: "look here, edwards, i think you've got a wrong idea in your head. if marvin isn't satisfied with your tackling, it's because you don't do it right. marvin's a good man and he knows football. now, if you expect to play end you ought to know how to tackle, edwards. what's the good of getting down the field, no matter how fast you may be, if you can't stop the man with the ball when you get there?" "i can stop him! i've played for two years and----" "what you've done before, edwards, isn't any criterion with us. you may have been a regular wonder in--what's the place? tannerstown----" "tannersville. i don't say i was a wonder, but----" "just a minute! you may have been a star on your high school team and yet not worth a copper cent to us, edwards. i never saw your team play, but it's pretty likely that their brand of football and ours are different." "i think we play as good football as you fellows played to-day," said steve. "maybe. i'm not especially proud of the game we put up this afternoon. but that isn't the sort of football we play in mid-season, my friend. i'm sorry you think you aren't getting a fair deal, edwards, but you mustn't expect me to interfere with marvin. i couldn't do it. the most i can do is give you a little piece of advice which you won't care for probably. it's this: do as you're told to do, edwards, and do it as hard as you know how! just as soon as you show marvin that you are ready to go into the second squad, you'll get there. and don't get it into your head that marvin has it in for you or doesn't know what he is doing. marvin's a particularly bright young man. if he wasn't he wouldn't have the third squad to weed out, for that's a job that requires a whole lot more patience and brains than any other job i know of on a football field." andy paused, and steve, who was gloomily regarding a scarred knuckle, made no reply. "use your head, man," continued the captain in a lighter tone. "you don't suppose, do you, that we are letting anything good get by us as long as we've got eyes to see with? not much! you probably have an idea that marvin is keeping you off the second. he isn't. you're keeping yourself off. mull that over, edwards. and don't--don't do this again." steve looked a question. "i mean don't come to me or to mr. robey with any hard-luck stories. it isn't done. if i didn't know you a little, edwards, i'd think you were pretty poor stuff. but i guess you didn't stop to consider how it would look. as you have done it, i'm glad you came to me instead of mr. robey. he wouldn't have liked it a bit." after a pause: "how's hall getting on?" "pretty well, i guess," replied steve. he stood up and frowned at the green globe of the reading lamp for a moment. then, "i'm sorry i said anything, miller," he remarked. "i guess it wasn't quite a fair thing to do. only i thought--maybe----" "you thought," said andy cheerfully, "that perhaps i'd give you a lift. didn't you, edwards?" "i suppose so." "in other words, you wanted me to advance you over the next man on the strength of our acquaintance. sounds as though you had rather a punk impression of me, edwards." "i haven't! i--i suppose, though, i didn't stop to figure it out much. it seemed to me that marvin wasn't giving me a fair show, and here it is the last of september already, and i'm just where i started----" "that's your fault, not marvin's," responded andy with a smile. he walked over and laid a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "brace up, edwards," he said kindly. "don't waste your time looking for favours. don't want them. buckle down and grit your teeth and just show marvin and the rest of us that you're so good he can't keep you on the third! that's your line, old man. and now, just as a bit of encouragement, i'll tell you that robey and i have noticed your work in the field and we've liked it. you carry yourself like a veteran and you follow the ball well, and we both expect big things from you some day. perhaps you won't make good this year, but there's next year and the year after. put your nose back on the grindstone, edwards, grin hard and tell marvin to turn faster!" "all right," laughed steve. "thanks. i guess you're right. and--and i'm not sorry now i came." "good! now sit down again and let's have a chin. how do you like the school? have you met many of the fellows yet?" "you're making the same mistake, edwards," said marvin the next monday afternoon. he spoke a trifle wearily. "get your body in _front_ of the runner and not at one side. bind his legs together with your arms, then block him with your body and lift him back. if you do that he's _got_ to stop, and when he falls he will fall towards his own goal and not yours. try it over now." and when steve had tried it over, marvin glanced at him sharply. it seemed to him that for almost the first time the candidate had really tried! he hadn't made a clean tackle, but he had profited by the instruction that had been heaped upon him for two weeks, and little marvin mentally patted himself on the back and was very pleased with himself, for marvin, although he would probably never play through a big game, and knew it, was as unselfishly devoted to the interests of the team as any fellow there. "that's a heap better, edwards," he said eagerly. "now see if you can't do it just right the next time." after that it seemed to marvin that steve tried harder and it seemed to steve that the little quarter-back was more appreciative. on tuesday, as the squad jogged away from the tackling pit, marvin said: "edwards, let me see you after practice, will you?" steve, assenting, examined marvin's face doubtfully. a week ago he would have expected trouble from such a request, but to-day marvin's face held only good-will and a sort of eager friendliness, and while steve wondered more than once during the remainder of practice what marvin wanted of him he had no unpleasant forebodings. there was to be a game on the morrow, the only mid-week contest of the season, and the first squad was released early. that gave coach robey a chance to give undivided attention to the second and third and he made the most of it. he and andy miller, the latter trailing a grey blanket after him, joined the third squad when the first team and substitutes had trotted away to the gymnasium and at once displayed a flattering but embarrassing interest. the third was practising signals, eleven men in the line-up and two or three more following and watching. marvin was driving them from a position at the rear, occasionally darting into the line, to correct a fault or illustrate a play. unfortunately, carmine, who was at quarter, noticed the coach's advent and immediately got flustered. when two plays had gone wrong mr. robey said: "marvin, you get in there and play quarter for a minute and give that man a chance to remember his signals. you come back here and look on, son." after that the squad ran through plays with vim and snap. now and then there was a mix-up, but the signals went pretty well. after each play the coach or captain miller, or sometimes both, criticised and explained. the plays were few and simple; straight plunges by the backs with an occasional forward pass; but almost every time the critics found some fault to correct. steve was playing at left tackle, fighting valiantly against an imaginary opponent, and once, trotting back to his position after a short charge over the turf, he caught the eyes of andy and mr. robey fixed on him speculatively. he hoped as he settled down again and listened for the signals that captain miller had not told the coach of that visit on saturday night! he wanted to forget that himself and he wanted andy miller to forget it. "that'll be all, marvin," said mr. robey presently. he clapped his hands. "everyone in, please!" he called. the players flocked to the bench and picked up sweaters and blankets, while mr. robey and andy conversed over the coach's little black book. finally: "we'll have a short scrimmage, fellows," he announced. "second squad take the east goal and kick off to the third. pick out your men, brownell. you too, marvin. who do you want to start?" it was the first scrimmage for the third squad fellows and they raced on eagerly. steve was sent in as left tackle again and tom beside him at guard. the pigskin soared away from the toe of a second squad forward, was gathered in by a third squad half-back near the twenty-yard line and was down five yards further on. "line up, third!" piped carmine shrilly. "give it to 'em hard now!" there wasn't the finished skill displayed by the 'varsity team, but there was enough enthusiasm to almost make up for the lack of science. back came the ball, the forwards sprang together, a half darted past right tackle, spinning like a top, faltered, went on, was stopped short by the second's backs and borne back, grunting "down! down!" with all the breath left in his body. "second down!" proclaimed joe lawrence, the manager, jumping into the mãªlã©e. "six to go." mr. robey and andy miller followed the teams closely, watching and shouting directions, the coach on the third squad side and andy behind the second. "good work, you fellow!" applauded andy, darting up to slap the half on the back and send him back to his place breathless but grinning. "that's the way to do it! now, then, once more. you've got six to go. let me see you get it. play lower, you fellows in the line! get down there! lift 'em and throw 'em back! that's the ticket!" but the gain was scant and carmine walked back to kick. "get through and block this!" panted the second's quarter, dodging back and forth for a likely opening. "you fellow on the end there!" cried andy. "play back further and stop that tackle!" "watch for a forward pass!" warned a second squad back. "spread out, billy!" "hold 'em!" shouted carmine. then came the signals, back sped the ball--a poor pass--the second came tearing through, carmine dropped the ball and swung his leg and away it floated. a second squad back caught it near the side-line, tucked it under his arm and started back. the third squad's right end had been blocked and now, eager to make up for lost time, he overran and missed his tackle entirely and the second's back came speeding up the field near the side-line, a hastily-formed interference guarding him well. ten yards, fifteen, twenty, and then carmine wormed through and brought the runner to earth. "that's one on you, right end," said andy sternly. "you got boxed to the king's taste that time. now, third, see what you can do on the defence." "draw your line in, carmine," called marvin. "look where you are, man! the ball's almost on the twenty yards! peters, close up there! now push 'em back, third!" "who's that right end, dick?" asked andy of marvin. "chap named holt. he isn't very good." "how would it do to try edwards there? he looks clever." "that's his position, andy, but the kid can't tackle. i'll give him a try, though. that's rotten, third! blaisdell, where were you then? for the love of mud, man, watch the ball! five yards right through you! now get back there and stop them!" "second down, five to go," called lawrence. "you left end on the second, you were off-side then. next time i'll penalise you. watch out for it." "same formation!" piped the second's quarter. "make it good, fellows! let's score now!" "hold 'em, third! don't give 'em an inch. get down there, peters!" "third down!" called lawrence a moment later. "you've got three and a half to go, second!" "that's the stuff!" cried carmine jubilantly, dealing blows of approval on the bent backs of the forwards. "that's the way to stop 'em! now once more, third!" then, "fourth down and a yard and a half to go," announced lawrence. "kick formation!" called the attacking quarter. "simmons back!" "block this! block it! get through now, fellows!" "hold hard there, second!" there was a moment of silence. then the ball shot back. simmons caught it waist-high, dropped it, kicked and went down under the charge of the desperate second squad players. but the ball sailed over the cross-bar and the second had scored. "that'll do, holt," said marvin. "edwards, you play right end. saunders!" a substitute struggled out of his sweater and came racing on. "go in at left tackle, saunders. pearse, you'd better kick off." the game went on, the second squad bringing the pigskin back twelve yards on the kick-off and then hammering through for fifteen more before the third forced them to punt. carmine caught on his thirty-five yards, made a short gain and was downed. twice the third got through for a yard or two and then carmine again fell back to kick. this time the pass was a good one and carmine got off an excellent punt that went over the head of the opposing quarter-back and bobbed along toward the goal. the left half scuttled to his assistance and, when the ball was in the quarter's arms, threw himself in front of the first of the foe. but that particular adversary was canny. he twisted aside, leaped over the stumbling half and dived for the runner. it was a poor tackle and the man with the ball struggled on for three yards after he was caught, but the ball was down on the second's twenty-seven yards, and steve, picking himself up from the recumbent enemy, heard marvin shouting: "a rotten tackle, edwards, but fine work down the field!" and, "good stuff, you end!" approved the coach, while tom, beaming, patted him ungently on the back. the scrimmage was over a minute later, and, although the second had triumphed by that goal from the field, the third trotted back to the gymnasium feeling very well pleased with themselves. they had had their baptism by fire and had acquitted themselves well. steve and tom, panting but happy, had almost reached the gymnasium when steve recollected his engagement with marvin. "i've got to go back," he said in dismay. "i promised marvin to see him after practice." "there he comes now," said tom, nodding toward where the little quarter was approaching with mr. robey and andy miller. steve stopped beside the path and tom fell back to wait for him. "i forgot you wanted me to wait, marvin," said steve apologetically, as the trio came up. "oh, that's all right, edwards. i forgot myself. another day will do just as well. i didn't know we were to have scrimmage to-day." "you keep up that stuff you showed to-day, edwards," said mr. robey, "and we'll have you on the second the first thing you know." then his glance passed steve to tom. "you too, hall. i watched you. you're doing well. keep it up." the three went on, and steve and tom silently followed. neither spoke until they reached the steps. then, "i'm awfully glad," said tom. "so am i," replied steve heartily. "bet you you'll make the second before the week is out." "i meant about you, steve," said tom simply. chapter xii canterbury romps on--and off but existence at brimfield academy wasn't all football, by any means, nor all fun. there was a lot of hard work mixed up with the play, and both steve and tom found that an immense amount of study was required of them. they each had thirty recitations a week, and in both greek and latin their preparation at high school had, not unnaturally, been deficient. that meant hard sledding for a while. tom realised the fact before steve would, and so spared himself some trouble. steve resented the extra study necessary and for the first fortnight or so trusted to luck to get him through. and for a time luck stood by him. he had a way of looking wise in class that imposed for a while on "uncle sim," as mr. simkins was called, but after steve had fallen down three or four times the instructor scented the truth of the matter and then steve's life became a burden to him. mr. simkins took delight, it seemed, in calling on him at the most unexpected moments until, one day, in sheer desperation, steve gave utterance to the answer "not prepared." that was to uncle sim what a red rag is to a bull! there was a scathing dressing-down then and there, followed by a visit that evening from mr. daley. steve was secretly uneasy, for more than one story of summary justice on the part of the greek and latin instructor had reached him, but he presented a careless front to the hall master. mr. daley was plainly eager to help, but, as usual, he was embarrassed and nervous, and steve, who had taken a mild dislike to him, resented his interference. "the stuff's too hard," he said in answer to mr. daley's inquiries. "look at the lesson we had to-day, sir; all that and this, over to here; sight reading, too. and two compositions so far this week! i just didn't have time for it last night, and so when he called on me to-day i told him i wasn't prepared. and then he--he ragged me in front of the class and gave me a page and a half to write, beside to-morrow's lesson. i can't do it, and that's all there is to it!" "er--yes, yes, i see. i'm sorry, edwards. now, let us have a look at this. yes, there's quite a lot of it. you--ah--you didn't have much latin before you came here, i take it?" "had enough," growled steve, "but nothing like this. i've had cã¦sar and some cicero. i never had any luck with latin, anyway." and steve viewed the open book with distaste. "it's the quantity, then, you find--ah--difficult," said mr. daley. "as far as grammar is concerned, i take it you are--ah--well grounded, edwards?" "i suppose so. but look at the length of the lesson we have!" "yes. very true. but, of course, to complete a certain amount of work in the year it is--ah--necessary to do quite a good deal every day. now maybe you--ah--haven't been really setting your mind on this. i know in my own case that i very often find myself--ah--skimping, so to speak; i mean going over a thing without really getting the--ah--the meat out of it. i'm almost certain that if you really settled your mind on this, edwards, that you'd get along very well with it. suppose now that you give twice as much time to it to-night as you usually do. if some other study must suffer, why, let it be your french and i will let you by to-morrow if you aren't well prepared. and--ah--i wish when you've been over this you'd come down and let me--ah--go over it with you lightly. i think--i think that would be an excellent idea, edwards." "oh, i'll try it," grumbled steve, "but it isn't any use. and look at what i've got to translate for him!" "yes, yes, i see. well--ah--bring your book down after awhile and we'll see what can be done. how are you getting on, hall?" "pretty well, sir. i find it a bit stiff, too, but maybe after awhile i'll get the hang of it." "that's the way to talk!" exclaimed the instructor approvingly. "that--ah--that is the right attitude, hall. make up your mind that it will come and it _will_ come. we all have our--our problems, and the only way to do is to--ah--face them and ride straight at them. so often, when we reach them, we find them--ah--we find them so very much more trivial than we had supposed. they're like--like hills seen from a distance that look terrifically steep. when we--ah--reach them we find them easy grades after all. you see what i mean? yes, yes. well, i shall expect you in my study later, edwards. i want you--both of you, that is--to realise that i am very eager to be of assistance at any time. possibly i can't help very much,--but--ah--i am most willing, boys." "silly chump," growled steve when the door had closed behind mr. daley. "i wish--ah--he'd--ah--mind his own--ah--business!" but tom didn't smile. "i think the chap means to be awfully decent, steve," he said thoughtfully. "the trouble is, i guess, he's scared to death of the fellows. you can see that in class." "he's a regular granny," replied steve. "wish he had this stuff to do. i guess he wouldn't be so light and airy about it!" "you'll go down and let him help you, though, won't you?" asked tom anxiously. "oh, i suppose so. he can do the whole thing if he wants to. where is my dictionary?" with mr. daley's help, freely offered and grudgingly accepted, steve weathered that crisis. and secretly he was grateful to the hall master, though he still pretended to believe and possibly did half believe that the latter was a sort of mollycoddle. tom told him indignantly once that since mr. daley had been so awfully decent to him he ought to stop poking fun at him. to which steve cheerfully made answer that even a mollycoddle could be decent at times! brimfield played canterbury high school on a wednesday afternoon in early october and had a good deal of a scare. canterbury romped on to the field like a bunch of young colts, and continued to romp for the best part of three ten-minute periods, long after brimfield had decided that romping was no longer in good taste! led by a small, wiry, red-headed quarter-back, who was likewise captain, and directed from the side-line by a coach who looked scarcely older than the big youth who played centre for them, the canterbury team took the most astounding liberties with football precedents. they didn't transgress the rules, but they put such original interpretations on some of them that mr. conklin, who was refereeing, and mr. jordan, instructor in mathematics, who was umpiring, had their heads over the rules-book nearly half the time! now and then they would march to the side-line and consult the canterbury coach. "where do you get your authority for that play?" mr. conklin would ask a trifle irritably. thereupon, silently but with a twinkle in his eye, the coach would gravely take the book, flip the pages, lay a finger on a section and return it. "hm," mr. conklin would say. "hm; but that seems to be in direct contradiction of another rule over here!" "quite likely," the coach would reply indifferently. "there are quite a few contradictions there. of course, you may accept either rule you like, gentlemen." disarmed in such wise, the officials invariably decided the play to be legal, and quarter-back milton, of brimfield, would protest volubly and get very, very red in the face in his attempt to carry his point and, at the same time, omit none of the respect due a faculty member! it was hard on milton, that game, and several times he nearly had apoplexy. then, too, canterbury did the most unexpected things at the most inopportune moments. when brimfield expected her to rush the ball she was just as likely to get off a kick from close formation. when the circumstances indicated an attack on the short side of the field canterbury's backs swung around the other end. when a close formation was to be looked for she swung her line half across the field, so confusing the opponents that they acted as though hypnotised. the forward pass was to canterbury a play that afforded her infinite amusement. she used it in the most unheard of locations; in midfield, under the shadow of her own goal, anywhere, everywhere and almost always when least expected. at the end of the second period brimfield trotted away to the gymnasium dazed and tired of brain, with the score 7 to 0 against her. the surprising thing about the visitors was that they played as though they were just having an afternoon of good fun. they romped, like boys playing leap-frog or follow-my-leader. they romped up the field and they romped down the field and, incidentally, over and through and around their opponents. and the more care-free and happy canterbury became, the more anxious and laboured grew brimfield. the maroon-and-grey reminded one of a very staid and serious middle-aged party with a grave duty to perform trying to restrain the spirited antics of a small boy with no sense of decorum! when the second half began, canterbury added insult to injury. instead of booting the pigskin down the field in an honest and earnest endeavour to obtain distance, she deliberately and with malice aforethought, dribbled it on the bias, so to speak, toward the side-line. benson, right end, should certainly have got it, but he was so perplexed that he never thought of picking it up until a canterbury forward had performed the task for him and had raced nearly twenty yards down the field! it was an unprecedented thing to do, or, at least, unprecedented at brimfield, and the audience voiced its disapproval strongly. but as the ball had gone the required ten yards there was nothing to do but smile--a trifle foolishly, perhaps--and accept the situation. and the situation was this: canterbury had kicked off and gained over thirty yards without losing possession of the ball! but in one way that play was ill-advised. brimfield had stood all sorts of jokes and pranks from the enemy with fairly good grace, but this enormity was too much. brimfield was peeved! more than that, she was really angry! and, being angry, she forgot that for twenty minutes she had been outplayed and started in then and there to administer a licking to the obstreperous small boy. even then, however, canterbury continued to romp and enjoy herself. she found hard sledding, but she worked down to brimfield's eight-yard line before she was finally halted. then her right half romped back for a try at goal and joyously booted the ball. but, to the enormous relief of the onlookers, the ball went under the bar instead of over, and canterbury romped back again. that third period was very evenly contested, brimfield, smarting under a sense of wounded dignity, playing well together and allowing canterbury no more opportunities to attempt scores. the visitors, still untamed, sprang strange and weird formations and attacks. a favourite trick was to start a play without signals, while one of her men was ostensibly tying a shoe-lace yards away or requesting a new head-guard near a side-line. it invariably happened, though, that the shoe-lace was tied in time to allow the youth to get the ball on a pass and attempt a joyous romp around the opponent's end. there was no scoring in the third period, but the whistle blew with the pigskin down on canterbury's twenty-five yards and brimfield with four to go on third down. as there was no practice that afternoon, steve and tom saw the game from the grand stand, with two cronies named draper and westcott. draper's first name was leroy and he was called roy. he was a tow-haired youngster of fifteen with very bright blue eyes and a tip-tilted nose that gave him a humorously impertinent look. he, like steve and tom, was a fourth former. his home was in pittsburg, pennsylvania, and, while pittsburg was a good hundred miles from tannersville, the fact that they were citizens of the same glorious commonwealth had drawn he and steve together. harry westcott was a year older and came from a small town in connecticut. he was roy's room-mate in torrence. he had a slim, small-boned body and a good-looking face with an aquiline nose and a pair of very large soft-brown eyes. his dark hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and was always very slick. harry was what roy called "a fussy dresser" and affected knickerbockers and golf-stockings, negligã©e shirts of soft and delicate hues of lavender or green or blue and, to quote his disrespectful room-mate once more, "symphonic ties." harry was the embodiment of aristocratic ease and always lent a "tone" to any gathering. he maintained an air of what he probably considered well-bred composure and tabooed enthusiasm. harry never declared that a thing was "bully" or "fine and dandy"; he mildly observed that it was "not half bad." this pose amused him, doubtless, and entertained his friends, and underneath it all he was a very normal, likable chap. it was roy draper who broke the strained silence that had endured until the whistle put an end to the third period. "i wouldn't give a cent for canterbury's chances in the next period," he said. "look at andy's face, fellows. it has the 'blood-lust' on it. when andy looks that way something has just got to happen!" "he looks annoyed," assented harry. "you'd be annoyed if you had your lip cut the way his is," chuckled roy. "do you think we'll beat them?" asked tom anxiously. "nothing can save them," replied roy conclusively. "andy has his dander up." "it took him long enough to get it up," grumbled steve. "he let those fellows run rings around us in the first half." "that's his foxy way. now he's got them all tired out and we'll go in and rip 'em up. you watch!" "there's marvin going in for milton," announced tom. "say, those chaps haven't made a change in their line-up yet." "one," corrected harry. "they put in a new right guard last period. they're a funny lot, seems to me. you'd think they were having the time of their lives." "i like that, though," said roy. "after all, you know, this thing of playing football is supposed to be amusement." "it's a heap more like hard work, though," replied harry. "not that i ever played it much." "did you ever play at all?" asked roy. "once or twice at grammar school. it was too fatiguing, though." "i'll bet it was," chuckled roy. "i'd like to see you playing, old thing." "i did, though; played right half-back. a fellow stuck his elbow into my face and i knocked him flat. captain said it was part of the game, you know, and i shouldn't have done it. i said that any fellow who bumped my nose would have to look for trouble. then the umpire put me off and the game lost a real star." "here we go," said steve. "now let's see if they can carry it over." they didn't, however, just then. canterbury held finely in the shadow of her goal and marvin's forward pass to captain miller went out at the twelve-yards. but canterbury was forced to punt a moment later, and brimfield took up the march again. on the adversary's thirty-yard line, with six to go on the third down, norton, full-back, attempted an impossible drop-kick--he was standing over forty yards from the cross-bar--and made it good. "what did i tell you?" demanded roy, digging steve with his elbow. "that's only three points, though," answered steve doubtfully. "we couldn't make a touchdown." "it isn't over yet," said roy confidently. "we're getting better all the time." canterbury gave the ball to brimfield for the kick-off and fowler booted it down to the opponent's fifteen yards. andy miller was under it all the way and upset an ambitious canterbury back before he was well started. canterbury tried two plunges and then punted from her twenty-five-yard line to brimfield's fifty. marvin caught and brought the stand to its feet by reeling off twelve yards across the field before he was downed. then brimfield found herself and went down the gridiron by steady plunges, plugging the canterbury line for good gains from tackle to tackle. norton, at full-back, was the hero of that period. time after time he took the pigskin and landed it for a gain. marvin, cool and heady, ran the team beautifully, and when four minutes of playing time remained, brimfield was again knocking at canterbury's door, the pigskin on the latter's eighteen yards. "first down!" proclaimed roy triumphantly. "here's where she goes over, old thing!" "let her go," replied harry. "i'm watching." "i hope they don't try another silly field-goal," muttered steve. "not on first down, they won't. bully work, norton! did you see it? three yards easily!" then marvin himself cut loose for four around left end and the canterbury coach hustled three substitutes on. but brimfield was not to be denied now. it was first down on canterbury's seven yards, and, with the spectators yelling like indians, kendall, right half, took the ball on a delayed pass, found an opening outside right tackle and slipped through and over the line for six more points. captain miller kicked goal and the score stood 10 to 7. another minute of play followed, with brimfield again pushing the high school team before her, and then the game was over and the quartette on the stand thumped each other elatedly--all save harry--and ambled down to join the throng that spread over the field on its homeward way. "what did i tell you?" asked roy. "you can't fool your uncle!" "you hate yourself, don't you?" drawled harry. "come on over to the room, you fellows." canterbury, having cheered the victor wholeheartedly, romped home. chapter xiii sawyer vows vengeance miter hill school followed canterbury the next saturday and was an unexpectedly weak opponent. the contest was slow and lifeless and dragged its weary length along until almost twilight. miter hill's players were in poor physical condition and, since the afternoon was warm and close, made a poor showing. the weather affected brimfield, too, although she was not as susceptible to injury as the other team. miter hill was forever getting hurt, it seemed, and the audience which had braved a remorseless sun and a horde of blood-thirsty midges soon began to grumble. the game was further slowed down in the last two periods by the substitution of half the members of the second and third squads for the maroon-and-grey. even tom had a three or four-minute experience on the 'varsity, something which he had long ceased hoping for, while steve played nearly all of the fourth period at right end. he did very well, there, although miter hill was too weak in all departments of the game to afford any of her opponents a fair test. toward the last the contest degenerated into more or less of a farce, miter hill tuckered and played out, and brimfield, with a line-up of third and fourth substitutes, fumbling and mixing signals and running around like a hen with her head off! by that time those who had remained so long began to view the game as what it really was, a comedy of errors, and got lots of fun out of it. when peters, at centre, passed the ball at least two feet above the upstretched hands of harris, who wanted to punt, and at least nine youths raced back up the field in pursuit of it, shoving, tripping, falling, rolling, and when it was peters himself who finally dropped his one hundred and seventy-odd pounds on it, the onlookers rocked in their seats and applauded wildly. later on another dash of humour was supplied when carmine poised the ball for a forward pass only to discover that no one of his side was in position to take it. the quarter-back shouted imploringly, running back and across the field, dodging two or three of the enemy and by some miracle holding the ball out of harm's way all the while. when, at last, thoroughly desperate, he heard someone shout from across the field to throw the ball, he threw it, and not until the catcher had reeled off twenty yards or more toward brimfield's goal did carmine discover that he had been cruelly deceived by the miter hill right end! even mr. robey, who had been viewing the game rather grimly, had to swing on his heel to hide a smile at that fiasco. but, if the subs didn't do much in the way of attack, they at least held the enemy from crossing their line, and the weird contest at last came to a close with the one-sided score of 26 to 0. on monday there was a fine shake-up, for the miter hill game, if it had not held any thrills, had at least shown up many faults, individual and otherwise. several second squad men went to the first as substitutes, fowler was shifted from left tackle to left guard on the first and two members of the third squad were advanced to the second. these latter were freer, half-back, and hall, guard. tom was both surprised and delighted, while seriously doubting the coach's wisdom. later, when he found that steve had not secured promotion as well, most of his delight vanished. "i don't see why they put me on the second," he said, "and left you on the third. i don't play half the game you do, steve." steve tried hard to be gracious, but only partly succeeded. "i dare say they want guards and don't want ends," he replied. "of course you've been doing good work, tom, and deserve promotion and i'm awfully glad you've got it, but, just the same, i don't think i'm getting a square deal." "i don't either! i wish they'd left me alone and taken you on. peters says robey will be disbanding the third squad in a week or so, too. of course they'll put you on the second before that, though." "i don't believe they will," replied steve morosely. "i dare say i'll be dropped entirely. i thought i was getting on pretty well, but marvin evidently doesn't think so. i'm getting kind of sick of it, anyway, tom. i wish i'd stayed at home. i could have if i'd made a good hard kick." that was a hard week for the 'varsity, for coach robey had every man on the team, with the possible exceptions of miller and innes, guessing. men came in from the second squad, were tried out and usually let go again. all sorts of shifts in the line and back-field were tried. on wednesday, eric sawyer, who had been looked on as a fixture at right guard, found himself ousted by gafferty, from the second, and a member of the "bench brigade." sawyer didn't like that at all. it was a terrific blow to his pride and self-esteem, and for many days he was like a bear with a sore head. as a matter of fact, although sawyer didn't suspect it, his deposal was in the nature of a taste of discipline. sawyer had been too certain of his place and had grown careless. at the end of a week he went back again, with the warning that he would have to show more than he had been showing if he was to stay there. it was while he was still decorating the bench, however, that steve again fell foul of him. the unseasonably warm weather held well into the middle of october, and it was one evening a day or two after sawyer's removal from the regular line-up that steve and tom, rather fagged from an hour's study in a close room, picked up roy and harry and went over to the gymnasium for a dip in the tank. the swimming tank was a favourite resort of the younger fellows between eight and ten at night, but, for some reason, the older boys seldom appeared there in the evenings. to-night, though, when the quartette, having changed into swimming trunks, reached the tank they found five upper-class fellows swinging their bare legs from the side of the pool and amusing themselves by criticising the antics of the youngsters. there was eric sawyer, jay fowler and three others whom neither steve nor tom knew save by sight. the tank was well populated, for the warmth of the evening made the thought of cool water very agreeable, and there was much noise and splashing going on. steve and harry went in from the spring-board at the deeper end of the pool, while tom and roy dived from the floor. a couple of tennis balls were flying around in the tank and the newcomers were soon taking their parts in the fun. presently the group of older fellows, having grown tired of guying the "kids," dived into the water. getting possession of one of the balls, they tried to keep it to themselves, and soon there was a merry and good-natured battle on between the five big chaps on one side and the younger occupants of the tank on the other. the echoing room rang with laughter and excited cries as the contending sides swam and floundered for the possession of the tennis ball. the big chaps had their hands full, for they were outnumbered four to one, but age and strength counted for them and not infrequently a youngster, rather than undergo a ducking at ungentle hands, yielded the ball and swam away with squeaks of terror. but there were others who fought valiantly enough, taking punishment laughingly when it came and pressing the older fellows closely. steve was one of the more daring of the enemy and never hesitated to dispute the possession of the ball with anyone. once when it came skipping along half the length of the tank, he went after it hand over hand, only to miss it when eric sawyer reached it an instant ahead of him. sawyer, grinning, drew back the hand holding the tennis ball. "want it, kid?" he asked. steve, guessing what was coming, dived, but he was not quick enough and the ball landed with a round smack on his right ear. a wet tennis ball, thrown from the distance of a few feet, is capable of hurting considerably, and steve, dashing the water from his face, felt very much as though he had been kicked by a mule and had difficulty in keeping the tears from his eyes. "get it?" laughed sawyer. "yes, and so will you," gasped steve. the ball lay bobbing about a yard away and he grabbed it. sawyer turned and struck out across the tank, only his head above water. steve, thoroughly angry, aimed at him, changed his mind and swam after him, to the awed delight of the others. sawyer, thinking he had removed himself from danger, turned at the side of the tank to look back. the next thing he knew the ball struck him fairly on the nose, and, with a howl of pain and surprise, he disappeared under the water. "swim, edwards!" shrieked the youngsters. "he'll get you!" steve did turn away, but it seemed too much like running and so he paused, treading water there, while the angry face of sawyer popped into view again. the ball had bounded away and been captured by one of the youngsters, but sawyer didn't look for it. with a leap he started toward steve. the latter realised that sawyer meant to wreak vengeance, and that the matter had got past the stage of fun. here, it seemed, was a time when discretion was the better part of valour, and steve dived. fortunately, he was a good swimmer. turning quickly under water, he raced toward the far end of the tank. dimly he heard shouts and laughter above, but he didn't come to the surface until twenty long strokes had taken him far away from where sawyer, at a loss, was casting about the middle of the tank for him. his reappearance was heralded by shouts of applause from the younger fellows, many of whom, scenting real trouble, had scrambled out of the water. sawyer, warned of steve's whereabouts, looked down the tank, saw him and started pell-mell after him. again steve went under, swam cautiously toward the side until he could see the white tiles within reach and then edged back the way he had come. he tried to reach the shallow end of the tank before taking breath, but the effort was too great, and when he stuck his head out for an instant he found that those at the edge of the tank had been following his under-water progress and were shouting and laughing down at him from above. more than that, however, their interest had appraised sawyer of his whereabouts, and even as steve, blinking the water from his eyes and replenishing his lungs, looked about him, his pursuer almost reached him. scorning concealment now, steve made straight for the shallow end of the pool. swimming like his was a revelation to many of those who saw it and a hearty burst of applause followed him all the way to the ladder, which he gained several yards in advance of sawyer. steve darted up the rungs and ran to the side of the tank, the fellows scattering out of his path. sawyer pulled himself out of the water and followed, puffing with anger and exertion. "oh, let him go, eric," advised fowler. "you can't catch him." "yes, forget it," advised others. but sawyer had no idea of forgetting it. "i'll break his silly head for him," he growled as he followed steve around the edge. then began a chase that was both exciting and amusing. egged on by the laughing spectators the two boys raced around the pool, steve managing to keep always one lap ahead, slowing down when sawyer showed signs of faltering and sprinting when the older boy, gathering fresh energy, went on again. it was a stern chase with a vengeance and might have lasted all night or until one or the other dropped in his tracks had not one of sawyer's comrades taken a hand in the game. steve, breathing hard but good for many more circuits of the track, came trotting along one side of the pool where the youth in question stood with fowler. there was a clear space of three feet between him and the edge, but just as steve drew abreast the older chap stepped forward in his path, and steve, trying to dodge around him, slipped on the tiling and fell sidewise into the water. sawyer, with a grunt of triumph, plunged in from the opposite edge and was on steve in a twinkling. "now, you fresh kid," exclaimed sawyer angrily, seizing steve's neck in a big hand as soon as his head came up, "you're going to get what's coming to you!" steve, battling for breath, gasping and gurgling, tried to wrench away, but the clasp on his neck was too strong for his efforts and down he went, squirming and struggling, until his head was under water. he managed to reach around and get a grip of sawyer's bathing trunks, but that was small advantage. the big fellow had him at his mercy. steve's head was throbbing when at last he was allowed to lift it out of the water again, gasping for breath. but the grip on his neck didn't relax. he was conscious that the laughter had died away, conscious of sawyer's grinning face beside him, and then down he was plunged again without warning, just managing to draw a little breath into his aching lungs before the water closed over him. it seemed that his tormentor held him down longer this time, and when, at last, he found the lights in his eyes again and could breathe once more, he was ready to give up the struggle. he had long since released his hold on sawyer's trunks, and now his hands were clasped desperately about the other boy's wrists. and yet when sawyer's growling voice said in his ear, "had enough, kid? beg my pardon?" steve managed to shake his head. "want more, eh?" asked sawyer. "all right, kid!" the clasp on his neck tightened again and he felt himself being once more thrust downward. and then, suddenly, he was free, and when, fighting his way back to the surface, he looked dazedly, there was tom clinging to sawyer's neck, thrashing and squirming. "you let him be, you big bully!" tom was saying. "you let him be!" "let go of my neck, you silly little fool!" gasped sawyer, striving to break the boy's hold. "you let him be!" gurgled tom, half-drowned but clinging like a limpet. "you let him be, you big bully!" then the two went under and steve, recovering his breath, wrenched them apart somehow and pulled poor tom to the side of the tank. sawyer, breathing with difficulty after tom's choking grasp about his neck, floundered to the edge, got a sustaining grip on the rim of the tank and glared angrily at the two boys. "i'll get you for this, you smart alecks," he declared chokingly. "you're too fresh, both of you. don't you know better than to grab a fellow around the neck in the water, you fool kid?" but tom was too far gone to answer. "that's what you did, isn't it?" steve demanded. "that's a funny way to talk!" "it is, is it?" sneered sawyer. "i'll show you something that is funny some time, and don't you forget it!" still growling, he swam away toward the nearer ladder, while steve, with roy and harry and others helping, lifted tom out of the tank and then followed himself. tom was very, very sick there for a minute and the younger fellows were properly sympathetic and indignant. presently they half carried tom back to the locker room and helped him into his clothes, and then, roy and harry in attendance, steve conveyed him back to billings and laid him on his bed, a very weak but now quite cheerful tom. "he nearly drowned me, didn't he?" he asked with a grin. "but i choked him good, you bet! bet you his old neck will be sore for a week, fellows!" "you want to keep away from him for awhile," said harry with a direful shake of his head. "he's a mean chap when he's mad." "huh!" grunted tom. "so'm i!" chapter xiv a lesson in tackling one direct result of that affair in the tank was that steve found himself something of a school celebrity because of his swimming prowess. within a few days he had good-naturedly agreed to give instruction to some half-dozen acquaintances and might have taken on a half-dozen more had he had the time for it. but there was only an odd hour or two during the day for swimming and he soon found that, although he got a good deal of fun out of instructing the others, it was taking too much of his time. it was roy's suggestion--roy being one of the most enthusiastic pupils--that those who wanted instruction should be on hand at a given hour each day. the suggestion was adopted, and edwards's swimming class soon became a recognised institution. five o'clock was the hour set, at which time the tank was not much used, and steve, having returned from football practice, donned swimming trunks and repaired to the pool where he usually found from four to a dozen boys awaiting him, since, by attending to them all at once, he could look after a dozen as easily as a few. most of the pupils were boys of from thirteen to seventeen, although there were two older fellows in the class, jay fowler and hatherton williams. both were sixth formers and both were football men. mr. conklin, the physical director, gave enthusiastic endorsement and encouragement. brimfield had never supplied instruction in swimming, something which the director had long regretted, and mr. conklin, could he have had his way, would have made attendance at steve's swimming class compulsory for the younger boys and so have instituted a new feature in the course of physical instruction. but steve, willing to teach a few fellows who could already swim the finer points of the science, balked at teaching the rudiments to a half-hundred water-shy youths who would have to be coaxed and coddled. mr. conklin tried his best to persuade him, but steve refused firmly. they had a whole lot of fun during that swimming hour. fowler and a younger chap named toll were the more accomplished performers in the class, barring steve himself, and every session ended with several very earnest races in which fowler, allowing toll a five-yard handicap, usually nosed out the younger boy in a contest of four times the length of the tank. then there was generally a free-for-all, the fellows lining up on the edge of the pool, diving at the word from steve and swimming to the further end, where, after touching the wall, they turned and hustled back to the start. sometimes when football practice had been more than usually gruelling, steve stayed out of the water and instructed from the floor, but more often he went in with the others and followed them in their practice swims. naturally it was the fancy diving and the racing strokes that most of the fellows wanted to learn, but steve, who had never in his life before tried to teach anyone anything, displayed a good deal of hard common-sense as an instructor and insisted that each of his pupils should master one thing thoroughly before taking up another. the result was that, barring one or two fellows who would probably in any case have failed to become expert swimmers, the class made really remarkable progress, and there came a time, although it was considerably later in the school year, when both jay fowler and hatherton williams could equal most of steve's feats. tom started with the class, wisely deciding after his experience with eric sawyer that the ability to keep one's head out of water was a fine thing to have. but tom was not cut out for a human fish and soon gave it up. roy draper learned fairly well. he tried to induce harry to join the class, but harry preferred to stay with tom and look on from the floor. when winter set in, steve's class increased in numbers until in january he was conducting the natatory education of more than two dozen fellows. it was mr. conklin who arranged for an exhibition the latter part of the winter and steve was very proud of his pupils' work on that occasion. it was held one saturday afternoon and everyone attended, including even "josh," more formally known as mr. joshua fernald, the principal. there was fancy diving and swimming, a short game of water polo and all kinds of races, beside which steve showed some six or eight different strokes, swam the length of the tank under water and performed other quite startling feats to the delight of his audience. mr. fernald shook hands with him afterwards and said several very nice things. but all this is far beyond my story, and i am only telling of it because it led the following autumn to the installation of a swimming instructor at brimfield and the addition of swimming to the list of "required studies" for the boys of the four lower forms. the instructor came to the school twice a week and put in two very busy hours there. so you see that fracas between steve and eric sawyer that evening strangely enough resulted in important consequences and, since a knowledge of swimming is a most useful one, worked for good. but there were other consequences of that fracas as well, and i must get back to those. larchville academy followed miter hill on brimfield's schedule and administered the first defeat of the season to the maroon-and-grey. it wasn't so much that brimfield played poorly as that larchville played unusually well. the visitors presented an aggregation of big, well-trained youths who, most of them having been on their team the previous year, were far in advance of brimfield in the matter of season development. larchville's performance was what one might expect in november, but scarcely looked for in the second week of october. her men played together all the time and her team-work stood out in strong contrast to that of brimfield, who had scarcely begun as yet to develop such a thing. the final score was 17 to 3, and the only consolation was found in the fact that larchville's end of it might well have been much larger. brimfield's three points came as the result of one really brilliant advance for half the length of the field followed by a neat place-kick by williams. the rest of the game was very much larchville, and brimfield was on the defence most of the time. and, to give credit where it belongs, it was eric sawyer who, back in his position at right guard, held his side of the line firm on two anxious occasions when larchville was striving to hammer out touchdowns under the shadow of her opponent's goal. on the whole, brimfield played good football that day and no one justly came in for adverse criticism. captain miller, at left end, was spectacular under punts and played his usual hard, steady game. innes at centre was impregnable until the final period. williams, if a trifle weaker than his opponent, made up for it by scoring the three points for his side. benson, at right end, was less successful than captain miller, but was good on the defence. the back-field, although inclined to go it "every man for himself," showed up well, especially when the enemy was in possession of the ball. milton, the first-choice quarter-back, ran the team like a general, while norton, the big full-back, proved the only consistent gainer through the line. in spite of the fact that she had met with defeat, brimfield found encouragement in that contest, and, after the first few minutes of regrets, spent the rest of the day unstintedly praising her warriors. there was only light practice the following monday for those who had taken part in the saturday game, a fact which once more allowed coach robey to give a good deal of attention to the second and third squads. steve was playing right end regularly now on the third, and tom was alternating at left guard on the second. the third squad was now down to only eleven members, and when, after a hard hour of signal work and fundamentals, the second and third were lined up for a ten-minute scrimmage, marvin had to borrow substitutes as needed from the second. there was no scoring that day, but there was an awful lot of hard work. steve made one or two good plays down the field, but, as usual, was weak on stopping the runner when he reached him. after they were dismissed, marvin stopped him as he was trotting off with the others. "i say, edwards, are you very tired?" he asked. "n-no, i guess not," steve replied. "then i wish you'd stay out a few minutes and let me try to show you about tackling." steve glanced distastefully at the dummy and doubtfully at marvin. but the latter smiled and shook his head. "never mind the dummy, edwards," he said. "we'll have our fun right here. i'm going to be the dummy and you're to stop me. did they take all the balls away? never mind, we'll imagine the ball. now, first of all i'm going to show you how i'd handle you if you were the runner. stand where you are, please." marvin dropped in front of steve and threw his arms about his legs just above the knees. "there's your position, edwards," he explained. "you see i have my body in front of you. you've not only got to work against my grip around your legs but you've got to push against my weight and resistance. try it." steve did try it, but he could only shuffle an inch or two. "see?" asked marvin. "now, then, having tackled you, it's up to me to put you down. if i let you come forward of your own impetus you'll fall toward my goal, and by stretching out your arms you'll put the ball two yards nearer the goal than where you stand. of course you wouldn't risk holding the ball at arms' length unless there was a possibility of getting it across a goal-line by doing it. but even if you hold the ball at your stomach you'll gain a yard by falling forward. now my play is to throw you the other way--like this!" with a heave marvin sent steve toppling backward, much to that youth's surprise. marvin jumped lightly to his feet, held out a hand to the other and pulled him up. "see how it's done?" he asked cheerfully. "now you try it. never mind diving; just drop where you are on your hip. that's it! swing your arms around tight! higher up, though. remember if you're playing end the rules prohibit you from tackling a runner below the knees. that's better. now, then, over with me!" but it wasn't so easy. marvin, smuggling an imaginary ball in his arms, struggled and twisted and it was all steve could do to keep him from gaining ground, to say nothing of throwing him back. [illustration: "lift!" instructed the quarter-back. "lift me up and yank my feet out from under me! use your weight and throw me back!"] "lift!" instructed the quarter-back. "lift me up and yank my feet out from under me! use your weight and throw me back!" but in trying to lift the other, steve allowed marvin to slip past him and the quarter fell forward instead of backward. "try again," said marvin. "it's got to be all one motion, so to say, edwards. get your man, wrap your arms around him and heave. sometimes you can't do better than stop him. if he's coming hard, you won't be able to put him back. he's got to be more or less erect to make that go. but do it whenever you can. now, then, once more! down you go! that's the stuff! bully work! don't be afraid of hurting me! _put me back!_" steve actually did it that time and was so pleased that he was grinning all over his face when marvin scrambled to his feet again. "that was a lot better. once get the idea fixed in your head, edwards, and it'll come easy. you'll do it without a thought. once more now, and put some ginger into it. here i come!" marvin walked a couple of steps forward, steve dropped and gripped his knees, heaved and over went the quarter. a dozen times marvin made him practise it, and then, "all right," he said. "now i'm going to run toward you, edwards. i'm going to get by you if i can, too. you've got to do your best to stop me. don't try any flying tackles, and remember that you've got to have one foot on the ground when you get me. all right now!" steve was glad they had the gridiron practically to themselves, for he cut a poor figure the first three times that he tried to reach the elusive quarter-back. once marvin caught him with a straight arm and sent him toppling out of his path, once marvin dodged him completely, twirling on one heel and darting past him beyond reach, and once the little quarter-back wrenched himself loose after being tackled. but the fourth time steve was more successful, and after that he reached the runner every time even if he didn't always stop him short. even when steve had his arms gripped tightly about marvin's knees, the latter was almost always able to somehow make another yard or two before he was willing to call "down!" but steve learned more in that half-hour than he had learned all the season, and when, after awhile, the two boys, panting and perspiring but satisfied with themselves, walked back to the gymnasium, steve had the grace to thank marvin. "that's all right," replied the other. "i knew you could play the game, edwards, if you could once get the hang of making a decent tackle. and i knew, too, that the trouble with you was that you'd just sort of made up your mind that you couldn't learn, that you didn't understand what i've been trying to show you. there won't be any third squad after the middle of the week, edwards, and if you hadn't shown something more than you've been showing in the tackling line i couldn't conscientiously have sent you up to the second." "that was mighty decent," muttered steve. "well, you mustn't take it as a personal favour, edwards," answered marvin with a smile, "although i'm glad to do it for you. you see, i don't want to let any good material get away. and i think you are good material, and if there was any possibility of your being of use to the second squad i wanted to get you there. now, to-morrow we'll have another go at it, and the next day too, and every day until you can tackle a runner as well as you can handle a ball or play in the line. is that a bargain?" "yes," replied steve heartily. "and thanks, marvin." chapter xv steve winnows some chaff two days later the third squad ceased to be and all but four of its members retired to private life. of those four, one was steve. steve went on to the second team as substitute end. with him went carmine, peters and saunders, while from the second a batch of half-a-dozen youths disappeared. that was the eighteenth of october. the candidates who had survived this final cut were safe to finish the season out. of them some twenty-four were on the 'varsity and sixteen on the second. the preliminary season was ended, and with the next game, that with benton military college, which was to be played at hastings-on-sound, the serious work might be said to begin. the second, under brownell, became a separate aggregation, moved to its own training table in the dining-hall, had its own signals and practised on its own gridiron. it even had its own coach, for a graduate named boutelle--soon shortened to "boots"--appeared on the scene and took command. "boots" was a rather large man of thirty-odd years who had graduated from brimfield before the days of football there. he had learned the game very thoroughly, however, at college, and was enthusiastically eager to impart his knowledge. he was a friend of mr. robey, and it was understood that he was giving his services as a favour to the head coach. but it was soon evident that he was thoroughly enjoying it, and he entered into his task with heart and soul. in fact he was so anxious to develop a good team that one of the first things he did was to unwittingly fall foul of the faculty. the third day there he announced that until further notice there would be morning practice between ten and twelve for all who could attend it. morning practice lasted one day. then faculty drew the attention of mr. boutelle to the rule which forbade the use of the athletic field to students during recitation hours. mr. boutelle was disgusted and tried to argue about it with the principal, but had to give in finally. but in spite of being required to limit practice to the afternoon hours, the second came fast and there were some very pretty games between it and the 'varsity in those days. steve started in as a second choice right end, a chap named sherrard having first claim to the position. tom was plugging along at right guard and doing well. he was a trifle light for the place, but he was a steady player and a heady one and it took him less than a fortnight to oust his rival from the position. tom was a surprise both to himself and to steve. steve had never taken his chum very seriously as a football player, probably because tom was not the spectacular sort, but he was forced to acknowledge now that the latter had beaten him at his own game! the members of the second didn't see the benton game for the reason that "boots" wouldn't consider it at all. what, waste an afternoon looking on when they might be holding practice? not if he knew it! but the absence of some sixteen members of the second team didn't keep brimfield from being well represented at that contest, for most every other fellow in school journeyed across to hastings-on-sound with the 'varsity and witnessed a very good, if in one way unsatisfactory, game. for brimfield and benton tussled with each other through four ten-minute periods without a score. perhaps benton had slightly the better of the argument, although not many brimfieldians would acknowledge it. at least, it is true that benton came nearer to scoring than her adversary when, on brimfield's five-yard line, she lost possession of the ball by a fumble. on the other hand, brimfield tried one field-goal from an impossible angle and missed. the next monday, with several of the regulars out of the 'varsity line-up, the second won a 6 to 0 victory, and "boots," choosing to ignore the 'varsity's weakness on that occasion, requested the second to observe what could be accomplished by making the most of their opportunities to practice! the fellows, quite as well pleased as their coach, although not taking to themselves so much credit as he accorded them, smiled, and said, "yes, sir," very politely and winked amongst themselves. but they liked "boots"; liked him for his enthusiasm and for the tireless energy he displayed in their behalf. if you can't make the 'varsity it is at least something to be able to help develop it, and that is what the second was doing, very loyally and gladly. and when in the process of aiding in its development it was possible to beat it, the second shook hands with itself and was cock-o'-the-walk for days after! steve, like most others on the second, had relinquished hope of getting on the 'varsity. a month ago he would have scornfully refused to consider anything less than a position on the first team, but steve had had his eyes opened not a little. there _was_ a difference between the sort of football played by brimfield and the kind played by the tannersville high school team, and steve now recognised the fact. perhaps he secretly still thought himself deserving of a place on the 'varsity--frankly, i think he did--but whereas a month ago he would not have hesitated to make the fact known, he had since learned that at brimfield it was not considered good form to blow your own horn, as the saying is. but if he was disappointed at falling short of the final goal of his ambition, he was nevertheless having a very good time on the second. there was a lot of fine fellows there and the spirit of camaraderie was strong, and grew stronger as the season progressed. the second was perhaps almost as proud of their organisation as was the 'varsity of theirs, and when, the week after the benton game, they once defeated and twice tied the other team, you might have thought they had vanquished claflin, so haughty and stuck-up did they become! steve played under a severe handicap that week, for once more he and "uncle sim" were at outs. with mr. daley's assistance and encouragement, and by a really earnest period of application on his own part, he had successfully weathered the previous storm and had even been taken into mr. simkins' good graces. but football is a severe taskmaster, if one allows it to become such, and what with a strong desire to distinguish himself on the second--animated to some extent by the wish to show mr. robey what he had missed for the 'varsity--and a commendable effort to profit by marvin's teaching, he had soon begun to ease up on his greek and latin, which were for him the most difficult of his courses. and now "uncle sim" was down on him again, as steve put it, and on the eve of the cherry valley contest he was in a fair way to have trouble with the office. mr. simkins' patience, perhaps never very long, was about exhausted. he had reason on his side, however, for steve was by no means the only student who was in difficulties at that time. on friday morning mr. simkins had indulged in sarcasm. "well, well," he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands, "i dare say it is too much to require you young gentlemen to study when it is such fine weather for football. what a pity it is that lessons and play conflict, is it not, wilson?" wilson was too canny to make audible reply, however, and the instructor proceeded blandly. "i wonder if mr. fernald would postpone recitations until after you have finished football for the year. i think i'll suggest it to him. for, really, you know, this sort of thing is only wasting my time; and yours too, young gentlemen, for you might be out kicking a leather-covered bag of wind around the ground instead of sitting here cudgelling your poor brains--eh? let us say heads, rather. the evidence is too slight to warrant the use of the first word--cudgelling your heads, then, trying to 'fake' lessons you've never looked at. i sympathise with you deeply. i commiserate. i--i am almost moved to tears. my heart goes out to you, young gentlemen." mr. simkins looked so sad and woebegone that the older boys, who knew him well, trembled in their shoes. the room was very silent. with mr. simkins the storm was always in proportion to the calm, and the present calm was indeed portentous. the instructor fought for a moment with his emotions. then he sighed. "well, until we have permission to discard recitations, i presume we must go on with them, such as they are." his gaze roved sympathetically over the class, most of whom showed a strong desire to escape his attention. finally, "edwards," he said softly and, as it seemed to steve, maliciously, "let us proceed with the dull and untimely lesson. kindly translate the tiresome utterances of this ignorant man who preferred wisdom and eloquence to athletics and football, edwards. you may begin where your--hm--brilliant predecessor regretfully left off. for the moment, pray, detach your thoughts from the verdant meadows and the sprightly football, edwards. and--ah--don't, _please_ don't tell me that you are not prepared. somehow that phrase afflicts my ears, edwards, and were you to make use of it i should, i fear, be driven to--ah--strong measures. now, edwards, if you will be so kind." well, steve was _not_ prepared, as it happened, but he knew better than to say so, and, putting on an expression of confidence and pleasure as though mr. simkins had offered him the rarest of privileges, he plunged bravely into a paragraph of cicero's orations. but it was hard going and he was soon stumbling and hesitating, casting about desperately for words. a long, deep sigh travelled from the platform. "that will do, edwards," said mr. simkins sorrowfully. "your rendering is novel and interesting. it is, possibly, an improvement on the original matter, but the question very naturally arises, edwards, whether we have the right to improve on cicero. of course he had his limitations, edwards, and his faults, and yet"--mr. simkins shook his head slowly and thoughtfully--"on the whole, edwards, i think perhaps we should accept him as we find him, viewing his faults with a leniency becoming great minds, tolerating much, edwards, for the sake of the--ah--occasional golden kernel to be detected in his mass of chaff by such giant intellects as yours. you _do_ detect an occasional kernel of sense, edwards?" steve, miserably pretending a huge interest in the cover of his book, forebore to reply. "you don't?" mr. simkins seemed both pained and surprised. "but i assure you they are there, edwards, few in number perchance, but really to be found. perhaps--hm--perhaps it would be a pleasant, at all events a profitable, occupation for you to make an earnest search for them. if you will see me after class, edwards, i shall esteem it a pleasure to indicate a few pages of chaff for you to winnow. thank you. pray be seated." that was why steve was in anything but an enviable frame of mind that friday evening. mr. simkins had pointed out exactly four pages of chaff for his winnowing, and the winnowing was to be done with pen and ink and the "occasional golden kernels" indicated by steve on the margin of his paper. steve was angry and depressed. "what's the use of trying to get along with him?" he demanded of tom. "he has it in for me, and even if i had every lesson down pat he'd be after me all the time just the same. if it wasn't for--for the team i'd quit right now." "don't be a chump," replied tom good-naturedly. "you know yourself, steve, you haven't been studying lately." "well, where's a fellow to get time to study?" asked steve. "look at what i have to do this evening!" "you won't do it if you don't sit down and get started," said his chum soothingly. "you tackle the other stuff and then i'll help you with that latin. i guess we can get through it together." "it'll take me an hour to do those six pages," grumbled steve. "i wish simkins would choke!" steve got by on saturday, with difficulty, but had a hard time of it when the instructor requested him to give his reasons for selecting certain passages of the immortal cicero as being worthy of especial commendation. the rest of the class found it very amusing, but steve failed to discern any humour in the proceedings. fortunately, mr. simkins was merciful and steve's martyrdom was of short duration. after that, for a few days at least, steve's latin was much better, if not the best. the game with cherry valley deserves only passing mention. viewed beforehand as a severe test of the brimfield team's defence, the contest proved a walkover for the maroon-and-grey, the final score standing 27 to 6. cherry valley was weak in all departments of the game, and her single score, a touchdown made in the fourth period, was hammered out when all but two of the brimfield players were first and second substitutes. of brimfield's tallies two were due to the skill of hatherton williams, who twice placed the pigskin over the bar for field-goals, once from the twenty-five yards and once from near the forty. the brimfield backs showed up better than at any time in the season, and norton and kendall gained almost at will. there was still much to criticise and mr. robey was far from satisfied with the work of the eleven as a whole, but the school in general was vastly pleased. coming a week after that disappointing 0 to 0 game with the military academy, the cherry hill game was decidedly encouraging. so far erie sawyer had treated both steve and tom with silent contempt whenever he encountered them, although his scowls told them that they were by no means forgiven. naturally, since eric was on the 'varsity and the two chums on the second, they saw each other practically every afternoon on the field or in the gymnasium. but it wasn't difficult to avoid a real meeting where so many others were about. roy draper pretended to think that eric was only biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to murder the two in cold blood, and delighted to draw gruesome pictures of the ultimate fate of his friends. "i guess what he will really do," he said on the sunday afternoon following the cherry valley game when he and harry westcott were in number 12 billings, "is to decoy you both over to the sound some fine day and drown you." "just how will he manage it?" asked tom, who was tumbling everything in the room about in his search for a mislaid book. "he will probably tie heavy weights to your necks and drop you into a deep hole in the ocean," replied roy promptly. "then you will be eaten by sharks." "and what would we be doing all the time he was tying the weights to us?" asked steve sarcastically. "nothing, because he'd chloroform you first," returned roy triumphantly, much pleased with his readiness. "you'd be insensible." "meaning without sense," murmured harry. "it wouldn't take much chloroform." "huh! don't you talk!" said steve. "you'll never have brain-fever!" "ha!" scoffed harry. "sarcasm, the refuge of small intellects!" "come on," said tom. "it's nearly three-thirty. bother sawyer, anyway. he's not troubling me any." "that's all right," replied roy, as he got up from the window-seat, "but when you wake up some fine morning and find yourself bathed in your own life's blood you'll wish you'd listened to me." "i can't help listening to you. you talk all the time. besides, i shouldn't call it a fine morning if i woke up dead. i--i'd think it was a very disagreeable day! are you coming, steve?" "i suppose so," replied steve with a groan. "i wish practice was in halifax, though. i'm tired to-day." he got up from his bed, on which he had been lying in defiance of the rules, and stretched himself with a yawn. "you'll be tireder when the first gets through with us," said tom grimly. "robey will sick all his subs on us to-day, i guess; and subs always think they have to kill you just to show how good they are." "if anyone tries any funny-business with me to-day he will get in trouble," growled steve as he pulled his cap on and followed the others through the door. "i just hope someone will try it on!" tom's prediction proved correct. the first-string men were given easy practice and faced the second for only ten minutes in scrimmage. then they were trotted off to the gymnasium and the 'varsity substitutes took their places. steve relieved sherrard at right end in the second period and played so poorly that he received more than one "calling-down" by "boots." his temper seemed to be in a very ragged condition to-day, and he and lacey, who played at left tackle on the first, got into several rumpuses in which hands were used in a manner not countenanced by the rules of football. finally, steve was sent off to make way for a second substitute, who played the position so well during the few minutes that remained that steve became even more disgruntled. when practice was over he joined tom, roy and harry--the latter pair having watched proceedings from the stand--and made his way to the gymnasium in a very poor state of mind. roy, who didn't believe in humouring folks, tried to twit steve on his "scrapping" with lacey, but steve flared up on the instant and roy was glad to change the subject. after that, steve was gloomily silent until the gymnasium was reached. as chance had it, the first-string fellows had just completed dressing and begun to leave the building as the others arrived there, and steve, leading the way through the big door, collided with a boy who was on his way out. there was really plenty of room for the two to pass each other, but steve was not in a frame of mind to give way to anyone and the result was that the other chap received the full force of steve's shoulder. "who are you shoving?" demanded an angry voice. steve turned and confronted eric sawyer. "don't take all the room if you don't want to be shoved," answered steve belligerently. eric was accompanied by a younger fellow, who instantly withdrew to the safety of the further side of the hall. "you're too big, anyway," continued steve. tom and the others, at his heels in the open doorway, gasped and stared at steve in amazement. eric's countenance depicted a similar emotion for an instant, and i think he, too, gasped. then he sprang forward and gave steve a push that sent him staggering away from the door. "you fresh kid!" he growled. "you keep out of my way after this or you'll get hurt. i've stood about all of your nonsense i mean to!" steve leaped back with clenched hands and flashing eyes, but harry stepped between, while tom and roy caught hold of steve. "that'll be about all, sawyer," said harry quietly. "you can't fight a fellow a head smaller than you, you know." "don't you butt in," growled eric. "i don't intend to fight him, but i'll give him a mighty good spanking if he bothers me any more. come on, whipple." steve, struggling against the grasps and pleas of tom and roy, strove to get between eric sawyer and the door. "spank me, will you?" he said angrily. "you let me be, you fellows! take your hands off me! i'll show him he can't push me around!" "i won't push you the next time," laughed eric contemptuously. "i'll turn you over my knee! you, too, you other freshie." he glared at tom, but tom was too busy with steve to make reply. "you want to both of you keep away from me after this." and, with a final scowl, eric went out, followed by his companion who ventured a weak and ingratiating smile as he passed. by that time the hall was half-full of curious spectators, and steve, finding his enemy gone, allowed himself to be conducted to the stairway. "i'm not through with him yet," he declared. "i'll teach him to push me around like that!" "oh, cut it!" said roy disgustedly. "don't be a silly ass, steve. you began it yourself and you got what was coming to you. a nice fight you would put up against sawyer!" "it's no affair of yours," replied steve hotly. "no one asked you to butt in on it, anyway. you too, tom! the next time you keep out of my affairs. do you understand?" tom said nothing, but roy shrugged his shoulders as they entered the locker room. "if you want to make a fool of yourself, all right, steve. i won't interfere again. don't worry." "i'm no more of a fool than you are," responded steve. "you fellows make me sick. just because sawyer's a little bigger, you let him kick you all over the shop." "he's never kicked me," drawled harry. "but if he tried to i'd run. i may not be a hero, but i know what's what! put your head under the cold water tap, steve." steve replied to that advice with a scowl, and harry and roy turned back to make their way upstairs again and across to torrence. "he acted like a silly kid," said roy crossly. "yes, he was in a beast of a temper to-day, anyway. wonder what's the matter with him. he's like a bear with a sore head. he had pluck to stand up to sawyer, though. i'd have run." "so would he, probably, if he hadn't been so mad," chuckled roy. "you can be awfully brave if you get mad enough!" then he added more seriously: "sawyer will get him some day surely, after this." "oh, sawyer isn't as bad as he's painted, i guess," replied harry. "the trouble with steve is that he's pig-headed or something." "he fancies himself a bit," said roy. "he will get over it after he's been here longer. you can't help liking him, though, and i'll be sorry if he gets out." "why should he get out?" asked harry in surprise. roy shrugged. "maybe he won't, but he will if he doesn't get a hunch and buckle down to study. 'uncle sim' has got it in for him hard. some fine day steve will get an invitation to the cottage, josh will tell him a few things, steve will get lumpy and--good-night! you see if it doesn't turn out that way." "why the dickens doesn't he study, then?" grumbled harry. "he's got brains enough." "oh, sure, he's got the brains," answered roy as he held open the door at torrence, "but he hasn't discovered yet that there's someone else to think of besides steve. if he doesn't want to do a thing he won't--unless he's made to. look at the way he played to-day! just because he felt lumpy he didn't think it was worth while to do anything but scrap with that other chap. folks won't stand for that very long and some day steve will wake up with a bang!" "you going over to swim?" asked harry when they had reached their room. roy shook his head gently. "not this afternoon, i think, thanking you just the same. i'd be afraid steve would pull me under water and drown me!" roy chuckled as he seated himself and, thrusting his hands in his trousers pockets, surveyed his shoes smilingly. "poor old steve! he's in for a heap of trouble, i guess, before he gets ready to settle down as a useful member of our charming little community." "seems to me," said harry, "about the best thing you do to-day is predict trouble for folks. you're as bad as what's-his-name's raven; you croak." "the gentleman's name was poe," returned roy sweetly. "but perhaps you've never studied american literature." "i thought poe was a football hero at princeton or somewhere," laughed harry. "what did he ever do for american literature?" "american history was more in his line," replied roy. "football history. find your ball and let's go down and pass. i won't croak a single, solitary croak, old thing." chapter xvi mr. daley is out the reason for steve's ill-temper was the receipt that morning of a letter from his father. mr. edwards wrote that he had just been informed by the principal that steve's work was far from satisfactory. "he tells me," wrote mr. edwards, "that your general attitude toward your studies is careless and that in latin especially you are not keeping up with your class. now i can't be worried by this sort of thing. i give you fair warning that if you don't mend your ways you'll be taken out of school and put to work here in the office, and there won't be any more talk about college. if mr. fernald had said you were not able to do the work, that would be another thing, but he distinctly accuses you of not trying and not caring. i suppose the whole amount of the matter is that you're paying too much attention to football. if i get another complaint about you this year i shall write mr. fernald to forbid you to play football or any other game until you show that you mean business. if that doesn't bring you around i shall take you out of school. fair warning, steve." steve knew his father well enough to be certain that he would do just as he threatened, and the future looked particularly dark to him that day. of course, if he had plenty of time he could master his latin--and his greek, which was troubling him less but was by no means a favourite course--as well as any other study, he told himself. but there was so much to be done! and try as he might, he could never seem to find time enough for study. if he gave up football it would, perhaps, be easy enough, but, he asked himself bitterly, what was the good of going to school and doing nothing but study? what was the good of knowing how to play football if he wasn't to have a chance to use his knowledge? it was all the fault of the faculty. it tried to get too much work out of the fellows in too short a time. but these reflections didn't help his case any. it was up to him to make good with latin. otherwise his father would write to josh, as he threatened, and there'd be no more football. if he could get through the next month, by which time the football season would be at an end, it would be all right. after that he could give more time to lessons. he might, too, he told himself, give up those swimming lessons. but they came at an hour when it was terribly hard to get a fellow's mind down to study. and, besides, he enjoyed those lessons. the only thing to do was to stay at home in the evenings and keep his nose in his books. tom didn't have much trouble, he reflected, and why should he? sometimes he got thoroughly angry with tom for the ease with which that youth mastered lessons! to make matters worse, just at that time, there was due the last of the week an original composition in french, designed by mr. daley as a test for the class. french did not bother steve much, although this was partly due to the fact that mr. daley had been very lenient with him, knowing that he was having trouble in the classical courses. but writing an original composition in french was a feat that filled steve with dismay. what the dickens was he to write about? mr. daley had announced that the composition must contain not less than twelve hundred words. that approximated six pages in a blue-book. steve sighed, frowned, shook his head and finally shrugged his shoulders. after all, there was no use worrying about that yet. there still remained three days for the composition, and the most important thing now was to make a showing in latin. french could wait. if he didn't find time for the composition--well, mr. daley was easy! he'd get by somehow! so steve pegged away hard at his latin for several days and made a very good showing, and mr. simkins, who had been contemplating harsh measures, took heart and hoped that further reports to the principal would be unnecessary. but what with latin and greek and mathematics and history and english, that french composition was still unwritten when thursday evening arrived. it had been a hard day on the gridiron and steve was pretty well fagged out when study hour came. he had told himself for several days that at the last moment he would buckle down and do that composition, but to-night, with a hard lesson in geometry staring him in the face, the thing looked impossible. across the study table, tom was diligently digging into greek, his french composition already finished and ready to be handed in on the morrow. steve looked over at him enviously and sighed. he hadn't an idea in his head for that composition! after a while, when he had spoiled two good sheets of paper with meaningless scrawls, he pushed back his chair. there was just one course open. he would go down and tell mr. daley that he couldn't do it! after all, "horace" was a pretty reasonable sort of chap and would probably give him another day or two. in any case, it was impossible to do the thing to-night. he glanced at his watch and found that the time was ten minutes to eight. tom looked up inquiringly as steve's chair went back. "i'm going down to see 'horace,'" said steve. "i can't do that french composition, and i'm going to tell him so. if he doesn't like it, he may do the other thing." tom made no reply, but he watched his chum thoughtfully until the door had closed behind him. then he dug frowningly for a moment with the nib of a pen in the blotter and finally shook his head and went back to his book. when steve was half-way between the stairwell and mr. daley's door, the latter opened and eric sawyer came out. steve was in no mood to-night to pick a quarrel and he passed the older fellow with averted eyes, dimly aware of the scowl that greeted him. when he knocked at the instructor's door there was no reply and, after a moment, steve turned the knob and entered. at the outer door eric had paused and looked back. mr. daley's study was lighted but empty. satisfying himself on the latter point, steve turned to go out. then, reflecting that, since the instructor had left the lights on, he was probably coming right back, he decided to await him. he seated himself in a chair near the big green-topped table. almost under his hand lay a blue-book, and in idle curiosity steve leaned forward and looked at it. on the white label in the upper left-hand corner he read: "french iv. carl w. upton. original composition." steve viewed that blue-book frowningly, envying upton deeply. upton, whom he knew by sight, was the sort of fellow who always had his lessons and who was forever being held up by the instructor to the rest of the course as a shining example of diligence. he roomed on the floor above steve. it was, steve reflected, just like upton to get his composition done and hand it in in advance of the others. he wondered what sort of stuff upton had written, and lifted the blue-book from the table. "en revanche!" he read as he turned to the first page. his lip curled. that was a silly title. he dipped into the story. it was something about a french soldier accused of cowardice by an officer. steve, puzzling through the first page, grudgingly acknowledged that upton had written pretty good stuff. but his interest soon waned, for some of the words were beyond him, and he idly tossed the book back on the table. he wished, though, that that was his composition and not upton's. he wondered if mr. daley had seen it. somehow the position of the book, in the geometrical centre of the big writing-pad, suggested that upton had found the instructor out and had left the book. if he had that book upstairs it wouldn't be hard to copy the composition out in his own hand-writing. it would be a whole lot like stealing, but---steve looked fascinatedly at the book for a minute. then his hand went out and he was once more turning the pages of neat, close writing. of course, he wouldn't really do a thing like that, but--well, it would solve a mighty big problem! and what a hole that self-sufficient upton would be in! he couldn't prove that he had left the book in mr. daley's study, at least not unless the instructor had seen it there; and somehow steve was pretty sure he hadn't. of course a decent chap wouldn't do a trick like that, only--well, it would certainly be easy enough! upstairs, tom was still deep in his greek, but he looked up as steve came in. "find him?" he asked. steve shook his head. "no, he was out. i--i'll go down again." instead of reseating himself at the table, he fidgetted aimlessly about the room, looked out the window, sat down on the seat, got up again, went to the closet, returned to the table and stood looking down on tom with a frown. tom closed his book with a sigh of relief and met his chum's gaze. "going to tackle that composition now?" he asked encouragingly. "i guess so," answered steve carelessly. "are you through?" "yes. i think i'll run over to harry's a minute. i suppose you won't come." "not likely, with this pesky thing to do." steve sank into his chair, picked up a pencil and drummed irritably on the table. "maybe, though," he went on after a moment, "i'll get up early and do it. i don't feel much like it to-night." "just the same," returned tom as he picked up his cap, "i'd do it to-night if i were you and get it over with." "oh, if you were me you'd had it done a week ago tuesday," replied steve with vast sarcasm. "i guess i'll go along." "how about your math?" asked tom doubtfully. steve shrugged. "i'll get by," he answered. "anyway, i don't intend to stay cooped up here all the evening. i'll have a go at it when i get back, maybe." "we-ell." tom looked as though he wanted to advise against that course, but he didn't. instead, "do you mind waiting for me a minute?" he asked. "i want to run down and ask mr. daley about something, if he's back. do you want to see him if he's there? i'll whistle up to you if you like." steve shook his head indifferently. "i'll see him when we come back," he answered. "hurry up." tom was back in two or three minutes. "still out," he announced as he put back on the table the french book he had taken with him. "he's getting a bit dissipated, i'm afraid, staying out after eight!" "there's a faculty meeting to-night, i think," responded steve. "are you ready?" he found his cap and followed tom. in the corridor the latter glanced back. "better turn out the light," he said. "they've been after the fellows lately about leaving it burning." grumblingly steve stepped back and snapped the switch. "who's monitor here, anyhow?" he asked. "upton," answered tom. "and they say he's right on his job, too." "he would be," growled the other. "he's a regular teacher's pet." as they went down the stairs steve said: "i came across eric sawyer in the hall when i went down to find 'horace'." "really?" asked tom. "did he--say anything?" "no. i didn't want any trouble with him to-night and so i made believe i didn't see him." "that's the stuff," tom approved. "i guess if we leave him alone he won't bother us." "i'm likely to bother him before i get through with him," replied steve darkly as they left the building. "he can't shove me around as he did and get away with it!" "oh, come, steve!" expostulated tom patiently. "you know very well you shoved him first. what's the use of being sore about that?" "he bumped into me," denied steve. "i didn't shove." "well, you gave a mighty good imitation of it," replied tom drily. "seems to me it was about an even thing, and i'd forget it, steve." "maybe you would," muttered steve, "but i don't intend to." chapter xvii the blue-book it was almost half-past nine when they got back to the room. an hour in the society of roy and harry had done wonders for steve's spirits, and on the way upstairs he cheerfully announced that he intended to tackle that geometry before he went to bed. as tom switched the light on, steve's glance encountered a piece of paper on the floor. it had evidently been slipped in under the door. "who's this from?" he muttered as he bore it to the table. "someone was too lazy to open the door and come in." "what is it?" asked tom, bending over steve's shoulder. "it's from that idiot durkin," chuckled the latter. "'got just what you fellows need. shoe-blacking stand, two brushes, all complete. cheap. come and see it. p. durkin.'" "a shoe-blacking stand!" laughed tom. "say, he must have seen your shoes, steve." "must have seen yours, you mean!" steve crumpled the note up and dropped it in the basket under the table. "i guess we don't want any more of mr. durkin's bargains." "still, this 'morris' chair turned out pretty well," said tom, settling himself in it with a book. "and perhaps if we had that thing you'd keep your shoes looking better." "well, there's one thing about my shoes," returned steve good-naturedly, "and that is the heels are blacked. which is more than you can say of yours, my smart young friend." tom was about to deny the imputation when footsteps sounded in the corridor and there came a knock on the door. "come in," said tom very politely. that step could only be mr. daley's, he thought. and when the door opened he found his surmise correct. mr. daley looked more nervous and embarrassed than usual as he entered. "good-evening, boys," he said. "i--er--i wonder if i might speak to you just a moment, edwards." "certainly, sir." "i'll get out, mr. daley," said tom, rising. "er--well, if you don't mind, hall; just for a minute. thank you so much." tom went out, closing the door behind him, and mr. daley cleared his throat. "will you sit down, sir?" asked steve. "er--thanks, yes, just for a minute. i--er--i believe you called this evening when i was out, edwards." "yes, sir, about eight." "yes, yes. sorry i was not in. i wonder if--if you happened to see a blue-book on my table when you were there, edwards." "yes, sir, there was one there," replied steve after an instant's hesitation. "ah, then upton was not mistaken. he says he left one. unfortunately, i am not able to find it, edwards. you--er--you don't happen to know where it is, edwards?" "i, sir!" steve's tone was incredulous. "why, no, mr. daley. it was on the table when i left, and----" "er--just a moment!" mr. daley held up a hand, smiling nervously. "i don't mean to suggest that you carried the book off intentionally, edwards, but it occurred to me that possibly you might have--er--taken it up by mistake, absentmindedly, so to say, and--er--brought it up here with you." "no, sir, i didn't." steve looked at the instructor questioningly. "i don't see why you'd imagine that, sir, either." "er--well, i knew--that is, someone told me that you were in my room, edwards, and i thought--that possibly--quite by accident--you had--er----" "i was in your room, mr. daley, and i waited two or three minutes for you; maybe longer; and the blue-book was on the table when i went in and it was there when i came out." "you--you had a blue-book in your hand, however, did you not, when you--er--left?" "a blue-book? no, sir." "oh! that is strange, edwards. you are certain you didn't take down a blue-book of your own and bring it back again?" "absolutely sure, sir." "but--er--someone saw you leave my room, edwards, with a blue-book in your hand." steve flushed and his voice held an angry tremor as he answered: "someone was mistaken, mr. daley, whoever he was. seems to me, sir, if the book is missing, you'd better ask that 'someone' about it." "um; yes; maybe." mr. daley blinked embarrassedly. "i--er--i thought that perhaps you had brought down your french composition and had possibly, in leaving, taken up upton's book with your own by mistake. you--er--you're quite sure that didn't happen, edwards?" "i'm positive, because i haven't done my composition, sir." "haven't done it?" "no, sir," replied steve a trifle defiantly. "but--er--it's pretty late, and you know they are to be handed in to-morrow, edwards. you are having trouble with it?" "i--i haven't started it yet. i--i just can't do it, mr. daley. i never could do original things like that. that's why i went down to see you. i wanted to ask if you'd let me have a couple more days for it. you see, sir, i've been having a pretty hard time with latin, and--and there hasn't been any time for the composition, sir." "i see." mr. daley viewed steve dubiously. "i'm sorry, edwards. i'm afraid you are not--er--trying very hard to accomplish your work these days." "i am trying, sir, but--but the latin--" steve hesitated. "mr. simkins is awfully hard on me, mr. daley, and----" "and i am not?" mr. daley smiled sadly. "and so you thought you'd trust to my--er--good-nature, eh? really, edwards, you are asking a good deal, you know. you've had nearly ten days for that composition; a scant twelve hundred words on any subject you liked; and it seems to me that if you had really wanted to do it you could have found the time. i don't want to be hard on you, but--er--i'm afraid i shall have to insist on your handing in that composition not later than to-morrow noon. i have been very lenient with you, edwards, very. you--er--you must see that yourself. but--er--this sort of thing can't go on all the term. you really must get down to work." "if i could have another day for it," begged steve, "i could get it done, sir." "you have had ten days already; to be exact, nine and a half, edwards. i don't think i should make any exception in your case. i'm sorry." steve stared at his shoes, a somewhat mutinous expression on his face. after a moment, "it isn't fair to say i'm not trying," he broke out. "i _am_ trying, but things are too hard here. they ask too much work of a fellow. why, if i was to get b's in all my courses i'd have to study eight hours a day! a fellow wants to do something beside stick in his room and grind, mr. daley. he wants to get out and--and play sometimes. if you're on the football team you don't have any time in the afternoons and then, when evening comes, you're tired and sleepy." "but you have time between recitations in the morning, edwards, to do some studying, do you not? other boys manage to both work and play. why can't you? look at your room-mate. i believe that he is--er--on one of the football teams. he seems to get his lessons fairly well. i presume that he has written his composition?" "yes, sir." "of course. it is probably here somewhere." mr. daley's eyes inspected the pile of books at his elbow, and the corner of a blue-book met his gaze. "this is doubtless it." he drew it forth. "it doesn't look such a herculean task, edwards. here are seven pages, rather more than required, i'd say, and----" mr. daley ceased abruptly, and, after a moment, steve, who had been gloomily regarding the floor, looked across. the instructor was observing him strangely. "do you know whose book this is, edwards?" he asked. "i suppose it's tom's. it isn't mine," he added moodily. "it is carl upton's." "carl----" steve stared bewilderedly. "it seems that you must have--er--taken it after all, edwards." "but i didn't, sir! tom will tell you that----" he faltered, and a puzzled look came into his eyes as he regarded the book in the instructor's hand. "well, really, edwards,"--mr. daley spoke lightly, but his countenance was grave--"you mustn't expect me to put it down to a miracle. if you didn't put the book here on your table, who did? unless hall knows something about it? was he in my study this evening?" there was a bare instant of hesitation. then, "no, sir," replied steve steadily. "er--you are sure? he might have called on me when you were out." "we were together all the evening, mr. daley." "then----" the instructor cleared his throat nervously. "i guess--i guess it's up to me, sir," said steve. mr. daley sighed. "i think it must be." there was silence for a moment. then, "why?" asked mr. daley gently. "i don't know, sir." "you couldn't have thought of--er--making unfair use of it?" "i----" steve hesitated again. finally, "perhaps i did for a moment. but--i shouldn't have, sir," he added earnestly. "i hope not, edwards. but--why did you take it? you--er--must have known that it would--er--be missed." "i"--steve seemed to be searching for an answer--"i just took it to--to get even with upton." "to get even with him? he has--er--done something, then, to--er--annoy you?" "yes, sir. that is, well--i don't like him." mr. daley observed steve dubiously. at last, "i wish i could believe that explanation, edwards," he said. "as inexcusable as such--er--such an action would be, it would still be preferable to--to what i am forced to suspect. but the whole thing is beyond me." the instructor spread his hands in a gesture of despair. "i can't understand it, edwards." after a minute, "it must have been an accident," continued mr. daley almost pleadingly. "you--er--you perhaps mistook the book for your own----" "i didn't have any," muttered steve. "well." mr. daley cleared his throat. "i--i must think it over. i--i scarcely know what to say, edwards. i'm sorry, very sorry." he arose and moved to the door. "come and see me to-morrow noon, please. we--er--must talk this over again. good-night, edwards." "good-night, sir." steve stood up until the door had closed and then sank back into his chair again, a very miserable look on his face. "what a crazy place to hide it!" he murmured. the door opened and tom came in, tom with an expression half troubled and half humorous. "what's up?" he asked in a low voice. "oh, nothing," replied steve carelessly, avoiding tom's eyes. "he jumped me because i hadn't done my comp. says i must turn it in by noon to-morrow." "is that all?" tom heaved a sigh of relief. "when he asked me to get out i thought it was something pretty serious." "isn't that old composition serious enough?" asked steve with a laugh that didn't sound quite true. "yes, i suppose so. look here, steve, if you'll tackle it now, i'll help you all i can with it. it won't take long. what time is it?" "have you done yours?" asked steve. "yes," replied the other unenthusiastically. "it's done, but--but i guess it's pretty rotten. if i get a c on it i'll be doing well. i thought maybe i'd go over it again, but--i guess it'll have to do." "where is it?" "here somewhere." tom searched at the far end of the table and drew a blue-book to light. "want to see it?" steve took it and glanced over it, a puzzled frown on his forehead. "what's the matter?" asked tom. "don't you like it? i guess it is pretty punk, though." "it's all right, as far as i know," answered steve, returning the book. "only--i don't understand----" "don't understand what? say, you're as mysterious as--as--sherlock holmes!" "nothing. by the way, a funny thing happened." steve wandered toward the window, his back to tom, "when i went down to find 'horace' i picked up a blue-book that was on his table and brought it up here. it was upton's. i--i hadn't any recollection of doing it, but he found it lying on the table. of course i felt like a fool." "oh," said tom after a moment. "that--that was funny. i didn't see you bring it in with you." there was a note of constraint in his voice that did not escape steve. "i don't remember bringing it in," he replied. "i saw it on the table down there and--and looked at it, had it in my hand, but i don't remember bringing it up." "funny," said tom lightly. "did--did he say anything?" "oh, no. of course i denied it at first, said i couldn't have taken it, but he said i must have, unless--unless you had. he asked if you were in his room and i said no." "but i was!" exclaimed tom. "don't you remember? i went down just before we went out. but there wasn't any blue-book on his table then. at least, i didn't see any." "well, it doesn't matter. i told him you hadn't been there. i--i'd let him think so, anyway. there's no use having any more bother about the old thing." "well, but--you're sure he wasn't waxy? of course i didn't take the book; you can prove that i didn't have it when i came back; but if he's acting ugly about it, why--i'll tell him i was in there too. he can lay it on me if he wants to. i--i think i'll tell him, steve." "you keep out of it," answered steve roughly. "what's the use of having any more talk about it? he's got the book and there's no harm done." tom considered a moment. then, "you're certain?" he asked. "certain of what?" "that--that it's all right, that he doesn't blame you for it." "oh, he knows i did it, but he doesn't mind. what time is it?" "a quarter past ten. what are you doing?" steve was ripping his bed to pieces. "i want a couple of blankets," he said. "haven't we some thumb-tacks somewhere?" "table drawer," replied tom. "what's the game?" "i'm going to do that rotten composition." steve climbed to a chair, and with the aid of push-pins draped one of the blankets over the door and transom. then he pulled the window-shade close and hung the second blanket inside the casement. "there! now if anyone sees a light in this room they'll have to have mighty good eyes. you tumble into bed, tom, and try to imagine it's dark." "bed? who wants to go to bed?" asked tom, smothering a yawn. "i'm going to help you with it." "no, you're not," replied steve doggedly. "i'm going to do it and i'm going to do it all myself if it takes me until daylight. now shut up." chapter xviii b plus and d minus at half-past ten the next morning mr. daley hurried into the class-room where french iv was already assembled, stumbled over the edge of the platform--the boys would have gasped with amazement had he neglected to do that--and took his seat. on one corner of the table in front of him was a pile of blue-books. he drew it toward him and ran a hand along the edges of the books. "has everyone handed in his composition?" he asked. there was no reply and he seemed surprised. "i--er--i am to understand, then, that you have all turned your books in?" still no dissenting voice. mr. daley's gaze travelled over the class until it encountered steve at the rear of the room. he opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, cleared his throat and finally pushed the pile of books aside. "very well," he said. "i shall mark these this evening. you will--er--kindly get them to-morrow. now then, 'le siege de paris'; we left off where, upton?" at a few minutes past twelve steve knocked at mr. daley's door, and, obeying the invitation, entered. the instructor was seated at his desk, a litter of blue-books in front of him and a pipe in his mouth. the latter he laid aside as the boy appeared. "you said you wanted to see me, sir," said steve. "er--yes, edwards. sit down, please." the instructor took up his pipe again, hurriedly put it aside, seized a pencil and jotted nervously on the back of a book. finally, "i--er--find your composition here," he said. "when did you write it?" "between half-past ten last night and two o'clock this morning." "hm!" mr. daley swung around in his chair, viewed the oblong of landscape framed by the window for a moment and swung back again. there was a faint smile about his eyes. "edwards, you--er--are a bit disconcerting. i presume you know that the rules require you to be in bed with lights out at ten-thirty?" "yes, sir." "hm! and you--er--deliberately transgressed that rule?" "i didn't see anything else to do, mr. daley. you said i must turn that in by noon and there wouldn't have been time this morning to do it." "logically reasoned, my boy, but----" the instructor shook his head. "you mustn't expect me to compliment you on your performance, edwards. to perform one duty by neglecting another is hardly--er--commendable. if it were not that you had transgressed a rule of the school, edwards, i might compliment you quite highly. your composition--i--er--i've been glancing through it--is really very good. i don't mean that you have not made mistakes of grammar, for you have, lots of them, but--er--you have written a well-constructed and--er--well-expressed narrative. what i--er--especially like about it is the subject. you have written of something you know about, something close at home, so to say. i--er--i am not much of a swimmer myself, but i presume that the instructions you have laid down here are--er--quite correct. in fact, edwards, i'll even go so far as to say that i fancy one might take this composition of yours and--er--really learn something about swimming. and--er--if you have ever tried to learn anything of the sort--golf, rowing, tennis--from a hand-book you will realise that that is high praise." "yes, sir. thank you." "i had decided to mark your composition with a b, edwards. perhaps the many mistakes in grammar would ordinarily indicate a c, perhaps even a c minus, but the--er--other merits of the exercise are so pronounced that, on the whole, i think it deserves a b." "thank you, sir." "er--just a moment." the instructor held up a hand. "i said that i had decided to give you a b, edwards. that, however, was before i had learned when this was written. i shall now give it a d minus. you--er--you understand why, edwards?" "yes, sir." "i'm sorry, but i--er--must take into consideration the facts in the case. and those facts are that you neglected your work until the last moment and then disobeyed one of the well-known rules of the school in order to perform it. there is one other thing i might do. i might credit you with a b on your exercise and report you to the office for disobeying the rules. but--er--i think, on the whole, that the first method is the more satisfactory. you understand, of course, that anything under a c in this test is equivalent to failure?" "yes, sir." "hm; exactly. therefore, edwards, you will be required to make up nearly a month's work in french. i shall have to ask you to prove to me that you are in line with the rest of the class. but you will have a full week to do this and i--er--i suspect that you will not find it very difficult." mr. daley took up a blue pencil and marked a large "d-" on the corner of the blue-book. "you might as well take this now, edwards. bring me another composition not later than a week from to-day, please." the instructor fluttered the leaves of a memorandum-pad and made a note opposite a future date. "i have not corrected it, but, as you have it to do over, that is not necessary." mr. daley leaned back in his chair and gazed for a minute at the table. then, "there is one other thing, edwards," he said hesitantly. "about last night, you know; the--er--the misappropriation of upton's blue-book. have you--er--thought that over?" "i suppose so, sir." "hm! i should like to ask you one question and receive an absolutely truthful reply, edwards." "yes, sir." "when you took that book to your room did you intend to--er--make a wrong use of it?" "no, sir. i saw the book on your table, mr. daley, and--and it did occur to me that it would be easy to copy it out in my own writing and--and turn it in as my work, sir. i read a little of it and put it back on the table. but i don't at all remember seeing it again after that, sir, and that's the truth. i haven't the slightest recollection of having it in my hand when i left this room or of putting it on the table upstairs. and--and i'd like you to believe me, sir." "i want to, edwards, i want to," replied mr. daley eagerly. "and--er--to-day your story sounds much more plausible. i can imagine that, with the thought of your own composition in mind and doubtless worrying you, you might easily have--er--absentmindedly picked that book from the table here when you went out and taken it to your room without being conscious of the act. i believe that to be quite possible, edwards, and i am going to think it happened just that way. i have never observed any signs of--er--dishonesty in you, my boy, and i don't think you are a liar. we will consider that matter closed and we will both forget all about it." "thank you, sir," replied steve gratefully. "but, edwards, this seems to me a good time to tell you that--er--that your attitude toward--er--your work and toward those in authority has not been satisfactory. you have--er--impressed me as a boy with, to use a vulgar expression, a grouch. now, get that out of your system, edwards. no one is trying to impose on you. your work is no harder than the next fellow's. what you lack is, i presume, application. i--er--i don't deny that possibly you are pressed for time when it comes to studying, but that is your fault. your football work is exacting, for one thing, although there are plenty of fellows--i could name twenty or thirty with whom i come in contact--who manage to play football and maintain an excellent class standing at the same time. so, edwards, the fault lies somewhere with you, _in_ you, doubtless. now, what do you think it is?" "i don't know, mr. daley." steve shook his head hopelessly. "i want to do what's right, sir, but--but somehow i can't seem to." "when you study do you put your mind on it, or do you find yourself thinking of other things, football, for instance?" "i guess i think of other things a good deal," replied steve. "football?" "i guess so; football and--and swimming and--lots of things, sir." "there's a time for football and a time for study, edwards. you will have to first of all--er--leave football behind you when you come off the field. swimming, the same way. it won't work. i've seen it tried too often, edwards. you--er--you wouldn't want to have to give up football, i suppose?" "no, sir!" steve looked up in alarm. "but it might come to that, my boy. you're here to learn, you know, and we would not be treating your parents fairly--or you either--if we allowed you to waste your time. football is an excellent sport; one of the best, i think; but it's only a sport, not a--er--profession, you know. all the knowledge of football in the world isn't going to help you when you leave here and try to enter college. by the way, i presume you intend to go to college, edwards?" "yes, sir." "then keep that in mind. remember that you're getting yourself ready for it. perhaps that will make your work seem better worth doing. how are you getting on with your latin?" "very well, sir, just now." "better see that 'just now' becomes 'all the time,' edwards. why, look here! you can do the work set you and play football or baseball or anything else if you'll make up your mind to it. you're a bright, normal fellow, with the average amount of brains. systematise, edwards! arrange your day right. mark down so many hours for recitations, so many hours for study, so many hours for play, and stick to your schedule. you'll find after awhile that it comes easy. you'll find that you--er--you'll miss studying when anything keeps you from it. when you go out of here i want you to do that very thing, my boy. i want you to go right up to your room, take a sheet of paper and make out a daily schedule. and when you've got it done put it somewhere where you'll see it. and stick to it! will you?" "yes, sir; that is, i--i'll do my best." "good!" mr. daley held out a hand, smiling. "shake hands on it, edwards. you may not believe it, but half of--er--doing a thing consists of making up your mind to it! well, that's all, i think. er--you'd better look me up this evening and we'll settle about that french. good-bye. hope i haven't made you late for dinner." steve drew a deep breath outside the door, puckered his lips and whistled softly, but it was a thoughtful whistle; as thoughtful as it was tuneless, and it lasted him all the way upstairs and into his room. tom had gone, evidently having wearied of waiting for his friend to accompany him to dinner. steve's own appetite was calling pretty loudly, but, having slipped the blue-book out of sight under a pile on the table, he dropped into his chair, drew a sheet of paper to him and began on the schedule. it took him almost a half-hour to complete it, and he spoiled several sheets in the process, but it was finally done, and, heading it "daley schedule," with a brief smile at the pun, he placed it on his chiffonier and hurried across to wendell. chapter xix the second puts it over "what do you know about that?" demanded tom the next day. "'horace' gave me a b on my comp! of course, i'm not kicking, but i'll bet he made a mistake. maybe he got nervous and his pencil slipped!" "seems to me," returned steve coldly, "he knows better than you do what the thing is worth. he's not exactly an idiot, you know." tom stared in some surprise. "i didn't say he was an idiot, did i? considering the things you've said about 'horace' i don't think you need take that high-and-mighty tone!" "well, don't be a chump, then," replied steve. "if mr. daley gave you a b you deserved a b." "thanking you kindly," murmured tom as he disappeared behind the pages of the blue-book to digest the corrections and criticisms on the margins. steve's manner since the night he had remained up until morning to write that composition had been puzzling. he had very little to say to tom, and when he did speak, spoke in a constrained manner quite unlike him. and more than once tom had caught steve observing him with an expression that he couldn't fathom. there was something up, that was certain, but what it was tom couldn't imagine. it wasn't that steve was cross or disagreeable. for that matter, his disposition seemed a good deal improved. but he was decidedly stand-offish and extraordinarily quiet. tom wanted to ask outright what the trouble was, but, for some reason, he held back. as the days passed, steve's manner became more natural and he ceased looking at tom as though, to quote the latter's unspoken simile, he was a new sort of an animal in a zoo! but some constraint still remained, and, after awhile, tom accepted the situation and grew accustomed to it. by that time he had grown too proud to ask for an explanation. the two chums spent less time together as a result, steve becoming more dependent on roy for companionship and tom on harry. when they were all four together, which was very frequently, it was not so bad, but when steve and tom were alone conversation was apt to languish. tom at first was inclined to blame steve's "daley schedule" for the change, for that schedule had quite altered steve's existence. he lived by a strict routine which he followed with a dogged determination quite foreign to his ways as tom knew them. he got up on time in the morning, reached the dining-hall almost as soon as the doors were opened, spent a scant twenty minutes there and then went directly back to his room to browse over his recitations for the day. once tom found him there hunched up in a corner of the window-seat while the chambermaid, viewing his presence distastefully, draped the furniture with bedding and did her best with broom and duster to discourage him from a repetition of the outrage. between ten and eleven on three days a week steve put in an hour of study in the room. on other days he managed to snatch two half-hour periods in the library between recitations. at six he was almost invariably awaiting the opening of the doors for dinner, and well before seven he was at his table again. usually he studied until nine, although now and then he closed his books at half-past eight and followed tom to number 17 torrence. roy called him the prize grind and interestedly inquired what scholarship he was trying for. steve accepted the joking with a grim smile. it wasn't easy. for the first few days he had to drive himself to his work with bit and spur. his feet lagged and he groaned in spirit--perhaps audibly, too--as he approached his books. but he did it, and little by little it became easier, until, as mr. daley had predicted, it had become a habit with him to do certain things at certain hours and he was uncomfortable if his routine was disarranged. i don't think steve ever got where he loved to study, but he did eventually reach a pride of attainment that answered quite as well. he found as time went on that it was becoming easier to learn his lessons and easier to remember them when learned, and by that time he had taught himself to command over his thoughts, and when he was struggling through a proposition in geometry he wasn't wondering whether he would beat out sherrard for the position of regular right end on the second before the season was over. in other words, he had learned concentration. but all this was not yet. that first week, in especial, was hard sledding, and that french composition almost drove him to distraction and gave him brain fever before it was done. but done it was and on time, and, while the best that mr. daley would allow it was a c plus, steve was distinctly proud of it. and in that week he demonstrated to the instructor's satisfaction that he was up with the class in french. i think mr. daley was very willing to be convinced and that he met steve quite half-way. latin was still a bugaboo to steve, but it, too, was getting easier. on the whole, that schedule, backed by a grim determination, was making good. meanwhile football pursued its relentless course. every day the first and second fought it out for gradually increasing periods and every day the season grew nearer its close and the claflin game, the final goal, loomed more distinct. phillips school came and went and brimfield marked up her fifth victory. phillips gave the maroon-and-grey a hard tussle, and the score, 12 to 0, didn't indicate the closeness of the playing. for brimfield made her first touchdown by the veriest fluke and only gained her second in the last few minutes of play, when phillips, outlasted, weakened on her six-yard line and let norton through. on the other hand, phillips had the ball thrice inside brimfield's twenty yards, missed a field-goal by the narrowest of margins and, with the slightest twist of the luck, might have proved the victor. "boots" had hammered the second into what mr. robey unhesitatingly declared to be one of the best scrub teams he had ever seen, and there was more than one contest between it and the 'varsity that yielded nothing to an outside game for hard fighting and excitement. steve and his rival, sherrard, were running about even for the right end position. steve's tackling had improved vastly under marvin's tutoring, and it was his ability in that department that possibly gave him a shade the better of the argument with sherrard. so far there had been no decided slump in the playing of either team, and, since a slump is always looked for at some time during the season, both mr. robey and danny moore were getting anxious. danny almost begged the fellows to go stale a little. "it ain't natural," he declared. "it's got to come, so let it and have it over with." neither had there been any injuries of moment. on this score danny had no regrets, however. he was a good trainer and prided himself on his ability to condition his charges so that they would escape injuries. of course there had been plenty of bruises--one mild case of charley-horse, several dislocated or sprained fingers, a wrenched ankle or two and any number of cuts and scrapes, but none of the injuries had interfered with work for more than three or four days and not once had any first-string member of the 'varsity missed an outside game by reason of them. steve's share of the injuries was a bruised shoulder sustained in a flying tackle that was more enthusiastic than scientific, and the thing bothered him for several days but did not keep him off the field. tom, who played opposite jay fowler in scrimmage, was forever getting his countenance disfigured. not that fowler meant to leave his mark, but he was a big, powerful, hard-fighting chap and there were plenty of times when both parties to the practice games quite forgot that they were friends. tom was seldom seen without a strip of court-plaster pasted to some portion of his face. it was four days after the phillips game, to be exact, on the following wednesday, that the first and second got together for what turned out to be the warmest struggle of the season in civil combat. it was a cold, leaden day, with a stinging breeze out of the northeast, and every fellow who wore a head-guard felt as full of ginger as a young colt. the second trotted over from their gridiron at four and found the first on its toes to get at them. things started off with a whoop. the second received the kick-off and marvin ran the ball back forty yards through a broken field before he was nailed. encouraged by that excellent beginning, the scrub team went at it hammer and tongs. there was a fine old hole that day between sawyer and williams, and the second's backs ploughed through for gain after gain before the opposing line was cemented together again there. by that time the ball was down near the 'varsity's ten yards and captain miller was frothing at the mouth, while the opposing coaches were hurling encouragement at their charges and the pandemonium even extended to the side-lines, where the school at large, in a frenzy of excitement, shouted and goaded on the teams. twice the first held, once forcing harris back for a loss, and then marvin called for kick formation and himself held the ball for brownell. what happened then was one of those unforeseen incidents that make football the hair-raising game it is. there was a weak spot in the second's line and, with the passing of the ball to marvin, the 'varsity forwards came rampaging through. brownell swung his leg desperately, trusting to fortune to get the pigskin over the upstretched hands of the charging enemy, but it swung against empty air. marvin, seeing what was bound to happen, fearing the result of a blocked kick, snatched the ball aside just as captain brownell swung at it, rolled over a couple of times out of the path of the oncoming opponents, scrambled to his feet and, somehow, scuttled past a half-dozen defenders of the goal and fell over the line for a touchdown. the 'varsity afterwards called it "bull-luck" and "fluke" and several other belittling names, but "boots" said it was "quick thinking and football, by jiminy!" at all events the second scored and then leaped and shouted like a band of comanche indians--or any other kind of indian if there's a noisier sort!--and generally "rubbed it in." after that you may believe that the 'varsity played football! but nevertheless the first ten-minute period ended with the second still six points to the good and her goal-line intact. the teams were to play three periods that day and "boots" ran four substitutes on the field when the next one began. one of them was steve. it is no light task to play opposite the 'varsity captain and not come off second best, but the consensus of opinion that evening was to the effect that steve had done that very thing. the wintery nip had got into steve's blood, i think, for he played like a tiger-cat on the defence, ran like a streak of wind and tackled so hard that coach robey had to caution him. twice in that period the first came storming down to the second's twenty yards and twice they were held there. once milton was nailed on a round-the-end run and once still fumbled a pass and freer fell on it. steve carried out his part of a forward-pass play with excellent precision later and seemingly had a clear field and a touchdown in sight for a moment. but milton managed to upset him on the thirty yards, and the gain--steve had negotiated four white lines before the 'varsity quarter got him--eventually went for naught, since marvin fumbled a minute later and sawyer squirmed through and captured the ball. neither side scored nor came very near it in that period. steve, who was having the time of his life, beamed joyously when the whistle, starting the third period, found him still in the line-up. he had feared that "boots" would put sherrard back. but steve didn't realise the kind of a game he had been putting up. if he had he would have credited "boots" with more sense. tom, with two brand-new facial contusions to his credit, was relegated to the bench for the last round. perhaps "boots" thought it only fair to allow gafferty some of the decorations that fowler and others were handing out! the first tried a kicking game in order to reach striking distance and, since she always had the better of the argument there, forced the second slowly and very surely back past the middle of the field. then marvin, realising the futility of pitting freer and himself against norton and williams and milton, either one of whom could outpunt the second from five to ten yards, started a rushing game on his thirty-five yards, swinging harris and freer around the ends for small gains and himself taking the pigskin for a delayed plunge through centre that put the scrubs on their forty-five-yard line and gave them their first down of the period. but the next three tries pulled in only six yards, and freer punted. for once he had plenty of time and the oval travelled far down into the enemy's territory and was caught by kendall, who took it back a scant five yards before turner, the second's left end, got past the hastily-formed interference and upset him. the 'varsity made four through the left side of the line and got her first down on a fake kick that caught the second napping. she again secured her distance on three tries, and the lines faced each other near the middle of the field. what happened then was never definitely explained. whether milton fumbled the pass from centre or whether still missed the toss from milton, history doesn't record. not that it matters, however. the fact is that the ball was suddenly seen to go rolling back up the field as though animated by a desperate desire to score a touchdown on its own hook. the 'varsity backs hit the line hard and went tumbling through, to the frenzied shouts of "ball! ball!" from milton and the opponents. the latter, trying to get past the 'varsity and gain the bobbing pigskin, got so inextricably mixed up with the enemy that the ball went on rolling around, under the pranks of the helpful wind, for a heart-breaking length of time. then, as it seemed, every fellow on the field started for it at once! steve had made a wild attempt to get through inside of andy miller, but miller had sent him sprawling, and when he got to his feet again he was one of the last in the mad rush. how it happened that eric sawyer, not overly fast on his feet, reached the pigskin first, or, at least, finally, is a mystery. but it was eric who at length plunged out of the confusion, ball in arm, shook off three or four tacklers and started hot-footed toward the distant goal. by some unusual burst of speed he not only got a clear start of the rest, but shot past steve before that youth could intercept him. marvin had followed the others toward the 'varsity's goal and now between eric and the final white lines, some forty-five yards distant, lay a clear field. and eric, spurred on by the knowledge that here was perhaps the one chance of his lifetime to make a spectacular run for half the length of the gridiron and score a touchdown, worked his sturdy legs as they had probably never been worked before! but he was not to go unchallenged. the enemy was hot on his track, steve in the lead. and with the enemy, doing their best to upset or divert the pursuit, came a half-dozen of the 'varsity. it was a wildly confused race for a minute. then the slow-footed ones dropped behind and the procession consisted of eric, running desperately some five yards ahead of steve, steve pounding along at his heels, williams striving to edge freer toward the side of the field, marvin leading captain miller by a scant yard, and one or two others dropping gradually away as the race progressed. near the twenty-five-yard line williams managed to upset freer and went down with him in the effort, andy miller drew even with marvin, and eric glanced behind him for the first time, at the same moment heading a bit further toward the centre of the gridiron. that move lost him a stride of his lead, and steve made a final spurt that took just about all the breath left in his body. on the fifteen yards his hand went out gropingly, touched eric's back and fell away. near the ten-yard line steve launched himself forward and his arms settled about eric's thighs, slid down to his knees and tightened. eric went down, dragged forward another yard and then, panting and weak, gave it up. then marvin settled ungently on his back, to make assurances doubly sure, andy miller threw him off very promptly and steve rolled over on his back and fought for breath. the rest of the teams came panting up, the audience along the side-line howled and cheered gloriously, if a trifle breathlessly, having itself raced down the field in an effort to keep abreast of the drama, and delighted members of the second team lifted steve to his tottering feet, thumped him on the back and shrieked praise into his singing ears. after that, with the ball on the second's eight yards, the 'varsity should have scored easily. and yet, so gallantly did the scrubs dig their toes into the trampled turf that thrice the 'varsity was held for a scant gain and, finally, with one down remaining, williams dropped back to the twenty-yard line and dropped a field-goal. "boots" was almost moved to tears and looked as though he wanted to embrace each and every member of his team. for what was a puny three points when the second had six to its credit? the things that miller said were extremely derogatory, while coach robey walked back to the middle of the field with a disapproving air. in the four minutes that remained, there was football played that _was_ football! the 'varsity, smarting under impending defeat, went at it with a desperation that promised everything. that it failed of what it promised was only because the second, buoyed up by the knowledge of victory in its grasp, fought like veterans. there was some fierce playing during those two hundred and forty brief seconds, and the fellow who finally trudged off the field without a scar felt himself dishonoured. substitutes were thrown into the fray by both sides, although "boots," having fewer men to call on, was handicapped. steve went out in favour of sherrard soon after the kick-off, and tom relieved gafferty. the coaches raged and urged, the rival captains scolded and implored and the quarters danced around and acted like wild-men. and then, suddenly, the ball was seized, a whistle blew and it was all over. and the panting players, tense of face, dripping with perspiration, drew apart to view each other at first scowlingly and then with slowly spreading grins, taking toll of their own injuries and the enemy's. "good work, second," said mr. robey. "that's all for to-day. get your blankets and run all the way in." chapter xx blows are struck the second went off jubilantly. steve was a hero for an hour. in the locker room "boots" said some nice things to them, pointed out a few faults and took himself away just as the first team and its substitutes came piling in. most of them looked pretty grim about the mouths. evidently in the few minutes that mr. robey had detained them on the field, they had been provided with food for thought. andy miller encountered steve on his way to the bath. "that was good work, edwards," he said heartily. "you fellows certainly put it over us to-day." he shook his head ruefully. "we ought to have got that touchdown in the last period." then he smiled grimly, and, "we'll get you to-morrow, though," he said with conviction. "how's everything with you?" "fine and dandy, thanks," replied steve heartily. "good! you haven't been around to see me, by the way. you and hall must think a confidence-man isn't a proper acquaintance." "we're coming around soon, miller. the fact is, i--well, i made such a mutt of myself that last time----" "oh, nonsense! that's all right, edwards. don't let that worry you. besides, you took my advice, i guess, and that squares it. mind if i give you some more, by the way?" "of course not! i wish you would." "only this, edwards. on defence don't watch the ball. they'll tell you to, but don't do it. watch your opponent. watch his eyes. he will tell you when the ball's snapped. he's got to watch it and you haven't, and then if you keep your eyes on him you can guess where he's coming almost before he starts. it may sound cheeky for me to tell you this, because, as a matter of absolute fact, edwards, you played all around me to-day----" "oh, piffle, miller!" "yes, you did," insisted the captain grimly. "i know it, if you don't. but you try what i tell you to-morrow and see what a jump you'll get on the other fellow. come around and see me soon, you and hall." andy moved away and steve hurried on to find a shower before the new crowd claimed them all. he was pretty well fagged out this afternoon, and for once the thought of that swimming class didn't appeal. but after a tepid shower and then a hard rush of ice-cold water over his tired body, he felt different. coming out of the bath he almost collided with eric sawyer. eric had a nasty cut over his right eye that gave him a peculiarly ugly expression, and it was soon evident that eric's temper was as ugly as his appearance. "hello, fresh," he growled, scowling at steve and barring his way in the narrow passage. "what call had you to butt in on me to-day?" "i was playing the game, that's all," replied steve coolly. "you think you're a wonder, don't you? well, you wouldn't have got me if i hadn't slipped. and the next time you interfere with me on the field or anywhere else i'll fix you for keeps. now you mind that, you fresh young kid." "you're a wonder at making threats, sawyer," returned steve angrily. "why don't you do something besides talk?" "i'd give you a good thrashing if you weren't so small," eric growled. "oh, that's all right," replied steve airily. "we can't all have piano legs, you know." "say, you let my legs alone! for two cents i'd tell what i know about you, you cheater, and we'd see how long you'd stay so cocky!" "what you know about me?" laughed steve. "you go right ahead and tell anything you want to, sawyer. whatever it is, it's a lie, i guess." "oh, is it? it's a lie that you swiped upton's blue-book with his composition in it, i suppose. it's a lie that you were going to use it until daley went up to your room and found it, i dare say. it's----" "yes, it is a lie, and you know it, sawyer," flamed steve. "if you tell any story like that around----" "i'll tell what i please, kid, and you can't stop me." several fellows came along the passage, viewing the two curiously, and eric dropped his voice a note. "you stop bothering me, edwards, or i will tell, and if i do, this place will be too hot for you. we don't like cheaters here----" steve sprang at him madly, but eric stepped aside and steve's blow went past. "none of that!" warned eric in a low, ugly voice. "ah, you want it, do you?" steve hit again and eric countered and got in a blow on the younger boy's neck that sent him staggering against the wall. then arms wrapped themselves around steve and a voice said: "here, what's up, eric? cut it out, edwards!" steve, struggling, found himself in the firm grasp of innes, the big first team centre-rush. "he called me a cheat!" he cried angrily. "you let me go, innes!" "so he is a cheat," returned eric contemptuously. "he swiped carl upton's french composition and was going to hand it in as his own if daley hadn't caught him at it!" "that's a lie!" cried steve. "ask mr. daley himself! you're saying it because i kept you from making that touchdown, you--you----" "hold on, edwards!" said innes. "don't call names." by this time the passage had filled with fellows, among them andy miller. miller pushed forward. "what's up, jack?" he asked of the centre. innes shrugged his big shoulders. "oh, just a scrap. run along, you fellows. it's all over." "it isn't over!" declared steve, still trying to detach himself from the big fellow's grasp. "he's got to take it back! he's got to take it back or fight!" "cut it out, edwards!" said miller sternly. "don't act like a kid. what's the trouble, eric, anyway?" "oh, this kid got fresh with me," replied eric with a malevolent glare at steve. "said i had piano legs----" there was an audible snicker from some of the audience--"and i told him to shut up and he made a swipe at me and i shoved him away. that's all." "he said i cheated!" raged steve. "so you did. you stole upton's french comp. out of daley's room and he found it on your table." "that's a lie! i don't know how that book got there. mr. daley will tell you----" "cut it, edwards! i saw you carry the book out of the room myself! now what do you say?" "i say you lie! i say----" "stop that, edwards!" miller turned to eric. "you've got no right to say things like that, eric, and you know it. i don't believe he did anything of the sort. if he had, mr. daley would have had him expelled. now you two fellows stop squabbling. you've been at it all the fall. if you don't, i'll see that you both lose your positions. and that goes!" "then tell him to let me alone," replied eric with a shrug. "oh, forget it, sawyer," exclaimed a voice down the passage. "you're twice as big as he is. let the kid alone." "sure, i'll let him alone," growled eric with an angry glare in the direction of the speaker. "only he's got to stop getting fresh with me. i've warned him half-a-dozen times." "and you'll have to warn me half-a-dozen more times," responded steve grimly, "if you think i'm going to stand around and be called names. if i were as big as you are, you wouldn't dare----" "that'll be about all from both of you," said andy miller. "now beat it. if i hear of any more trouble from either of you while the season lasts, i'll have you both out of the game in a wink. if you've got to row, do it after we've beaten claflin. move on now! get off the corner, all of yez!" and andy good-naturedly pushed the fellows before him down the passage. innes released steve, but stepped between him and eric. "come on, edwards," he said with a laugh. "be good and get your clothes on. cap will do just what he says he will, too. you take my advice, kid, and bury the hatchet." steve went back to his locker, and with trembling hands dressed himself. harry westcott and tom joined him and asked in low voices about the trouble. but steve was non-communicative. he was wondering how much of eric sawyer's charge the fellows who had heard it were believing. finally, "no swimming to-day?" asked tom. steve shook his head. "no," he answered. "tell the fellows, will you? i'm--i'm too tired. i'm sorry." "it's pretty late, anyway," murmured harry. together the three crossed the room toward the door. already, as it seemed to steve, fellows were regarding him suspiciously. eric was not in sight, having gone on to his bath, for which two at least of the trio were thankful. harry left them at the corner of torrence, and steve and tom went on in silence to their room. somehow it seemed difficult nowadays for them to find things to talk about. steve resolutely sat himself down and drew his books toward him, while tom, after fidgetting around for a few minutes, announced that he was going over to the office to see if there was any mail, and went out again. steve was glad when he had gone, for he was relieved then of further pretence of studying. he couldn't get his mind on his books. the encounter with eric sawyer had left him irritable and restless, and he couldn't help wondering whether the fellows believed what eric had said. he was grateful to andy miller for the latter's support, but it was doubtful if andy's words had convinced anyone. and the charge was an ugly one. steve winced when he considered it. it had seemed to him as he had left the locker room that already the fellows there had looked at him differently. he could imagine them talking about him and weighing eric's story. further reflections were interrupted by the reappearance of tom, an open letter in hand and several newspapers sticking from a pocket. "nothing for you but a couple of papers," he said. "what do you suppose those silly fathers of ours are doing now?" "fighting a duel?" asked steve with an attempt at humour. "not quite," tom answered, "but they're getting ready for a law-suit." "what about?" "i can't make out," replied the other disgustedly, scanning the letter again. "it's something about some contract for building supplies, though. gee, they make me tired! always squabbling!" "who's bringing the suit, your father or mine?" asked steve. "mine," said tom hesitantly. "then i don't see that you need to blame my dad for it," retorted steve. "it takes two to make a quarrel, though," answered tom sagely. "i don't believe my father would start anything like that unless--unless there was some reason for it." "oh, i suppose my father beat him out on a contract and he got sore," said steve, with a short laugh. tom looked across in surprise and puzzlement. the tone was unlike steve, while never before had they taken sides in their fathers' disagreements. tom opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it and slowly returned the letter to its envelope. "i guess it'll blow over," he said finally. "i hope so." steve shrugged his shoulders. "let them fight it out," he said. "it may do them good." the next day it was soon evident to steve that eric sawyer's story of the purloined blue-book was school property. fellows whom he knew but slightly or not at all observed him doubtfully, others greeted him more stiffly--or so steve thought--while even in the manners of such close friends as roy and harry and one or two more he fancied that he could detect a difference. much of this was probably only imagination on steve's part, but on the other hand there were doubtless many fellows who for one reason or another chose to believe the story true. steve was popular amongst a small circle of acquaintances and well enough liked by others who knew him only to speak to, but, naturally enough, there were fellows in school who envied him for his success at football or took exception to a certain self-sufficient air that steve was often enough guilty of. these, together with a small number who owed allegiance to eric sawyer, found the story quite to their liking and doubtless told and retold it and enlarged upon it at every telling. at all events, steve knew that gossip was busy with him. more than once conversation died suddenly away at his approach, and he told himself bitterly that the school had judged him and found him guilty. he passed andy miller in the corridor between recitations, and andy, being in a hurry and having a good many things on his mind at that moment, said, "hi, edwards!" in a perfunctory sort of way and went by with only a glance. steve concluded that even andy was against him now, in spite of his defence yesterday. in the afternoon it seemed that there was a difference in the attitudes of his team-mates on the second, and, so inflamed had his imagination become by this time, he even imagined he detected a contemptuous tone in "boots'" speech to him! the result was that steve "froze up solid," to use roy's phrase, and, secretly hurt and angry, presented a scowling countenance to the world that was sufficient to discourage those who wanted and tried to let him see that they didn't believe eric's story. when he got back to his room after the swimming lesson that afternoon, he found tom nursing a very red and enlarged nose. he had a wet towel in his hand and was gingerly applying it to the inflamed feature. "what--where----" began steve. "scrap with telford," replied tom briefly. "what about?" demanded steve. "nothing much." "let's see your nose." tom removed the towel and steve viewed it. "he must have given you a peach," he said critically. "what did you do?" tom smiled reminiscently. "nothing much," he answered. "huh! let's see your knuckles. 'nothing much,' eh? they look it! did faculty get on to it?" tom shook his head. "no, it was back of the gym. just the two of us. it didn't last long." "who got the worst of it?" "that depends on what you call the worst," answered tom judicially. "i got this and he got one like it _and_ a black eye. at least i suppose it's black by this time. it looked promising." steve laughed. then he said severely: "you ought to know better than take chances like that, tom. suppose faculty got on to it. besides, fighting's pretty kiddish for a fourth former!" tom viewed steve amusedly over the wet towel. "coming from you, steve, that sounds great!" he said. "never mind about me. what i do doesn't affect you. what were you fighting about?" tom looked vacant and shook his head. "i don't know. nothing special, i guess." "don't be a chump! you didn't black his eye and get that beautiful nose for nothing, i suppose. what was it?" "well, telford said--he said----" "you're a wonder!" declared steve. "don't you know what he said?" "i forget. it was something--something i didn't like. so i slapped his face. that was on the gym steps. he said 'come on back here.' i said 'all right.' then we--we had it. then he said he was wrong about it--whatever it was, you know--and we sort of apologised and sneaked off." tom felt of his nose carefully. "i saw about a million stars when he landed here!" "that's the craziest stunt i ever heard of!" said steve disgustedly. "and you want to hope hard that no one saw it. if faculty hears of it, you'll get probation, you chump." "i know. it won't, though. no one saw us." "who's telford, anyway?" steve demanded. "telford? oh, he's a fifth form fellow." "what does he look like?" "look like?" repeated tom vaguely. "oh, he's a couple of inches taller than i am and has light brown hair and--and a black eye!" "is he the fellow who goes around with eric sawyer?" demanded steve suspiciously. "wear a brown plaid norfolk? the fellow who shoved me into the pool the night we had that fracas with sawyer?" "did he? i don't remember. i didn't see who did that. i--i guess maybe he's the chap, though. i've seen him with sawyer, i think." "what did he say?" asked steve quietly. "who say?" "telford." "when?" "to-day! when you had the row! for the love of mike, tom, don't be a fool!" "i don't remember what he said." "was it about--me?" "you? why would it be about you?" tom attempted a laugh. "was it?" steve persisted. tom shook his head, but his gaze wandered. steve grunted. "it was, then," he muttered. "i didn't say so," protested tom. "i say so, though." steve was silent a moment. then, "look here, tom, there's no use your fighting every fellow who says things about me," he said. "if you try that, you'll have your hands full. i--i don't care what they say, anyway. just you keep out of it. understand?" "sure," answered the other untroubledly. "of course"--steve hesitated in some embarrassment--"of course i appreciate your standing up for me and all that, but--but i'll fight my own battles, thanks, tom." "you're welcome," murmured tom through the folds of the towel. "keep the change. i'll fight if i want to, though." "not on my account, you won't," said steve sternly. tom grinned. "all right. i'll do it on my own account. say, i'll bet telford's nose is worse than mine, steve. i gave him a bully swat!" chapter xxi friends fall out on the eleventh of november brimfield played her last game away from home. chambers technological institute was her opponent. about every fellow in school went over to long island and witnessed a very sad performance by their team. the slump had arrived. that was evident from the first moment of play. brimfield was outpunted, outrushed and outgeneraled. chambers ran up 17 points in the first half and 13 more in the last, while all brimfield could do was to make one solitary touchdown and a field-goal, the latter with less than thirty seconds of playing time left. williams missed the goal after the touchdown by some ten yards. not only was brimfield outplayed, but she showed up wretchedly as to physical condition. it was a warm day and the maroon-and-grey warriors seemed to feel the heat much more than their opponents and were a sorry-looking lot by the end of the third period. the second team attended the game in a body, "boots" for once relenting, and looked on in stupefied sorrow while their doughty foe was humiliated and defeated. "gee, i wish robey would put us in in the next half," sighed gafferty to steve after the second period had reached its sad conclusion. "i'll bet you we'd put up twice the game the 'varsity has." "i don't see what ails them," responded steve quite affably. the calamitous drama unfolding before him had for the moment made him forget his rã´le of aloofness and cynical indifference. "why, even andy miller is up in the air! he hasn't caught a pass once, and he's had four chances, and he's missed enough tackles to fill a book!" "one grand slump," said gafferty. "that's what it is, edwards, one wonderful, spectacular, iridescent slump! and the only person who is pleased is danny, i guess. he's been begging the 'varsity fellows to get stale and be done with it. and now they've obliged him. too bad, though, they couldn't have slumped the first of the week. it's fierce to be beaten by a tech school!" in the third period coach robey hustled the best of his substitutes on in the hope of stemming the tide of defeat, and, while the new men showed more dash and go, they couldn't stop the triumphant advance of the black-and-orange enemy. to make matters worse, when it was all over, benson, who played right end, had a strained ligament in his ankle, williams was limping with a bad knee and quarter-back milton had to be helped on and off the cars like a confirmed invalid. there wasn't a regular member of the 'varsity who could have stood up against a hard gust of wind five minutes after the final whistle had blown! the school returned to brimfield disgruntled, disappointed and critical. there was scarcely a fellow on the train who didn't have a perfectly good theory as to the trouble with the eleven and who wasn't willing and eager to explain it. as for the game with claflin, now just a fortnight distant, why, it was already as good as lost! anyone would have told you that. the only point of disagreement was the size of the score. that ran, according to various estimates, from 6 to 0 to 50 to 3. it was a wonder they allowed brimfield that 3! but all this was on the way home. gradually the reaction set in and hope crept back. after all, a slump was something you had to contend with. it happened to every team some time in the season. perhaps it was lucky it had come now instead of later. of course, chambers tech was only a fair-to-middling team and brimfield ought to have beaten her hands down, but since she hadn't, there was no use in worrying about it. by the time supper was over that evening, the stock of the brimfield football team had risen to close to par, and anyone who had had the temerity to even suggest the possibility of a victory for claflin would have been promptly and efficaciously squelched! the chambers game resulted in a shake-up. that it was coming was hinted on monday when only a few of the substitutes on the first were given any work and four of the second team fellows were lifted from their places and shifted over to what represented the 'varsity that day. these four were trow and saunders, tackles; thursby, centre, and freer, half-back. on tuesday the first-string 'varsity men were back at work, with the exception of benson, whose ankle was in pretty bad condition. thursby was given a try-out at centre and saunders at left tackle in the short scrimmage that followed practice. thursby showed up so brilliantly that many predicted the retirement of innes to the bench. saunders failed to impress coach robey very greatly and he and freer and trow went back to the second the next day. the slump was still in evidence and the work was light until thursday. benson was still on crutches and his place was being taken by roberts. thursby ran innes such a good race for the position of centre-rush that a substitute centre named coolidge suddenly found his nose out of joint and faced the prospect of viewing the claflin game from the bench. the school held its first mass meeting on wednesday evening of that week and cheered and sang and whooped things up with a fine frenzy. the discouragement of the chambers game was quite forgotten. andy miller, in a short speech, soberly predicted a victory over claflin, and the audience yelled until the roof seemed to shake. coach robey gave a rã©sumã© of the season, thanked the school for its support of the team, pledged the best efforts of everyone concerned and, while refusing to say so in so many words, hinted that brimfield would have the long end of the score on the twenty-fifth. after that the football excitement grew and spread and took possession of the school like an epidemic. recitations became farces, faculty fumed and threatened--and bore it, and some one hundred and fifty boys fixed their gaze on the twenty-fifth of november and lived breathlessly in the future. there was a second mass meeting on saturday, a meeting that ended in a parade up and down the row, much noise and a vast enthusiasm. brimfield had met southby academy in the afternoon and had torn the visitors to tatters, scoring almost at will and sending the hopes of her adherents soaring into the zenith. to be sure, southby had presented a rather weak team, but, as an offset to that, brimfield had played without the services of the regular right end, without her captain and with a back-field largely substitute during most of the game. there was nothing wrong with andy miller, but it was thought best to save him for the final conflict. the last fortnight of a football season is a hard period for the captain, no matter how smoothly things have progressed; and brimfield had had a particularly fortunate six weeks. andy miller was not the extremely nervous type, but, nevertheless, he had lost some fourteen pounds during the month and was far "finer" than danny moore wanted to see him. so andy, dressed in "store clothes," saw the southby game from the side-line, hobnobbing with the coaches and joe benson, still on crutches, and with norton, who, after smashing out two touchdowns in the first period, was also taken out to be saved. there was no trace of the slump left, and the final score that saturday afternoon was 39 to 7, and the school was hysterically delighted, which accounts for the added enthusiasm which kept them marching up and down the row in the evening until the patience of a lenient faculty was exhausted, and mr. conklin, prodded into action by a telephone message from the cottage, appeared and dispersed the assembly. the second team was to go out of business on thursday, and several members of it were eager to end the season with a banquet. freer and saunders dropped in on steve and tom sunday afternoon to talk it over and win their support. it was a nasty day, rainy and blowy and cold, and most of the fellows were huddling indoors around the radiators. steve and tom, on opposite sides of the table, were chewing the ends of their pens and trying to write their sunday letters when the visitors came. steve was studiedly haughty, as, to his mind, became one who was unjustly suspected of dishonesty. the visitors seemed puzzled by his manner and presently addressed themselves almost entirely to tom, who, anxious to atone for his room-mate's churlishness, was nervously affable and unnaturally enthusiastic. "we don't see," explained saunders, "why we shouldn't be allowed to have a banquet after we quit training. we deserve it. we've done as much, in a way, as the 'varsity fellows to win from claflin. we've been the goats all the season and it seems to me we ought to get something out of it. what we want to do is to go to josh and get him to give us permission to have a blow-out in the village thursday night." "or here," supplemented freer, "if he won't let us go to the village. what do you fellows think?" "i think it's a good scheme," answered tom. "and we might get one over on the 'varsity, too. i mean we'd have our banquet and lots of fun whether we won from claflin or not, while the 'varsity, if it loses the game, doesn't enjoy its banquet very much, i guess." "well, will you fellows come around to brownell's room to-night after supper? al is willing enough, but, being captain, he doesn't want to start the thing himself. we're going to see all the fellows this afternoon and then have a sort of a meeting this evening about eight. you'll come, edwards?" "yes, thanks." "all right. come on, jimmy. we've got several of the fellows to see yet." "there wouldn't be very many of us, would there?" asked tom. "now that robey has pinched thursby there's only about fifteen left on the team." "sixteen, but we thought we'd get robey to come if he would, and 'boots,' of course, and maybe danny. that would make nineteen in all." "where would you have it? is there a hotel in the village?" "not exactly, but there's a sort of a boarding-house there; 'larch villa,' they call it. they'd look after us all right. they've got a fine big dining-room which we could have all to ourselves. we haven't talked price with them yet, but al says we could probably get a good feed for about a dollar and a half apiece. that wouldn't be so much, eh?" "cheap, i'd call it," said freer. "we'd have beefsteak and things like that, you know," continued saunders enthusiastically, "things that are filling. no froth and whipped cream, you know! and lots of gingerale!" "sounds good," laughed tom. "i wish it was to-night. do you think mr. fernald will let us?" "i don't see why not. i spoke to mr. conklin about it and he said he would favour it if josh came to him about it. if he won't let us go to the village, we thought maybe he'd let us have our feed here after the regular supper, if we paid for it ourselves. well, you fellows show up about eight. don't forget, because we want to get the whole bunch there and talk it all over and appoint a committee to see josh." tom was silent for a minute after the visitors had departed. then, hesitatingly, "steve," he said, "what's the good of acting like that with fellows?" "like what?" asked steve. "you know well enough. freezing up and talking as if you had a mouthful of icicles. you might be--be decently polite when fellows come in. freer is a dandy chap, and saunders is all right, too. but you treated them as if they were--were a couple of cut-throats." "i wasn't impolite," denied steve. "as long as those fellows choose to think what they do about me, you can't expect me to slop over with them." "you haven't any way of knowing what they think about you," said tom vigorously. "you take it for granted that every fellow in school believes that yarn of sawyer's. i don't suppose a dozen fellows ever gave it a second thought." "i know better. don't you suppose i can tell? almost every chap i know treats me differently now. even--even roy--and harry--act as if they'd rather not be seen with me!" "oh, piffle!" exclaimed tom indignantly. "that's a rotten thing to say, steve! why, you might as well say that i believe the yarn!" "you?" steve laughed meaningly. "you wouldn't be likely to." "then neither would roy or harry. they haven't known you as long as i have, but they know you wouldn't do a thing like that." "i don't see why not," replied steve stubbornly. "the book was found on this table. and sawyer says he saw me with it. i guess it would be natural for them to believe what sawyer says." "they don't, though, as i happen to know," replied tom stoutly. "even if you did bring the book up here, that doesn't mean that you were going to--to use it. what really happened, i suppose, was that you took it up without thinking and didn't realise you had it when you came back." steve stared at him incredulously. "well, of all the cheek!" he gasped. "what do you mean?" asked tom. "i mean that that's a fine thing for you to get off," answered steve indignantly. "you'll be saying next that you saw me bring the book in here that night!" "i didn't, but--hang it, steve, the thing _was_ here! you told me so yourself. i thought you confessed that you brought it up without knowing." "oh, cut it," said steve wearily. "i'm willing to be decent about it, tom, but i don't want to listen to drivel like that." "drivel?" repeated the other, puzzled. "say, what's the matter with you, anyway, steve? i don't say you meant to cheat with the old book; i know mighty well you didn't; i told telford so and convinced him of it, too; but i don't see why you need to get so hot under the collar when i--when i simply remind you that you _did_ bring the book up here!" "so _i_ brought it up, did i?" asked steve with an ugly laugh. "well, didn't you? who did, then? you know well enough i didn't." "do i? how do i know it? look here, tom, we might as well have a show-down right now. i did not bring that blue-book into this room. i did not take it out of 'horace's'. but 'horace' found it on this table, poked under a pile of books. now, then, what do _you_ know about it?" tom stared in wide-eyed amazement for a moment. "you--you mean to say you think i did it!" he gasped finally. steve shrugged his shoulders. "but--but you were here when i came back from downstairs, steve! you saw that i didn't have it!" "i didn't see anything of the sort. i didn't notice whether you had anything in your hands when you came in. why should i? you might have slipped it under your coat. there's no use trying that game, tom." "then why--why did you tell 'horace' you took the book yourself if you knew you didn't?" "because one of us must have, you idiot." "oh, i see," answered tom thoughtfully. "you wanted to keep me out of it, eh? look here, steve, what would i want with upton's composition? my own was written two days before." steve shrugged his shoulders again impatiently. "that puzzled me. i didn't know. you did say afterwards, though, that your own comp. was pretty rotten. i didn't know but what----" "you have a fine opinion of me, haven't you?" asked tom bitterly. "you've known me ever since we were kids at kindergarten and you think that of me! thanks, steve!" "well, what----" "now you hold on! i'm going to tell you something." tom was on his feet now, his hands on the edge of the table, his gaze bent sternly on his chum who was seated across the littered surface. "i didn't even see that blue-book of upton's. i'll swear it wasn't on mr. daley's table when i went down there. i know nothing of how it got into this room. i tell you this on my word of honour, steve. do you believe me?" steve's gaze met tom's troubledly, then shifted. "oh, if you say so, i suppose i'll have to. but if you didn't bring the book up here----" "that means you don't believe me," said tom quietly. "very well. now, one more thing, steve." tom's eyes were blazing now, though his face was white. "don't you speak to me unless you have to from now on, until you come to me and tell me that you believe what i've told you!" "but, tom, you can see yourself that it's mighty queer! if you----" "you heard what i said! perhaps you think i owe you something for trying to shield me from mr. daley. i don't, though. when you set me down for a cheat you more than squared that account. that's all. after this i don't want you to speak to me." steve shrugged his shoulders angrily. "that goes," he said. "when you want me to speak to you, you'll ask me, tom! and don't you forget it!" both boys went back to their letters in silence. after a while steve put on a raincoat and tramped down the stairs and over to hensey. he meant to call on andy miller, but andy was out and only the saturnine williams was in the room. although steve had grown to like williams very well, yet, in his present mood, the right tackle was not the sort of company steve craved, and after a few minutes of desultory football talk he went on. he would have called on roy and harry, but now that he and tom had quarrelled they would, he thought, side with tom. in the end he found himself in the gymnasium. several fellows were splashing about in the tank and steve joined them. for an hour he forgot his troubles in performing stunts to the envious appreciation of the others in the pool. applause was grateful to him that afternoon, and when he had dressed himself again and, avoiding the room, had gone across to wendell to wait for the doors to open for supper, he felt better. perhaps, he told himself, tom really didn't know anything about that plaguey book, but even so he needn't get so cocky about it! besides, someone must have put the book on their table and--well, the evidence was certainly against tom! it wasn't much fun eating supper with tom at his elbow as grim and stiff as a plaster statue. fortunately, steve was well into his meal before tom came in, and meanwhile there were others of the second team to talk to if he wanted. with no tom to converse with he found it difficult to persist in his rã´le of haughty indifference toward the others. besides--and it came to him with rather a shock--what they thought of him was no more than he had been thinking of tom! hang it, it was all pretty rotten! he'd like to choke eric sawyer! it didn't take the rest of the fellows at the training table long to make the discovery that the two friends were at outs. trow, a pale-faced, shock-haired chap, took delight in trying to engage them both in conversation at the same time, thereby increasing the embarrassment. steve was heartily glad when he had finished his supper and could leave the table. returning to his room under the circumstances was not appealing, but there seemed nowhere else to go. there was the library, of course, but it was a dismal place on a sunday evening, and he didn't want to read. but, as it proved, he needn't have considered avoiding the room, for tom didn't return after supper, and steve finished his letter home in solitude. at eight he went over to al brownell's room in torrence, not because he was especially interested in the project to be discussed, but because he had agreed to attend the gathering and was glad, besides, to get away from number 12 billings. life in number 12 didn't promise to be very delightful for awhile, he thought dolefully. in brownell's room steve carefully took a position as far distant from tom as was possible. there was a lot of talk and a good deal of fun, and in the end steve found himself chosen one of a committee of five to call on the principal and request the permission they desired. at a little after nine he walked back to billings alone. tom didn't return until ten and then, with never a word between them, they undressed and went to bed. steve didn't get to sleep very easily that night. more than once he was sorely tempted to speak across the darkness and tell tom that he did believe him and that he was sorry. and i think he would have done it, too, in the end if tom had not fallen asleep just then and announced the fact in the usual melodic manner. whereupon steve frowned, punched his pillow and flopped over. "it isn't bothering him any," he thought. "if he wants me to speak to him, he'll have to say so. cranky chump!" chapter xxii steve gets a surprise mr. fernald was surprisingly complaisant on monday when the committee from the second team waited on him at the cottage. he gave them permission to hold their banquet in the village and even said several nice things to them about their share in the development of the 'varsity. he warned them against rowdyism, told them they must be back promptly at nine o'clock and said he hoped they'd have a good time! after which, much surprised and not a little embarrassed, the committee backed out of the room and returned joyfully to spread the tidings. a second committee, headed by saunders, had already been appointed to arrange for the banquet in case permission was secured and by tuesday everything was complete. i may say here that the event duly came off on thursday evening and was a big success. but as neither steve nor tom was present, our interest in the banquet is slight. on monday the _review_ came out. the school paper was published on the twentieth of the month, and the december issue contained, among other features, a rather interesting rã©sumã© of the football season by mr. robey and a list of the games played to date. the coach's article was too long to reproduce, but the summary of the season's contests was brief enough to be set down here: sept. 30--brimfield 10; thacher 3 oct. 4--brimfield 10; canterbury 7 oct. 7--brimfield 26; miter hill 0 oct. 14--brimfield 3; larchville 17 oct. 21--brimfield 0; benton 0 oct. 28--brimfield 27; cherry valley 6 nov. 4--brimfield 12; phillips 0 nov. 11--brimfield 9; chambers 30 nov. 18--brimfield 39; southby 7 brimfield had played nine games, of which she had won six, lost two and tied one, not a bad record, as the _review_ rather complacently pointed out, for a school whose football history dated back but a few years. but brimfield didn't waste much time contemplating past performances. had the team won every game in its schedule by an overwhelming score, the season would still be a dismal failure if it lost to claflin, just as, if it finally won its big game, the school would rise up and call it blessed even had it lost every other contest of the season. in other words, claflin was the only foe that really counted, and the claflin game was the final test by which the brimfield football team stood or fell. claflin school, at westplains, new york, some twelve miles distant from brimfield, was a larger school in point of enrolment, a very much older school and far more "select." i don't intend to imply by that term that the claflin students were a finer set of fellows than those at brimfield. doubtless they would have averaged up about the same. but claflin liked to be considered "select" and so i might as well accord her the distinction. claflin had been educating the youth of new york and surrounding states for almost a hundred years, and nowadays fathers applied for admission for their boys about as soon as the boys were born. the school was in that respect like a club with a long waiting list. if a boy wasn't "entered" by the time he was five or six years old at the latest, he stood small chance of getting in when the time came. claflin had won from brimfield three years on end, or ever since they had been playing together. she had started out by according brimfield a mid-season date. the following year she had placed the game a week later and last year she had put it last on her schedule, brimfield having by then proved herself an adversary of real merit. oddly enough, claflin had for some time been without a special rival and had gladly bestowed the honour on the maroon-and-grey as soon as the latter had shown herself worthy. this fall claflin had had an unusually successful season, having played seven games and won all but the last, that with larchville. larchville, who had defeated brimfield 17 to 3, had also taken the measure of claflin to the tune of 12 to 6. brimfield read of it in the sunday papers and took comfort. after all, claflin was not unbeatable it seemed. her defeat by larchville, coupled with brimfield's overwhelming victory over southby, lent next saturday's game a roseate glow, viewed from a brimfield view-point. in fact, by monday brimfield was almost confident of at last winning from the blue, and the question of a proper celebration of the victory was up for discussion. of course it should be a whopping big bonfire, with a parade and speeches and singing and plenty of music! but brimfield had never yet celebrated such a stupendous event and consequently there were no precedents to guide them. neither was it known what attitude faculty would take in regard to such an affair. but a few choice spirits in the upper forms made tentative arrangements to the extent of picking out a likely spot in a corner of the athletic field for the fire and locating such loose material as might come in handy as fuel. monday's practice was short and easy. even the second had an off-day. the 'varsity players were given a blackboard lecture in the meeting-room in the gymnasium after supper and were put through an examination on plays and signals. on tuesday the practice was as stiff as ever. coach robey was not altogether satisfied with the defence, and there were forty-five minutes of the hardest sort of scrimmage in which the second was given the ball at various distances from the 'varsity goal and told to put it over. the field was closed to spectators that day and it was hard hammer-and-tongs football all the way. "boots" drove the second with whip and spurs and the second responded nobly. but the best it could do was to drop a field-goal over the bar in the third period of the scrimmage, after having been held a half-dozen times by a desperate adversary. steve played about as well that afternoon as he had ever played in his life. for once he had no worries on his mind. to be sure, there was still his falling-out with tom and his quarrel with the school at large, but those things seemed rather to lend him a new strength than to bother him. he played with a dash and a reckless disregard for life and limb that made coach robey observe him with a new interest. tom performed with his customary steadiness and more than once put it over on fowler and on churchill, who substituted him. they were some three dozen very tired youths who finally straggled back to the gymnasium when the work was over. on wednesday the last real practice of the season was to be held, since the thursday performance was more in the nature of an exhibition for the school than real work, and on friday afternoon the team was to journey over to oakdale, on the sound, and remain there until saturday forenoon. but the weather proved unkind on wednesday. in the middle of the forenoon the wind veered around to the south and a drizzle of rain set in. by three o'clock the drizzle had grown into a very respectable downpour and the gridiron was slow and slippery. but mr. robey was not to be deterred and, with danny moore anxiously hovering about like a hen with a batch of ducklings, the 'varsity was put through a half-hour of signal work, punting and catching. then the second, wet and muddy, came across to the first team gridiron and the two elevens leaped at each other again. danny followed close behind, cautioning and scolding, and more than one player was dragged out of the mãªlã©e and sent off to the gym in spite of the coach's pleas and protestations. "i'll not have them hurted," reiterated danny stubbornly. "'tis no sort of a day for hard work, coach. i've got 'em through this far an' i'll not be havin' them breakin' their legs an' arms for the sake of a bit of practice, sir." "hang their arms and their legs!" fumed mr. robey. "they might as well not have any as start the game saturday half-baked! give me a chance, danny!" "'tis takin' big chances, sir, playin' 'em on this sort of a field." "then we'll take chances!" growled the coach. "now get in there, first, and rip it up! show what you can do! you've got six to go on third down; put it over! wait a minute! thursby! get in there for innes and hold that centre of the line steady." "trot all the way in, my boy, and get a good rubbin'," directed danny to the discomforted innes. "hi! put your blanket on! are you crazy?" "play lower there, hall! throw them back, second!" entreated "boots." "don't let them have an inch!" then the first piled through brownell for three yards, slipping in the mud, panting, grunting to the accompaniment of thudding feet and the _swish_ of wet canvas. above the players a cloud of steam hovered as they disentangled themselves. danny darted into the confusion. benson was on his back, thrashing his arms. "water!" bawled danny. a helper raced on with a slopping pail. danny's fingers went exploring. "ankle," groaned benson, and danny shot a triumphantly accusing look at coach robey. in a minute benson was being helped off and the game was on again, but mr. robey showed a distinct aversion to meeting the trainer's glance. later, in the gymnasium, it was known that benson had hurt the bad ankle again and would not be able to play the game through on saturday, even if he was allowed to get into it at all. coach robey accepted the tidings with a shrug and a scowl. "fine!" he said sarcastically. "claflin's left end is the best player they've got. roberts will stand a fine chance against him! look here, danny, i thought you said benson's ankle was all right?" "so i did! and so it was all right!" sputtered danny. "but i didn't say he could go out an' play on a field like that to-day, did i?" "all right. it can't be helped now. where's captain miller?" danny bent his head backward toward the rubbing room. "in there," he answered shortly. "heard about benson?" asked the coach. andy, looking a trifle pale and tired, nodded silently as the rubber kneaded his back. mr. robey frowned a moment. "you'll have to change over," he said finally. andy grunted agreement. "and we'll have to take turner or edwards from the second to-morrow and beat him into shape." "edwards is the better," said andy. "i suppose so. if he played the way he played yesterday and to-day he might have a chance against mumford. still----" "i'd better take that end," said andy. "let roberts start the game at left and then put in edwards--unless benson mends enough." "he won't," said the coach pessimistically. "you can't play end with a sore ankle. he's out of it, andy. tough luck, too. i'll find edwards and tell him to join the squad to-night. he's got to learn signals and plays and----" the coach's voice dwindled into silence and he gloomed frowningly out the window. "i wish now i'd let danny have his way," he lamented. "we could have run through plays indoors and had a hard practice to-morrow. well----" he shrugged his shoulders again and his gaze came back to andy. "how are you?" he asked. "you look a bit fagged." "i'll be all right after supper," replied the captain. "i'll be glad when saturday night comes, though." and he smiled a trifle wanly as he slipped off the table. mr. robey grunted. "so will i. somehow, this year seems to mean more, andy. still, there's no use in worrying about it. much better not think of it any more than you can help." "i know," agreed andy as he wrapped a big towel about his glowing body and moved toward the door, "but when you're captain it--it's a whole lot different. there's edwards over there. shall i call him?" the coach nodded. "i think so. he's better than turner, isn't he? left end is turner's position, though." "edwards'll take to it quick enough. he's got more bulldog than turner has, too. i guess he's the man for us. oh, edwards! will you come over here a minute?" steve pushed his way through the crowded aisles, past thursby who winked and grinned and whispered "you're going to catch it!" past tom who turned his head away as he approached, past eric sawyer, a big hulk in a crimson bathrobe, who scowled upon him, and so to where, by the rubbing room door, the captain and coach awaited him. it was mr. robey who brusquely made the announcement. the coach was anxious and tired to-day and his voice was harsh. "edwards, you join the 'varsity to-night. we may have to use you at left end. benson's pretty badly hurt, i understand. be upstairs at eight-fifteen promptly. you've got to learn the signals and about fifteen plays before saturday. tell your coach i've taken you, please." "yes, sir." steve's eyes, round and questioning, turned to the captain. andy smiled a little. "rather sudden, eh?" he asked. "do your best to learn, edwards. get the signals and plays down pat. there isn't much time, but you can do it if you'll put your mind on it. you wanted to make the 'varsity, you know, and now you've done it, and here's your chance to make good, edwards. but you've got to work like thunder, old man!" he laid a hand on steve's shoulder and his fingers tightened as he went on. "everyone's got his hands full right now, you see, and there's no one to coach you much. you've got to buckle down and learn things yourself. you can do it, all right. and on saturday, if you get in--and i can't see how you can help it--you've got to play real football, edwards. think you can do all that?" "yes." steve's heart was thumping pretty hard and his breathing was uncertain, as though he had raced the length of the field with a pigskin tucked in the crook of his arm, and his gaze sought the floor for fear those two would read the almost tragic ecstasy that shone in them. "yes," he repeated, "i'll learn. and i'll--i'll play!" "all right. you'd better join the 'varsity table to-night. see lawrence about it. that's all." coach robey nodded and turned away. andy miller, following, paused and stepped back. one hand clutched the folds of the big towel about him, the other was stretched out to steve. "i'm glad, edwards," he said in a low voice as steve's hand closed on his. steve nodded. he wasn't quite certain of his voice just then. "you'll do your best for us, won't you, old man?" steve gulped. "i--i'll play till i drop," he muttered huskily. chapter xxiii durkin sheds light steve felt frightfully lonely that evening. he wanted so much to talk over his good fortune with tom. but tom, very grave of countenance, sat in frozen silence across the table and never so much as glanced his way. had he done so he might have caught one of the wistful looks bent upon him and, perhaps, relented. not being able to discuss the amazing thing which had happened to him, detracted at least half the pleasure, steve sadly reflected. of course tom knew of it, for steve had sat at the 'varsity training table at supper-time and he could still hear in imagination the buzz of interest that had filled the hall when, somewhat consciously skirting the second team table, he had walked to the corner and sank into a seat between fowler and churchill. they had been very nice to him at the 'varsity table. only roberts, who might be expected to view his appearance with misgivings, had eyed him askance. poor joe benson was confined to the dormitory. thursby, himself only a recent addition to the big squad, grinned at steve from the length of the long table in a way which seemed to say: "they had to have us! i guess we fellows on the second team are pretty bad, what?" but now, back in his room, with his books spread out before him and his mind in a strange tumult of elation and fear and dejection, he hardly knew whether to be glad of or sorry for his promotion. study, at all events, was quite out of the question to-night, but luckily he was well enough up in his lessons to be able to afford one hour of idleness. he considered writing home to his father and recounting the story of his good fortune to him, for it seemed that he must talk to someone about it, and he even dragged a pad of paper toward him and unscrewed his fountain pen. but, after tracing meaningless scrawls for several minutes, he gave it up. he didn't want to write a letter; he wanted to talk to tom! he saw the hands of his watch creep toward the hour of eight, after which he might give up pretence of study, don a sweater and a pair of canvas "sneakers" and go over to the gymnasium. the thought of that and of the next three days put him in a blue funk. what if he couldn't learn the signals, or, having learned them, forgot them in the game? what if he disappointed andy and coach robey when the time came? he had visions of getting his signals mixed, of fumbling the ball at critical moments, of losing the game through his stupidity. there were times when he devoutly hoped that joe benson would recover the use of that ankle and get into the contest so that he [steve] might not be called on to take part! then, at last, eight o'clock struck sonorously in the tower of main hall, and he closed his books with a sigh of relief, piled them up and went to the closet. when he was ready to go out tom was still bent over his studies. steve hesitated a moment with his hand on the knob. he wanted tom to wish him luck. he wondered if tom guessed how sort of lonesome and scared he felt. but tom never even raised his eyes and so steve went out, closing the door softly behind him, and made his way through a dripping rain to the lighted porch of the gymnasium. only a half-dozen fellows were there when he reached the meeting room. the settees had been moved aside and the floor was empty and ready for them. steve nodded to the others and perched himself on one of the low windowsills to wait. in twos and threes the players stamped up the stairs, laughing, jostling. milton and kendall, entering together, seized each other and began to waltz over the floor. steve wondered how they could take such a serious business so light-heartedly. then joe lawrence, the manager, a football under his arm, came in with williams and, glancing at his watch, began calling the roll. in the middle of it coach robey and andy miller and danny moore arrived. more lights were turned on and mr. robey swung the blackboard on the platform nearer the front. "we'll try number six," he announced. very quickly and surely he scrawled the formation on the board, added curving lines and dotted lines, dropped the chalk and faced the room. "all right, milton. first-string fellows in this and the rest of you watch closely." "line up!" chirped milton. "formation a!" the players sprang to their places, their rubber-soled shoes patting softly on the boards. "21--14--63--66!" called the quarter. "21--14--63----" the backs, who had shifted to the left in a slanting tandem, trotted forward, the ball was passed, the line divided and still slipped through. "norton, you were out of position," said mr. robey. "look at the board, please. your place is an arm's length from left half. you've got to follow closely on that. try it again, please." so it went for nearly an hour, the substitutes gradually taking the places of the first-string players. steve, who had had the signals explained to him earlier, managed to get through without mistakes, but as an end he had little to do in the drill. after the coach had watched them go through some fourteen plays, the settees were dragged out into the floor again, the players seated themselves and the coach drew diagrams and explained them and examined the squad in signals as he went along. it was all over at a little after nine, but not for steve. andy miller took him back to his room with him and for a good half-hour steve was coached on formations, plays and signals. when, finally, he went back to billings his head was absolutely seething and it was long after eleven before sleep finally came to him. when it did, it was a restless and disturbed slumber that was filled with dreams and visions. he awoke earlier than usual the next morning, feeling almost as tired as when he had gone to bed. but, although he strove to snatch a nap before it was time to get up, sleep refused to return to him. his mind was too full. across the room tom was snoring placidly, both arms clutched about a pillow and his face almost buried from sight. steve envied him his untroubled state of mind. then he began to go over what he had learned the evening before and found himself in a condition of panic because for the life of him he couldn't remember half of the stuff that had been hammered into his tired brain! steve was not the only fellow at training table that morning who showed a distaste for the excellent breakfast that was served. more than one chap looked pale and anxious and only trifled with the food before him. steve stumbled through recitations, earning a warning look from "uncle sim," managed to observe more or less faithfully the schedule he had set for himself and turned up at dinner table with a very good appetite. after dinner he wrote a notice and posted it on the bulletin board in the gymnasium. "no swimming classes until monday. s. d. edwards." the school turned out to a boy that afternoon and paraded to the field to watch the final practice. massed on the grand stand, they sang their songs and cheered the players and the team all during a half-hour of signal drill and punting. there was no scrimmage until the first-string men had trotted off the field. then the 'varsity substitutes and the second team faced each other for fifteen minutes and the second scored a field-goal. steve played at left end on the substitute eleven, made one or two mistakes in signals and failed at any time to distinguish himself. but the game was slow and half-hearted, for the substitutes were continually warned against playing too hard and so risking injury. when it was over, the second cheered the 'varsity, the subs cheered the second and the spectators formed two abreast again and trailed across the field to the gymnasium and there once more cheered everyone from captain miller and coach robey down to the last substitute--who was steve--danny moore and gus, the rubber. it had drizzled at times during the afternoon, but before the final "rah, rah, brimfield! rah, rah, brimfield! rah, rah, brim-f-i-e-l-d!" had died away, the clouds broke in the west and the afternoon sun shone through. this was accepted joyfully as a good omen and the crowd outside the gymnasium broke into a chorus of ecstatic "a-a-ays!" practice was over early, and at half-past four steve, parting from thursby at the corner of wendell, made his way along the row, half wishing that he had not cancelled the swimming hour to-day. at the entrance to torrence a voice hailed him from the doorway, and "penny" durkin, wild of hair and loose-limbed, stepped out. "hello," said durkin. "say, i've got the dandiest rug upstairs you ever saw, edwards. it's a regular begorra." "what's a begorra?" asked steve with a smile. "oh, it's one of those rare oriental rugs, you know." "you mean bokhara," laughed steve. durkin blinked. "something like that," he agreed. "anyway, it's a peach. come up and have a look at it." "no, thanks. i'm not buying rugs to-day." "tell you what i'll do," pursued durkin, undismayed. "i'll fetch it over to your room and you can see how it looks. it's got perfectly wonderful tones of--of old rose and--and blue and----" "nothing doing, durkin. we don't need any rugs." "you're missing a bargain," warned the other. "say, i've still got that shoe-blacking stand i told you about. no, i didn't tell you, did i? i left a note under your door one evening, though. did you get it?" "note? why, yes, i think so. yes, we got it. i'd forgotten." durkin chuckled. "that was the time i gave sawyer the scare." "how?" asked steve idly. "didn't he tell you?" "sawyer? not likely." and steve smiled. "that's so, i did hear that you and he were scrapping one day. you used to be pretty chummy, though, didn't you?" "never," replied steve with emphasis. durkin blinked again and looked puzzled. "well, he was trying to find you that night. so i supposed----" "what night?" "the night i went to tell you about that shoe-blacking stand. it's almost as good as new, edwards----" "you say sawyer was looking for me that night? how do you know? he couldn't have been, because i'd met him earlier in the hall downstairs." "i don't know. he said he was. anyhow, he was in your room----" "sawyer?" demanded steve incredulously. "eric sawyer?" durkin nodded. "you're crazy," laughed steve. "well, he was," answered the other indignantly. "he came out just as i was tucking that note under the door and fell over me and let out a yell you could have heard half-way to new york. you see, i didn't know there was anyone there. i knocked at first and thought i heard someone moving around in there. then i tried the door and it was locked----" "you had the wrong room," said steve. "we never lock our door except when we go to bed." "wrong room nothing! you got the note, didn't you? well, i didn't leave any notes anywhere else." "but--now, look here, durkin. i want to get this right. you say you went to our room and knocked and---was there a light there?" "no. the transom was dark. when i couldn't get in i went back down the corridor to where the light is and scribbled that note. then i went back and tucked it under the door. i guess i didn't make much noise because i had a pair of rubber-soled shoes on and so sawyer didn't hear me. anyway, he opened the door just then and it was fairly dark there and he nearly broke his silly neck on me. scared me, too, for the matter of that! i didn't think there was anyone in there. say, is there anything up? you look sort of funny." "n-no, nothing much. you're sure it was sawyer who came out?" "of course i'm sure. he let out a yell and picked himself up and began to scold. wanted to know what i meant by it and i said i was sticking a note under your door and he said 'oh!' and something about wanting to see you and waiting for you. then he said he guessed you weren't coming back yet and he'd go on." "what time was this, durkin?" "oh, a little after eight, i suppose; half-past, maybe. i stopped to see whittaker on the floor below, i remember. he said he'd look at that stand, but he never did. if you want a bargain, edwards, now's your chance. i'll let you have it for a dollar and a quarter. it cost two and a half. i bought it from----" "oh, confound your old stand! look here, durkin, will you tell mr. daley just what you've told me if i want you to?" "eh?" asked durkin in alarm. "oh, i don't know. i don't want to get anyone into trouble. i--i'd rather not, i guess. you see, sawyer----" "if you will, i--i'll buy your old shoe-blacking stand or your rug or--or anything you like!" said steve earnestly. "will you?" "why, maybe i might if you put it that way. the rug's two dollars." "all right," answered steve impatiently. "where are you going to be for the next hour?" "upstairs, practising. come and see it any time you like. it really is a peach, edwards, and it's scarcely worn at all. it--it's a prayer rug, too, and they're scarcer than hens' teeth nowadays!" but steve was already yards away and durkin shrugged his shoulders and turned back into torrence. "wonder what's up," he murmured. "i'd hate to get sawyer into a scrape. still, if he will buy that rug----" chapter xxiv the day before the battle tom was attiring himself in his sunday best. it was almost six o'clock and one of hoskins' barges was to leave main hall at half-past with the members of the second team, for this was the evening of the banquet in the village. tom didn't feel unduly hilarious, however. he was sorry that the football season was over, for one thing, for he loved the game. and then existence of late had been fairly wearing and mighty unsatisfactory. his quarrel with steve was a tiresome affair and he didn't see just how it was to end. for his part, in spite of the fact that his chum had hurt him a good deal by his mean suspicion of him, he was ready to make up, only--well, he had some pride, after all, and it did seem as if the first overtures should come from steve. no, on the whole, tom wasn't looking forward to the banquet with any great amount of enjoyment. if steve was going to be there, too---someone came hurrying down the corridor, the room door flew open and there stood steve himself, a radiant and embarrassed look on his face, his gaze searching the room for tom. his face fell a little as he found the room apparently empty, and then lighted again as his glance discovered tom at the closet door, tom half-dressed and with a pair of trousers dangling over his arm. out went steve's hand as he turned. "i'm sorry, tom," he said simply. "i was a beast." tom took the hand that was offered and squeezed it hard. "that's all right," he stammered. "so was i." "no, you were right, tom," answered steve convincedly. "i hadn't any business suspecting you of a thing like that. and--and i want to tell you first that i knew i was wrong a long time ago, before this happened. you believe that, don't you?" "yes, steve, but--what is it that's happened?" "it's all clear as daylight," said steve, grinning happily as he seated himself on the bed and tossing his cap toward the table. "it was sawyer did it. he put up the whole job. he fessed up when 'horace' got at him. durkin met him coming out and----" "hold on!" begged tom. "i don't quite get you, steve!" steve laughed. "sort of confused narrative, eh? well, listen, then. drop those trousers and sit down a minute." "all right, but the barge leaves at half-past----" "never you mind the barge, old man! you're not going in it. i'll come to that later, though." "take your time," said tom, dropping into a chair. "i love to hear your innocent prattle." "shut up! it's like this, tom. i met durkin awhile ago and he got to talking about that shoe-blacking stand. remember the note he left here that night?" tom nodded. "well, it came out that while he was putting it under our door eric sawyer walked out and fell over him." "out of here?" "right-o! sawyer said he'd been waiting to see me. now you remember i'd seen him coming out of daley's room earlier, eh? well, it seems that sawyer saw a chance to put up a game on me. so after i'd gone upstairs again, he sneaked back to 'horace's' room, got that confounded blue-book of upton's and waited his chance. after we'd left the room he came up here and slid the thing among some books on the table there. while he was in here durkin came along and knocked and sawyer slipped over and locked the door. then he waited until he thought durkin had gone and unlocked the door again and came out. but old durkin had written a note to us down under the light and come back with it and he was putting it under the door when sawyer came out and fell over him. of course, when durkin told me that i had a hunch what had happened and i hot-footed it to 'horace.' he confessed that it was sawyer who had told him he'd seen me carrying off the book. so he streaked off after sawyer, found him somewhere and took him to durkin's room. sawyer----" "were you there too?" asked tom excitedly. "no, he told me to wait in his study for him. he was back in about a half-hour looking sort of worried. of course sawyer had to own up. he told 'horace' that he'd just done it for a joke, but 'horace' didn't believe him for a cent. and there you are!" steve ended in breathless triumph. tom viewed him round-eyed. "what--what about sawyer?" he asked. "i don't know for certain, but i think sawyer's on pro. anyway, tom, i know this much: you don't go to any old banquet to-night." "i don't? why don't i?" "because i met lawrence downstairs a few minutes ago. he was looking for you." "wh-what for?" asked tom faintly. "robey says you're not to break training, tom! you're to report at the 'varsity table to-night for supper!" whereupon steve, his eyes dancing, jumped from the bed and pulled tom to his feet. "what do you say to that, old tommikins?" he exulted. tom, dazed, smiled weakly. "do you mean--do you mean they want me to _play_?" he murmured. "oh, no," scoffed steve, pushing him toward the bed on which he subsided in a heap. "they want you to carry the footballs and sweep the gridiron! of course they want you to play, you old sobersides! don't you see that with sawyer on pro there's a big hole in the line? i suppose they'll give churchill the first chance at it, but he won't last the game through. think of both you and i making the 'varsity, tom! how's that for luck, eh? not bad for the old tannersville high school, is it? i guess we've gone and put tannersville on the map, tom!" "gee, i'm scared!" muttered tom, looking up at steve with wide eyes. "i--i don't believe i'll do it!" "you don't, eh? well, you're going to do it! get your old duds on and hurry up. it's after six." "i'll have to tell brownell i'm not going to the feast." tom gazed fascinatedly at his best trousers draped across the chair back. "anyway, i wasn't keen on going--without you," he murmured. "there's only one drawback," said steve a few minutes later, when they were on their way to supper. "and that is that i promised durkin to buy a rug from him." "a rug? we don't need any rug, do we?" asked tom. "not a bit. but this is a genuine begorra; durkin says so himself. and i agreed to buy it if he'd tell 'horace' about sawyer. unless--unless you'd rather have the shoe-blacking stand, tom?" "i would. if we had that, perhaps you'd keep your shoes decent!" steve tipped tom's cap over his eyes. "rude ruffian!" he growled affectionately. there was no practice at brimfield friday, for as soon as the last recitation of the day was over the 'varsity team and substitutes piled into two of hoskins' barges in front of main hall to be driven over to oakdale, some five miles distant. the school assembled to see them off, and there was much hilarity and noise. joe lawrence, note-book in hand, flustered and anxious, mounted the steps and called the names of the squad members. "benson!" "here," responded benson from where, at the far end of one of the barges, he sat, crutches in hand, looking a bit disconsolate. "churchill, corcoran, edwards, fowler, gleason, guild, hall, harris, innes--innes?" "coming fast!" shouted a voice from the edge of the throng, and the big centre, suit-case in hand, pushed his way toward the barges. "right through!" laughed the fellows. "hit the line, innes! a-a-ay!" "kendall," continued lawrence. "lacey, marvin, miller, milton, mcclure, norton, roberts, still, thursby, williams!" "all present and accounted for," announced a voice in the crowd. "home, james!" coach robey and "boots" appeared. danny moore, who with gus, the rubber, sat on the driver's seat surrounded with suit-cases, took the bags, joe lawrence and tracey black, assistant manager, squeezed into the already overcrowded barges, blaisdell, baseball captain, called for a cheer and, amidst a thunderous farewell, the squad, grinning and waving, disappeared down the drive, through the gate and out on to the road. oakdale was fairly deserted at this time of year. most of the summer cottages were closed, but the little hotel kept open the year around, and when, at four o'clock, the barges pulled up in front of it, fires were snapping in the open fireplaces and everything was in readiness for the squad's reception. followed a very merry and rather boisterous time while the fellows, bags in hand, sought their rooms to don their togs and report for light practice on the lawn. there was only signal drill to-day, and that was brief. afterwards the centres practised passing and the kickers limbered up a little, but by five the work was over and the fellows were free to do what they liked. some gathered around the two big fireplaces in the hotel, others went for strolls along the road, and still others, steve and tom amongst the number, sought the little cove nearby where a diminutive and rather pebbly beach curved from point to point and a boat-landing stuck out into the quiet water. the trees and grass went almost to the edge and there were comfortable benches along the bank from which one might look across the sound to the long island shore or watch the boats pass. it had been a fair, mild day and the light still held. steve and tom sauntered down to the float and steve dipped an inquiring hand into the water. "say, that isn't a bit cold," he announced. "what do you say to a swim, tom?" "fine, only we haven't any suits." "maybe they've got some at the hotel. let's ask." on the way up they met norton, williams and marvin. "come on in swimming, fellows," called steve. "can we?" asked norton. "who says so?" "why not? we're going to see if we can find some trunks or something." "all right. you'd better ask the coach, though." this from marvin. "he's in the office, i think. if you find any trunks bring some for us, edwards." the clerk was rather dubious at first, but eventually returned with a miscellaneous collection of bathing togs from which the boys finally evolved three pairs of trunks and two suits. meanwhile mr. robey had given hesitant permission. "if the water's very cold, edwards, don't try it, please. and, in any case, don't stay in more than ten minutes. that goes for all of you." there was a bathing pavilion farther along, reached from the little beach by a flight of wooden steps, and to this the five boys proceeded, examining the attire the clerk had provided with much amusement. "i won't be able to swim a stroke," declared norton. "i'll just be doubled up laughing at hath in that blue-striped thing he has there." "huh," growled williams, "i don't think you'll get any prizes for beauty yourself!" by this time the news of their exploit had gone out and other fellows were hurrying to the hotel to seek bathing suits. a few secured them and the rest followed down to watch. when they met outside, dressed for the plunge, the five went off into gales of laughter. hatherton williams in a blue-and-white-striped suit many sizes too small for him cut a ridiculous figure, while norton, whose faded red trunks had lost their gathering string, held his attire frantically with one hand and implored a pin! tom's trunks were strained to the bursting point and steve's were inches too large for him. only marvin had fared well, being dressed in what he called "a real classy two-piece suit." the two pieces didn't match in either colour or material, but they nearly fitted and, unlike hatherton williams' regalia, were innocent of holes. norton declared that he was extremely glad it was getting dark, since otherwise if the pin one of the onlookers had supplied him with gave way, he'd have to stay in the water. steve and marvin led the way to the float and they all plunged in. tom, shaking the water from his head, faced steve accusingly when he had regained his breath. "thought you said it wasn't cold!" he shrieked. "it's freezing! br-r-r!" "move around and get warm," advised norton, striking out. "it isn't bad when you get used to it." but tom, accustomed to the tempered water of the school tank, groaned and refused to be optimistic. "bet it isn't a bit over forty-five," he muttered. steve was already well out in the cove, pursued by norton. some of the boys who had failed to find suits had launched a decrepit rowboat and, with one broken oar, were splashing about near the float. far out in the sound a big white steamer passed eastward, her lights showing white in the gathering darkness and the strains from her orchestra coming faintly across the quiet water. the boys in the rowboat stopped skylarking to discuss what steamer it was, and marvin, who had swam up behind and laid hands on the gunwale, told them that it was the _lusitania_ and that if they didn't agree with him he'd tip them over. discussion ceased at once. the four mariners instantly declared that he was right. churchill even went so far as to say that he had known it was the _lusitania_ all the time; that he could always tell her by her funnels. innes, who was seated in the stern and filling his position to the limit, acknowledged that for an instant--oh, the merest fraction of a second!--he had thought the steamer was the _ne'er-do-well_, berlin to kansas city, but that he had seen his mistake almost instantly! by which time, the _priscilla_, new york to fall river, had passed out of sight, and marvin, merely tipping the boat until the water ran in a bit over one side, just as a mark of esteem, swam off before guild could reach him with the broken oar. tom and williams were paddling about not far off the landing, tom floating on his back most of the time and complaining about the temperature of the water, when norton swam up, puffing and blowing. "where's steve?" asked tom. norton nodded toward the long island shore. "somewhere out there," he answered. "he was too much for me. i had to quit. the chump swims like a--a dolphin. i'm going in, fellows. i'm getting cold." "i guess we'd all better," agreed williams. "hello! what's that?" "_help!_" from somewhere beyond the mouth of the little cove the cry came, sharp, imperative, and was repeated again while they listened. "it's edwards," muttered norton uneasily. "i suppose he's only trying to get a rise out of us. he can swim like----" "must be," agreed williams. "can you see him?" the cove was dim now and the surface of the water beyond held a sheen of light that confused the vision. "i'm not sure," muttered norton. "i thought i did--for a minute." "who was that yelling out there?" shouted one of the fellows in the boat. "must be edwards," answered williams. "can you see him?" "no. do you suppose----" "_help!_ this way!" the cry came again, fainter now, and someone in the boat seized the broken oar and began to churn the water with it, sending the crazy craft circling about in its length. "he's in trouble!" cried norton. "cramps, probably. i'm off, hath. will you come? where's hall?" "he started a minute ago," answered williams, striking out with long hard sweeps of legs and arms. "there he is, ahead." "come on with that boat, you fellows!" shouted norton. "and hurry it up!" chapter xxv tom to the rescue "we've only got one oar," answered a desperate voice. "put it over the stern and scull it," directed someone on the float. there was a splash in reply, and innes, who had promptly vacated his seat, crawled dripping to the landing. hatherton, williams, norton and marvin were already swimming desperately toward the mouth of the cove, while several fellows on land were running hard to the point, following the curving shore. the rowboat was at last under way, but making slow progress. norton was the best swimmer of the trio, or, at least, the fastest, and williams and marvin were soon hopelessly in the rear. but norton, if he could distance the other two, found that he was gaining but slowly on tom, who, swimming as he had never swam before, as he didn't know he could swim, was already well out toward the mouth of the cove. his limbs were aching already, and his lungs were hurting as he fought his way through the water and against a slow-coming tide. but the only thought that possessed him was that steve was in trouble out there, perhaps drowning, and that he must get to him. the water splashed into his eyes and blinded him, for tom was not an adept swimmer, and not once could he so much as sight steve. neither was the appeal for help repeated and tom's heart sank. behind him, as he was dimly aware, others were following, and he wished they would hurry. once, when he was opposite the points, he tried to call, but his lungs were too tired to respond in more than a whisper. then he was past the gloom of the cove, the water was alight with the afterglow and little choppy waves dashed against him. gasping, he paused an instant, brushed one arm against his dripping face and looked about him. for a moment nothing met his anxious gaze. then a darker spot on the darkening water appeared a dozen yards away and tom went on desperately, panic-stricken for fear that when he reached it it would prove to be only a bit of driftwood. [illustration: it was steve, steve on his back, with only his head and shoulders above the water] but it wasn't. it was steve, steve on his back, with only his head and shoulders above the water, eyes closed in a dead-white face and his arms weakly moving now and then as though in an unconscious endeavour to keep the helpless body afloat. a great wave of relief and joy almost stopped tom's heart for an instant. then his hand went out and caught one of steve's wrists. "it's all right, steve," he gasped weakly. "don't grab me. they're coming with the boat." there was no reply from steve, and tom, pulling the arm over his shoulder, as he had seen steve himself do so many times in the tank when illustrating the way to rescue a drowning person, felt the weight of the inert form on his back as he turned and strove to swim slowly back toward the cove. to swim with one arm, even to keep himself afloat so, was no light task for tom, and now, with the weight of steve's body bearing him down, he found the struggle too much for him. he relinquished all attempts to swim and centred his efforts in keeping afloat. if only norton and the rest would come! he listened. there was a splashing somewhere nearby, but it was too dark now to see a dozen feet away. tom drew all the breath he could find into his lungs and let it out in a weak shout. "help!" he gasped. "here!" then there was an answering hail from close by, a mighty churning of the water and a dim form plunged alongside. "have you got him?" cried norton. "give him to me, hall. hath! over here!" tom didn't relinquish quite all his burden, though. he still had one of steve's arms around his neck when, a minute later, marvin and williams having reached them meanwhile, the rowboat appeared out of the darkness. it was no light task to get steve into the boat, but it was accomplished somehow, and then, tom dragging astern, hands clutching the gunwale grimly, and the others, too, claiming at least partial support from the boat, the rescuers turned shoreward. wisely, churchill, who handled the oar, headed the boat toward the nearer point, and when the keel grounded, eager hands were waiting to lift steve out and hurry him back to the hotel. tom crawled out of the water and subsided on the bank, still fighting for breath and feeling rather sick at his stomach. between fowler and milton he was lifted and half carried, weakly protesting that he could walk all right and promptly crumpling up when they allowed him to try. steve had been taken up to the room he was occupying, and danny moore was administering to him when tom was brought in and laid on his bed. steve was already talking weakly and danny was telling him to keep still. "don't be talking," he said. "fit that bottle to your back and keep covered up. you'll be fine in an hour. an' who've you got there? well, if it ain't my old friend jim hall!" tom smiled faintly as danny bent over him. "an' so you been tryin' to drown yourself too, have you?" continued danny. "well, well,'tis queer tastes you have, the two of you! drink a bit o' this, jim, and lie still." mr. robey came in and danny nodded reassuringly to him. "they'll be fine as fiddles in an hour, coach. now you boys scatter out o' here an' leave them have a bit nap." tom didn't remember much for awhile after that, for he must have fallen promptly to sleep. when he awoke, the light was turned low and steve was sitting on the edge of the bed. on a chair beside him was a tray from which appetizing odours curled toward him. tom blinked sleepily. "hello," he murmured. "what's up?" "i am and you're not," answered steve. "i've brought you some supper. are you hungry?" recollection returned then and tom observed his chum anxiously. "are you all right!" he demanded. "did they say you could get up?" "of course. you can too after you eat. but you were asleep and danny said you might as well have it out. how are you feeling?" tom sat up experimentally and took a deep breath. "all right," he answered stoutly, although as a matter of fact he was full of stiff spots and queer aches. "and--and i'm hungry." "good stuff!" laughed steve. he lifted the tray to tom's lap and took the covers from the dishes. "there isn't an awful lot here," he added apologetically, "but danny said you'd be better if you didn't eat such a big supper. do you mind?" "no, i guess there's enough. that soup smells good. what's that there? roast beef? fine!" and tom fell diligently to work. steve watched in silence a moment. then, "i say, tom," he said. "huh?" asked the other, his mouth full. "you know i--i'm much obliged." tom nodded carelessly. "all right," he said in a gruff voice. "it wasn't anything. norton and williams and those others did it." "you got there first," said steve. "i guess if you hadn't i--i wouldn't have waited for the rest. it was mighty plucky, and--and i----" "oh, cut it," growled tom. "it wasn't anything, you ass. what the dickens did you go away out there for anyway?" tom became indignant. "haven't you got any sense?" "not much," laughed steve. then, soberly, "it's the first time i ever had cramps, and i don't ever want them again! i thought i was a goner there for a while, tom. they caught me right across the small of my back and i couldn't any more move my legs than i could fly. all i could do was shout and wiggle my arms a bit, and the pain was just as though something--say a swordfish--was cutting me in two!" steve shook his head soberly. "it--it was fierce, tom!" "serves you right! you had no business swimming way out there in water like that and scaring us all to pieces!" tom was very severe as to language, but the effect was somewhat marred by the fact that he had filled his mouth with food. nevertheless, steve took the rebuke quite meekly. all he said was: "and think of you rescuing me, tom! why, you aren't any sort of a swimmer! but it certainly was mighty pluck----" tom pointed a fork at steve and interrupted indignantly. it was necessary to head steve off from further expressions of gratitude. "i like your cheek!" said tom. "can't swim! how do you suppose i got out there to you, you silly chump? you didn't see any water-wings or life-preservers floating around, did you? or do you think i walked? can't swim! well, of all the----" "you know what i mean, tom. i meant you couldn't swim--er--well, that you weren't a wonder at it!" "huh!" grunted tom. "don't you talk about swimming after this. you weren't doing much of it when i got to you!" "no one can swim when he has cramps," responded steve meekly. "how was the supper?" tom gazed at the empty dishes. "all right--as far as it went. i'm going to get up. what time is it and what's going on downstairs?" "nothing much just now. we just got through supper. they're taking the chairs and tables out of the dining-room so we can have signal drill at eight. mr. robey said you were to get into it if you felt all right. there's someone else downstairs who wants to see you too." and steve grinned wickedly. "i told him i'd try to arrange an interview." "who is it?" asked tom suspiciously. "his name is murray." "i don't know any murray. what is this, a joke?" "far from it, tom. mr. murray is a newspaper man. he came over to get the line-up for to-morrow's game from mr. robey and got here just as they were talking about that silly stunt of mine. he laid around and waited for me and got it all out before i knew he was a newspaper chap. now he wants to see you. i _think_ he wants your photograph, tom!" "you were a silly ass to talk to him, steve. he will go and put it in the paper, i suppose." "wouldn't be surprised," agreed steve, smiling. "he seemed to think he had a fine yarn. of course i laid it on pretty thick about your heroism and all that." tom viewed him darkly as he got into his coat. "if you did i'll--i'll----" "take me back to the sound and drop me in again! no, i didn't, tom, but he does know all about it and of course he will put it in the papers. 'boots' says the--the something-or-other press will get hold of it and send it all over the country. i've been wondering whether we ought to telegraph the folks so they won't have a fit if they read about it to-morrow." "what's the use? they'll know you're all right. bet you that mr. newspaper man doesn't catch me, though! who's that hitting the ivories?" "gleason, i guess. he was playing before supper. he's fine, too. knows a whole bunch of college songs and stuff from the musical shows. we're going to have a concert after practice. they say danny moore can sing like a bird. andy was telling me that last year they had a regular vaudeville show here. everybody did something, you know; sang or danced or spoke a piece. it must have been lots of fun. i wish----" steve, who had been wandering around the room, hands in pockets, paused as he caught the expression on tom's face. "what's the matter?" he asked. "that's what i want to know," replied tom. "seems to me you're mighty chatty all of a sudden. is it the effect of the bath?" steve smiled, sighed and shook his head. "tom," he said, "i've just got to talk or do something this evening. i--i'm as nervous as a--a cat! ever feel that way?" tom viewed him scornfully as he patted his tie into place. "have i? why, you silly chump, i'm scared to death this minute! whenever i think about--about to-morrow i want to run down to the ocean and swim straight across to africa!" "honest?" steve brightened perceptibly. "but you don't show it, tom." "what's the good of showing it? all i hope is that the barge will make so much noise going back to-morrow that you won't hear my knees knocking together!" chapter xxvi at the end of the first half saturday dawned clear and crisp, with a little westerly breeze stirring the tops of the leafless trees and fluttering the big maroon flag with the grey b that hung from the staff at the back of the grand stand. that was not the only flag displayed, for here and there all along the row small banners hung from windows, while to add to the patriotic effect all the red and grey cushions in school were piled against the casements to lend their colour. there were few recitations that morning and there might just as well have been none, i fancy. the squad got back from oakdale at one-thirty, after an early dinner, and were driven directly to the gymnasium, pursued by the school at large with vociferous greetings. claflin began to put in an appearance soon after that. hitherto brimfield had travelled to westplains to meet her rival, and this was the first time that the blue had invaded the maroon-and-grey fastness. hoskins did a rushing business that day, for claflin had sent nearly her entire population with the team, and many of the visitors were forced to walk from the station. there was an insouciant, self-confident air about the claflin fellows that impressed brimfield and irritated her too. "you'd think," remarked benson, watching from a window in the gym the visitors passing toward the field, "that they had the game already won! a stuck-up lot of dudes, that's what i call them!" but benson was not in the best of tempers to-day and possibly his judgment was warped! the claflin team arrived in one of hoskins' barges and took possession of the meeting-room upstairs to change into their togs. they were a fine-looking lot of fellows, and they, too, had that same air of confidence that benson had found annoying. by a quarter past two the stage was set. the grand stand was filled to overflowing, the settees and chairs, which had been brought out to supplement the permanent seats, were all occupied, and many spectators were standing along the ropes. over the stand the big maroon-and-grey banner floated lazily in the breeze. the field had been newly marked out and the cream-white lines shone dazzlingly in the sharp sunlight. it was a day for light wraps and sweaters, but many visitors, arriving in motor cars that were now parked behind the gymnasium, were clad in furs. it was distinctly a social occasion, for fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles had descended upon the school in numbers and half the fellows were parading around before the hour set for the game with admiring relatives or friends, showing their rooms and the dining-hall and the gymnasium, and looking all the time a bit bored at the fuss and secretly enjoying it. harry westcott was seen with his father and sister in tow, while roy draper was surrounded by an enthusiastic flock of female relatives. overhead a clear blue sky, scarcely so much as flecked with a cloud, arched radiantly. the breeze was much too light to place a handicap on either goal, and when, at a quarter after two, the visiting team trotted across from the gymnasium, ducked under the rope at the end of the grand stand and started to warm up it was seen that the long punts she sent away showed scarcely any influence from the wind. of course claflin, banked at the east end of the stand, greeted her warriors royally, and, of course, brimfield gave them a hearty cheer, too. but that acclaim was nothing to the burst of applause that went up when the home team, twenty strong, led by andy miller, romped on. then brimfield shouted herself hoarse and made such a clamour that the cheer which the claflin leaders evoked a moment later sounded like a whisper by comparison. ten minutes of brisk signal work, punting, catching and goal-kicking followed, and then, while along the road an occasional screech from a belated automobile sounded, the teams retired to opposite sides of the field, the maroon-and-grey megaphones, which had been keeping time to a song sung by some hundred and thirty youths, died away and the comparative quiet that precedes the beginning of battle fell over the field. the officials met on the side line and then, accompanied by captain miller, walked to the centre of the field. from the farther side a blue-sleeved and blue-stockinged youth advanced to meet them. a coin spun, glittering, in the air, fell, rolled and was recovered. heads bent above it, the group broke up and andy miller waved to his players. then blankets and sweaters were cast aside and ten maroon-sleeved youths gathered about their leader. there was a low-voiced conference and the team scattered over the east end of the field. brimfield had won the toss, had given the kick-off to claflin and captain burrage had chosen the west goal and what slight advantage might come from a breeze at his back. andy miller and the two coaches had arranged the line-up the evening before. there had been some indecision as to filling one or two positions for the start of the game, and the line-up as it was presented when the whistle blew held several surprises for the school. here it is, and the claflin list as well: brimfield. claflin. roberts, l. e. r. e., chester lacey, l. t. r. t., mears fowler, l. g. r. g., colwell innes, c. c., kenney hall, r. g. l. g., johnson williams, r. t. l. t., bentley miller, r. e. l. e., mumford milton, q. b. q. b., ainsmith harris, l. h. b. r. h. b., burrage kendall, r. h. b. l. h. b., whittemore norton, f. b. f. b., atkinson "are you ready, brimfield? ready, claflin?" the whistle piped, a claflin linesman stepped forward, swung a long leg and the battle was on. williams caught the ball on the thirty-yard line. on a fake kick play miller tried claflin's right tackle and made but two yards. norton punted to claflin's thirty, where burrage fumbled the ball and ainsmith recovered it. claflin at once punted out of bounds to brimfield's forty-five-yard mark. kendall made three yards around the enemy's right end and then, on the next play, failed at the line. milton tried a forward pass to miller, but the ball grounded and norton kicked to claflin's twenty-yard line. two tries by the blue netted little and she again punted and the ball was brimfield's on her own forty-seven yards. harris failed to gain through claflin's left tackle and brimfield was penalised fifteen yards for holding. on a criss-cross against left tackle harris was tackled for a loss and norton then punted to whittemore and the latter ran the ball back fifteen yards before he was stopped. on a try through hall the blue's full-back failed to gain. but on a second attempt at the other side of centre he smashed through for seven yards. a delayed pass by the claflin quarter gave his side first down on brimfield's thirty-five-yard line. atkinson again tried hall and gained less than a yard. ainsmith attempted the brimfield left end and was thrown by harris for a five-yard loss. captain burrage tried brimfield's right end and failed. with one down left and fifteen yards to gain burrage tried a forward pass. it was successfully captured, but the distance was short and the pigskin went to brimfield on her thirty-eight yards. norton punted on first down and claflin returned it. kendall misjudged the ball and it rolled to the maroon's twelve yards. milton fell on it there. kendall and norton gained two yards each through centre, and norton punted to brimfield's forty-five yard line, where burrage made a fair catch. the stands grew very quiet while the claflin quarter-back poised the ball. then burrage stepped forward and sent it speeding away. but the kick was short and norton caught the ball on his five-yard line and, behind excellent interference, ran it back to the thirty-yard line before he was thrown by chester. from there norton punted to the blue's thirty and claflin returned the punt on first down to her adversary's forty yards. harris caught it, but was nailed in his tracks by mumford, who made a spectacular tackle which won applause from friend and foe alike. time was called for an injury to mumford, but he was soon on his feet again. claflin was penalised for off-side on the next play. norton went through right guard for first down and brimfield shouted joyously. kendall failed to gain. norton made a yard and then dropped back to kick formation. the play, however, proved to be a forward pass to roberts. roberts was out of position and the pigskin was intercepted by the claflin quarter. it was then the blue's ball on her forty-five yards. hall let the runner through for a yard and claflin pulled off a successful forward pass to her left end on brimfield's thirty-nine-yard line. the blue's full-back was stopped in an attempt on the opposite right tackle and a penalty for off-side brought the ball to near the middle of the field. claflin then punted to brimfield's seven yards and the whistle sounded the end of the first quarter. the stand cheered while the players traversed the field to line up under the shadow of the west goal. brimfield thrust norton at the claflin centre when the play began again and the big full-back made three yards. then he dropped behind his goal-line and punted, the ball going out of bounds at the twenty-four yards. claflin cheered loudly as the teams lined up. claflin's full-back made a yard through the centre, but lost the distance when, on the next down, he went against lacey. captain burrage dropped back to kicking position on the thirty-five-yard line and once more brimfield's goal was in danger. the pass was straight and true. burrage dropped the ball and swung his foot. but two brimfield forwards had broken through and as the ball left the ground andy miller blocked it. there was a mad scramble for the pigskin, williams at last falling on it on his twenty-five yards. norton punted poorly, the ball going diagonally across the gridiron, and it was claflin's first down on brimfield's twenty-eight yards. atkinson came through centre for a yard, and then burrage once more dropped back for a try at goal. the attempt looked rather desperate, for the kicker was standing almost on the forty-yard line, but brimfield's supporters held their breaths until the claflin half-back had swung his long leg. then a vast shout of relief went up from where the maroon-and-grey megaphones waved tumultuously, for burrage had made a bad mess of the drop-kick and the ball rolled along the ground and was captured by a brimfield back. still went in for harris, who had been hurt in the scramble. on the second down, with seven to go, norton received the ball at full speed from milton, broke through the claflin line and, pursued by the wild cheers of the brimfield spectators, made fifty-five yards through a broken field, at last landing the ball on claflin's twenty-yard line. it looked as though brimfield's moment of victory was at hand. time was taken out for a claflin injury and eventually atkinson was replaced by a substitute. brimfield made two tries at the enemy's right end and gained four yards. williams dropped out of the line and retreated to claflin's twenty-five-yard line. the ball was almost opposite the middle of the cross-bar when it went back to him on the pass from centre, but innes had thrown it low and williams was hurried by the blue's forwards, who came crashing through. the ball went three yards wide of the left-hand upright and brimfield in the stand groaned. claflin put the ball in play on her twenty-five yards and whittemore punted to milton on brimfield's forty-five. milton plunged back some twelve yards before he was brought down. norton punted on second down to the blue's ten yards and the ball was run back ten by the claflin quarter. the game then became a punting duel and after three exchanges kendall, getting the ball on his own thirty-five-yard line, ran it back to the opponent's forty, dodging beautifully through a broken field and throwing off at least a half-dozen tacklers. brimfield tried claflin's left tackle twice and totalled five yards. a penalty, however, set her back ten yards, and norton punted again to claflin's twenty yards. gleason was sent in by coach robey in place of lacey. claflin failed to gain and whittemore punted to still on the maroon's forty-four yards. norton tried the enemy's centre and failed of a gain and then punted out of bounds at claflin's fifteen. claflin sent in a substitute right end and coach robey put corcoran in for kendall. claflin punted to midfield and corcoran made one yard through the enemy's centre. an off-side play by the blue gave brimfield five yards and took the ball to the blue's forty. still gained two at left tackle and the half ended with the pigskin on claflin's thirty-eight yards, the score 0 to 0. the teams trotted off, blanket-draped, toward the gymnasium, the substitutes trailing along behind, and the stand broke into excited discussion of the game. so far the honours had been fairly even, although toward the end of the second period the ball had remained in claflin territory most of the time. in fact, after williams' try for goal, the pigskin had never been nearer to brimfield's last white mark than her thirty-five-yard line. claflin averaged some four and a half pounds more than the home team, but in spite of that an unbiased critic would have given brimfield the honours in the attacking game. her play seemed smoother, her men better drilled. neither team had shown great ability at line-plunging, although norton's fine rush of fifty-five yards and kendall's run of twenty-five gave brimfield the benefit of the ground-gained figures. each side had good reason to claim the ultimate victory, and each did so, meanwhile cheering and singing and working the enthusiasm up to a fine pitch. chapter xxvii steve smiles steve caught up with tom on the way to the gymnasium. tom was a disreputable looking object. his upper lip had been cut and had swollen to almost twice its normal size, and he had lost half an inch of skin from one cheek. when he smiled, which he did as steve grabbed him by the arm, the effect was absolutely diabolical. "you're the goods, tommikins!" exclaimed steve, squeezing the arm he held. "they didn't make an inch through you. you were great!" "they got through once or twice," mumbled tom. "oh, for a yard or so," scoffed steve. "who gave you that peach of a mouth, tom?" "johnson, i think." he touched it gingerly. "it feels as big as a house." "you're a blooming hero, tom. say, marvin told me the new york papers have got all about that business at oakdale yesterday. he didn't see it, but someone told him. wouldn't you love to read what they say? i'm going to get the papers as soon as the game's over." "silly rot," mumbled tom. they were waiting for the throng ahead to get through the doorway. when they followed tom paused a moment in the hallway, his gaze following the striped legs of the claflin players as they went up the stairs. steve tugged at his arm. "come on, slow-poke! what's the matter?" "nothing. that is, i was just thinking how rotten those fellows will feel if they get beaten." "maybe they won't," said steve soberly. "if they don't, think how rotten we'll feel!" tom smiled, wincing with the twinge from his swollen lip. "i suppose someone's got to feel bad. come on." in the locker room and in the rubbing room beyond all was bustle. the rubber was hard at work over the table and danny moore was already busy with surgeon's plaster and medicated gauze and nasty smelling lotion. there was very little talk as yet. fellows sank on to benches and wearily relaxed their tired muscles. mr. robey and "boots" were consulting in low tones by one of the grated windows. tom eased himself to a seat and began to strip down one torn woollen stocking, displaying an abrasion along the shin bone that brought an exclamation from steve. "shut up," said tom. "swipe a bunch of that absorbent cotton from danny for me, will you? if he sees this he will make a fuss about it. i don't want it to get stiff on me. hi, fowler, how is it?" "all right," replied the left-guard, working a bunch of bleeding knuckles experimentally. "it was hot work, though. can we hold them next half, hall?" "sure! they're as tired as we are, i guess. besides, we had them on the run there toward the last." tom dragged himself off to the wash-room to bathe his leg with the cotton steve had brought. "ten minutes more," announced lawrence. "hurry in to the table, you fellows," called danny. "williams, come here and let me see that knee of yours." "it's all right now, danny," said williams. but he limped across and was freshly bandaged. mr. robey left the window and sought captain miller, while "boots," consulting the scribbled notes in his little book, went from player to player, criticising and advising. "five minutes!" called lawrence. "hurry up, fellows," said coach robey. "don't let's keep them waiting. everyone all right? just a word then. you fellows played well, and i want to tell you so. you made mistakes; everyone does. never mind that now. you've got another chance. that's the main thing. we're going to win this game. we're going to score two touchdowns and we're going to hold them off, fellows. you can do it if you make up your minds to. i want every one of you to go back on the field looking as though you'd just come out of a turkish bath and hadn't done a lick of work. i want every mother's son of you to smile from the time you leave this building until the last whistle blows. if i see one of you who isn't smiling i'll pull him out! we want to make those fellows understand right away that we're going to win, that we _know_ we're going to win and that we can't help being happy about it! but you've got to do more than smile. you've got to work like the dickens! you've got to work just about twice as hard as you've been working. any one of you who thinks he can't do that say so now." mr. robey's eyes searched the earnest, attentive faces around him. "all right. now, there's just one important criticism i've got to make. you fellows were slow. milton was slow in getting his signals off and the rest of you were slow in starting. if you'll speed up you'll get the jump on those fellows every time. i want to see you do it. i want to see you _jump_! i'll pull out the first man of you who doesn't start the instant the play begins. understand that, please. i'll forgive mistakes, but i won't stand for slowness. all right. here's the line-up: edwards, gleason, fowler, thursby, hall, williams, miller, milton, still, kendall, norton. how much time is there, joe?" "about three minutes," answered lawrence. "all right. on the trot now!" the cheer leaders leaped to their places as the teams came hustling back to the field and waved their megaphones and dropped them and beat time with clenched hands as the cheers burst forth. "_rah, rah, brimfield! rah, rah, brimfield! rah, rah, brimfi-e-ld!_" "_claflin! claflin! claflin! rah, rah, rah, claflin! claflin! claflin!_" and then fowler had thudded the ball away with a long swing of his foot and the last half had begun. the claflin full-back pulled the ball out of the air, quick interference formed about him and he came charging back up the field. five--ten--fifteen yards! then miller pulled him down with a savage tackle and the two teams faced each other. umpire and referee dodged out of the way, ainsmith called his signals and a back tore at williams. the secondary defence sprang to the point of attack. there was an instant of confused heaving and swaying. then the whistle sounded and the lines straightened again. "second down! seven to gain!" steve, profiting by miller's advice, kept his gaze fixed on the face of the opposing end who was edging out into the field. then the ball was in play and the claflin end came tearing down upon him, dodged to the right and then strove to slip past him inside. but steve met him squarely with his shoulder and sent him sprawling. behind him the teams were off under a punt and he recovered himself and raced along. it was milton's ball on his thirty-yard line. brimfield punted on first down and claflin tore off three yards through centre and then kicked. neither team was able to gain consistently through the line and each punted on second or third down. brimfield had a trifle the better of the exchanges, aided a little by the breeze which had freshened since the beginning of the game. with the ball on claflin's forty-two yards a fumble was recovered by ainsmith for a loss of seven yards, and on third down claflin attempted a forward pass which was intercepted by captain miller and carried to claflin's thirty-yard mark. brimfield cheered encouragingly and norton smashed through left tackle for four. kendall added two more and on a wing shift still made the distance and the ball was down on the blue's twenty yards. two yards through centre by norton was followed by a wide end run and the loss of four yards, still being captured by captain burrage. norton failed to gain at the line and williams dropped back to kick. milton followed to hold the ball for him and brimfield held her breath. thursby passed low to the quarter and when the ball arose it bounded away from a charging claflin forward and went dancing and rolling back up the field. it was finally secured by gleason on claflin's thirty-three yards. three tries by the maroon netted but six and again williams went back. this time the kick was short and claflin secured the ball on her five-yard line and ran it in to the thirteen. claflin made four around steve's end and three through williams. then whittemore punted to midfield. brimfield returned to her line-smashing and secured first down on the blue's thirty-six yards. there a forward pass to captain miller grounded and milton made a short punt to the blue's ten yards. steve upset burrage in his tracks. claflin tried the brimfield centre twice for four yards and punted to the fifty-yard line. milton came back twelve and kendall added six around the enemy's left end. norton secured first down through right guard. time was called and danny moore scurried on with his pail. milton was injured and led off, marvin taking his place. a forward pass to captain miller netted twelve yards. marvin carried the ball through centre for two and kendall met a stone wall when he tried to get past johnson. norton made a yard through left tackle and williams dropped back to the twenty-yard line. the brimfield supporters were cheering wildly, imploring a touchdown, but it seemed that a field goal was the best they were to have. "get through and block it!" implored the claflin quarter. "hold that line!" shrieked marvin. back came the ball, williams swung his leg, ran back and to the right and passed to steve. but the ball went wide and settled into the arms of the claflin right end. dodging and feinting that speedy youngster tore off thirty-five yards before he was brought down and the ball was claflin's on brimfield's forty yards. the blue found her stride again then and plunged through fowler twice for good gains, finally securing her distance on the maroon's twenty-eight. fowler, who was staggering, was taken out and mcclure came on. claflin tried steve's end and made four yards and then, on a fake kick formation, got three more through centre. burrage tried a drop-kick for goal from the thirty-yard line, but mcclure broke through and blocked it, the ball going to the blue on brimfield's thirty-eight yards. two tries at the line gave claflin three yards and ainsmith shot the ball away to mumford at the far side of the field. miller stopped the runner after a twelve-yard gain. claflin worked the ball back toward the centre of the field in two downs and then, faking a kick, gained two yards through hall. it was third down, with three to go, and again burrage tried a placement. the ball went wide and came back to the twenty-five-yard line. norton punted on second down and time was called after claflin had caught and run back five. churchill replaced tom at right guard when the last quarter started and lacey returned to the game at left tackle. claflin put atkinson back at full and trotted in a substitute right tackle. on the first play ainsmith smashed through the brimfield line for ten yards, and then added two more. the weak place was williams. atkinson got four and then two through the centre. with the pigskin on brimfield's forty yards an intricate wing shift failed to fool the maroon and whittemore was stopped after a gain of a yard, the ball going to brimfield. marvin gained two through left tackle and norton punted. claflin ran back to her thirty-four yards. on the next play claflin was set back fifteen yards for holding and, after an attempted forward pass which grounded, punted to the maroon's forty-five. marvin caught and dodged back fifteen yards before he was stopped. on the first play he shot the ball to steve, and steve, making a good catch, reeled off ten before he was brought down. another forward pass to captain miller gained five. norton plunged at the line for three and kendall failed to gain. with the ball on claflin's twenty-two yards williams went back. it was a fake, however, marvin taking the ball for a straight plunge through centre, which gave brimfield first down on claflin's eighteen. norton plugged the centre for two and kendall swept around the blue's left end for three more. with the pigskin on claflin's thirteen-yard line a score seemed certain. but norton was stopped for no gain and once more williams dropped back to kick. williams, however, was badly tuckered and was so slow in getting the ball away that again claflin blocked and the ball was captured by mumford on the twenty-five-yard line. claflin punted on first down and the ball went out of bounds at the blue's forty. norton kicked to claflin's fifteen and ainsmith ran back to his thirty-six, receiving a salvo of applause from the blue section of the stand. claflin made four around miller's end and on the next play was presented with five, brimfield being detected off-side. atkinson made six through williams and followed it with two more past lacey. on a fake kick ainsmith got through thursby for three, taking the ball across the centre line for first down. a forward pass to right end was upset by steve and claflin punted on second down. kendall caught on his twenty-five and was stopped at the thirty. brimfield made seven in two plunges at the left side of the opposing line and then still fumbled. marvin recovered and norton kicked to claflin's thirty. steve and miller upset ainsmith where he caught. claflin was now playing on the defensive and kicked on first down. the punt was short and kendall got it on claflin's forty-eight yards and made ten before he was caught. the timer announced four minutes to play. claflin sent in a new quarter-back and coach robey replaced williams with gleason. williams was groggy and had to be carried off the field. from the grand stand came imploring cries from brimfield for a touchdown and equally imploring shouts of "hold 'em! hold 'em!" from claflin. still took the pigskin on a criss-cross and made four around claflin's right end. norton shot through centre for the rest of the distance, placing the ball on the blue's twenty-eight. with williams out of the game it was a touchdown or nothing. kendall and still plugged the left of the blue's line for two yards each and norton got around the other end for three. with three to go on third down marvin worked a delayed pass and made first down on the blue's seventeen yards. the time-keeper announced three minutes left. thursby gave place to coolidge. norton plunged through right tackle for five, but someone had held and brimfield was set back fifteen. kendall tried the claflin left end and gained four on a long run across the field. marvin took the ball for a plunge through centre, but was thrown back for a loss. norton was forced to punt and put the ball out of bounds at the five-yard line. the time-keeper announced one minute left and claflin punted from behind her goal-line, the ball going high and being caught by marvin on the blue's thirty yards. brimfield, desperate for a score, lined up quickly and norton struck the claflin centre and piled through for ten yards. the blue was weakening. kendall added four and still made a yard at left tackle. on the fifteen-yard line marvin sent mcclure back as if to try for a goal. evidently claflin accepted the bluff in good faith, for, although there were cries of "fake!" the claflin ends played well in. marvin called his signals once, hesitated and pulled kendall closer in to protect the kicker. then, "signals!" he shouted. "16--34--27--19!" he glanced sharply around the back-field. "16--34--27----" back went the ball, but not to mcclure. the quarter had it and was stepping back out of the path of the plunging players. then his arm shot out and off went the ball, arching to the left, over the end of the battling, swaying lines, straight and far and true to where a lithe figure stood with upraised hand near the blue's ten-yard line. too late claflin saw her error. steve ran a step forward, felt the pigskin settle into his outstretched hands, whirled on his heel and sped toward the goal-line. the claflin right end was almost on him as he crossed the five-yard mark, but when desperate arms settled about steve's legs and brought him crashing to earth he was well over that last white line and the day was won! frantic blue-stockinged youths dropped mercilessly down upon him and drove the breath from his body, in his ears was a wild and terrific clamour of frenzied joy and faintly a whistle shrilled. steve, his nose buried in the soft sod, clutched the ball tightly beneath him and smiled in the darkness. chapter xxviii the chums read a telegram the tumult was over, although from the row came at times a wild shout of exultation from some enthusiastic youth. in 12 billings, steve and tom were dressing for the banquet. there was no feverish hurry in their movements. tom sat for minutes at a time with a shirt draped across his knees and smiled fatuously through swollen lips. there was plenty of time. the banquet was not to be until seven, and it was now still but a little past six. when they spoke they spoke slowly, lazily, as though nothing much mattered, as though fate had given them everything they wanted and nothing was left to be desired. steve, dreamily slipping a belt through the loops of his best trousers, said: "tom, when i look at you i'm ashamed of myself. there you are with a face like a war map and one leg all bunged up, and here am i without a scratch. i've got a bum wrist, but it doesn't show." and steve scowled at the offending member. tom grinned. "you can have my mouth if you want it," he said. after a minute he spoke again. "i was glad about benson," he said. steve nodded. "so was i." tom laughed. "yes, you looked it!" "well, i didn't know why robey was taking me out, of course. it seemed after i'd made that touchdown that he'd ought to let me play the game out. benson was rather--rather pathetic when he hobbled on. i'm glad he's got his letter, though." "yes, and there's only one thing i'm not glad about," responded tom thoughtfully, beginning to squirm into his shirt. "i'm not glad we missed that goal. i wanted that extra point." "how could we help missing it? andy isn't any goal kicker, and all the others were afraid to try, i suppose. what's the odds, though! we won, and six to nothing is good enough, isn't it?" "mm--yes; seven to nothing would have looked better, though." "and you're the fellow," scoffed steve, "who was almost crying awhile back because claflin would feel bad if we licked her!" tom only grunted. steve went into a daydream with one leg in his trousers until, presently, tom laughed softly. "what are you choking about?" asked steve. "just thinking. remember, steve, coming on in the train how we were talking about what--what it would be like here?" "n--no," answered steve. "were we?" "yes. i remember you said that in the stories the hero was always suspected of something he hadn't done and you said you'd bet that if anyone tried that on you you'd make a kick." "well, what of it?" "you didn't, though. some of the fellows thought you'd swiped that blue-book that time and you didn't make a murmur." "because----" "because you thought i'd done it and was trying to shield me. i know. then you said that in the stories the hero saves someone from drowning and the football captain puts him into the big game and he wins it by a wonderful run the length of the field." "that's right, isn't it? all the school stories have it like that, don't they?" "i know." "well, then----" "the funny thing is that it happened like that to us, steve, or pretty nearly. i don't mean that i--i actually saved you from drowning, but----" "you sure did, though!" "anyway, it was something like that, wasn't it? and then you went and won the game in the last minute of play, just as they do in the stories." "i didn't make any run the length of the field," denied steve. "all i did was catch the ball and go ten yards with it. nothing wonderful about that." "still, it's all pretty much like the story-writers tell it, after all, eh? that's what struck me as funny." "huh! it doesn't seem to me much like it is in the stories. say, we forgot about the papers, tom!" "what papers?" "the new york papers, with the account of the thrilling rescue at oakdale, with your picture----" "he didn't get any picture of me," said tom grimly. "he made you talk, though," laughed steve. "he'd make anyone talk," tom grunted. "by jove!" he jumped suddenly to his feet, and with more animation than had been displayed in number 12 for a half-hour hurried to the closet. "what's up?" asked steve in surprise. "telegram," came in smothered tones from tom. "here it is. lawrence handed it to me in the gym after the game. said it came at noon, but robey wouldn't let him give it to me. bet you it's from my dad." tom tore the end from the yellow envelope and there was silence in the room for a moment. at last, with a queer expression on his battered countenance, he walked across and held the message out to steve. "it's for you, too," he said quietly. steve took it and read: "tannersville, pa., nov. 25. morning papers have account of oakdale scrape grateful to you for your rescue of steve god bless you show this to steve your father joins me in love to you both. john t. edwards." steve let the telegram fall and stared blankly at tom. "what--do--you know--about that?" he gasped. "they've made it up, tom!" tom nodded gravely. "it--it----" a slow smile overspread his face. "honest, steve, that's better than winning the game!" "you bet it is! and you did it!" "oh, no." tom's eyes twinkled merrily. "you did it yourself, steve, by trying to get drowned!" the end the outdoor chums series by captain quincy allen the outdoor chums are four wide-awake lads, sons of wealthy men of a small city located on a lake. the boys love outdoor life, and are greatly interested in hunting, fishing, and picture taking. they have motor cycles, motor boats, canoes, etc., and during their vacations go everywhere and have all sorts of thrilling adventures. the stories give full directions for camping out, how to fish, how to hunt wild animals and prepare the skins for stuffing, how to manage a canoe, how to swim, etc. full of the spirit of outdoor life. the outdoor chums or the first tour of the rod, gun and camera club. the outdoor chums on the lake or lively adventures on wildcat island. the outdoor chums in the forest or laying the ghost of oak ridge. the outdoor chums on the gulf or rescuing the lost balloonists. the outdoor chums after big game or perilous adventures in the wilderness. the outdoor chums on a houseboat or the rivals of the mississippi. the outdoor chums in the big woods or the rival hunters at lumber run. the outdoor chums at cabin point or the golden cup mystery. =12mo. averaging 240 pages. illustrated. handsomely bound in cloth.= * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the bobbsey twins books for little men and women by laura lee hope author of "the bunny brown" series, etc. * * * * * =12mo. durably bound. illustrated. uniform style of binding= * * * * * copyright publications which cannot be obtained elsewhere. books that charm the hearts of the little ones, and of which they never tire. the bobbsey twins the bobbsey twins in the country the bobbsey twins at the seashore the bobbsey twins at school the bobbsey twins at snow lodge the bobbsey twins on a houseboat the bobbsey twins at meadow brook the bobbsey twins at home the bobbsey twins in a great city the bobbsey twins on blueberry island the bobbsey twins on the deep blue sea the bobbsey twins in the great west * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the girls of central high series by gertrude w. morrison * * * * * =12mo. bound in cloth. illustrated. uniform style of binding.= * * * * * here is a series full of the spirit of high school life of to-day. the girls are real flesh-and-blood characters, and we follow them with interest in school and out. there are many contested matches on track and field, and on the water, as well as doings in the classroom and on the school stage. there is plenty of fun and excitement, all clean, pure and wholesome. the girls of central high or rivals for all honors. a stirring tale of high school life, full of fun, with a touch of mystery and a strange initiation. the girls of central high on lake luna or the crew that won. telling of water sports and fun galore, and of fine times in camp. the girls of central high at basketball or the great gymnasium mystery. here we have a number of thrilling contests at basketball and in addition, the solving of a mystery which had bothered the high school authorities for a long while. the girls of central high on the stage or the play that took the prize. how the girls went in for theatricals and how one of them wrote a play which afterward was made over for the professional stage and brought in some much-needed money. the girls of central high on track and field or the girl champions of the school league. this story takes in high school athletics in their most approved and up-to-date fashion. full of fun and excitement. the girls of central high in camp or the old professor's secret. the girls went camping on acorn island and had a delightful time at boating, swimming and picnic parties. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the boys of columbia high series by graham b. forbes never was there a cleaner, brighter, more manly boy than frank allen, the hero of this series of boys' tales, and never was there a better crowd of lads to associate with than the students of the school. all boys will read these stories with deep interest. the rivalry between the towns along the river was of the keenest, and plots and counterplots to win the champions, at baseball, at football, at boat racing, at track athletics, and at ice hockey, were without number. any lad reading one volume of this series will surely want the others. the boys of columbia high or the all around rivals of the school the boys of columbia high on the diamond or winning out by pluck the boys of columbia high on the river or the boat race plot that failed the boys of columbia high on the gridiron or the struggle for the silver cup the boys of columbia high on the ice or out for the hockey championship the boys of columbia high in track athletics or a long run that won the boys of columbia high in winter sports or stirring doings on skates and iceboats =12mo. illustrated. handsomely bound in cloth, with cover design and wrappers in colors.= * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the bunny brown series by laura lee hope author of the popular "bobbsey twins" books * * * * * wrapper and text illustrations drawn by florence england nosworthy * * * * * =12mo. durably bound. illustrated. uniform style of binding.= * * * * * these stories by the author of the "bobbsey twins" books are eagerly welcomed by the little folks from about five to ten years of age. their eyes fairly dance with delight at the lively doings of inquisitive little bunny brown and his cunning, trustful sister sue. bunny was a lively little boy, very inquisitive. when he did anything, sue followed his leadership. they had many adventures, some comical in the extreme. bunny brown and his sister sue bunny brown and his sister sue on grandpa's farm bunny brown and his sister sue playing circus bunny brown and his sister sue at camp rest-a-while bunny brown and his sister sue at aunt lu's city home bunny brown and his sister sue in the big woods bunny brown and his sister sue on an auto tour bunny brown and his sister sue and their shetland pony bunny brown and his sister sue giving a show bunny brown and his sister sue at christmas tree cove * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the moving picture boys series by victor appleton * * * * * =uniform style of binding. individual colored wrappers.= * * * * * moving pictures and photo plays are famous the world over, and in this line of books the reader is given a full description of how the films are made--the scenes of little dramas, indoors and out, trick pictures to satisfy the curious, soul-stirring pictures of city affairs, life in the wild west, among the cowboys and indians, thrilling rescues along the seacoast, the daring of picture hunters in the jungle among savage beasts, and the great risks run in picturing conditions in a land of earthquakes. the volumes teem with adventures and will be found interesting from first chapter to last. the moving picture boys the moving picture boys in the west the moving picture boys on the coast the moving picture boys in the jungle the moving picture boys in earthquake land the moving picture boys and the flood the moving picture boys at panama the moving picture boys under the sea the moving picture boys on the war front the moving picture boys on french battlefields moving picture boys' first showhouse moving picture boys at seaside park moving picture boys on broadway the moving picture boys' outdoor exhibition the moving picture boys' new idea * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the every child should know series * * * * * =may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list= * * * * * birds every child should know by neltje blanchan. illustrated earth and sky every child should know by julia ellen rogers. illustrated essays every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie fairy tales every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie famous stories every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie folk tales every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie heroes every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie heroines every child should know coedited by hamilton w. mabie and kate stephens hymns every child should know edited by dolores bacon legends every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie myths every child should know edited by hamilton w. mabie operas every child should know by dolores bacon. illustrated pictures every child should know by dolores bacon. illustrated poems every child should know edited by mary e. burt prose every child should know edited by mary e. burt songs every child should know edited by dolores bacon trees every child should know by julia ellen rogers. illustrated water wonders every child should know by jean m. thompson. illustrated wild animals every child should know by julia ellen rogers. illustrated wild flowers every child should know by frederic william stack. illustrated * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york charming books for girls may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list when patty went to college, by jean webster. illustrated by c. d. williams. one of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been written. it is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable and thoroughly human. just patty, by jean webster. illustrated by c. m. relyea. patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows. the poor little rich girl, by eleanor gates. with four full page illustrations. this story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. a charming play as dramatized by the author. rebecca of sunnybrook farm, by kate douglas wiggin. one of the most beautiful studies of childhood--rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of austere new englanders. the stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record. new chronicles of rebecca, by kate douglas wiggin. illustrated by f. c. yohn. additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that carry rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. rebecca mary, by annie hamilton donnell. illustrated by elizabeth shippen green. this author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing. emmy lou: her book and heart, by george madden martin. illustrated by charles louis hinton. emmy lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. she is just a bewitchingly innocent, huggable little maid. the book is wonderfully human. * * * * * _=ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction=_ * * * * * grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st. new york the children's crimson series * * * * * may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list * * * * * the editors; and what the children's crimson series offers your child in the first place, "the children's crimson series" is designed to please and interest every child, by reason of the sheer fascination of the stories and poems contained therein. to accomplish such an end, a vast amount of patient labor, a rare judgment, a life-long study of children, and a genuine love for all that is best in literature, are essential factors of success. kate douglas wiggin (mrs. riggs) and nora archibald smith possess these qualities and this experience. their efforts, as pioneers of kindergarten work, the love and admiration in which their works are held by all young people, prove them to be in full sympathy with this unique piece of work. let all parents, who wish their little ones to have their minds and tastes developed along the right paths, remember that once a child is interested and amused, the rest is comparatively easy. stories and poems so admirably selected, cannot then but sow the seeds of a real literary culture, which must be encouraged in childhood if it is ever to exercise a real influence in life. * * * * * edited by kate douglas wiggin and nora archibald smith the fairy ring: _fairy tales for children 4 to 8_ magic casements: _fairy tales for children 6 to 12_ tales of laughter: _fairy tales for growing boys and girls_ tales of wonder: _fairy tales that make one wonder_ pinafore palace: _rhymes and jingles for tiny tots_ the posy ring: _verses and poems that children love and learn_ golden numbers: _verses and poems for children and grown-ups_ the talking beasts: _birds and beasts in fable_ edited by asa don dickinson christmas stories: "_read us a story about christmas_" edited by mary e. burt and w. t. chapin stories and poems from kipling: "_how the camel got his hump," and other stories_ * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the moving picture girls series by laura lee hope author of "the bobbsey twins series." * * * * * =12mo. bound in cloth. illustrated. uniform style of binding= * * * * * the adventures of ruth and alice devere. their father, a widower, is an actor who has taken up work for the "movies." both girls wish to aid him in his work and visit various localities to act in all sorts of pictures. the moving picture girls or first appearance in photo dramas. having lost his voice, the father of the girls goes into the movies and the girls follow. tells how many "parlor dramas" are filmed. the moving picture girls at oak farm or queer happenings while taking rural plays. full of fun in the country, the haps and mishaps of taking film plays, and giving an account of two unusual discoveries. the moving picture girls snowbound or the proof on the film. a tale of winter adventures in the wilderness, showing how the photo-play actors sometimes suffer. the moving picture girls under the palms or lost in the wilds of florida. how they went to the land of palms, played many parts in dramas before the camera; were lost, and aided others who were also lost. the moving picture girls at rocky ranch or great days among the cowboys. all who have ever seen moving pictures of the great west will want to know just how they are made. this volume gives every detail and is full of clean fun and excitement. the moving picture girls at sea or a pictured shipwreck that became real. a thrilling account of the girls' experiences on the water. the moving picture girls in war plays or the sham battles at oak farm. the girls play important parts in big battle scenes and have plenty of hard work along with considerable fun. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page 18, "seve" changed to "steve". (what steve said) page 82, "pamajas" changed to "pajamas". (the pajamas would) page 191, "imaginery" changed to "imaginary". (an imaginary ball) page 196, "belligerantly" changed to "belligerently". (answered steve belligerently) page 243, "concensus" changed to "consensus". (but the consensus) advertisement for rebecca of sunnybrook farm, "phenominal" changed to "phenomenal". (making a phenomenal) advertisement for emmy lou, "hugable" changed to "huggable". (huggable little maid) [illustration: three victorious princeton captains hillebrand, cochran, edwards] football days memories of the game and of the men behind the ball by william h. edwards princeton 1900 with introduction by walter camp yale 1880 moffat, yard and company new york 1916 copyright, 1916, by moffat, yard and company new york dedicated to john p. poe, jr. princeton '95 honored and beloved by hosts of friends, he represented the highest ideals of american football, not only in life, but in his death upon the battlefield in france. as i think of him, the stirring lines of henry newboldt come to me as a fitting eulogy: vita lampada there's a breathless hush in the close to-night- ten to make and the match to win- a bumping pitch and a blinding light, an hour to play and the last man in. and it's not for the sake of a ribboned-coat or the selfish hope of a season's fame, but his captain's hand on his shoulder smote, "play up! play up! and play the game!" the sand of the desert is sodden red- red with the wreck of a square that broke, the gatling jammed and the colonel dead and the regiment blind with dust and smoke. the river of death has brimmed its banks, and england's far, and honor a name- but the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks, "play up! play up! and play the game!" this is the word that year by year while in her place the school is set every one of the sons must hear, and none that hears it dares forget. thus they all with a joyful mind- bear their life like a torch in flame- and failing, fling to the host behind, "play up! play up! and play the game!" greeting i value more highly than any other athletic gift i have ever received, the princeton football championship banner that hangs on my wall. it was given to me by a friend who sent three boys to princeton. it is a duplicate of the one that hangs in the trophy room of the gymnasium there. how often have i gazed longingly at the names of my loyal team-mates inscribed upon it. many times have i run over in my mind the part that each one played on the memorable occasion when that banner was won. memories cluster about that token that are dear and sacred to me. i see before me not only the faces of my team, but the faces of men of other years and other universities who have contributed so much to the great game of football. i recall the preparatory school days and the part that football played in our school and college careers. again i see the athletic fields and the dressing rooms. i hear the earnest pleading of the coaches. i see the teams run out upon the field and hear the cheering throng. the coin is tossed in the air. the shrill blast of the referee's whistle signals the game to start. the ball is kicked off, and the contest is on. the thousands of spectators watch breathlessly. for the time the whole world is forgotten, except for the issue being fought out there before them. but we are not dressed in football suits nowadays. we are on the side lines. we have a different part to play. years have compelled a change. in spirit, however, we are still "in the game." it is to share these memories with all true lovers of football and to pay a tribute to the heroes of the gridiron who are no longer with us that i have undertaken this volume. let us together retrace the days in which we lived: days of preparation, days of victory, and days of defeat. let us also look into the faces of some of the football heroes of years ago, and recall the achievements that made them famous. and let us recall, too, the men of the years just past who have so nobly upheld the traditions of the american game of football, and helped to place it on its present high plane. william h. edwards. [illustration: my corner "fond memory sheds the light of other days around me."] prologue they say that no man ever made a successful football player who was lacking in any quality of imagination. if this be true, and time and again has it been proved, then there is no more fitting dedication to a book dealing with the gridiron heroes of the past than to a man like johnny poe. for football is the abandon of body and mind to the obsession of the spirit that knows no obstacle, counts no danger and for the time being is dull and callous to physical pain or exhaustion. it is a something that makes one see visions as johnny saw them! there is no sport in the world that brings out unselfishness as does this great gridiron game of ours. every fall, second and scrub teams throughout the country sacrifice themselves only to let others enter the promised land of victory. it is a strange thing but one almost never hears any real football player criticise another's making the team, either his own or an all america. although the player in this sport appreciates the loyal support of the thousands on the stands, every man realizes that his checks on the bank of cheers can never be cashed unless there is a deposit of hard work and practice. perhaps all this in an indistinct and indefinite way explains why football players, the country over, understand each other and that when the game is attacked for any reason they stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of what they know down in the bottom of their hearts has such an influence on character building. and there is no one better fitted to tell the story of this and of the gridiron heroes than big bill edwards, known not only as a player but far and wide as one of the best officials that ever handled the game. "a square deal and no roughing" was his motto, and every one realized it and accepted every decision unquestioningly. his association with players in so many angles has given him a particular insight into the sport and has enabled him to tell this story as no one else could. and what names to conjure with! the whistle blows and a shadowy host springs into action before one's misty eyes--alex moffat, the star of kickers, hector cowan, heffelfinger, gordon brown, ma newell, truxton hare, glass, neil snow and shevlin, giants of linemen. but i must stop before i trespass upon what bill edwards will do better. here's to them all--forty years of heroes! walter camp. [illustration: walter camp yale's captain, '78-'79.] list of illustrations hillebrand, cochran, edwards _frontispiece_ my corner walter camp, yale's captain '78-'79 the old fifth avenue send-off 1 old yale heroes--lee mcclung's team 5 we beat andover 11 lafayette's great team 24 house in disorder 30 hit your man low 32 repairs 34 the old faithfuls 39 jim rodgers' team 45 cochran was game to the end 48 on to new haven--all dressed up and ready to go 54 hillebrand's last charge 60 al sharpe's goal 64 touching the match to victory 67 alex moffat and his team 82 old penn heroes 100 pa corbin's team 108 breakers ahead--phil king in the old days 125 lookout, princeton! 130 barrett on one of his famous dashes; exeter-andover game, 1915 142 bill hollenback coming at you 147 "the next day the picture was gone"--jim cooney making a hole for dana kafer 158 johnny poe, football player and soldier 181 northcroft kicking the field goal anticipated by the navy and feared by the army 200 cadets and middies entering the field 224 two aces--bill morley and harold weeks 251 vic kennard's kick 255 sam white's run 261 king, of harvard, making a run; mahan putting black on his head 268 princeton's 1899 team 272 "nothing got by john dewitt" 277 john dewitt about to pick up the ball 280 the ever reliable brickley--a football thoroughbred--tack hardwick 284 the poe family 296 just boys 298 hobey baker, walter camp, jr., snake ames, jr. 303 the elect 310 how it hurts to lose 337 cornell's great team--1915 344 one scene never photographed in football 349 harvard, 1915 354 the greatest indian of them all 357 learning the charge 363 billy bull advising with captain talbot 367 michigan's famous 1901 team 370 columbia back in the game, 1915 381 close to a thriller. erwin of pennsylvania scoring against cornell 386 crash of conflict. when charge meets charge 407 ainsworth, yale's terror in an uphill game 416 two to one he gets away--brickley being tackled by wilson and avery 422 snapping the ball with lewis. "two inseparables"--frank hinkey and the ball 428 marshall newell 434 mcclung, referee, shevlin and hogan 450 contents chap. page i.--prep. school days. 1-17 my first glimpse of a varsity team--the yale eleven of 1891--lee mcclung--vance mccormick--heffelfinger--sanford--impressions made upon a boy--st. john's military school--lawrenceville--making the team--andover and hill school games. ii.--freshman year. 18-29 the freedom of freshman year is attractive--catching the spirit of the place--searching for football material--the cannon rush--early training with jack mcmasters--tie game with lafayette at easton--humiliation of being taken out of a game--cornell game--joe beacham's fair admirer in the bleachers--bill church's threat carried out--garry cochran's victories against harvard and yale. iii.--elbow to elbow 30-41 dressing for practice--out upon the field--tackling--after practice, back to the dressing-room--how a player finds himself--the training table--team mates--a surprise for john dewitt's team. iv.--mistakes in the game. 42-53 if we could only correct mistakes we all made--defeats might be turned into victory--the fellow that let athletics be the big thing in his college life--the '97 defeat--no recognition of old schoolmates--my opponent was charlie chadwick--jim rodgers the yale captain--the cochran-de saulles compact--cochran injured--his last game--ad kelly's great work--mistakes caused sadness--cornell defeating princeton at ithaca in 1899--no outstretched hands at princeton for our homecoming. v.--my last game 54-67 a desire to make the last game the best--on to new haven--optimism--the start of the game--bosey reiter's touchdown--yale scores on a block kick--al sharpe's goal from the field--score 10 to 6, yale leading--arthur poe's goal from the field--princeton victory--the joy of winning--the reception at princeton. vi.--heroes of the past--early days 68-92 treasured memory of those who have gone before--where are the old-time heroes?--walter camp--f. r. vernon--camp as a captain--chummy eaton--john harding--eugene baker--fred remington--theodore mcnair--alexander moffat--wyllys terry--memories of john c. bell. vii.--george woodruff's story 93-101 his entrance to yale--making the team--recollections of the men he played with and against--the lamar run--pennsylvania experiences. viii.--anecdotes and recollections 102-124 old-time signals--fun with bert hansen--sport donnelly--billy rhodes and gill--victorious days at yale--corbin's 1888 team--pa corbin's speech when his team was banqueted--mr. and mrs. walter camp, head coaches of the yale football team in 1888--cowan the great--story of his football days--he was disqualified by wyllys terry--tribute to heffelfinger--going back with john cranston. ix.--the nineties and after 125-163 the day sanford made the yale team--parke davis--sanford and yost obstructing the traffic--phil king--the old flying wedges--pop gailey--charlie young--an evening with jim rodgers--vance mccormick and denny o'neil--dartmouth and some of her men--dave fultz--christy mathewson at bucknell--jack munn tells of buffalo bill--booth tells of his western experiences--harry kersburg--heff herring at merton college--carl flanders--bill horr. x.--college traditions and spirit 164-180 college life in america is rich in traditions--the value of college spirit--each college has its own traditions--alumni parade--school master and boy--victory must never overshadow honor--constructive criticism of the alumni--mass meeting enthusiasm--horse edwards, princeton '89--job e. hedges. xi.--johnny poe's own story 181-193 private w. faulkner, a comrade in the black watch, tells of poe's death--johnny's last words--paul macwhelan gives london impressions of poe's death--anecdotes that johnny poe wrote while in nevada. xii.--army and navy 194-225 character and training of west point and annapolis players--experience of the visitor watching the drill of battalion--annapolis recollections and football traditions at naval academy--old players--a trip de luxe to west point--west point recollections--harmon graves--the way they have in the army--the army and navy game. xiii.--hard luck in the game 226-246 in football, as it is in life, we have no use for a quitter--football a game for the man who has nerve--many a small man has made a big man look ridiculous--morris ely game though handicapped--val flood's recollections--andy smith--vonabalde gammon of georgia. xiv.--bringing home the bacon 247-285 billy bull's recollections of yale games--the day columbia beat yale--dressing room scene where doxology was sung--account by richard harding davis--introducing vic kennard of harvard fame--opportunist extraordinary--his experience with mr. e. h. coy--charlie barrett, of cornell--eddie hart of princeton--sam white--joe duff--side line thoughts of doctor w. a. brooks and evert jansen wendell--new haven wreck--eddie mahan talking--his opinion of frank glick--george chadwick of yale--arthur poe--story of his run and of his kick--john dewitt's story--tichenor, of georgia--"bobbing up and down" story--charlie brickley. xv.--the bloody angle 286-295 going back to the rough days--princeton vs. harvard fall of '87 at jarvis field--luther price's experiences in the game--cowan's disqualification by wyllys terry--the umpire--walter camp was referee--holden carried off the field--bob church's valor. xvi.--the family in football 296-305 football men in two distinct classes--those who are made into players by the coaches and those who are born with the football instinct--the poes, camps, winters, ames, drapers, riggs, youngs, withingtons, etc. xvii.--our good old trainers 306-336 our good old trainers--jack mcmasters--"dear old jim robinson"--mike murphy the dean of trainers--"the old mike"--a chat with pooch donovan--keene fitzpatrick and his experiences--mike sweeney--jack moakley--there is much humor in johnny mack--huggins of brown--harry tuthill--doctor w. m. conant, harvard '79, first doctor in charge of any team. xviii.--nightmares 337-348 frank morse, of princeton on the spirit in defeat--tom shevlin's story--nightmares of w. c. rhodes--a yale nightmare--sam morse--jim hogan--the cornell game of 1915 is eddie mahan's nightmare--jack de saulles' nightmare. xix.--men who coached 349-382 no coaches in the old days--personality counts in coaching--football is fickle--haughton at harvard at the psychological moment--old harvard coaches--al sharpe--glenn warner--the indians--billy bull in the game--sanford, the unique--making of chadwick--w. r. tichenor, emergency coach of the south--auburn recollections--listening to yost--reggie brown--jimmy knox--harvard scouts--dartmouth holds a unique position in college football--ed hall, the father of dartmouth football--myron e. witham, captain of the dartmouth team--walter mccornack--eddie holt's coaching--harry kersburg's harvard coaching recollections--making two star players from the football discards--vic kennard and rex ver wiebe--john h. rush--tad jones--t. n. metcalf--tom thorp--bob folwell--at pennsylvania. xx.--umpire and referee 383-406 "why did he give that penalty?"--emotions of an official--john bell's recollections as an official--in the old days one official handled the entire game--dashiell's reminiscences--matthew mcclung--conversation with john l. sullivan--my own personal experiences--evarts wrenn at work--dan hurley--bill crowell--phil draper's ideas--wyllys terry's official recollections--explanation of the cowan disqualification--pa corbin--joe pendleton--refereeing with nate tufts--okeson. xxi.--crash of conflict 407-433 the first five minutes of play--a good start usually means a good ending--bracelet in the game--lueder and blondy wallace--"i've got you buffaloed"--tom shevlin remarked: "mike, this isn't football--it's war"--bemus pierce: "now keep your eyes open and find out who it was"--"if you won't be beat, you can't be beat," said johnny poe--rinehart tells how he tried to get even with sam boyle--barkie donald and bemus pierce--the yale-harvard game at springfield '94--result; no game for nine years--frank hinkey and wrightington's broken collar-bone--joe beacham's paragon--sandy hunt--bill hollenback. xxii.--lest we forget 434-460 marshall newell--gordon brown--james j. hogan--thomas j. shevlin--francis h. burr--neil snow--billy bannard--harry hooper--richard harding davis--mcclung. xxiii.--aloha 461-464 hail and farewell--the old game and the new compared--exclusively collegiate sport--isaac h. bromley, yale '53, sums up the spirit of college life and sport! [illustration: the old fifth avenue send-off] football days chapter i prep. school days to every man there comes a moment that marks the turning point of his career. for me it was a certain saturday morning in the autumn of 1891. as i look back upon it, across the years, i feel something of the same thrill that stirred my boyish blood that day and opened a door through which i looked into a new world. i had just come to the city, a country boy, from my home in lisle, n. y., to attend the horace mann school. as i walked across madison square, i glanced toward the old fifth avenue hotel, where my eyes fell upon the scene depicted in the accompanying picture. almost before i was aware of it my curiosity led me to mingle with the crowd surging in and out of the hotel, and i learned by questioning the bystanders that it was the headquarters of the yale team, which that afternoon was to play princeton at the polo grounds. the players were about to leave the hotel for the field, and i hurried inside to catch a glimpse of them. the air was charged with enthusiasm, and i soon caught the infection--although it was all new to me then--of the vital power of college spirit which later so completely dominated my life. i recall with vividness how i lingered and waited for something to happen. men were standing in groups, and all eyes were centered upon the heroes of the team. every one was talking football. some of the names heard then have never been forgotten by me. there was the giant heffelfinger whom every one seemed anxious to meet. i was told that he was the crack yale guard. i looked at him, and, then and there, i joined the hero worshippers. i also remember lee mcclung, the yale captain, who seemed to realize the responsibilities that rested upon his shoulders. there was an air of restraint upon him. in later years he became treasurer of the united states and his signature was upon the country's currency. my most vivid recollection of him will be, however, as he stood there that day in the corridor of the famous old hotel, on the day of a great football conflict with princeton. then sanford was pointed out to me, the yale center-rush. i recall his eagerness to get out to the "bus" and to be on his way to the field. when the starting signal was given by the captain, sanford's huge form was in the front rank of the crowd that poured out upon the sidewalk. the whole scene was intensely thrilling to me, and i did not leave until the last player had entered the "bus" and it drove off. crowds of yale men and spectators gave the players cheer after cheer as they rolled away. the flags with which the "bus" was decorated waved in the breeze, and i watched them with indescribable fascination until they were out of sight. the noise made by the yale students i learned afterwards was college cheering, and college cheers once heard by a boy are never forgotten. many in that throng were going to the game. i could not go, but the scene that i had just witnessed gave me an inspiration. it stirred something within me, and down deep in my soul there was born a desire to go to college. i made my way directly to the y. m. c. a. gymnasium, then at the corner of fourth avenue and twenty-third street. athletics had for me a greater attraction than ever before, and from that day i applied myself with increased enthusiasm to the work of the gymnasium. the following autumn i entered st. john's military academy at manlius, n. y., a short distance from my old home. i was only seventeen years of age and weighed 217 pounds. former adjutant general william verbeck--then colonel verbeck--was head master. before i was fairly settled in my room, the colonel had drafted me as a candidate for the football team. i wanted to try for the team, and was as eager to make it as he evidently was to have me make it. but i did not have any football togs, and the supply at the school did not contain any large enough. so i had to have some built for me. the day they arrived, much to my disappointment, i found the trousers were made of white canvas. their newness was appalling and i pictured myself in them with feelings of dismay. i robbed them of their whiteness that night by mopping up a lot of mud with them behind the gymnasium. when they had dried--by morning--they looked like a pair of real football trousers. george redington of yale was our football coach. he was full of contagious fire. redington seemed interested in me and gave me much individual coaching. colonel verbeck matched him in love of the game. he not only believed in athletics, but he played at end on the second team, and it was pretty difficult for the boys to get the best of him. they made an unusual effort to put the colonel out of the plays, but, try as hard as they might, he generally came out on top. the result was a decided increase in the spirit of the game. we had one of the best preparatory school teams in that locality, but owing to our distance from the larger preparatory schools, we were forced to play syracuse, hobart, hamilton, rochester, colgate, and cazenovia seminary--all of whom we defeated. we also played against the syracuse athletic association, whose team was composed of professional athletes as well as former college players. bert hanson, who had been a great center at yale, was one of this team. [illustration: h. wallis coxe cochran nessler heffelfinger w. winter mills sanford hartwell morrison graves stillman mccormick mcclung l. t. bliss c. bliss hinkey barbour t. dyer old yale heroes--lee mcclung's team] recalling the men who played on our st. john's team, i am confident that if all of them had gone to college, most of them would have made the varsity. in fact, some did. it was decided that i should go to lawrenceville school, en route to princeton. it was on the trip from trenton to lawrenceville, in the big stage coach loaded with boys, i got my first dose of homesickness. the prospect of new surroundings made me yearn for st. john's. the "blue hour" of boyhood, however, is a brief one. i was soon engaged in conversation with a little fellow who was sitting beside me and who began discussing the ever-popular subject of football. he was very inquisitive and wanted to know if i had ever played the game, and if i was going to try for the team. he told me about the great game lawrenceville played with the princeton varsity the year before, when lawrenceville scored six points before princeton realized what they were really up against. he fascinated me by his graphic description. there was a glowing account of the playing of garry cochran, the great captain of the lawrenceville team, who had just graduated and gone to princeton, together with sport armstrong, the giant tackle. these men were sure to live in lawrenceville's history if for nothing else than the part they had played in that notable game, although princeton rallied and won 8 to 6. it was not long before i learned that my newly-made friend was billy mcgibbon, a member of the lawrenceville baseball team. "just wait until you see charlie de saulles and billy dibble play behind the line," he went on; and from that moment i began to be a part of the new life, the threshold of which i was crossing. strangely enough the memory of getting settled in my new quarters faded with the eventful moment when the call for candidates came, and i went out with the rest of the boys to try for the team. competition was keen and many candidates offered themselves. i was placed on the scrub team. one of my first attempts for supremacy was in the early part of the season when i was placed as right guard of the scrub against perry wentz, an old star player of the school and absolutely sure of his position. i recall how on several occasions the first team could not gain as much distance through the second as the men desired, and wentz, who later on distinguished himself on the varsity at princeton and still later as a crack player on pennsylvania, seemed to have trouble in opening up my position. max rutter, the lawrenceville captain, with the directness that usually characterizes such officers, called this fact to wentz's attention. wentz, who probably felt naturally his pride of football fame, became quite angry at rutter's remark that he was being outplayed. he took off his nose-guard, threw it on the ground and left the field. rutter moved me over to the first team in wentz's place. that night there was a general upset on the team which was settled amicably, however, and the next day wentz continued playing in his old place. the position of guard was given to me on the other side of the line, george cadwalader being moved out to the position of tackle. this was the same cadwalader who subsequently went to yale and made a great name for himself on the gridiron, in spite of the fact that he remained at new haven but one year. it was here at lawrenceville that this great player made his reputation as a goal kicker, a fame that was enhanced during his football days at yale. max rutter, the captain of the lawrenceville team, went to williams and played on the varsity, eventually becoming captain there also. ned moffat, nephew of princeton's great alex moffat, played end rush. about this time i began to realize that billy mcgibbon had given me a correct line on charlie de saulles and billy dibble. these two players worked wonderfully well together, and were an effective scoring machine with the assistance of doc macnider and dave davis. during these days at lawrenceville owen johnson gathered the material for those interesting stories in which he used his old schoolmates for the characters. the thin disguise of doc macnooder does not, however, conceal doc macnider from his old schoolboy friends. the same is true of the slightly changed names of garry cochran, turk righter, charlie de saulles and billy dibble. charlie de saulles, after graduation, went to yale and continued his wonderful, spectacular career on the gridiron. we will spend an afternoon with him on the yale field later. billy dibble went to williams and played a marvelous game until he was injured, early in his freshman year. it was during those days that i met garry cochran, sport armstrong and other princeton coaches for the first time. they used to come over to assist in coaching our team. our regular coaches at lawrenceville were walter b. street, who had been a famous football star years before at williams, and william j. george, renowned in princeton's football history as a center-rush. i cannot praise the work of these men too highly. they were thoroughbreds in every sense of the word. it was one of the old traditions of lawrenceville football to have a game every year with pennington seminary. what man is there who attended either school who does not recall the spirit of those old-time contests? the hill school was another of our football rivals. the trip to pottstown, pa., was an event eagerly looked forward to--so also was the hill school's return game at lawrenceville. the rivalry between the two schools was keen. everything possible was done at the hill school to make our visit a pleasant one. the score of 28 to 0, by which lawrenceville won the game that year, made it especially pleasant. as i recall that trip, two men stand out in my memory. one was john meigs, the head master. the other was mike sweeney, the trainer and athletic director. they were the two central figures of hill school traditions. interest in football was emphasized at that time by the approaching game with andover at lawrenceville. this was the first time that these two teams had ever played. andover was probably more renowned in football annals than any school lawrenceville had played up to this time. the lawrenceville coaches realized that the game would be a strenuous one. after a conference, the two coaches decided that it would be wise to see andover play at andover the week before we were to play them. accordingly, mr. george went to andover, and when he returned, he gathered the team around him in one of the recitation halls and described carefully the offense and defense of our coming opponents. he also demonstrated with checkers what each man did in every play and placed emphasis on the work of eddie holt, who was acting captain of the andover team. to represent holt's giant build he placed one checker on top of another, saying, as i remember, with great seriousness: "this topped checker represents holt. he must be taken care of, and it will require two lawrenceville men to stop him on every play. i am certain of this for holt was a marvel last saturday." during the week we drilled secretly and most earnestly in anticipation of defeating andover. the game attracted an unusually large number of spectators. lawrenceville made it a gala day for its alumni, and all the old andover and lawrenceville boys who could get there witnessed the game. when the andover team ran out upon the field we were all anxious to see how big holt loomed up. he certainly was a giant and towered high above the other members of his team. soon the whistle blew, and the trouble was on. in memory now i can see billy dibble circling andover's end for twenty-five yards, scoring a touchdown amid tremendous excitement. this all transpired during the first minute and a half of play. emerson once said, "we live by moments," and the first minute and a half of that game must stand out as one of the eventful periods in the life of every man who recalls that day of play. no grown-up schoolboy can fail to appreciate the scene or miss the wave of boyish enthusiasm that rolled over the field at this unlooked for beginning of a memorable game between schoolboys. [illustration: davis macnider dibble de saulles moffat cadwalader edwards walton wentz geer rotter we beat andover] this wonderful start of the lawrenceville team was a goading spur to its opponents. johnnie barnes, an ex-lawrenceville boy, now quarterback on the andover team, seemed fairly inspired as he urged his team on. eddie holt was called upon time and again. he was making strong advances, aided by french, hine and porter. together they worked out a touchdown. but lawrenceville rallied and for the rest of the game their teamwork was masterly. bat geer, who was later a princeton varsity player, charlie de saulles and billy dibble, each scored touchdowns, making three altogether for their school. thus lawrenceville, with the score 20 to 6, stepped forth into a new era and entered the larger football world where she was to remain and increase her heroic accomplishments in after years. it is needless to say that the night following this victory was a crowning one in our preparatory football experiences. bonfires were lighted, speeches were the order of the hour, and members of the team were the guests of honor at a banquet in the upper house. there was no rowdy "revelry by night" to spoil the memory of the occasion. it was just one simple, fine and fitting celebration of a wholesome school victory on the field of football. last year at lawrenceville it was up to billy dibble, the new captain, to bring about another championship. we were to play andover a return game there. captain dibble was left with but three of last year's team as a foundation to build on. dibble's team made a wonderful record. he was a splendid example for the team to follow, and his playing, his enthusiasm, and earnest efforts contributed much toward the winning of the andover, princeton freshmen and hill school games. there appeared at lawrenceville a new coach who assisted street and george. he was none other than the famous princeton halfback, douglas ward, whose record as an honored man in the classroom as well as on the football field was well known to all of us, and had stood out among college athletes as a wonderful example. he was very modest. i recall that some one once asked him how he made the only touchdown against yale in the '93 game. his reply was: "oh, somebody just pushed me over." fresh in my memory is the wonderful trip that we boys made to andover. we were proud of the fact that the colonial express was especially ordered to stop at trenton for us, and as we took our seats in the pullman car, we realized that our long looked for expedition had really begun. we had a great deal of fun on the trip to boston. good old george cadwalader was the center of most of the jokes. his 215 pounds added to the discomfort of a pair of pointed patent leather shoes, which were far too small for him. as soon as he was settled in the train he removed them and dozed off to sleep. turk righter and some of the other fun makers tied the shoe strings together, and hung them out of the window where they blew noisily against the window pane. when we arrived in jersey city it was a treat for us to see our train put aboard the ferry boat of the n. y., n. h. & h. r. r., and, as we sailed down the bay, up the east river and under the brooklyn bridge to the new haven docks, it all seemed very big and wonderful. when the train stopped at new haven, we were met by the yale-lawrenceville men, who wished us the best of luck; some of them making the trip with us to boston. when we arrived in andover the next day i had the satisfaction of seeing my brother and cousin, who were at that time attending andover academy. the hospitality that was accorded the andover team, while at lawrenceville the year before, was repaid in royal fashion. we had ample time to view the grounds and buildings and grow keen in anticipation and interest in the afternoon's contest. when the whistle blew, we were there for business. my personal opponent was a fellow named hillebrand, who besides being a football player was andover's star pitcher. later on we became the best of friends and side partners on the princeton team, and often spoke of our first meeting when we played against each other. hillebrand was one of the greatest athletes andover ever turned out. lawrenceville defeated andover in one of the hardest and most exciting of all prep. school contests, one that was uncertain from beginning to end. billy dibble played the star game of the day and after eight minutes he scored a touchdown. cadwalader booted the ball over the goal and the score was 6 to 0. the lawrenceville backfield, made up of powell, dave davis, cap kafer and dibble, worked wonderfully well. kafer did some excellent punting against his remarkable opponent barker, who seemed to be as expert as he. the efficient work of hillebrand and of chadwell, the colored end-rush, stands out pre-eminently. the latter player developed into one of the best end-rushes that ever played at williams. goodwin, barker and greenway contributed much to andover's good play. jim greenway is one of the famous greenway boys whose athletic history at yale is a matter of record. a few minutes later the andover crowd were aroused by goodwin making the longest run of the game--fifty-five yards, scoring andover's first touchdown, and making the score 6 to 6. there was great speculation as to which team would win the game, but billy dibble, aided by the wonderful interference on the part of babe eddie, who afterward played end on the yale team, and emerson, who, had he gone to college, would have been a wonder, made a touchdown. george cadwalader with his sure right foot made the score 12 to 6. enthusiasm was at its height. andover rooters were calling upon their team to tie the score. a touchdown and goal would mean a tie. the andover team seemed to answer their call, for soon goodwin scored a touchdown, making the score 12 to 10, and butterfield, andover's right halfback, was put to the test amidst great excitement. the ball went just to the side of the goal post, and lawrenceville had won 12 to 10. great is the thrill of a victory won on an opponent's field! that night after dinner, as i was sitting in my brother's room, with some of his andover friends, there was a yell from outside, and a loud knock on the door. in walked a big fellow wearing a blue sweater. through his open coat one could observe the big white letter "a." it proved to be none other than doc hillebrand. without one word of comment he walked over to where i was sitting and said: "edwards, what was the score of the game to-day?" i could not get the idea at all. i said: "why, you ought to know." he replied: "12 to 10," and turning on his heel, left the room. this caused a good deal of amusement, but it was soon explained that hillebrand was being initiated into a secret society and that this was one of the initiation stunts. it was a wonderfully happy trip back to lawrenceville. the spirit ran high. it was then that turk righter wrote the well known lawrenceville verse which we sang again and again: cap kicked, barker kicked cap he got the best of it they both kicked together but cap kicked very hard bill ran, dave ran then andover lost her grip she also lost her championship sis, boom ah! as we were about two miles outside of lawrenceville, we saw a mass of light in the roadway, and when we heard the boys yelling at the top of their voices, we realized that the school was having a torch-light procession and coming to welcome us. great is that recollection! they took the horses off and dragged the stage back to lawrenceville and in and about the campus. it was not long before the whole school was singing the song of success that turk righter had written. a big celebration followed. we did not break training because we had still another game to play. when lawrenceville had beaten the hill school 20 to 0, many of us realized that we had played our last game for lawrenceville. george cadwalader was shortly afterward elected captain for the coming year. it was at this time that lawrenceville was overjoyed to learn that garry cochran, a sophomore at princeton, had been elected captain of the princeton varsity. this recalled former lawrenceville boys, pop warren and doggie trenchard, who had played at lawrenceville, gone to princeton and had become varsity captains there. snake ames also prepared at lawrenceville. i might incidentally state that we stayed at lawrenceville until june to get our diplomas, realizing that there were many able fellows to continue the successful traditions of lawrenceville football, george mattis, howard richards, jack de saulles, cliff bucknam, john de witt, bummie ritter, dana kafer, john dana, charlie dudley, heff herring, charlie raymond, biglow, the waller brothers and others. chapter ii freshman year i believe that every man who has had the privilege of going to college will agree with me that as a freshman lands in a college town, he is a very happy and interested individual. the newness of things and his freedom are very attractive. he comes to college fresh from his school day experiences ready to conform himself to the traditions and customs of the new school, his college choice. the world will never again look quite so big to a boy as it did then. entering as boys do, in the fall of the year, the uppermost thing in mind, outside of the classroom, is football. sometimes it is the uppermost thought in the classroom. what kind of a varsity football team are we going to have? this is the question heard on all sides. every bit of available football material is eagerly sought by the coaches. i recall so well my freshman year at princeton, how garry cochran, captain of the football team, went about the college with johnny poe, looking over the undergraduates and watching the incoming trains for football possibilities. if a fellow looked as though he might have good material to work upon, he was asked to report at the varsity field the next day. all athletic interests are focused on the gridiron. the young undergraduate who has no likelihood of making the team, fills himself with facts about the individuals who are trying to win a place. he starts out to be a loyal rooter, realizing that next to being a player, the natural thing is to attend practice and cheer the team in their work; he becomes interested in the individual progress each candidate is making. in this way, the members of the team know that they have the support of the college, and this makes them play harder. this builds up college spirit. every college has its own freshman and sophomore traditions; one at princeton is, that shortly after college opens there must be a rush about the cannon, between the freshman and sophomore classes. all those who have witnessed this sight, know that it is a vital part of princeton undergraduate life. on that night in my freshman year, great care was taken by cochran that none of the incoming football material engaged in the rush. no chances were taken of injuring a good football prospect among either freshmen or sophomores. eddie holt, bert wheeler, arthur poe, doc hillebrand, bummie booth and i were in the front ranks of the class of 1900, stationed back of witherspoon hall ready to make the rush upon the sophomores, who were huddled together guarding the cannon. cochran and his coterie of coachers ran out as we were approaching the cannon and forced us out of the contest. he ordered us to stand on the outside of the surging crowd. there we were allowed to do a little "close work," but we were not permitted to get into the heat of the fray. cochran knew all of us because we were among those who had been called to college before the opening to enter preliminary training. every football player who has had the experience of being summoned ahead of time will understand my feeling. i was very happy when i received from cochran, during the summer before i entered princeton, a letter inviting me to report for football practice two weeks before college opened. when i arrived at princeton on the appointed day, i found the candidates for the team at the training quarters. at that time freshmen were not barred from varsity teams. there was a reunion of friends from lawrenceville and other schools. there was doc hillebrand, against whom i had played in the andover game the year before. eddie holt loomed up and i recalled him as the big fellow who played on the andover team against lawrenceville two years before. he had gone from andover to harvard and had played on the harvard team the year before, and had decided to leave harvard and enter princeton. there were lew palmer, bummie booth, arthur poe, bert wheeler, eddie burke and many others whom i grew to know well later on. trainer jack mcmasters was on the job and put us through some very severe preliminary training. it was warm in new jersey early in september, and often in the middle of practice jack would occasionally play the hose on us. it did not take us long to learn that varsity football training was much more strenuous than that of the preparatory school. the vigorous programme, prepared, especially for me, convinced me that mcmasters and the coaches had decided that my 224 pounds were too much weight. jack and i used to meet at the field house four mornings each week. he would array me in thick woolen things, and top them off with a couple of sweaters, so that i felt as big as a house. he would then take me out for an excursion of eight miles across country, running and walking. sometimes other candidates kept us company, but only jack and i survived. on these trips, i would lose anywhere from five to six pounds. i got accustomed to this jaunt and its discomforts after a while, but there was one thing that always aggravated me. while jack made me suffer, he indulged himself. he would stop at a favorite spring of his, kneel down and take a refreshing drink, right before my very eyes, and then, although my throat was parched, he would bar me even from wetting my tongue. he was decidedly unsociable, but from a training standpoint, he was entirely "on to his job." as both captain and trainer soon found that i was being overworked, i had some "let up" of this strenuous system. the extra work in addition to the regular afternoon practice, made my days pretty severe going and when night came i was not troubled with insomnia. it was during this time that biffy lea, one of princeton's greatest tackles, was slowly but surely making a wonderful tackle out of doc hillebrand. bert wheeler was making rapid strides to attain the position of halfback. they were the only two freshmen who made the team that year. i was one of those that failed. we were soon in shape for the first try-out of the season; preliminary training was over, and the team was ready for its first game. we won the rutgers game 44 to 0 and after we defeated the navy, we went to play lafayette at easton. i had as my opponent in the lafayette game, rinehart. i shall never forget this game. i was playing left guard alongside of jarvie geer, who was a substitute for bill church, who had been injured in practice the week before and could not play. just before the first half was over, lafayette feinted on a kick, and instead of bray, that star lafayette fullback, boosting the ball, barclay shot through the line between geer and myself for thirty yards. there was my down-fall. rinehart had taken care of me beautifully, and finally, net poe saved the day by making a beautiful tackle of barclay, who was fast approaching the princeton goal line. there was no score made, but the fact that barclay had made the distance through me, made me feel mighty mean. i recall cochran during the intermission, when he said: "holt; you take edwards' place at left-guard." the battle between those giants during the second half was a sight worth seeing and an incident recalled by all those who witnessed the game. neither side scored and it was a hard-fought struggle. one day, one play, often ruins a man's chances. i had played as a regular in the first three games of the season. i was being tried out and had been found wanting. i had proved a disappointment, and i knew cochran knew it and i knew the whole college would know it, but i made up my mind to give the very best i had in me, and hoped to square myself later and make the team. i knew what it was to be humiliated, taken out of a game, and to realize that i had not stood the test. i began to reason it out--maybe i was carried away with the fact of having played on the varsity team--maybe i did not give my best. anyway i learned much that day. it was my first big lesson of failure in football. that failure and its meaning lived with me. i have always had great respect for rinehart, and his great team mates. walbridge and barclay were a great team in themselves, backed up by bray at fullback. it was this same team that, later in the fall, beat pennsylvania, without the services of captain walbridge, who had been injured. it was not long after this that princeton played cornell at princeton. i recall the day i first saw joe beacham, that popular son of cornell, who afterwards coached west point. he is now in the regular army, stationed at fort leavenworth, kansas. he was captain of the cornell team in '96. he had on his team the famous players, dan reed, on whom cornell counts much in these years to assist al sharpe in the coaching; tom fennel, taussig and freeborn. with these stars assisting, cornell could do nothing with princeton's great team and the score 37 to 0 tells the tale. i was not playing in this game, but recall the following incident. joe beacham was making a flying run through the princeton team. a very pretty girl covered with furs, wearing the red and white of cornell, was enthusiastically yelling at the top of her voice "go it, joe! go it, joe!" much to the delight and admiration of the princeton undergraduates near her. since then joe has told me that it was his sister. maybe it was, but as joe was rushing onward, with dan reed and tom fennel interfering wonderfully for him, and urged on by his fond admirer in the grandstand, his progress was rudely halted by the huge form of edwin crowdis which appeared like a cloud on the horizon and projected itself before the oncoming scoring machine of cornell. when they met, great was the crash, for crowdis spilled the player, ball and all. this was the time, the place, and the girl; and it meant that edwin crowdis had made the princeton varsity team. [illustration: brink thorne hubby bray bishop park davis rowland jones walbridge barclay ziser rinehart herr gates spear best weidenmeyer hill trexler lafayette's great team] i realized it at the moment, and although i knew that it would probably put me in the substitute ranks for the rest of the season, i was wild with joy to see edwin develop at this particular moment, and perform his great play. his day had come, his was the reward, and joe beacham had been laid low. as for the girl, she subsided abruptly, and is said to have remarked, as crowdis smashed the cornell machine: "well, i never did like a fat man anyway!" one day in a practice game, against the scrub, this year, garry cochran, who was standing on the side lines resting from the result of an injury, became so frantic over the poor showing of the varsity, pulled off his sweater and jumped into the game in spite of the trainers' earnest entreaty not to. he tried to instill a new spirit into the game. it was one of those terrible monday practice games, of which every football player knows. the varsity could not make any substantial gains against the second team, which was unusually strong that year, as most of the varsity substitutes were playing. how frantic bill church was! he was playing tackle alongside of edwin crowdis, against whom i was playing. my chances of making the varsity were getting slimmer. very few practice days were left before the men would be selected for the final game. i was making the last earnest stand. the varsity line men were not opening up the scrub line as easily as they desired, and we were all stopping up the offensive play of the varsity. i was going through very low and tackling crowdis around the legs, trying to carry him back into the play. church was very angry at my doing this, and told crowdis to hit me, if i did it again, but edwin was a good-natured, clean player; in fact, i doubt if he ever rough played any man. finally, after several plays, church said, "if you don't hit him, i will," and he sure made good his threat, for on the next play, when i was at the bottom of the heap in the scrimmage, church handed me one of those stiff "bill church blows," emphasizing the tribute with his leather thumb protector. there was a lively mixup and the scrub and varsity had an open fight. all was soon forgotten, but i still "wear an ear," the lobe of which is a constant reminder of bill church's spirited play. nothing ever stood in church's way; he was a hard player, and a powerful tackle. slowly but surely, cochran's great team was perfecting itself into a machine. the victory against harvard at cambridge was the team's worthy reward for faithful service and attention given to the details of the game. as a reward for service rendered, the second team with the varsity substitutes were taken on the trip, and as we saw the great princeton team winning, every man was happy and proud of the joy and knowledge of giving something material towards their winning. sore legs, injuries and mistakes were at such a time forgotten. all that was felt was the keen sense of satisfaction that comes to men who have helped in the construction. billie bannard, aided by superb interference of fred smith, was able to make himself the hero of that game by a forty-five yard run. bill church the great tackle broke through the harvard line and blocked brown's kick, and the ever-watchful end-rush, howard brokaw, fell on the ball for a touchdown. cochran had been injured and removed from the game, but he was frantic with joy as he walked up and down the princeton side lines, urging further touchdowns. a happy crowd of princetonians wended their way back to princeton to put the finishing touches on the team before the yale game. those of you who recall that '96 game in new york will remember that 6 to 0 in favor of yale was the score, at the end of the first five minutes. jim rodgers had blocked johnnie baird's punt and bass, the alert end-rush, had pounced on the ball and was over for a touchdown in a moment. great groans went up from the princeton grandstand. could it be that this great acknowledged champion team of princeton was conceited, over-trained and about to be defeated? certainly not, for there arose such a demonstration of team spirit and play as one seldom sees. on the next kick-off johnnie baird caught the ball, and when he was about to be tackled--in fact, was lying on the ground--he passed the ball to fred smith, that great all-round princeton athlete, who made the most spectacular run of the day. who will ever forget the wonderful line plunging of ad kelly, the brilliant end running of bill bannard and the great part all the other men of the team contributed towards princeton's success, and the score grew and grew by touchdown after touchdown, until some one recalled that in this game, the team would say, "well, we won't give any signals; we'll just try a play through captain murphy." maybe this was the play that put murphy out of the game. he played against bill church, and that was enough exercise for any one man to encounter in one afternoon. as fred murphy left the field everyone realized that it was only his poor physical condition that caused him to give up the game. yale men recall, with great pride, how the year before murphy had put it all over bill church. during that game, however, church's physical condition was not what it should have been, and these two giant tackles never had a chance to play against each other when they were both in prime condition. both these men were all american calibre. johnny baird, ad kelly, bannard, all made touchdowns and the two successful freshmen who had made the team, hillebrand and wheeler, both registered touchdowns against yale. as the yale team left the field, they felt the sting of defeat, but there were men who were to have revenge at new haven the next year against princeton, among whom were chadwick, rodgers and chamberlain. they were eager enough to get back at us and the next year they surely did. but this was our year for victory and celebration, and laurels were bestowed upon the victors. garry cochran and his loyal team-mates were the lions of the day and hour. chapter iii elbow to elbow "i wonder where my shoes are?" "who's got my trousers on?" "i wonder if the tailor mended my jersey?" "what has become of my head-gear?" "i wonder if the cobbler has put new cleats on my shoes?" "somebody must have my stockings on--these are too small." "what has become of my ankle brace--can't seem to find it anywhere? i just laid it down here a minute ago. i think that freshman pinched my sweater." all of which is directed to no one in particular, and the trainer, who sits far off in a corner, blowing up a football for the afternoon practice, smiles as the players are fishing for their clothes. just then the captain, who has dressed earlier than the rest, and has had two or three of the players out on the field for kicking practice, breaks in upon the scene with the remark: "don't you fellows all know you're late? you ought to be dressed long before this." then follows the big scramble and soon everybody is out on the field. the trainer is busy keeping his eye open for any man who is being handled too strenuously in the practice. quick starts are practiced, individual training is indulged in. kicking and receiving punts play an important part in the preliminary work. [illustration: house in disorder] at williams one afternoon, fred daly, former yale captain and coach at williams, in trying forward passes instructed his ends to catch them at every angle and height. one man continually fumbled his attempt, just as he thought he had it sure. he was a new man to daly, and the latter called out to him: "what is your name?" back came the reply, which almost broke up the football practice for the day: "_ketchum_ is my name." falling on the ball is one of the fundamentals in football. it is the ground work that every player must learn. frank hinkey, that great yale captain and player, was an artist in performing this fundamental. playing so wonderfully well the end-rush position, his alertness in falling on the ball often meant much distance for yale. he had wonderful judgment in deciding whether to fall on the ball or pick it up. one of the most important things in football is knowing how to tackle properly. some men take to it naturally and others only learn after hard, strenuous practice. in the old days men were taught to tackle by what is known as "live tackling." i recall especially that earnest coach, johnny poe, whose main object in football coaching was to see that the men tackled hard and sure. poe, without any padding on at all, would let the men dive into him running at full speed, and the men would throw him in a way that seemed as though it would maim him for life. some of the men weighed a hundred pounds more than he did, but he would get up and, with a smile, say: "come on men, hit me harder; knock me out next time." after the first two weeks of the season, johnny poe was a complete mass of black and blue marks; and yet how wonderful and how self sacrificing he was in his eagerness to make the princeton players good tacklers. but there are few men like johnny poe, who are willing to sacrifice their own bodies for the instruction of others; and the next best method, and one which does not injure the players so much, is tackling the "dummy." as we look at this picture of howard henry of princeton tackling the "dummy," we all remember when we were back in the game trying our very best to put our shoulder into our opponent's knees and "hit him hard, throw him, and hold him." henry always got his man. but the thrill of the game is not in tackling the dummy. the joy comes in a game, when a man is coming through the line, or making a long run, and you throw yourself at his knees, and get your tackle; then up and ready for another. i recall an experience i had at princeton one year. when i went to the club house to get my uniform, which i wanted to wear in coaching, i asked keene fitzpatrick, the trainer, where my suit was. he said: [illustration: hit your man low] "it's hanging outside." i went outside of the dressing room but could see no suit anywhere. he came out wearing a broad smile. "no," he said, "it isn't out here, it's out there hanging in the air. we made a dummy out of it." and there before me i saw my old uniform stuffed with sawdust. i looked at myself--in suspense. after the men have been given the other preliminary work they are taken to the charging board. the one shown here is used at yale. it teaches the men quick starting and the use of their hands. it trains them to keep their eyes on the ball and impresses them with the fact that if they start before the ball is put in play, a penalty will follow. a fast charging line has its great value, and every coach is keen to have the forwards move fast to clear the way. then after the individual coaching is over, the team runs through signals, and the practice is on. before very long the head coach announces that practice is over, and the trainer yells: "everybody in on the jump," and you soon find yourself back in the dressing room. it does not take you long to get your clothes off and ready for the bath. how well some of you will recall that after a hard practice you were content to sit and rest awhile on the bench in the dressing-room. it may be that, in removing your clothes, you favored an injured knee, looked at a sprained ankle, or helped some fellow off with his jersey. what is finer, after a hard day's practice, than to stand beneath a warm shower and gradually let the water grow cold? everything is lovely until some rascal in the bunch throws a cold sponge on you and slaps you across the back, or turns the cold water on, when you only want hot. then comes the dry-off and the rub-down, which seems to soothe all your bruises. this picture of pete balliet standing on the end of a bench, while jack mcmasters massages an injured knee may recall to many a football player the day when the trainer was his best friend. from his wonderful physique it is easy to believe that balliet must have been the great center-rush whom the heroes of years ago tell about. harry brown, that great princeton end-rush, is on the other end of the bench, being taken care of by bill buss, a jovial old colored attendant, who was for so many years a rubber at princeton. i know men who never enthuse over football, but just play from a sense of college loyalty, and a fear of censure should they not play; who are sorry that they were ever big or showed any football ability. college sentiment will not allow a football man to remain idle. [illustration: repairs] i knew a man in college, who, on his way to the football field, said: "oh, how i hate to drag my body down to the varsity field to-day to have it battered and bruised!" one does not always enthuse over the hard drudgery of practice. those that witness only the final games of the year, little realize the gruesome task of preparedness. every football player will acknowledge that some day he has had these thoughts himself. but suddenly the day comes when this discouraged player sees a light. perhaps he has developed a hidden power, or it may be that he has broken through and made a clean tackle behind the line; perhaps he has made a good run and received a compliment from the coach. it may be that his side partner has given him a word of encouragement, which may have instilled into him a new spirit, and, as a result, he has turned out to be a real football player. he then forgets all the bruises and all the hard knocks. how true it is that in one play, or in a practice game, or in a contest against an opposing college, a player has found himself. do you players of football remember the day you made the team, the day your chance came and you took advantage of it? at such a time a player shows great possibilities. he is told by the captain to report at the training house for the varsity signals. who that has experienced the thrill of that moment can ever forget it? he earns his seat at the varsity table. he is now on the varsity squad. he goes on, determined to play a better game, and realizes he must hold his place at the training table by hard, conscientious work. one is not unmindful of the traditions that are centered about the board where so many heroes of the past have sat. you have a keen realization of the fact that you are filling the seat of men who have gone before you, and that you must make good, as they made good. their spirit lives. the training table is a great school for team spirit. to have a successful team, any coach will tell you, there must be a brotherly feeling among the members of the team. the men must chum together on and off the field. team work on the field is made much easier if there is team work off the field. i never hear the expression "team mates" used but i recall a certain princeton team, the captain of which was endowed with a wonderful power of leadership. there was nothing the men would not do for him. every man on the team regarded him as a big brother. yet there was one man on the squad who seemed inclined to be alone. he had little to say, and when his work was over on the field he always went silently away to his room. he did not mingle with the other players in the club house after dinner, and there did not seem to be much warmth in him. garry cochran, the captain, took some of us into his confidence, and we made it our business to draw this fellow out of his shell. it was not long before we found that he was an entirely different sort of a person from what he had seemed to be. in a short time, the fellow who was unconsciously retarding good fellowship among the members of the team was no longer a silent negative individual, but was soon urging us on in a get-together spirit. it will be impossible to relate all the good times had at a college training table. i think that every football man will agree with me that we now have a great deal of sympathy for the trainer, whereas in the old days we roasted him when it seemed that dinner would never be ready. how the hungry mob awaited the signal! "the flag is down," as old jim robinson would say, and arthur poe would yell: "fellows, the hash is ready." then the hungry crowd would scramble in for the big event of the day. there awaited them all the delicacies of a trainer's menu; the food that made touchdowns. if the service was slow, the good-natured trainer was all at fault, and he too joined in the spirit of their criticism. if the steak was especially tender, they would say it was tough. there was much juggling of the portions distributed. fred daly recalls the first week that he and johnnie kilpatrick were at the yale training table. kil called for some chocolate, and johnnie mack, the trainer, yelled back: "what do you think this is, anyway, a hospital?" that started something for awhile in the way of jollying. daly recalls another incident, that happened often at yale one year. it is about bill goebel, who certainly could put the food away. after disposing of about twelve plates of ice cream, which he had begged, borrowed or stolen, he called one of the innocent waiters over to him and asked in a gentle voice: "say, george, what is the dessert for to-night?" then there comes the good-natured "joshing" of the fellow who has made a fine play during the practice, or in the game of the day. one or two of the fun makers rush around, put their hands on him and hold him tight for fear he will not be able to contain himself on account of his success of the day. this sort of jollification makes the fellow who has made a bad play forget what he might have done, and he too becomes buoyant amidst the good fellowship about him. we all realize what a modest individual the trainer is. if in a reminiscent mood to change the subject from football to himself, he tells his "ever-on-to-him" admirers some of his achievements in the old days there is immediately evidence of preparedness among the players, as the following salute is given--with fists beating on the table in unison-[illustration: the old faithfuls] "one, two, three! _oh, what a gosh darn lie!_" but deep in every man's heart, is the keen realization of the trainer's value, and his eager effort for their success. his athletic achievements and his record are well known, and appreciated by all. he is the pulse of the team. the scrub team at princeton during my last year was captained by pop jones, who was a martyr to the game. he was thoroughly reliable, and the spirit he instilled into his team mates helped to make our year a successful one. this picture will recall the long roll of silent heroes in the game, whose joy seemed to be in giving; men who worked their hearts out to see the varsity improve; men who never got the great rewards that come to the varsity players, but received only the thrill of doing something constructive. their reward is in the victories of others, for every man knows that it is a great scrub that makes a great varsity. if, as you gaze at this picture of the scrub team, it stirs your memory of the fellows who used to play against you, and, if, in your heart you pay them a silent tribute, you will be giving them only their just due. to the uncrowned heroes, who found no fame, the men whose hearts were strong, but whose ambitions for a place on the varsity were never realized, we take off our hats. the fiercest knocks that john dewitt's team ever had at princeton were in practice against the scrub. it was in this year, on the last day of practice, that the undergraduates marched in a body down the field, singing and cheering, led by a band of music. preliminary practice being over, the scrub team retired to the varsity field house, to await the signal for the exhibition practice to be given on the varsity field before the undergraduates. a surprise had been promised. while the varsity team was awaiting the arrival of the scrub team, it was officially announced that the yale team would soon arrive upon the field, and shortly after this, the scrub team appeared with white "y's" sewed on the front of their jerseys. the scrub players took the yale players' names, just as they were to play against princeton on the coming saturday. there was much fun and enthusiasm, when the assumed hogan would be asked to gain through cooney, or bloomer would make a run, and the make-believe foster rockwell would urge the pseudo yale team on to victory. john dewitt had more than one encounter that afternoon with captain rafferty of yale. after the practice ended all the players gathered around the dummy, which had been very helpful in tackling practice. this had been saturated with kerosene awaiting the final event of the day. john dewitt touched it off with a match, and the white "y" which illuminated the chest of the dummy was soon enveloped in flames. a college tradition had been lived up to again, and when the team returned victorious from new haven that year, john dewitt and his loyal team mates never forgot those men and the events that helped to make victory possible. chapter iv mistakes in the game many a football player who reads this book will admit that there arises in all of us a keen desire to go back into the game. it is not so much a desire just to play in the game for the mere sake of playing as to remedy the mistakes we all know we made in the past. in our football recollections, the defeats we have experienced stand out the most vividly. sometimes they live on as nightmares through the years. as we review the old days we realize that we did not always give our best. if we could but go back and correct our faults many a defeat might be turned into a victory. we reflect that if we had trained a little harder, if we had been more sincere in our work, paid better attention to the advice given us by the men who knew, if we had mastered our positions better, it would have been a different story on many occasions when defeat was our portion. but that is now all behind us. the games are over. the scores will always stand. others have taken our places. we have had our day and opportunity. in the words of longfellow, "the world belongs to those who come the last." our records will remain as we left them on the gridiron. many a man is recalled in football circles as the one who lost his temper in the big games and caused his team to suffer by his being ruled out of the game. men say, "why, that is the fellow who muffed a punt at a critical moment," or recall him as the one who "fumbled the ball," when, if he had held it, the team would have been saved from defeat. you recall the man who gave the signals with poor judgment. maybe you are thinking of the man who missed a great tackle or allowed a man to get through the line and block a kick. perhaps a mistaken signal in the game caused the loss of a first down, maybe defeat--who knows? through our recollection of the things we should have done but failed to do for one reason or another, our defeats rise before us more vividly now than our victories. there is only one day to make good and that is the day of the game. the next day is too late. then there is the ever-present recollection of the fellow who let athletics be the big thing in his college life. he did not make good in the classroom. he was unfair to himself. he failed to realize that athletics was only a part of his college life, that it should have been an aid to better endeavor in his studies. he may have earned his college letter or received a championship gold football. and now that he is out in the world he longs for the college degree that he has forfeited. his regrets are the deeper when he realizes that if he had given his best and been square with his college and himself, his presence might have meant further victories for his team. this is not confined to any one college. it is true of all of them and probably always will be true, although it is encouraging to note that there is a higher standard of scholarship attained on the average by college athletes to-day than a decade or so ago. i wish i could impress this lesson indelibly upon the mind of every young football enthusiast--that athletics should go hand in hand with college duties. after all it is the same spirit of team work instilled into him on the football field that should inspire him in the classroom, where his teacher becomes virtually his coach. when i was at princeton, we beat yale three years out of the four, but the defeat of 1897 at new haven stands out most vividly of all in my memory. and it is not so much what yale did as what princeton did not do that haunts me. one day in practice in 1897, sport armstrong, conceded to be one of the greatest guards playing, was severely injured in a scrimmage. it was found that his neck and head had become twisted and for days he lay at death's door on his bed in the varsity club house. after a long serious illness he got well, but never strong enough to play again. i took his place. [illustration: benjamin brown mcbride cadwalader corwin hazen hall rodgers chamberlin chadwick dudley de saulles jim rodgers' team] nearly all of the star players of the '96 princeton championship team were in the lineup. it was cochran's last year and my first year on the varsity. our team was heralded as a three-to-one winner. we had beaten dartmouth 30 to 0 and won a great 57 to 0 victory over lafayette. yale had a good, strong team that had not yet found itself. but there were several of us princeton players who knew from old association in prep. school the calibre of some of the men we were facing. cochran and i have often recalled together that silent reunion with our old team-mates of lawrenceville. there in front of us on the yale team were charlie de saulles, george cadwalader and charlie dudley. we had not seen them since we all left prep. school, they to go to new haven and we to princeton. when the teams lined up for combat there were no greetings of one old schoolmate to another. it was not the time nor place for exchange of amenities. as some one has since remarked, "the town was full of strangers." the fact that dudley was wearing one lawrenceville stocking only urged us on to play harder. my opponent on the yale team was charlie chadwick, yale's strong man. foster sanford tells elsewhere in this book how he prepared him for the harvard game the week before and for this game with princeton. our coaches had made, as they thought, a study of chadwick's temperament and had instructed me accordingly. i delivered their message in the form of a straight arm blow. the compliment was returned immediately by chadwick, and the scrap was on. dashiell, the umpire, was upon us in a moment. i had visions of being ruled out of the game and disgraced. "you men are playing like schoolboys and ought to be ruled out of the game," dashiell exclaimed, but he decided to give us another chance. chadwick played like a demon and i realized before the game had progressed very far that i had been coached wrong, for instead of weakening his courage my attack seemed to nerve him. he played a very wide, defensive guard and it was almost impossible to gain through him. the play of the princeton team at the outset was disappointing. jim rodgers, the yale captain, was driving his men hard and they responded heartily. some of them stood out conspicuously by their playing. de saulles' open field work was remarkable. i remember well the great run of fifty-five yards which he made. he was a wonderfully clever dodger and used the stiff arm well. he evaded the princeton tacklers successfully, until billy bannard made a tackle on princeton's 25-yard line. garry cochran was one of the princeton players who failed in his effort to tackle de saulles, although it was a remarkable attempt with a low, diving tackle. de saulles hurdled over him and cochran struck the ground, breaking his right shoulder. that cochran was so seriously injured did not become known until after de saulles had finished his long run. then it was seen that cochran was badly hurt. the trainer ran out and took him to the side lines to fix up his injury. time was being taken out and as we waited for cochran to return to the game we discussed the situation and hoped that his injury would not prove serious. every one of us realized the tremendous handicap we would be under without him. the tension showed in the faces of alex moffat and johnny poe as they sat there on the side line, trying to reach a solution of the problem that confronted them as coaches. they realized better than the players that the tide was against them. to conceal the true location of his injury from the yale players, cochran had his left shoulder bandaged and entered the scrimmage again, game though handicapped, remaining on the field until the trainer finally dragged him to the side line. this was the last football contest in which garry cochran took part. he was game to the end. at new haven that fall frank butterworth and some of the other coaches had heard a rumor that when cochran and de saulles parted at lawrenceville they had a strange understanding. both had agreed, so the rumor went, that should they ever meet in a yale-princeton game, one would have to leave the game. butterworth told de saulles what he had heard and cautioned him, reminding him that he wanted him to play a game that would escape criticism. de saulles put every ounce of himself into his game, cochran did the same. to this day frank butterworth and the coaches believe that when de saulles was making his great run up the field he kept his pledge to cochran. de saulles and cochran laugh at the suggestion that it was other than an accident, but they have never been able to convince their friends. the dramatic element in it was too strong for a mere chance affair. princeton's handicap when cochran had to go out was increased by the withdrawal because of injuries of johnny baird, the quarterback, that wonderful drop-kicker of previous games. he was out of condition and had to be carried from the field with a serious injury. dudley, the ex-lawrencevillian, here began to get in his telling work. the yale stands were wild with enthusiasm as they saw their team about to score against the much-heralded princeton team. we were a three to one bet. on the next play dudley went through the princeton line. at the bottom of the heap, hugging the ball and happy in his success, was charlie dudley, yale hero, lawrenceville stocking and all. [illustration: cochran was game to the end] after george cadwalader had kicked the goal, the score stood 6 to 0. one of the greatest problems that confronts a coach is to select the proper men to start in a game. injuries often handicap a team. ad kelly, king of all line-plunging halfbacks, had been injured the week before at princeton and for that reason was not in the original lineup that day at new haven. he was on the side lines waiting for a chance to go in. his chance came. kelly was princeton's only hope. herbert reed, known among writers on football as "right wing," thus describes this stage of the game: "with almost certain defeat staring them in the face, the tigers made one last desperate rally and in doing so called repeatedly on kelly, with the result that with this star carrying the ball in nearly every rush the princeton eleven carried the ball fifty-five yards up the field only to lose it at last on a fumble to jim rodgers. "time and again in the course of this heroic advance, kelly went into or slid outside of tackle practically unaided, bowling along more like a huge ball than a human being. it was one of the greatest exhibitions of a born runner, of a football genius and much more to be lauded than his work the previous year, when he was aided by one of the greatest football machines ever sent into a big game." but kelly's brilliant work was unavailing and when the game ended the score was still 6 to 0. yale had won an unexpected victory. the yale supporters descended like an avalanche upon the field and carried off their team. groups of men paraded about carrying aloft the victors. there were captain jim rodgers, charlie chadwick, george cadwalader, gordon brown, burr chamberlain, john hall, charlie de saulles, dudley, benjamin, mcbride, and hazen. many were the injuries in this game. it was a hard fought contest. there were interesting encounters which were known only to the players themselves. as for myself, it may best be said that i spent three weeks in the university of pennsylvania hospital with water on the knee. i certainly had plenty of time to think about the sadness of defeat--the ever present thought--"wait until next year"--was in my mind. garry cochran used to say in his talks to the team: "we must win this year--make it two years straight against yale. if you lose, princeton will be a dreary old place for you. it will be a long, hard winter. the frost on the window pane will be an inch thick." and, in the sadness of our recollections, his words came back to us and to him. these words came back to me again in 1899. i had looked forward all the year to our playing cornell at ithaca. it was just the game we wanted on our schedule to give us the test before we met yale. we surely got a test, and cornell men to this day will tell you of their great victory in 1899 over princeton, 5 to 0. there were many friends of mine in ithaca, which was only thirty miles from my old home, and i was naturally happy over the fact that princeton was going to play there. but the loyal supporters who had expected a princeton victory were as disappointed as i was. bill robinson, manager of the princeton team, reserved seats for about thirty of my closest boyhood friends who came over from lisle to see the game. the princeton cheering section was rivalled in enthusiasm by the "lisle section." and the disappointment of each one of my friends at the outcome of that memorable game was as keen as that of any man from princeton. our team was clearly outplayed. unfortunately we had changed our signals that week and we did not play together. but all the honors were cornell's, her sure footed george young in the second half made a goal from the field, fixing the score at 5 to 0. i remember the wonderful spirit of victory that came over the cornell team, the brilliant playing of starbuck, the cornell captain, and of bill warner, walbridge, young and the other men who contributed to the cornell victory. percy field swarmed with cornell students when the game ended, each one of them crazy to reach the members of their team and help to carry them victoriously off the field. never will i forget the humiliation of the princeton team. trolley cars never seemed to move as slowly as those cars that carried us that day through the streets of ithaca. enthusiastic, yelling undergraduates grinned at us from the sidewalks as we crawled along to the hotel. sadness reigned supreme in our company. we were glad to get to our rooms. instead of leaving ithaca at 9:30 as we had planned, we hired a special engine to take our private cars to owego there to await the express for new york on the main line. my only pleasant recollection of that trip was a brief call i made at the home of a girl friend of mine, who had attended the game. my arm was in a sling and sympathy was welcome. as our train rolled over the zig-zag road out of ithaca, we had a source of consolation in the fact that we had evaded the send-off which the cornell men had planned in the expectation that we were to leave on the later train. there were no outstretched hands at princeton for our homecoming. but every man on that princeton team was grimly determined to learn the lesson of the cornell defeat, to correct faults and leave nothing undone that would insure victory for princeton in the coming game with yale. chapter v my last game every player knows the anxious anticipation and the nerve strain connected with the last game of the football season. in my last year there were many men on the team who were to say good-bye to their playing days. every player who reads these lines will agree with me that it was his keenest ambition to make his last game his best game. it was in the fall of 1899. there were many of us who had played on a victorious team the year before. princeton had never beaten yale two years in succession. this was our opportunity. our slogan during the entire season had been, "on to new haven." the dominating idea in the mind of everyone was to add another victory over yale to the one of the year before. the cornell game with its defeat was forgotten. we had learned our lesson. we had made a tremendous advance in two weeks. i recall so well the days before the yale game, when we were leaving for new york en route to new haven. we met at the varsity field house. i will never forget how strange the boys looked in their derby hats and overcoats. it was a striking contrast to the regular everyday football costumes and campus clothes. [illustration: on to new haven all dressed up and ready to go.] there were hundreds of undergraduates at the station to cheer us off. as the train pulled out the familiar strains of "old nassau" floated after us and we realized that the next time we would see that loyal crowd would be in the cheering section on the princeton side at new haven. we went directly to the murray hill hotel, where princeton had held its headquarters for years. after luncheon walter christie, the trainer, took us up to central park. we walked about for a time and finally reached the obelisk. biffy lee, the head coach, suggested that we run through our signals. all of us doffed our overcoats and hats and, there on the expansive lawn, flanked by cleopatra's needle and the metropolitan art museum, we ran through our signals. we then resumed our walk and returned to the hotel for dinner. the evening was spent in the hotel parlors, where the team was entertained and had opportunity for relaxation from the mental strain that was necessarily a part of the situation. a general reception took place in the corridors, players of old days came around to see the team, to revive old memories, and cheer the men of the team on to victory. football writers from the daily papers mingled with the throng, and their accounts the following day reflected the optimistic spirit they encountered. the betting odds were quoted at three to one on princeton. "betting odds" is the way some people gauge the outcome of a football contest, but i have learned from experience, that big odds are not justified on either side in a championship game. we were up bright and early in the morning and out for a walk before breakfast. our team then took the ten o'clock train for new haven. only those who have been through the experience can appreciate the difficulty encountered in getting on board a train for new haven on the day of a football game. we were ushered through a side entrance, however, and were finally landed in the special cars provided for us. on the journey there was a jolly good time. good fellowship reigned supreme. that relieved the nervous tension. arthur poe and bosey reiter were the leading spirits in the jollification. a happier crowd never entered new haven than the princeton team that day. the cars pulled in on a siding near the station and everybody realized that we were at last in the town where the coveted prize was. we were after the yale ball. "on to new haven" had been our watchword. we were there. following a light lunch in our dining car we soon got our football clothes, and, in a short time, the palatial pullman car was transformed. it assumed the appearance of the dressing room at princeton. football togs hung everywhere. nose-guards, head-gears, stockings, shin-guards, jerseys, and other gridiron equipment were everywhere. here and there the trainer or his assistants were limbering up joints that needed attention. two big buses waited at the car platform. the team piled into them. we were off to the field. the trip was made through a welcome of friendly salutes from princeton men encountered on the way. personal friends of individual players called to them from the sidewalks. others shouted words of confidence. old nassau was out in overwhelming force. no team ever received more loyal support. it keyed the players up to the highest pitch of determination. their spirits, naturally at a high mark, rose still higher under the warmth of the welcome. repression was a thing of the past. every player was jubilant and did not attempt to conceal the fact. the enthusiasm mounted as we neared the scene of the coming battle. as we entered the field the air was rent by a mighty shout of welcome from the princeton hosts. our hearts palpitated in response to it. there was not a man of the team that did not feel himself repaid a thousand-fold for the season's hard knocks. but this soon gave way to sober thought of the work ahead of us. we were there for business. falling on the ball, sprinting and limbering up, and running through a few signals, we spent the few minutes before the yale team came through the corner of the field. the scenes of enthusiasm that had marked our arrival were repeated, the yale stand being the center this time of the maelstrom of cheers. i shall not attempt to describe our own feelings as we got the first glimpse of our opponents in the coming fray. who can describe the sensations of the contestants in the first moment of a championship game? but it was not long before the coin had been tossed, and the game was on. not a man who has played in the line will ever forget how he tried to block his man or get down the field and tackle the man with the ball. i recall most vividly those three strapping yale center men, brown, hale and olcott, flanked by stillman and francis. there was al sharpe and mcbride. fincke was at quarter. if there had been any one play during the season that we had had drilled into us, a play which we had hoped might win the game, it was the long end run. it was lea's pet play. i can recall the herculean work we had performed to perfect this play. it was time well spent. the reward came within seven minutes after the game began. the end running ability of that great player, bosey reiter showed. every man was doing his part, and the play was made possible. reiter scored a touchdown along the side of the field. i never saw a happier man than bosey. but he was no happier than his ten team-mates. they were leaping in the air with joy. the princeton stand arose in a solid body and sent an avalanche of cheers across the field. what proved to be one of the most important features of the game was the well-delivered punt by bert wheeler, who kicked the ball out to hutchinson. hutch heeled it in front of the goal and bert wheeler boosted the ball straight over the cross bar and princeton scored an additional point. at that moment we did not realize that this would be the decisive factor in the princeton victory. as the princeton team went back to the middle of the field to take their places for the next kick-off, the princeton side of the field was a perfect bedlam of enthusiasm. old grads were hugging each other on the side lines, and every eye was strained for the next move in the game. at the same time the yale stand was cheering its side and urging the blue players to rally. mcbride, the yale captain, was rousing his men with the yale spirit, and they realized what was demanded of them. the effect became evident. it showed how yale could rise to an occasion. we felt that the old bull-dog spirit of yale was after us--as strong as ever. how wonderfully well mcbride, the yale captain, kicked that day! what a power he was on defence! i saw him do some wonderful work. it was after one of his long punts, which, with the wind in his favor, went about seventy yards, that princeton caught the ball on the ten-yard line. wheeler dropped back to kick. the yale line men were on their toes ready to break through and block the kick. the yale stand was cheering them on. stillman was the first man through. it seemed as if he were off-side. wheeler delayed his kick, expecting that an off-side penalty would be given. when he did kick, it was too late, the ball was blocked and mcbride fell on it behind the goal line, scoring a touchdown for yale, and making the score 6 to 5 in favor of princeton. believe me, the yale spirit was running high. the men were playing like demons. here was a team that was considered a defeated team before the game. here were eleven men who had risen to the occasion and who were slowly, but surely, getting the best of the argument. gloom hung heavy over the princeton stand. defeat seemed inevitable. of eleven players who started in the game on the princeton side, eight had been incapacitated by injuries of one kind or another. doc hillebrand, the ever-reliable, all-american tackle, had been compelled to leave the game with a broken collar-bone just before mcbride made his touchdown. i remember well the play in which he was injured and i have resurrected a photograph that was snapped of the game at the moment that he was lying on the ground, knocked out. [illustration: hillebrand's last charge] bummie booth, who had stood the strain of the contest wonderfully well, and had played a grand game against hale, gave way to horace bannard, brother of bill bannard, the famous princeton halfback of '98. it was no wonder that princeton was downcast when mcbride scored the touchdown and the goal was about to be kicked. just then i saw a man in football togs come out from the side lines wearing a blue visor cap. he was to kick for the goal. it was an unusual spectacle on a football field. i rushed up to the referee, ed wrightington of harvard, and called his attention to the man with the cap. i asked if that man was in the game. "why," he replied with a broad smile, "you ought to know him. he is the man you have been playing against all along, gordon brown. he only ran into the side lines to get a cap to shade his eyes." i am frank to say that it was one on me, but the chagrin wore off when brown missed the goal, which would have tied the final score, and robbed princeton of the ultimate victory. the tide of battle turned toward yale. al sharpe kicked a goal from the field, from the forty-five yard line. it was a wonderful achievement. it is true that circumstances later substituted arthur poe for him as the hero of the game, but those who witnessed sharpe's performance will never forget it. the laurels that he won by it were snatched from him by poe only in the last half-minute of play. the score was changed by sharpe's goal from 6 to 5 in our favor to 10 to 6. yale leading. the half was over. the score was 10 to 6 against princeton. every princeton player felt that there was still a real opportunity to win out. we were all optimistic. this optimism was increased by the appeals made to the men in the dressing room by the coaches. it was not long before the team was back on the field more determined than ever to carry the yale ball back to princeton. the last half of this game is everlastingly impressed upon my memory. every man that played for princeton, although eight of them were substitutes, played like a veteran. i shall ever treasure the memory of the loyal support that those men gave me as captain, and their response to my appeal to stand together and play not only for princeton but for the injured men on the side-lines whose places they had taken. the yale team had also heard some words of football wisdom in their dressing room. previous encounters with princeton had taught them that the tiger could also rally. they came on the field prepared to fight harder than ever. mcbride and brown were exhorting their men to do their utmost. princeton was out-rushing yale but not out-kicking them. yale knew that as well as we did. it was a yale fumble that gave us the chance we were waiting for. bill roper, who had taken lew palmer's place at left end, had his eyes open. he fell on the ball. through his vigilance, princeton got the chance to score. now was our chance. time was passing quickly. we all knew that something extraordinary would have to be done to win the day. it remained for arthur poe to crystallize this idea into action. it seemed an inspiration. "we've got to kick," he said to me, "and i would like to try a goal from the field. we haven't got much time." nobody appreciated the situation more than i did. i knew we would have to take a chance and there was no one i would have selected for the job quicker than arthur poe. how we needed a touchdown or a goal from the field! poe, pell and myself were the three members of the original team left. how the substitutes rallied with us and gave the perfect defence that made poe's feat possible is a matter of history. as i looked around from my position to see that the defensive formation was right, i recall how small arthur poe looked there in the fullback position. here was a man doing something we had never rehearsed as a team. but safe and sure the pass went from horace bannard and as biffy lea remarked after the game, "when arthur kicked the ball, it seemed to stay up in the air about twenty minutes." some people have said that i turned a somersault and landed on my ear, and collapsed. anyhow, it all came our way at the end, the ball sailed over the cross bar. the score then was 11 to 10, and the princeton stand let out a roar of triumph that could be heard way down in new jersey. there were but thirty-six seconds left for play. yale made a splendid supreme effort to score further. but it was futile. crowds had left the field before poe made his great goal kick. they had accepted a yale victory as inevitable. some say that bets were paid on the strength of this conviction. the yale _news_, which went to press five minutes before the game ended, got out an edition stating that yale had won. they had to change that story. during the seconds preceding poe's kick for a goal i had a queer obsession. it was a serious matter to me then. i can recall it now with amusement. "big" was a prefix not of my own selection. i had never appreciated its justification, however, until that moment. horace bannard was playing center. i had my left hand clasped under the elastic in his trouser leg, ready to form a barrier against the yale forwards. brown, hale and mcbride tried to break through to block the kick. i thought of a million things but most of all i was afraid of a blocked kick. to be frank, i was afraid i would block it--that poe couldn't clear me, that he would kick the ball into me. [illustration: al sharpe's goal] i crouched as low as i could, and the more i worried the larger i seemed to be and i feared greatly for what might occur behind me. it seemed as if i were swelling up. but finally, as i realized that the ball had gone over me and was on its way to the goal, i breathed a sigh of relief and said, "thank god, it cleared!" how eager we were to get that ball, the hard-earned prize, which now rests in the princeton gymnasium, a companion ball to the one of the 1898 victory. yes, it had all been accomplished, and we were happy. new haven looked different to us. it was many years since princeton had sent yale down to defeat on yale field. victory made us forget the sadness of former defeats. it was a joyous crowd that rode back to the private cars. varsity players and substitutes shared alike in the joy, which was unrestrained. we soon had our clothes changed, and were on our way to new york for the banquet and celebration of our victory. arthur poe was the lion of the hour. no finer fellow ever received more just tribute. it would take a separate volume to describe the incidents of that trip from new haven to new york. before it had ended we realized if we never had realized it before how sweet was victory, and how worth while the striving that brought it to us. suffice it to say that that yale football was the most popular "passenger" on the train. over and over we played the game and a million caresses were lavished upon the trophy. this may seem an excess of sentiment to some, but those who have played football understand me. looking back through the retrospect of seventeen years, i realize that i did not fully understand then the meaning of those happy moments. i now appreciate that it was simply the deep satisfaction that comes from having made good--the sense of real accomplishment. enthusiastic princeton men were waiting for us at the grand central station. they escorted us to the murray hill hotel, and the wonderful banquet that awaited us. the spirit of the occasion will be understood by football players and enthusiasts who have enjoyed similar experiences. the members of the team just sat and listened to speeches by the alumni and coaches. it all seemed too good to be true. when the gathering broke up, the players became members of different groups, who continued their celebration in the various ways provided by the hospitality of the great city. [illustration: touching the match to victory] hillebrand and i ended the night together. when we awoke in the morning, the yale football was there between our pillows, the bandaged shoulder and collar-bone of hillebrand nestling close to it. then came the home-going of the team to princeton, and the huge bonfire that the whole university turned out to build. some nearby wood yard was looking the next day for thirty-six cords of wood that had served as the foundation for the victorious blaze. it was learned afterward that the owner of the cord-wood had backed the team--so he had no regrets. the team was driven up in buses from the station. it was a proud privilege to light the bonfire. every man on the team had to make a speech and then we had a banquet at the princeton inn. later in the year the team was banqueted by the alumni organizations around the country. every man had a peck of souvenirs--gold matchsafes, footballs, and other things. nothing was too good for the victors. well, well, "to the victors belong the spoils." that is the verdict of history. chapter vi heroes of the past the early days we treasure the memory of the good men who have gone before. this is true of the world's history, a nation's history, that of a state, and of a great university. most true is it of the memory of men of heroic mold. as schoolboys, our imaginations were fired by the records of the brilliant achievements of a perry, a decatur or a paul jones; and, as we grow older, we look back to those heroes of our boyhood days, and our hearts beat fast again as we recall their daring deeds and pay them tribute anew for the stout hearts, the splendid fighting stamina, and the unswerving integrity that made them great men in history. in every college and university there is a hall of fame, where the heroes of the past are idolized by the younger generations. trophies, portraits, old flags and banners hang there. threadbare though they may be, they are rich in memories. these are, however, only the material things--"the trappings and the suits" of fame--but in the hearts of university men the memory of the heroes of the past is firmly and reverently enshrined. their achievements are a distinguished part of the university's history--a part of our lives as university men--and we are ever ready now to burn incense in their honor, as we were in the old days to burn bonfires, in celebration of their deeds. it is well now that we recall some of the men who have stood in the front line of football; in the making and preservation of the great game. many of them have not lived to see the results of their service to the sport which they deemed to be manly and worth while. it is, however, because they stood there during days, often full of stress and severe criticism of the game, staunch and resistless, that football occupies its present high plane in the athletic world. it may be that some of their names are not now associated with football. some of them are captains of industry. they are in the forefront of public affairs. some of them are engaged in the world's work in far-away lands. but the spirit that these men apply to their life work is the same spirit that stirred them on the gridiron. their football training has made them better able to fight the battle of life. men who gave signals, are now directing large industries. players who carried the ball, are now carrying trade to the ends of the world. men who bucked the line, are forging their way sturdily to the front. men who were tackles, are still meeting their opponents with the same intrepid zeal. the men who played at end in those days, are to-day seeing that nothing gets around them in the business world. the public is the referee and umpire. it knows their achievements in the greater game of life. it is not my purpose to select an all-star football team from the long list of heroes past and present. it is not possible to select any one man whom we can all crown as king. we all have our football idols, our own heroes, men after whom we have patterned, who were our inspiration. we can never line up in actual scrimmage the heroes of the past with those of more recent years. what a treat if this could be arranged! there are many men i have idolized in football, not only for their record as players, but for the loyalty and spirit for the game which they have inspired. walter camp when i asked walter camp to write the introduction to this book, i told him that as he had written about football players for twenty years it was up to some one to relate some of _his_ achievements as a football player. we all know walter camp as a successful business man and as a football genius whose strategy has meant much to yale. his untiring efforts, his contributions to the promotion of the best interests of the game, stand as a brilliant record in the history of football. to give him his just due would require a special volume. the football world knows walter camp as a thoroughbred, a man who has played the game fairly, and sees to it that the game is being played fairly to-day. we have read his books, enjoyed his football stories, and kept in touch with the game through his newspaper articles. he is the loyal, ever-present critic on the side lines and the helpful adviser in every emergency. he has helped to safeguard the good name of football and kept pace with the game until to-day he is known as the "father of football." let us go back into football history where, in the recollections of others, we shall see freshman camp make the team, score touchdowns, kick goals and captain yale teams to victory. f. r. vernon, who was a freshman at yale when camp was a sophomore, draws a vivid word picture of camp in his active football days. vernon played on the yale team with camp. "walter camp in his football playing days," says vernon, "was built physically on field running lines; quick on his legs and with his arms. his action was easy all over and seemed to be in thorough control from a well-balanced head, from which looked a pair of exceptionally keen, piercing, expressive brown eyes. "camp was always alert, and seemed to sense developments before they occurred. one of my chief recollections of camp's play was his great confidence with the ball. in his room, on the campus, in the gym', wherever he was, if possible, he would have a football with him. he seemed to know every inch of its surface, and it seemed almost as if the ball knew him. it would stick to his palm, like iron to a magnet. "in one of his plays, camp would run down the side of the field, the ball held far out with one arm, while the other arm was performing yeoman service in warding off the oncoming tacklers. frequently he would pass the ball from one hand to the other, while still running, depending upon which arm he saw he would need for defense. smilingly and confidently, camp would run the gauntlet of opposing players for many consecutive gains. i do not recall one instance in which he lost the ball through these tactics. "it was a pretty game to play and a pretty game to look at. would that the rules could be so worded as to make the football of camp's time the football of to-day! "walter camp's natural ability as a football player was recognized as soon as he entered yale in 1876. he made the 'varsity at once and played halfback. it was in the first harvard football game at hamilton park that the harvard captain, who was a huge man with a full, bushy beard, saw walter camp, then a stripling freshman in uniform, and remarked to the yale captain: "'you don't mean to let that child play; he is too light; he will get hurt.' "walter made a mental note of that remark, and during the game the harvard captain had occasion to remember it also, when in one of the plays camp tackled him, and the two went to the ground with a heavy thud. as the harvard captain gradually came to, he remarked to one of his team mates: "'well, that little fellow nearly put me out!' "camp's brilliant playing earned him the captaincy of the team in 1878 and 1879. he had full command of his men and was extremely popular with them, but this did not prevent his being a stickler for discipline. "in my day on the yale team with camp," vernon states, "princeton was our dire opponent. for a week or so before a princeton game, we all agreed to stay on the campus and to be in bed every night by eleven o'clock. johnny moorhead, who was one of our best runners, decided one night to go to the theatre, however, and was caught by captain camp, whereupon we were all summoned out of bed to camp's room, shortly before midnight. after the roundup we learned the reason for our unexpected meeting. there was some discussion in which camp took very little part. no one expected that johnny would receive more than a severe reprimand and this feeling was due largely to the fact that we needed him in the game. imagine our surprise, therefore, when camp, who had left us for a moment, returned to the room and handed in his resignation as captain of the team. we revolted at this. johnny, who sized up the situation, rather than have the team lose camp, decided to quit the team himself. what occurred the next day between camp and johnny moorhead we never knew, but johnny played in the game and squared himself." walter camp's name is coupled with that of chummy eaton in football history. "eaton was on the left end rush line," says vernon, "and played a great game with camp down the side line. when one was nearly caught for a down, the other would receive the ball from him on an over-head throw and proceed with the run. camp and eaton would repeat this play, sending the ball back and forth down the side of the field for great gains. "in one of the big games in the fall of 1879, eaton had a large muscle in one of his legs torn and had to quit playing for that season." vernon was put in chummy's place. "but i couldn't fill chummy's shoes," vernon acknowledges, "for he and camp had practiced their beautiful side line play all the fall. "the next year chummy's parents wouldn't let him play, but chummy was game--he simply couldn't resist--it was a case of love before duty with him. he played on the yale team the next fall, however, but not as eaton, and every one who followed football was wondering who that star player 'adams' was and where he came from. but those on the inside knew it was chummy. "frederic remington," says vernon, "was a member of our team. we were close friends and spent many sunday afternoons on long walks. i can see him now with his india ink pencil sketching as we went along, and i must laugh now at the nerve i had to joke him about his efforts. "remy was a good football player and one of the best boxers in college. dear old remy is gone, but he left his mark." other men, equally prominent old yale men tell me, who were on the team that year were hull, jack harding, ben lamb, bob watson, pete peters and many others. walter camp, as yale gridiron stories go, was not only captain of his team, but in reality also its coach. perhaps he can be called the pioneer coach of yale football. it is most interesting to listen to old time yale players relate incidents of the days when they played under walter camp as their captain: how they came to his room by invitation at night, sat on the floor with their backs to the wall, with nothing in the center of the room but a regulation football. there they got together, talked things over, made suggestions and comparisons. and it is said of camp that he would do more listening by far than talking. this was characteristic, for although he knew so much of the game he was willing to get every point of view and profit by every suggestion. in 1880 camp relinquished the captaincy to r. w. watson. yale again defeated harvard, camp kicking a goal from placement. following this r. w. watson ran through the entire harvard team for a touchdown. harvard men were greatly pained when walter camp played again in 1881. he should have graduated in 1880. this game was also won by yale, thus making the fourth victorious yale team that camp played on. this record has never been equalled. camp played six years at yale. john harding was another of the famous old yale stars who played on walter camp's team. "it is now more than thirty-five years since my days on the football gridiron," writes harding. "what little elementary training i got in football, i attribute to the old game of 'theory,' which for two years on spring and summer evenings, after supper, we used to play at st. paul's school in concord, n. h., on the athletic grounds near the middle school. one fellow would be 'it' as we dashed from one side of the grounds to the other and when one was trapped he joined the 'its,' until everybody was caught. i learned there how to dodge, as well as the rudiments of the necessary football accomplishment of how to fall down without getting hurt. as a result of this experience, with my chum, w. a. peters, when we got down to yale in the fall of '76, we offered ourselves as willing victims for the university football team, and with the result that we both 'made' the freshman team, and had our first experience in a match game of football against the harvard freshman at boston. i don't remember who won that contest, but i do remember the university eleven, under eugene baker's careful training, beating harvard that fall at new haven and my football enthusiasm being fired up to a desire to make the team, if it were possible. "of course, walter camp has for many years, and deservedly so, been regarded as the father of football at yale, but in my day, and at least until baker left college, he was only an ordinary mortal and a good halfback. baker was the unquestioned star and i cannot disabuse my mind that he was the original football man of yale, and at least entitled to the title of 'grandfather' of the game there and it was from him that my tuition mainly came. "my impression is that baker was always for the open running and passing game and that mass playing and flying wedges and the various refinements of the game that depended largely on 'beef' were of a later day. "for four years i played in the rush line with walter camp as a halfback, and for two years, at least, with hull and ben lamb on either side of me, all of us somehow understanding each other's game and all being ready and willing to help each other out. whatever ability and dexterity i may have developed seemed to show itself at its best when playing with them and to prove that good team work and 'knowing your man' wins. "i got to know walter camp's methods and ways of playing, so that, somehow or other, i could judge pretty well where the ball was going to drop when he kicked and could navigate myself about so that i was, more often than any one else on our side, near the ball when it dropped to the ground, and, if perchance, it happened to be muffed by an opposing player, which put me 'on side,' the chances of a touchdown, if i got the ball, were excellent, and hull and lamb were somehow on hand to back me up and were ready to follow me in any direction. "during my last two years of football the 'rushers' were unanimously of the opinion that the kicking, dodging and passing open game was the game we should strive for and that it was the duty of the halfback and backs to end their runs with a good long punt, wherever possible, and give us a chance to get under the ball when it came down, while the rest of the team behind the line were in favor of a running mass play game, particularly in wet and slippery weather. "i remember once in my senior year our divergence of views on this question, about three weeks before the final game, nearly split our team, and that as a result i nearly received the doubtful honor of becoming the captain of a defeated yale team. camp, fearful of wet weather and possible snow at the thanksgiving game, and with channing, eaton and fred remington as the heavy yale ends and everybody 'big' in the rush line excepting myself, was trying to develop us with as little kicking as possible, and was sensitive because of the protests from the rush line that there was no kicking. we were all summoned one evening to his room in durfee; the situation explained, together with his unwillingness to assume the responsibility of captain unless his ideas were followed; his fear of defeat, if they were not followed, his willingness to continue on the team as a halfback and to do his best and his resignation as captain with the suggestion of my taking the responsibility of the position. things looked blue for yale when walter walked out of the door, but after some ten minutes' discussion we decided that the open game was the better, despite camp's opinion to the contrary, but that we could not play the open game without camp as captain. some one was sent out to bring walter back; matters were smoothed out; we played the open game and never lost a touchdown during the season. but during the four years i was on the yale varsity we never lost but one touchdown, from which a goal was kicked and there were no goals kicked from the field. this goal was lost to princeton, and i think was in the fall of '78, the year that princeton won the championship. the two men that were more than anybody else responsible for the record were eugene baker and walter camp, but behind it all was the old yale spirit, which seems to show itself better on the football field than in any other branch of athletics." theodore m. mcnair on december 19th, 1915, there appeared in the newspapers a notice of the death of an old princeton athlete, in japan--theodore m. mcnair--who, while unknown to the younger football enthusiasts, was considered a famous player in his day. to those who saw him play the news brought back many thrills of his adventures upon the football field. the following is what an old fellow player has to say about his team mate: "princeton has lost one of her most remarkable old time athletes in the death of theodore m. mcnair of the class of 1879. "mcnair was a classmate of woodrow wilson. after his graduation he became a presbyterian missionary, a professor in a tokio college and the head of the committee that introduced the christian hymnal into japan. "to old princeton graduates, however, mcnair is known best as a great football player who was halfback on the varsity three years and was regarded as a phenomenal dodger, runner and kicker. in the three years of his varsity experience mcnair went down to defeat only once, the first game in which he appeared as a regular player. the contest was with harvard and was played between seasons--april 28th, 1877--at cambridge. harvard won the game by 2 touchdowns to 1 for the tigers. mcnair made the touchdown for his team. this match is interesting in that it marked the first appearance of the canvas jacket on the football field. smock, one of the princeton halfbacks, designed such a jacket for himself and thereafter for many seasons football players of the leading eastern colleges adopted the garment because it made tackling more difficult under the conditions of those days. mcnair was of large frame and fleet of foot. he was especially clever in handling and passing the ball, which in those days was more of an art than at present. it was not unusual for the ball to be passed from player to player after a scrimmage until a touchdown or a field goal was made. "walter camp was one of mcnair's yale adversaries. they had many punting duels in the big games at st. george's cricket grounds, hoboken, but camp never had the satisfaction of sending mcnair off the field with a beaten team." alexander moffat every football enthusiast who saw alex moffat play had the highest respect for his ability in the game. alex moffat was typically princetonian. his interest in the game was great, and he was always ready to give as much time as was needed to the coaching of the princeton teams. his hard, efficient work developed remarkable kickers. he loved the game and was a cheerful, encouraging and sympathetic coach. from a man of his day i have learned something about his playing, and together we can read of this great all-round athlete. alex moffat was so small when he was a boy that he was called "teeny-bits." he was still small in bone and bulk when he entered princeton. alex had always been active in sport as a boy. small as he was, he played a good game of baseball and tennis and he distinguished himself by his kicking in football before he was twelve years of age. the game was then called association football, and kicking formed a large part of it. at an early age, he became proficient in kicking with right or left foot. when he was fifteen he created a sensation over at the old seminary by kicking the black rubber association football clear over brown hall. that was kick enough for a boy of fifteen with an old black, rubber football. if anybody doubts it, let him try to do the trick. [illustration: wanamaker belknap finney travers harlan kennedy lamar bird kimball de camp baker alex moffat harris alex moffat and his team] the varsity team of princeton in the fall of '79 was captained by bland ballard of the class of '80. he had a bunch of giants back of him. there were fifteen on the team in those days, and among them were such men as devereaux, brotherlin, bryan, irv. withington, and the mighty mcnair. the scrub team player at that time was pretty nearly any chap that was willing to take his life in his hands by going down to the field and letting those ruthless giants step on his face and generally muss up his physical architecture. when alex announced one day that he was going to take a chance on the scrub team, his friends were inclined to say tenderly and regretfully, "good night, sweet prince." but alex knew he was there with the kick, whether it came on the left or right, and he made up his mind to have a go with the canvas-backed titans of the varsity team. one fond friend watching alex go out on the field drew a sort of consolation from the observation that "perhaps alex was so small the varsity men wouldn't notice him." but alex soon showed them that he was there. he got in a punt that made bland ballard gasp. the big captain looked first at the ball, way up in the air, then looked at alex and he seemed to say as the scotsman said when he compared the small hen and the huge egg, "i hae me doots. it canna be." after that the varsity men took notice of alex. when the ball was passed back to him next the regulars got through the scrub line so fast that alex had to try for a run. bland ballard caught him up in his arms, and finding him so light and small, spared himself the trouble of throwing him down. ballard simply sank down on the ground with alex in his arms and began rolling over and over with him towards the scrub goal. alex cried "down! down!" in a shrill, treble voice that brought an exclamation from the side line. "it's a shame to do it. bland ballard is robbing the cradle." such was alex moffat in the fall of '79, still something of the "teeny-bits" that he was in early boyhood. in two years alex's name was on the lips of every gridiron man in the country, and in his senior year, as captain, he performed an exploit in goal kicking that has never been equalled. in the game with harvard in the fall of '83, he kicked five goals, four being drop kicks and one from a touchdown. his drop kicks were all of them long and two of them were made with the left foot. alex grew in stature and in stamina and when he was captain he was regarded as one of the most brilliant fullbacks that the game had ever known. he never was a heavy man, but he was swift and slippery in running, a deadly tackler, and a kicker that had not his equal in his time. alex remained prominent in football activity until his death in 1914. he served in many capacities, as member of committees, as coach, as referee and as umpire. he was a man of happy and sunny nature who made many friends. he loved life and made life joyous for those who were with him. he was idolized at princeton and his memory is treasured there now. wyllys terry one of the greatest halfbacks that ever played for yale is wyllys terry, and it is most interesting to hear this player of many years ago tell of some of his experiences. terry says: "it has been asked of me who were the great players of my time. i can only say, judging from their work, that they were all great, but if i were compelled to particularize, i should mention the names of tompkins, peters, hull, beck, twombly, richards; in fact, i would have to mention each team year by year. to them i attribute the success of yale's football in my time, and for many years after that to the unfailing zeal and devotion of walter camp. "there were no trainers, coaches, or rubbers at that time. the period of practice was almost continuous for forty-five minutes. it was the idea in those days that by practice of this kind, staying power and ability would be brought out. the principal points that were impressed upon the players were for the rushers to tackle low and follow their man. "this was to them practically a golden text. the fact that a man was injured, unless it was a broken bone, or the customary badly sprained ankle, did not relieve a man from playing every day. "it was the spirit, though possibly a crude one, that only those men were wanted on the team who could go through the battering of the game from start to finish. "the discipline of the team was rigorous; men were forced to do as they were told. if a man did not think he was in any condition to play he reported to the captain. these reports were very infrequent though, for i know in my own case, the first time i reported, i was so lame i could hardly put one foot before the other, but was told to take a football and run around the track, which was a half mile long and encircled the football field. on my return i was told to get back in my position and play. as a result, there were very few players who reported injuries to the captain. "this, when you figure the manner in which teams are coached to-day, may appear brutal and a waste of good material, but as a matter of fact, it was not. it made the teams what they were in those days--strong, hard and fast. "as to actual results under this policy, i can only say that, during my period in college, we never lost a game. "training to-day is quite different. i think more men are injured nowadays than in my time under our severe training. i think further that this softer training is carried to an extreme, and that the football player of to-day has too much attention paid to his injury, and what he has to say, and the trainer, doctors and attendants are mostly responsible for having the players incapacitated by their attention. "the spirit of yale in my day, a spirit which was inculcated in our minds in playing games, was never to let a member of the opposing team think he could beat you. if you experienced a shock or were injured and it was still possible to get back to your position either in the line or backfield--get there at once. if you felt that your injury was so severe that you could not get back, report to your captain immediately and abide by his decision, which was either to leave the field or go to your position. "it may be said by some of the players to-day that the punts in those days were more easily caught than those of to-day. there is nothing to a remark like that. the spiral kick was developed in the fall of '82, and i know that both richards and myself knew the fellow who developed it. from my experience in the princeton game i can testify that alex moffat was a past master at it. "one rather amusing thing i remember hearing years ago while standing with an old football player watching a princeton game. the ball was thrown forward by the quarterback, which was a foul. the halfback, who was playing well out, dashed in and caught the ball on the run, evaded the opposing end, pushed the half back aside and ran half the length of the field, scoring a touchdown. the applause was tremendous. but the umpire, who had seen the foul, called the ball back. a fair spectator who was standing in front of me, asked my friend why the ball was called back. my friend remarked: 'the princeton player has just received an encore, that's all.' "while the game was hard and rough in the early days, yet i consider that the discipline and the training which the men went through were of great assistance to them, physically, morally and intellectually, in after years. some of the pleasantest friendships that i hold to-day were made in connection with my football days, among the graduates of my own and other colleges. "when fond parents ask the advisability of letting their sons play football, i always tell them of an incident at the penn-harvard game at philadelphia, one year, which i witnessed from the top of a coach. a young girl was asked the question: "'if you were a mother and had a son, would you allow him to play football?' "the young lady thought for a moment and then answered in this spirited, if somewhat devious, fashion: "'if i were a son and had a mother, _you bet i'd play!_'" memories of john c. bell in my association with football, among the many friendships i formed, i prize none more highly than that of john c. bell, whose activity in pennsylvania football has been kept alive long since his playing day. let us go back and talk the game over with him. "i played football in my prep. school days," he says, "and on the 'varsity teams of the university of pennsylvania in the years '82-'83-'84. after graduation, following a sort of nominating mass meeting of the students, i was elected to the football committee of the university, about 1886, and served as chairman of that committee until 1901; retiring that season when george woodruff, after a term of ten years, terminated his relationship as coach of our team. "i also served, as you know, as a representative of the university on the football rules committee from about 1886 until the time i was appointed attorney general in 1911. "more pleasant associations and relationships i have never had than those with my fellow-members of that committee in the late '80's and the '90's, including camp of yale; billy brooks, bert waters, bob wrenn and percy haughton of harvard; paul dashiell of annapolis; tracy harris, alex moffat and john fine of princeton; and professor dennis of cornell. later the committee, as you know, was enlarged by the admission of representatives from the west; and among them were alonzo stagg, of chicago university, and harry williams of minnesota. finer fellows i have never known; they were one and all nature's noblemen. "some of them, alas! like alex moffat, have gone to the great beyond. representing rival universities, between whose student bodies and some of whose alumni, partisan feeling ran high in the '90's, nothing, however, save good fellowship and good cheer ever existed between alex and me. "i am genuinely glad that i played the game with my team-mates; witnessed for many years nearly all the big games of the eastern colleges; mingled season after season with the players and the enthusiastic alumni of the competing universities in attendance at the annual matches; sat and deliberated each recurring year, as i have said, with those fine fellows who made and amended the rules, and in this way helped to develop the game, the manliest of all our sports; and that i have thus breathed, recreated and been invigorated in a football atmosphere every autumn for more than a third of a century. growing older every year, one still remains young--as young in heart and spirit as when he donned the moleskins, and caught and kicked and carried the ball himself. and all these football experiences make one a happier, stronger and more loyal man. "i remember in my prep. school days playing upon a team made up largely of high school boys. one game stands out in my recollection. it was against the freshmen team of the university of pennsylvania, captained by johnny thayer who went down with the _titanic_. "arriving after the game had started, i came out to the side-lines and called to the captain asking whether i was to play. he glowered at me and made no answer. a few minutes later our 'second captain' called to me to come into the game, saying that smith was only to play until i arrived. quick as a flash i stepped into the field of play, and almost instantly thayer kicked the ball over the rush line and it came bounding down right into my arm. off i went like a flash through the line, past the backs and fullbacks, only to be over-taken within a few yards of the goal. the teams lined up, and thereupon thayer, with his eagle eye looking us over, called out to our captain 'how many fellows are you playing anyway?' instantly our captain ordered smith off the field saying 'you were only to play until bell came,' and poor smith left without any audible murmur. this is what might be called one of the accidents of the game. "perhaps the most memorable game in which i played was against harvard in 1884 when pennsylvania won upon forbes field by the score of 4 to 0. it was our first victory over the crimson, not to be repeated again until the memorable game of 1894, which triumph was again repeated, after still another decade, in our great victory of 1904. this last victory came after five years of continuing defeats, and i remember that we were all jubilant when we heard the news from cambridge. i recall that dr. j. william white, c. s. packard and i were playing golf at the country club and when some one brought out the score to us we dropped our clubs, clasped hands and executed an indian dance, shouting "rah! rah! rah! pennsylvania!" why, old staid philosopher, should the leading surgeon of the city, the president of its oldest and largest trust company, and the district attorney of philadelphia, thus jump for joy and become boys once more? "recurring to the game of 1884 i can hear the cheers of the university still ringing in my ears when we returned from harvard. a few weeks later our team went up to princeton to see the harvard-princeton match and i recall, as though it were yesterday, alex moffat kicking five goals against appleton's team, three of them with the right and two with the left foot. no other player i ever knew or heard of was so ambipedextrous (if i may use the word) as alex moffat. i remember walking in from the field with harvard's captain, and he said to me 'moffat is a phenomenon.' truly he was." chapter vii heroes of the past--george woodruff's story enthusiastic george woodruff tells of his football experiences in the following words: "i went to yale a green farmer boy who had never heard of the college game of football until i arrived at new haven to take my examinations in the fall of '85. incidentally i made the team permanently the second day i was on the field, having scored against the varsity from the middle of the field in three successive runs; whereas the varsity was not able to score against the scrub. i was used perhaps more times than any other man in running with the ball up to a very severe injury to my knee in the fall of '87, just a week and a day before the princeton game, from which time, until i left college (although i played in all of the championship games) i was not able to run with the ball, actually being on the field only two days after my injury in '87 until the end of the '88 season, outside of the days on which i played the games. i tried not to play in the fall of '88 because of the condition of my knee and because i was captain of the crew, but pa corbin insisted that i must play in the championship games or he would not row: and of course i acceded to his wishes thereby secretly gratifying my own. "and now about the men with whom i played: kid wallace played end the entire four years. wallace was a great amusement and comfort to his fellow-players on account of his general desire to put on the appearance of a 'tough' of the worst description; whereas he was at heart a very fine and gallant gentleman. "pudge heffelfinger played the other guard from me in my last year and when he first appeared on the yale field he was a ridiculous example of a raw-boned westerner, being 6 feet 4 inches tall and weighing only about 178 pounds. during the season, however, the exercise and good food at the training table caused heffelfinger to gain 25 pounds of solid bone, sinew and muscle. the green days of his first year in 1888 were remembered against him in an affectionate way by the use of yale for several years of 'pa' corbin's oft reiterated expression brought forth by pudge's greenness, which would cause 'pa' to exclaim: 'darn you, heffelfinger!' with great emphasis on the 'darn.' "billy graves played on the team during most of these years, he being the most graceful football runner i have ever seen, unless it were stevenson of pennsylvania. "lee mcclung was a harder worker in his running than most of the men named above, but tremendously effective. he is accredited with being the first man who intentionally started as though to make an end run and then turned diagonally back through the line, in order to open up the field through which he then ran with incredible speed and determination. this was one of the first premeditated plays of a trick nature which ultimately led to my invention of the delayed pass which works upon the same principle only with incalculably greater ease and effect. "the game with princeton in the fall of 1885 clings to my memory beyond any other game i ever played in, because it was the first real championship game of my career, and i had not as yet fully developed into an actual player. the loss of this game to princeton in the last six minutes of playing because of the lamar run--yale had princeton 5 to 0--has been a nightmare to most of the yale players ever since. i attribute the fact that yale only had five points to two hard-luck facts. "through my own intensity at the beginning of the game i over-ran harry beecher on my first signal, causing the signal giver to think that i was rattled so that, although i afterward ran with the ball some 25 or 30 times with consistent gains of from 2 to 5 yards under the almost impossible conditions known as the 'punt rush,' the signal for my regular play was not given again in spite of the fact that my ground gaining had been one of the steadiest features of the yale play throughout the year, and because watkinson was allowed to try five times in succession for goals from the field, close up, only one of which he made; whereas billy bull could probably have made at least three out of the five; but of course bull's ability was not so well-known then. the direct cause of the lamar run was due to the fact that all the fast runners and good tacklers of the yale line were down the field under a kick, so close to toler, the other halfback from lamar, that when toler muffed the ball so egregiously that it bounded over our heads some 15 yards, lamar who had not come across the field to back toler up, had been able to get the ball on the bound and on the dead run, thus having in front of him all the princeton team except toler; whereas the yale team was depleted by the fact that wallace, corwin, gill (who had come on as a substitute) myself and even harry beecher from quarterback, had run down the field to within a few yards of toler before he muffed the ball. we all turned and watched lamar run, being so petrified that not one of us took a step, and, although the scene is photographed on my memory, i cannot see one of all the yale players making a tackle at lamar. hodge, the princeton quarterback, kicked the goal, thus making the score 6 to 5 and winning the game. the outburst from the princeton contingent at the end of the game was one of the most heartfelt and spontaneous i have ever heard or seen. i understand that practically all of lamar's uniform was torn into pieces and handed out to the various princeton girls and their escorts who had come to new haven to see the game. "the yale-princeton game in the fall of 1886 was a remarkable as well as a disagreeable one. we played at princeton when the field at that time combined the elements of stickiness and slipperiness to an unbelievable extent. it rained heavily throughout the game and the proverbial 'hog on ice' could not have slipped and slathered around worse than all the players on both sides. there was a long controversy about who should act as referee (in those days we had only one official) and after a delay of about an hour from the time the game should have begun, harris, a princeton man, was allowed to do the officiating. bob corwin, who was end-rush, only second to wallace in his ability, was captain of the team. "yale made one touchdown which seemed to be perfectly fair but which was disallowed; and later, in the second half, watkinson for yale kicked the ball so that it rolled across the goal line, whereupon a crowd, which was standing around the ropes (in those days there was practically no grandstand) crowded onto the field where savage, the princeton fullback had fallen on the ball. the general report is that kid wallace held savage while corwin pulled the slippery ball away from him, and that when harris, the referee, was able to dig his way through the crowd he found corwin on the ball, and in view of the great fuss that had been made about his previous decision, was not able to credit savage's statement that he (savage) had said 'down' long before the yale ends had been able to pull the ball away from him. the result was that the touchdown was allowed. thereupon the crowd all came onto the field and we were not able to clear it for some 10 or 15 minutes, so that there was not time enough to finish the full 45 minutes of the second-half of the game before dark. this led to some bitter discussion between yale and princeton as to whether the game had been played. this discussion was settled by the intercollegiate committee in declaring that yale had won the game, 4 to 0, but that no championship should be awarded. it is interesting to note, however, that all the gold footballs worn by the yale players of this game are marked 'champions, 1886.' "a word about the princeton men who were playing during my four years at college. "irvine was a fine steady player and his success at mercersburg is in keeping with the promise shown in his football days. "hector cowan played against me three years at guard and he fully deserved the great reputation he had at that time in every particular of the game, including running with the ball. "george was one of the very best center rushes i have ever seen and probably would have made a great player elsewhere along the line if he had been relieved from the obscuring effect of playing center at the time a center had no particular opportunity to show his ability. "snake ames for some reason was never able to do anything against the yale team during the time i was playing, but his work in some later games that i saw and in which i officiated, convinced me that he was worthy of his nickname, because there are only a few men who are able to wind their way through an entire field of opponents with as much celerity and effect as ames would display time after time. "in the fall of '86 yale beat harvard 29 to 4, with great ease, and if it had not been for injuries to yale players, could probably have made it 50 or 60 to 0. most of the yale players came out of the game with very disgraceful marks of the roughness of the harvard men. i had a badly broken nose from an intentional blow. george carter had a cut requiring eight stitches above his eye. the tackle next to me had a face which was pounded black and blue all over. to the credit of the harvard men i will say that they came to the box at the theater that night occupied by the yale team and apologized for what they had done, stating that they had been coached to play in that way and that they would never again allow anybody to coach who would try to have the harvard players use intentionally unfair roughness. "when i entered pennsylvania i found a more or less happy-go-lucky brilliant man, arthur knipe, who was not considered fully worthy of being on even the pennsylvania teams of those days, namely: teams that were being beaten 60 or 70 to 0 by yale, harvard and princeton. i succeeded in arousing the interest of knipe, and although in my mind he never, during his active membership of the pennsylvania team, came up to 75 per cent. of his true playing value, he was, even so, undoubtedly the peer of any man that ever played football. knipe was brilliant but careless, and was at once the joy and despair of any coach who took an interest in his men. he captained the 1894 pennsylvania team with which i sprung the 'guards back' and 'short end defense.' "jack minds i remember seeing, in 1893, standing around on the field as a member of the second or third scrub teams. i suppose he would not have been invited to preliminary training except for his own courage and pertinacity which caused him to demand to be taken. with no thought that he could possibly make the team i gradually found myself using him in 1894, until he was a fixture at tackle, although he dodged the scales throughout the entire fall in order that i might not know that he only weighed 162 pounds. [illustration: wharton bull woodruff rosengarten osgood brooke knipe gelbert minds williams wagonhurst old penn heroes] "i will not enlarge upon the ability of men like george brooke, wylie woodruff, buck wharton, joe mccracken, john outland and others, but anybody speaking of pennsylvania players during the late '90's cannot pass by truxton hare, who stands forth as a chevalier bayard among the ranks of college football players. hare entered pennsylvania in '97 from st. paul without any thought that he was likely to be even a mediocre player. he weighed only about 178 pounds at the time and was immature. although his wonderfully symmetrical build, in which he looked like a magnified billy graves, kept him from looking as large as heffelfinger at his greatest development at yale, hare was certainly ten pounds heavier in fine condition than heffelfinger was before the latter left yale." chapter viii anecdotes and recollections in the latter eighties the signal from the quarterback to the center for putting the ball in play was a pressure of the fingers and thumb on the hips of the center. in the '89 championship game between yale and princeton, yale had been steadily advancing the ball and it looked as if they had started out for a march up the field for a touchdown. in those days signals were not rattled off with the speed that they are given now, and the quarterback often took some time to consider his next play, during which time he might stand in any position back of the line. playing right guard on the princeton team was j. r. thomas, more familiarly known as long tommy. he was six feet six or seven inches tall and built more longitudinally than otherwise. it occurred to janeway, who was playing left guard, that long tommy's great length and reach might be used to great advantage when occasion offered. he, therefore, took occasion to say to thomas during a lull in the game, "if you get a chance, reach over when wurtenburg--the yale quarter--isn't looking, and pinch the yale center so that he will put the ball in play when the backs are not expecting it." the yale center, by the way, was bert hanson. yale continued to advance the ball on two or three successive plays and finally had a third down with two yards to gain. at this critical moment the looked-for opportunity arrived. wurtenburg called a consultation of the other backs to decide on the next play. while the consultation was going on long tommy reached over and gently nipped hanson where he was expecting the signal. hanson immediately put the ball in play and as a result janeway broke through and fell on the ball for a ten yards gain and first down for princeton. to say that the yale team were frantic with surprise and rage would be putting it mildly. poor hanson came in for some pretty rough flagging. he swore by all that was good and holy that he had received the signal to put the ball in play, which was true. but wurtenburg insisted that he had not given the signal. there was no time for wrangling at that moment as the referee ordered the game to proceed. yale did not learn how that ball came to be put in play until some time after the game, which was the last of the season, when long tommy happening to meet up with hanson and several other yale players in a new york restaurant, told with great glee how he gave the signal that stopped yale's triumphant advance. * * * * * numerals and combinations of numbers were not used as signals until 1889. prior to that, phrases, catch-words and gestures were the only modes of indicating the plays to be used. for instance, the signal for hector cowan of princeton to run with the ball was an entreaty by the captain, who in those days usually gave the signals, addressed to the team, to gain an uneven number of yards. therefore the expression, "let's gain three, five or seven yards," would indicate to the team that cowan was to take the ball, and an effort was made to open up the line for him at the point at which he usually bucked it. irvine, the other tackle, ran with the ball when an even number of yards was called for. for a kick the signal was any phrase which asked a question, as for instance, "how many yards to gain?" one of the signals used by corbin, captain of yale, to indicate a certain play, was the removal of his cap. they wore caps in those days. a variation of this play was indicated if in addition to removing his cap he expectorated emphatically. hodge, the princeton quarterback, noticing the cap signals, determined that he would handicap the captain's strategy by stealing his cap. he called the team back and very earnestly impressed upon them the advantage that would accrue if any of them could surreptitiously get possession of captain corbin's head-covering. corbin, however, kept such good watch on his property that no one was able to purloin it. sport donnelly, who played left end on princeton's '89 team, was perhaps one of the roughest players that ever went into a game, and at the same time one of the best ends that ever went down the field under a kick. donnelly was one of the few men that could play his game up to the top notch and at the same time keep his opponent harassed to the point of frenzy by a continual line of conversation in a sarcastic vein which invariably got the opposing player rattled. he would say or do something to the man opposite him which would goad that individual to fury and then when retaliation was about to come in the shape of a blow, he would yell "mr. umpire," and in many instances the player would be ruled off the field. donnelly's line of conversation in a yale game, addressed to billy rhodes who played opposite him, would be somewhat as follows: "ah, mr. rhodes, i see mr. gill is about to run with the ball." just then gill would come tearing around from his position at tackle and donnelly would remark: "well, excuse me, mr. rhodes, for a moment, i've got to tackle mr. gill." he would then sidestep in such a manner as to elude rhodes's manoeuvres to prevent him breaking through, and stop gill for a loss. hector cowan, who was captain of the princeton '88 team was another rough player. in those days the men in the heat of playing would indulge in exclamations hardly fit for a drawing room. in fact most of the time the words used would have been more in place among a lot of pirates. cowan was no exception to the rule so far as giving vent to his feelings was concerned, but he invariably used one phrase to do so. he was a fellow of sterling character and was studying for the ministry. not even the excitement of the moment could make him forget himself to the extent of the other players, and where their language would have to be represented in print by a lot of dashes, cowan's could be printed in the blackest face type without offending anyone. it was amusing to see this big fellow, worked up to the point of explosion, wave his arms and exclaim: "oh, sugar!" it would bring a roar of mock protest from the other players, and threats to report him for his rough talk. while the men made joke of hector's talk they had a thorough respect for his sterling principles. victorious days at yale during the early days of football yale's record was an enviable one. the schedules included, yale, harvard, princeton, university of pennsylvania, rutgers, columbia, stevens institute of technology, dartmouth, amherst, and university of michigan. it is interesting to note that since the formation of the football association, in 1879 to 1889, yale had been awarded the championship flag five times, princeton one, harvard none. yale had won 95 out of 98 games, having lost three to princeton, one to harvard and one to columbia. since 1878 yale had lost but one game and that by one point. this was the tilly lamar game, which princeton won. in points yale had scored, since points began to be counted, 3001 to her opponents' 56; in goals 530 to 19 and in touchdowns 219 to 9, which is truly a unique record. it was during this period that pa corbin, a country boy, entered yale and in his senior year became captain of the famous '88 team. this brilliant eleven had a wonderfully successful season and yale men now began to take stock and really appreciate the remarkable record that was hers upon the field of football. in commemoration of these victories, yale men gathered from far and near, crowding delmonico's banquet hall to the limit to pay tribute to yale athletic successes. "and it came to pass, when the people heard the sound of the trumpet, and the people shouted with a great shout ... they took the city." in a room beautifully decorated with yale banners and trophies four hundred elis sat down to enjoy the bulldog feast, and there honored and cheered to the echo the great football traditions of yale and the men who made her famous by so vast a margin. chauncey m. depew in his address that evening stated that for the only time in one hundred and eighty-eight years the alumni of yale met solely to celebrate her athletic triumphs. pa corbin, captain of the victorious '88 football team, responded, as follows: "again we have met the enemy and he is ours. in fact we have been successful so many times there is something of a sameness about it. it is a good deal like what the old man said about leading a good life. it is monotonous, but satisfactory. there are perhaps a few special reasons why we won the championship this year, but the general principles are the same, which have always made us win. first, by following out certain traditions, which are handed down to us year by year from former team captains and coaches; the necessity of advancing each year beyond the point attained the year before; the mastering of the play of our opponents and planning our game to meet it. second, by the hard, conscientious work, such as only a yale team knows how to do. third, by going on to the field with that high courage and determination which has always been characteristic of the yale eleven, something like the spirit of the ancient greeks who went into battle with the decision to return with their shields or on them. sometimes they have been animated with the spirit which knows no defeat, like the little drummer boy, who was ordered by napoleon in a crisis in the battle to beat a retreat. the boy did not move. 'boy, beat a retreat.' he did not stir, but at a third command, he straightened up and said: 'sire, i know not how, but i can beat a charge that will wake the dead.' he did so and the troops moved forward and were victorious. it is this same spirit which in many cases has seemed to animate our men. [illustration: rhodes woodruff heffelfinger gill wallace stagg mcclung captain corbin bull wurtenberg graves pa corbin's team] "but our victory is due in a great measure this year to a man who knows more about football than any man in this country, who gave much of his valuable time in continually advising and in actual coaching on the field. i refer to walter camp, and as long as his spirit hovers over the yale campus and our traditions for football playing are religiously followed out there is no reason why yale should not remain, as she always has been, at the head of american football." those were corbin's recollections the year of that great victory. time has not dimmed them, nor has his memory faded. rather the opposite. from what follows you will note that a woman now enters the camp of the eli coaching staff, mention of whom was not made in corbin's speech of '88. pa corbin prides himself in the fact that twenty-five years afterward he brought his old team mates together and gave them a dinner. the menu card tells of the traditional coaching system of corbin's great team of '88 and beneath the picture of mr. and mrs. walter camp appears in headlines: "head coaches of the yale football team of 1888" "the head-coaches of the yale team," says corbin, "were really mr. and mrs. walter camp. they had been married in the summer of 1888 and were staying with relatives in new haven. mr. camp had just begun his connection with a new haven concern which occupied most of his time. mrs. camp was present at yale field every day at the football practice and made careful note of the plays, the players and anything that should be observed in connection with the style of play and the individual weakness or strength. she gave her observations in detail to her husband at supper every night and when i arrived mr. camp would be thoroughly familiar with that day's practice and would be ready for suggestions as to plays and players to be put in operation the next day. "this method was pursued during the entire season and was practically the only systematic coaching that the team received. of course there were several old players like tompkins '84, terry '85 and knapp '82, who came to the field frequently. "at that time it was customary for me to snap the ball back to the quarter with my foot. by standing the ball on end and exercising a certain pressure on the same it was possible to have it bound into the quarterback's hands. it was necessary, therefore, for me to attend to this detail as well as to block my opponent and make holes through the line for the backs. "while the rules of the game at that time provided for an umpire as well as a referee, the fact that there was no neutral zone and players were in close contact with each other on the line of scrimmage gave opportunity for more roughness than is customary at the present time. neither were the officials so strict about their rulings. "prior to this time it had been customary to give word signals for the different plays, these being certain words which were used in various sentences relating to football and the progress of the game. as center, i was so tall that a system of sign signals was devised which i used entirely in the princeton game, and the opponents, from the talk, which continued as usual, supposed that word signals were being used and were entirely ignorant of the sign signals during the progress of the game. the pulling of the visor of my cap was a kick signal. everything that i did with my left hand in touching different parts of my uniform on the left side from collar to shoe lace meant a signal for a play at different points on the left side of the line. similar signals with my right hand meant similar plays on the right side of the line. the system worked perfectly and there was no case of missed signal. the next year the use of numbers for signals began, and has continued until the present date. "the work of the yale team during the season was very much retarded by injuries to their best players. the papers were so filled with these accounts that the general opinion of the public was that the team would be in poor physical condition to meet princeton. as luck would have it, however, the invalids reached a convalescing stage in time to enter the wesleyan game on the saturday before the one to be played with princeton in fairly good condition. "head coach camp and i attended the princeton-harvard game at princeton on that day. upon our return to new york we received a telegram from mrs. camp to the effect that the score made by yale against wesleyan was 105 to nothing. one of the graduate coaches was much impressed with the opportunity to turn a few pennies and he requested that the information be kept quiet until he could see a few princeton men. the result was that he negotiated the small end of several stakes at long odds against yale. when the news of the wesleyan score was made public the next morning, the opinion of the public changed somewhat as to the merit of the team. it nevertheless went into the princeton game as not being the favorite and in the opinion of disinterested persons it was expected that princeton would win handsomely." cowan the great has this to say: "i happened to be down on the grounds to watch the practice just a few days before the yale game. they did not have enough scrub to make a good defense. jim robinson happened to see me there and asked me to play. he had asked me before, and i had always refused, but this time for some reason i accepted and he took me to the club house. "i got into my clothes. the shoes were about three sizes too small. that day i played guard opposite tracy harris. i played well enough so that they wanted me to come down the next day, as they said they wanted good practice. the next day i was put against captain bird, who had been out of town the first day i played. he had the reputation of being not at all delicate in the way he handled the scrub men who played against him, so that they had learned to keep away from him. "as i had not played before, i did not know enough to be afraid of him, so when the ball was put in play i simply charged forward at the quarterback and was able to spoil a good many of his plays. i heard afterward that bird asked jim robinson who that damn freshman was that played against him. the next year i was put in bird's place at left guard, as he had graduated and fought all comers for the place. i was never put on the scrub again. "my condition when in princeton was the best. having been raised in the country, i knew what hard work was and in the five years that i played football i never left the field on account of injury either in practice or in games with other teams. "it is a great thing to play the game of football as hard as you can. i never deliberately went to do a man up. if he played a rough game, i simply played him the harder. i never struck a man with my fist in the game. i do not remember ever losing my temper. perhaps i did not have temper enough. "when we speak of a football man's nerve i would say that any man who stopped to think of himself is not worthy of the game, but there is one man who seemed to me had a little more nerve than the average. i think that he played for two years on our scrub, and the reason that he was kept there so long was on account of his size. he only weighed about 138 pounds, but for all the time he played on the scrub he played halfback and no one ever saw him hesitate to make every inch that he could, even though he knew he had to suffer for it. "in the fall of '88, i think, yup cook played right tackle on the varsity. he was very strong in his shoulders and arms and had the grip of a blacksmith. channing, this nervy little 138-pounder, played left halfback on the scrub. when he went into the line, cook would take him by the shoulders and slam him into the ground. our playing field at the time was very dry and the ground was like a rock. i used to feel very sorry for the little fellow. on his elbows and hips and knees he had raw sores as big as silver dollars; yet he never hesitated to make the attempt, and he never called 'down' to save himself from punishment. the next year he made the team. everybody admired him. "football men must never forget tilly lamar, who played halfback. i think he was one of the greatest halfbacks and one who would have made a record in any age of football. i have seen him go through a line with nearly every man on the opposing team holding him. he would break loose from one after the other. "lamar was a short, chunky fellow and ran close to the ground with his back level, and about the only place one could get hold of him was his shoulders. he would always turn toward the tackler instead of away, and it had the effect of throwing him over his head. the only way that the yale men could stop him at all was to dive clear under and get him by the legs. "you have always heard a lot about snake ames. snake was a very spectacular player, but one very hard to stop, especially in an open field. he was very fast and during the last year of his playing he developed a duck and would go clear under the man trying to tackle him. this he did by putting one hand flat on the ground, so that his body would just miss the ground; even the good tacklers that yale always had were not able to stop him. "one of princeton's old reliables was our center, george, '89. he may not have got much out of the plaudits from the grandstand, but those of us who knew what he was doing appreciated his work. we always felt safe as to our center. he was steady and brilliant. "it was during this time that yale developed a wedge play on center. there were no restrictions as to how the line would be formed, and yale would put all their guards and tackles and ends back, forming a big v with the man with the ball in the center. "yale had been able to knock the opposing center out of the way till they struck george. how well i remember this giant, who was able to hold the whole wedge until he could knock the sides in and pile them up in a bunch. yale soon gave him up and tried to gain elsewhere. "i must tell you about one more of princeton's football players. not so much for his playing, but for his head work. during the years that i was captain, in the fall of '88 the rules were changed so that one was allowed to block an opponent only by the body. in other words, not allowed to use hands or arms in blocking. it was sam hodge, who played end and worked out what is known to-day as boxing the tackle. you can understand what effect it would have on a man who was not used to it. the end would knock the opposing tackle and send him clear out of the play and the half would keep the end out." i once asked cowan to tell something about his experiences and men he played against. "the yale game was the great game in my days," he said. "harvard did not have the football instinct as well developed as yale, and it is of the yale players that i have more in mind. one man i will always remember is gill, who played left tackle for yale and was captain during his senior year. i remember him because we had a good deal to do with each other. when i ran with the ball i had to get around him if i made any advance, and i must say that i found it no easy thing to do, as he was a sure tackler. and when he ran with the ball i had the good pleasure of cutting his runs short. "another man whom i consider one of the greatest punters of the past is bull of yale. i have stopped a good many punts and drop kicks in my play, but i do not remember stopping a single kick of his, and it was not because i did not try. he kicked with his left foot, and with his back partially towards the line would kick a very high ball, and when you jumped into him--on the principle, that if you cannot get the ball, get the man--you had the sensation of striking something hard." after cowan had stopped playing and graduated he acted as an official in a good many of the big games. he states as follows: "you ask about my own experiences as an official, and for experience with other officials. i always got along pretty well as a referee. there was very little kicking on my decisions. but i was good for nothing as an umpire. i could not keep my eyes off the ball, so did not see the fouls as much as i should. you boys have probably heard how i was ruled off the field in a harvard-princeton game in '88. i remember terry of yale who refereed that game, above all others. there was a rule at that time that intentional tackling below the knees was a foul and the penalty was disqualification. our game had just started. we had only two or three plays, harvard having the ball. i broke through the line and tackled the man as soon as he had the ball. i had him around the legs about the knees, but in his efforts to get away, my hands slipped down. but at the moment remembering the rule i let him go, and for this i was disqualified. i might say that we lost the game, for we did not have any one to take my place. i had always been in my place and no one ever thought that i would not be there. my being disqualified was probably the reason for the princeton defeat. "i do not think that terry intended to be unfair. the game had just started, and he was trying to be strict, and without stopping to think whether it was intentional or not. he saw the rule being broken and acted on the impulse of the moment. i have since heard that terry felt very bad about it afterwards. i never felt right towards him until i had a chance to get even with him, and it came in this way. the crescent club of brooklyn played the cleveland athletic club at cleveland. george and myself were invited to play with the cleveland club, and on the crescent team were alex moffat and terry. terry played left halfback, and right here was where i got in my work. when terry ran with the ball i generally had a chance to help him meet the earth. i had one chance in particular. terry got the ball and got around our end, and on a long end run i took after him, caught him from the side, threw him over my head out of bounds. as we were both running at the top of our speed he hit the ground with considerable force. i felt better towards him after this game." in such vivid phrases as these a great hero of the past tells of things well worth recording. * * * * * football competition is very strong. there is the keenest sort of rivalry among college teams. there is very little love on the part of the men who play against each other on the day of the contest, but after the game is all over, and these men meet in after years, very strong friendships are often formed. sometimes these opponents never meet again, but down deep in their hearts they have a most wholesome regard for each other, and so in my recollections of the old heroes, it will be most interesting to hear in their own words, something about their own achievements and experiences in the games they played thirty years ago. hector cowan, who captained the '88 team at princeton, played three years against george woodruff of yale. it has been twenty-eight years since that wonderful battle took place between these two men. it is still talked about by people who saw the game, and now let us read what these two contestants say about each other. "of the three years that i played guard i met george woodruff as my opponent," says cowan, "and i always felt that he was the strongest man i had to meet and one who was always on the square. he played the game for what it was worth, and he showed later that he could teach it to others by the way he taught the penn' team." says george woodruff, delving into the old days: "hector cowan played against me three years at guard, and he fully deserves the reputation he had at that time in every particular of the game, including running with the ball. i doubt whether any other princeton man was ever more able to make ground whenever he tried, although cowan was not in any particular a showy player. for some reason or other, cowan seems to have had a reputation for rough play, which shows how untrue traditions can be handed down. i never played against or with a finer and steadier player, or one more free from the remotest desire to play roughly for the sake of roughness itself." when heffelfinger's last game had been played there appeared in a newspaper of november 26th, 1888, a farewell to heffelfinger. good-by heff! the boys will miss you, and the old men, too, and the girls; you tossed the other side about as if they were ten-pins; you took little bliss under your wing and he ran with the ball like a pilot boat by the _teutonic_. you used eyes, ears, shoulders, legs, arms and head and took it all in. you're the best football rusher america, or the world, has shown; and best of all you never slugged, lost your temper or did anything mean; oh come thou mighty one, go not away, the team thou must not fail: stay where thou art, please, heffelfinger, stay, and still be true to yale- linger, yet linger, heffelfinger, a truly civil engineer. his trust would ne'er surrender; unstrap thy trunks, excuse this scalding tear. still be yale's best defender! linger, oh, linger, heffelfinger. princeton and harvard, there is cause to fear will dance joy's double shuffle when of thy western flight they come to hear. stay and their tempers ruffle. linger, oh, linger, heffelfinger. john cranston "my inspiration for the game came when my country cousin returned from exeter and told me he believed i had the making of a football player," says john cranston, who was harvard's famous old center and former coach. "at once i pestered him with all kinds of questions about the requirements, and believed that some day i would do something. i shall always remember my first day on the field at exeter. lacking the wherewithal to buy the regulation suit, i appeared in the none too strong blue shirt and overalls used on the farm. i remember too that it was not long before harding said: 'take that young countryman to the gymnasium before he is injured for life; he doesn't know which way to run when he gets the ball; he doesn't know the game; and he looks too thick headed to play the game anyway.' "as boys on neighboring farms of western new york, three of us, who were later to play on different college teams, hunted skunks and rabbits together. had we been on the same team we would have been side by side. cook was a great tackle at princeton; reed one of the best guards cornell ever had; and i, owing to some good team mates, played as center on the first harvard eleven to defeat yale. it is said that cook in his first game at exeter grabbed the ball and started for his own goal for a touchdown, and that reed after playing the long afternoon in the game which cornell won, asked the referee which side was victorious. "i well remember that at exeter we were planning how to celebrate our victory over andover, even to the most minute detail. we knew who was to ring the academy and church bells of the town, and where we were to have the bonfire at night. we were deprived of that pleasure on account of the great playing and better spirit of the andover team. a few of our exeter men then and there made a silent compact that exeter would feel a little better after another contest with andover. the following three years we defeated andover by large scores. "any one who has played the game can recall some amusing situations. i recall the first year at harvard when we were playing against the andover team that suddenly the whole andover school gave the yale cheer. dud dean, who was behind me, fired up and said it was the freshest thing he had ever heard. at springfield i remember one yale-harvard game started with ten men of my own school, exeter, in the game. in another yale game we were told to look ugly and defiant as we lined up to face yale, but i was forced to laugh long and hard when i found myself facing frankie barbour, the little yale quarter, who lived with me in the same dormitory at exeter for three years." [illustration: breakers ahead phil king in the old days.] chapter ix the nineties and after men of to-day who never had an opportunity of seeing foster sanford play will be interested in some anecdotes of his playing days and to read in another chapter of this book some of his coaching experiences. "as a boy," said sandy, "i lived in new haven. i chalked the lines on the football field for the game in which tilly lamar made his famous run for princeton. i played on the college team two years before i entered yale. i learned a lot of football playing against billy rhodes, that great yale tackle. "i'll tell you about the day i made the yale team in my freshman year. pa corbin took me in hand. i think he wanted to see if i had lots of nerve. he told me to report at nine o'clock for practice. he put me through a hard, grueling work-out, showing me how to snap the ball; how to charge and body check. all this took place in a driving rain, and he kept me out until one o'clock, when he said: "'you can change your jersey now; that is, put on a dry one.' "i went over to the training table then to see if i couldn't get some dinner. believe me, i was hungry. but every one had finished his meal and all i could pick up was the things that were left. here i ran into a fellow named brennen, who said: "'they're trying to do you up. this is the day they are deciding whether you will be center rush or not.' "i then went out to yale field and joined the rest of the players, and the stunts they put me through that afternoon i will never forget. but i remembered what brennen had told me, and it made me play all the harder. to tell the truth, after practice, i realized that i was so sore i could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. to make matters worse, the coaches told me to run in to town, a distance of two miles, while _they_ drove off in a bus. i didn't catch the bus until they were on park street, but i pegged along just the same and beat them in to the gate. billy rhodes and pa corbin took care of me and rubbed me down. it seems as though they rubbed every bit of skin off of me. i was like fire. "that's the day i made the yale team. "i was twenty years old, six feet tall, and weighed about 200 pounds." when i asked sandy who gave him the hardest game of his life, he replied promptly: "wharton, of pennsylvania. he got through me." parke davis' enthusiasm for football is known the country over. from his experience as a player, as a coach and writer, he has become an authority. let us read some of his recollections. "years ago there was a high spirited young player at princeton serving his novitiate upon the scrub. one day an emergency transferred him for the first time in his career to the varsity. the game was against a small college. this sudden promotion was possible through his fortunate knowledge of the varsity signals. upon the first play a fumble occurred. our hero seized the ball. a long service upon the scrub had ingrained him to regard the princeton varsity men always as opponents. in the excitement of the play he became confused, when lo! he leaped into flight toward the wrong goal. dashing around princeton's left end he reversed his field and crossed over to the right. phil king, princeton's quarterback, was so amazed at the performance that he was too spellbound to tackle his comrade. down the backfield the player sped towards his own goal. shep homans, his fullback, took in the impending catastrophe at a glance and dashed forward, laid the halfback low with a sharp tackle, thereby preventing a safety. the game was unimportant, the princeton's score was large, so the unfortunate player, although the butt of many a jest, soon survived all jokes and jibes and became in time a famous player." "the first princeton-yale game in 1873 being played under the old association rules was waged with a round ball. in the first scrimmage a terrific report sounded across the field. when the contending players had been separated the poor football was found upon the field a flattened sheet of rubber. two toes had struck it simultaneously or some one's huge chest had crushed it and the ball had exploded. "whenever men are discussing the frantic enthusiasm of some fellows of the game i always recall the following episode as a standard of measurement. the rules committee met one night at the martinique in new york for their annual winter session. just as the members were going upstairs to convene, i had the pleasure of introducing george foster sanford to fielding h. yost. the introduction was made in the middle of the lobby directly in the way of the traffic passing in and out of the main door. the rules committee had gone into its regular session; the hour was eight o'clock in the evening. when they came down at midnight these two great football heroes were standing in the very spot where they were introduced four hours before and they were talking as they had been every minute throughout the four hours about football. members of the committee joked with the two enthusiasts and then retired. when they came down stairs the next morning at eight o'clock they found the two fanatics seated upon a bench nearby still talking football, and that afternoon when the committee had finished its labors and had adjourned _sine die_ they left sanford and yost still in the lobby, still on the bench, hungry and sleepy and still talking football." this anecdote will be a good one for parke davis' friends to read, for how he ever stayed out of that talk-fest is a mystery--maybe he did. now that yost and sanford have retired we will let parke continue. "a few years ago everybody except dartmouth men laughed at the football which, bounding along the ground at princeton suddenly jumped over the cross bar and gave to princeton a goal from the field which carried with it the victory. but did you ever hear that in the preceding season, in a game between two southern pennsylvania colleges, a ball went awry from a drop kick, striking in the chest a policeman who had strayed upon the field? the ball rebounded and cleanly caromed between the goal post for a goal from the field. years ago lafayette and pennsylvania state college were waging a close game at easton. suddenly, and without being noticed, morton f. jones, lafayette's famous center-rush in those days, left the field of play to change his head gear. the ball was snapped in play and a fleet penn state halfback broke through lafayette's line, and, armed with the ball, dodged the second barriers and threatened by a dashing sprint to score in the extreme corner of the field. as he reached the 10-yard line, to the amazement of all, jones dashed out of the side line crowd upon the field between the 10-yard line and his goal, thereby intercepting the state halfback, tackling him so sharply that the latter dropped the ball. jones picked it up and ran it back 40 yards. there was no rule at that time which prevented the play, and so penn-state ultimately was defeated. jones not only was a hero, but his exploit long remained a mystery to many who endeavored to figure out how he could have been 25 yards ahead of the ball and between the runner and his own goal line." a story is told of the wonderful dodging ability of phil king, princeton '93. he was known throughout the football world as one of the shiftiest runners of his day. through his efficient work, king had fairly won the game against yale in '93. the next year the yale men made up their minds that the only way to defeat princeton was to take care of king, and they were ever on the alert to watch him whenever he got the ball. the whole yale team was looking for king throughout this game. on the kick-off phil got the ball, and all the yale forwards began to shout, "here he comes, here he comes," and then as he was cleverly dodging and evading the yale players, one of the backs, who was waiting to tackle him low, was heard to say, "there he goes." those of the old-timers who study the picture of the flying wedge on the opposite page will get a glimpse of phil king about to set in motion one of the most devilishly ingenious maneuvers in the history of the game. with all the formidable power behind him, the old reliables of what the modern analytical coaches are pleased to term the farce plays. balliet, beef wheeler, biffy lea, gus holly, frank morse, doggy trenchard, douglas ward, knox taylor, harry brown, jerry mccauley, and jim blake; king, nevertheless, stood out in lonely eminence, ready to touch the ball down, await the thunder of the joining lines of interference and pick up the tremendous pace, either at the apex of the crashing v or cunningly concealed and swept along to meet the terrific impact with the waiting line of blue. great was the crash thereof, and it was a safe wager that king with the ball would not go unscathed. [illustration: look out, princeton!] this kind of football brought to light the old-time indomitable courage of which the stalwarts of those days love to talk at every gridiron reunion. but for the moment let us give yale the ball and stand the giant princeton team upon defense. let us watch george adee get the ball from phil stillman and with his wonderful football genius develop a smashing play enveloped in a locked line of blue, grim with the menace of orville hickok, jim mccrea, anse beard, fred murphy, frank hinkey and jack greenway. onward these mighty yale forwards ground their way through the princeton defense, making a breach through which the mighty butterworth, bronc armstrong and brink thorne might bring victory to yale. this was truly a day when giants clashed. as you look at these pictures do the players of to-day wonder any longer that the heroes of the olden time are still loyal to the game of their first love? if you ever happen to go to china, i am sure one of the first americans you will hear about would be pop gailey, once a king of football centers and now a leader in y. m. c. a. work in china. lafayette first brought pop gailey forth in '93 and '94, and he was the champion all-american center of the princeton team in '96. he had a wonderful influence over the men on the team. he was an example well worth following. his manly spirit was an inspiration to those about him. after one of the games a newspaper said: "old gailey stands firm as the eternal calvinistic faith, which he intends to preach when his football scrimmages are over." to charlie young, the present professor of physical instruction of the cornell university gymnasium, i cannot pay tribute high enough for the fine football spirit and the high regard with which we held him while he was at the princeton seminary. he certainly loved to play football and he used to come out and play on the scrub team against the princeton varsity. he was not eligible to play on the princeton team, as he had played his allotted time at cornell. the excellent practice he gave the princeton team--yes, more than practice: it was oftentimes victory for him as well as the scrub. he made poe and palmer ever alert and did much to make them the stars they were, as charlie's long suit was running back punts. his head work was always in evidence. he was a great field general; one of his most excellent qualities was that of punting. his was an ideal example for men to follow. princeton men were the better for having played with and against a high type man like charlie young. an evening with jim rodgers jim rodgers gave all there was in him to yale athletics. not a single year has passed since he played his last game of football but has seen him back at the yale field, coaching and giving the benefit of his experience. jim rodgers was captain of the '97 team at new haven, and the traditions that can be written about a winning captain are many. no greater pleasure can be afforded any man who loves to hear an old football player relate experiences than to listen, while rodgers tells of his own playing days, and of some of the men in his experience. it was once my pleasure to spend an evening with jim in his home; really a football home. mrs. rodgers knows much of football and as jim enthusiastically and with wonderfully keen recollection tells of the old games, a twelve-year-old boy listens, as only a boy can to his father, his great hero, and as jim puts his hand on the boy's shoulders he tells him the ideal of his dreams is to have him make the yale team some day, and an enthusiastic daughter who sits near hopes so too. his scrap books and athletic pictures go to make a rare collection. many of us would like to have seen jim rodgers begin his football career at andover when he was sixteen years old. it was there that his 180 pounds of bone and muscle stood for much. it was at andover that bill odlin, that great dartmouth man, coached so many wonderful prep. school stars, who later became more famous at the colleges to which they went. rodgers went to yale with a big rep. he had been captain of the andover team. in the fall of '92 andover beat brown 24 to 0. jim rodgers was very conspicuous on the field, not only on account of his good playing and muscular appearance, but because his blond hair, which he wore very long as a protection, was very noticeable. from this yale player, whose friends are legion, let us read some experiences and catch his spirit: "i was never a star player, but i was a reliable. in my freshman year i did not make the team, owing to the fact that i had bad knees and better candidates were available. this was the one year in yale football, perhaps in all football, when the team that played the year before came back to college with not a man missing. frank hinkey had been captain the year before and then came through as senior captain. there was not a senior on frank hinkey's team. the first team, therefore, all came back. "al jerrems and louis hinkey were the only additions to the old team. "perhaps the keenest disappointment that ever came to me in football was the fact that i could not play in that famous yale-harvard game my freshman year. however, i came so very near it that billy rhodes and heffelfinger came around to where i was sitting on the side lines, after fred murphy had been taken out of the game. they started to limber me up by running me up and down the side line, but hinkey, the captain, came over to the side line and yelled for chadwick, who went into the game. i had worked myself up into a highly nervous condition anticipating going in, but now i realized my knees would not allow it. the disappointment that day, though, was very severe. to show you what a hold these old games had on me, many years after this game hinkey and i were talking about this particular game, when he said to me: 'you never knew how close you came to getting into that springfield game, jim.' then i told him of my experience, but he told me he had it in his mind to put me in at halfback, and ever since then, when i think of it, cold chills run up and down my spine. it absolutely scared me stiff to think how i might have lost that game, even though i never actually participated in it. "the yale football management, however, on account of my work during the season decided to give me my y, gold football and banner. the banner was a blue flag with the names of the team and the position they played and the score, 12 to 6. it was a case where i came so near winning it that they gave it to me." jim rodgers played three years against garry cochran and this great princeton captain stands out in his recollections of yale-princeton games. he goes on to say: "if it had not been for garry cochran, i might be rated as one of the big tackles of the football world to-day. i used to dream of him three weeks before the princeton game; how i was going to stand him off, and let me tell you if you got in between doc hillebrand and garry cochran you were a sucker. those games were a nightmare to me. cochran used to fall on my foot, box me in and hold me there, and keep me out of the play." jim rodgers is very modest in this statement. the very reason that he is regarded as a truly wonderful tackle is on account of the great game he played against cochran. how wonderfully reliable he was football history well records. he was always to be depended upon. "in the fall of 1897 when i was captain of the yale team," rodgers continues, "perhaps the most spectacular yale victory was pulled off, when princeton, with the exception of perhaps two men, and virtually the same team that had beaten yale the year before, came on the field and through overconfidence or lack of training did not show up to their best form. we were out for blood that day. i said to johnny baird, princeton quarterback: 'princeton is great to-day. we have played ten minutes and you haven't scored.' johnny, with a look of determination upon his face, said, 'you fellows can play ten times ten minutes and you'll never score,' but the princeton football hangs in the yale trophy room. "i have always claimed that charlie de saulles put the yale '97 team on the map. charlie de saulles, with his three wonderful runs, which averaged not less than 60 yards each, really brought about the victory. "frank butterworth as head coach will always have my highest regard; he did more than any one alive could have done to pull off an apparently impossible victory." "one great feature of this game was ad kelly's series of individual gains, aided by hillebrand and edwards, through rodgers and chadwick. kelly took the ball for 40 consecutive yards up the field in gains of from one to three yards each, when fortunately for yale, a fumble gave them the ball. when the fumble occurred, i happened at the time to break through very fast. there lay the ball on the ground, and nobody but myself near it. the great chance was there to pick it up and perhaps, even with my slow speed, gain 20 to 30 yards for yale. no such thought, however, entered my head. i wanted that ball and curled up around it and hugged it as a tortoise would close in its shell. my recollection is now that i sat there for about five minutes before anybody deigned to fall on me. at all events, i had the ball. "gordon brown played as a freshman on my team. he had a football face that i liked. he weighed 185 pounds and was 6 feet 4 inches tall. gordon went up against bouvã© in the harvard game, and the critics stated that bouvã© was the best guard in the country that year. i said to gordon, 'play this fellow the game of his life, and when you get him, let me know and i'll send some plays through you.' after about sixty minutes of play gordon came to me and said, 'jim, i've got him,' and he had him all right, for we were then successful in gaining through that part of the harvard line. gordon brown was a very earnest player. he would allow nothing to stop him. he got his ears pretty well bruised up and they bothered him a great deal. in fact, he did have to lay off two or three days. he came to me and said, 'do you think this injury will keep me out of the big game?' 'well, i'll see if the trainer cannot make a head-gear for you.' 'well, i'll tell you this, jim,' said gordon, 'i'll have 'em cut off before i'll stay out of the game.' this amused me, and i said, 'gordon, you have nothing of beauty to lose. you will keep your ears and you will play in the big games.' "gordon brown's team, under malcolm mcbride as head coach, was a wonder. this eleven, to our minds, was the best ever turned out by yale university. they defeated princeton 29 to 5, and the powerful harvard team 28 to 0. their one weakness was that they had no long punter, but, as they expressed it to me afterward, they had no need of one. at one time during the game with harvard they took the ball on their own 10-yard line and, instead of kicking, marched it up the field, and in a very few rushes scored a touchdown. harvard men afterwards told me that after seeing a few minutes of the game they forgot the strain of harvard's defeat in their admiration of yale's playing. this team showed the highest co-ordination between the yale coaching staff, the college, and the players, and they set a high-water mark for all future teams to aim at, which was all due to gordon brown's genius for organization and leadership." it has been my experience in talking of football stars with some of the old-timers that frank hinkey heads the list. i cannot let frank hinkey remain silent this time. he says: "i think it was in the fall of '95 that skim brown, who played the tackle position, was captain of the scrubs team at new haven. brown was a very energetic scrub captain. he was continuously urging on his men to better work. as you recall, the cry, 'tackle low and run low,' was continuously called after the teams in those days. brown's particular pet phrase in urging his men was, 'run low.' so that he, whenever the halfback received the ball, would immediately start to holler, 'run low,' and would keep this up until the ball was dead. he got so in the habit of using this call when on the offense that one day when the quarterback called upon him to run with the ball from the tackle position even before he got the ball he started to cry, 'run low,' while carrying the ball himself, and continued to cry out, 'run low,' even after he had gained ground for about fifteen yards and until the ball was dead. "it was in the fall of '92 when vance mccormick was captain of the yale team, and diney o'neal was trying for the guard position. as you know, the linemen are very apt to know only the signals on offense which call for an opening at their particular position. and even then a great many of them never know the signals. now diney was bright enough, but like most linemen did not know the signals. it happened one day that mccormick, at the quarterback position, called several plays during the afternoon that required o'neal to make an opening. o'neal invariably failed because he didn't know the signals. mccormick, suspecting this, finally gave o'neal a good calling down. the calling down fell flat in its effects on o'neal as his reply to mccormick was, 'to hell with your mystic signs and symbols--give me the ball!'" "the real founder of football at dartmouth was bill odlin," writes ed hall. "odlin learned his football at andover, and came to dartmouth with the class of '90 and it was while he was in college that football really started. he was practically the only coach. he was a remarkable kicker--certainly one of the best, if not the best. in the fall of '89 odlin was captain of the team and playing fullback. harvard and yale played at springfield and on the morning of the harvard-yale game dartmouth and williams played on the same field. it was in this game in the fall of '89 that he made his most remarkable kick in which the wind was a very important element. in the second half odlin was standing practically on his own ten yard line. the ball was passed back to him to be kicked and he punted. the kick itself was a remarkable kick and perfect in every way, but when the wind caught it it became a wonder and it went along like a balloon. the wind was really blowing a gale and the ball landed away beyond the williams' quarterback and the first bounce carried it several yards beyond their goal line. of course any such kick as this would have been absolutely impossible except for the extreme velocity and pressure of the wind, but it was easily the longest kick i ever saw. "three times during odlin's football playing he kicked goals from the 65 yard line and while at andover he kicked a placed kick from a mark in the exact center of the field, scoring a goal." when brown men discuss football their recollections go back to the days of hopkins and millard, of robinson, mccarthy, fultz, everett colby and gammons, fred murphy, frank smith, the giant guard; that great spectacular player, richardson, and other men mentioned elsewhere in this book. in a recent talk with that sterling fellow, dave fultz, he told me something about his football career. it was, in part, as follows:-"i played at brown in '94, '95, '96 and '97, captaining the team in my last year. gammons and i played in the backfield together. he was unquestionably a great runner with the ball; one of the hardest men to hurt, i think, i ever saw. i have often seen him get jolts, go down, and naturally one would think go out entirely, but when i would go up to him, he would jump up as though he had not felt it. i think everett colby was as good a man interfering for the runner as i have seen. he played quarterback and captained the brown team in '96. i don't think there was ever a better quarterback than wyllys d. richardson, rich, as we used to call him." [illustration: barrett on one of his famous dashes] [illustration: exeter-andover game, 1915] dave fultz is very modest and when he discusses his football experiences he sidetracks one and talks of his fellow college players. now that i have pinned him down, he goes on to say: "the day before we played the indians one year my knee hurt me so much that i had to go to the doctor. he put some sort of ointment on it. two days before this game i could hardly move my leg; the doctor threatened me with water on the knee; he told me to go to bed and stay there, but i told him we had a game in new york and i had to go. he said, 'all right, if you want water on the knee.' i said, 'i've got to go if i am at all able.' anyway, i went on down to new york with the team and played in the game. all i needed was to get warmed up good and i went along in great shape." those who remember reading the accounts of that game will recall that dave fultz made some miraculous runs that day and was a team in himself. fred murphy, who was captain of the '98 team at brown and played end rush, says: "i think dave fultz played under more difficulties than any man that ever played the game. i have seen him play with a heavy knee brace. he had his shoulder dislocated several times and i have seen him going into the game with his arm strapped down to his side, so he could just use his forearm. he played a number of games that way. that happened when he was captain. he was absolutely conscientious, fearless and a good leader." in 1904, fred murphy coached at exeter. fred says: "this was probably the best team that exeter had had up to that time. the team was captained by tommy thompson, who afterwards played at cornell. eddie hart at that time stripped at about 195 pounds. this was the famous team on which donald mackenzie macfadyen played and later made the princeton varsity. tad jones was quarterback the first year he came to school. in those days they took to football intuitively without much coaching. you never had to tell tad jones a thing more than once. he would think things out for himself. he showed great powers of leadership and good football sense. howard jones and harry vaughn played on this team." "charlie mccarthy of brown will long be remembered for his great punting ability," says fred murphy. "he had a great many pet theories. mccarthy is one of the best football men in the brown list." in a letter which i have received from charlie mccarthy, as a result of a wonderful victory over minnesota one year, mccarthy writes: "the students of the university gave me a beautiful gold watch engraved on the inside--'to our friend mac from the students of the university of wisconsin.'" this shows how highly mccarthy is held at this university. mccarthy continues, "i go out every fall and kick around with the boys still and i hope to do so the rest of my life if i get a chance. i think the greatest football player i ever saw was frank hinkey. speaking of my own ability as a player, i haven't much to say. i was not much of a football player but i got by some way. i neither had the physique, nor the ability, but tried to do my best. i am glad to say no one ever called me a quitter. i am proud to say that brown university gave me a beautiful silver cup at the end of my four years for the best work in football, although the said cup belongs by rights to ten other men on the team." as one visits the dressing room of the new york giants and sees the attendant work upon the wonderful physique of christy mathewson, one cannot help but realize what a potent factor he must have been on bucknell's team. when christy played he was 6 feet tall and weighed 168 pounds stripped. he prepared at keystone academy, playing in the line. in 1898, when he went to bucknell, he was immediately put at fullback and played there three years. fred crolius says of him: "of all the long distance punters with hard kicks to handle, percy haughton and christy mathewson stand out in his memory. mathewson had the leg power to turn his spiral over. that is, instead of dropping where ordinary spirals always drop, an additional turn seemed to carry the ball over the head of the back who was waiting for the ball, often carrying some fifteen or twenty yards beyond." football has no more ardent admirer than christy mathewson. it will be interesting to hear what he has to say of his experience in the game of football. "i liked to play football," says mathewson. "i was a better football player than a baseball player in those days. i was considered a good punter. i was not much as a line bucker. the captain of the team always gave me a football to take with me in the summer. i occasionally had an opportunity to practice kicking after i was through with my baseball work. "at taunton, mass., my first summer, i ran across a fellow who was playing third base on the team for which i was pitching. macandrews was his name. he was a dartmouth man. he showed me how to kick. he showed me how to drop a spiral. i liked to drop-kick and used to practice it quite a little." [illustration: means langford hollenback douglass gaston marks allerdice miller manier schultz draper bill hollenback coming at you] "i remember how tough it was for me when bucknell played annapolis the year before when the navy team had a man who could kick such wonderful spirals. they were terribly hard to handle, and i was determined to profit by his example. so i just hung on for dear life, punting spirals all summer. later i used to watch george brooke punt a good deal when he was coaching." "at that time drop kickers were not so numerous. i had some recollection of a fellow named o'day, who had a great reputation as a drop-kicker, as did hudson of carlisle. in 1898 we were to play pennsylvania. our team served as a preliminary game for pennsylvania. they often beat us by large scores. since then we have had teams which made a 6 to 5 score. but they had good teams in my time. we never scored on penn, as i recall. "our coach said one day, at the training table, 'i'll give a raincoat to the fellow who scores on penn to-day.' the manager walked in and overheard his remark and added, 'yes, and i'll give a pair of shoes to the man who makes the second score against penn.' that put some 'pep' into us. anyway, we were on penn's 35-yard line and i kicked a field goal. after this we rushed the ball and got up to penn's 40-yard line, and from there i scored again, thereby winning the shoes and the raincoat. "i went up to columbia one day to see them practice. it was in the days when foster sanford was their coach. he saw me standing on the side lines; came over to where i was; looked me over once or twice and finally said: "'why aren't you trying for the team? i think you'd make a football player if you came out.' "i said i guessed i would not be eligible. "'why?' asked sandy. "'well," i said, 'because i'm a professional.' then some fellows around me grinned and told sanford who i was. "i love to think of the good old football days and some of the spirit that entered collegiate contests. once in a while, in baseball, i feel the thrill of that spirit. it was only recently that i experienced that get-together spirit, where a team full of life with everybody working together wrought great results. that same old thrill came to me during one of the giants' trips in the west in which they won seventeen straight victories. "there is much good fellowship in football. i played against teams whose cheer leaders would give you a rousing cheer as you made a good play; then again you would meet the fellow who, when you were down in the scrimmage, or after you had kicked the ball, would try to put you down and out. "one of the pleasantest recollections i have of playing was my experience against the two great academy teams, west point and annapolis. "never shall i forget one year when bucknell played west point. at an exciting moment in the game, bucknell players made it possible for me to be in a position to kick the goal from the field from a difficult angle. after the score had been made the west point team stood there stupefied, and when the crowd got the idea that a goal had been kicked from a peculiar angle, they gave us a rousing cheer. such is the proper spirit of american football; to see some sunshine in your opponent's play. "cheering helps so much to build up one's enthusiasm." al sharpe was one of the greatest all-around athletes that ever wore the blue of yale. he, too, recalls the yale-princeton game of 1899 at new haven, but the memory comes to him as a nightmare. "when i think about the 11 to 10 game at new haven, which princeton won," said sharpe the last time i saw him, "i remember that after i had kicked a goal from the field and the score was 10 to 6, skim brown rushed up to me, and nearly took me off my feet with one of his friendly slaps across my back. well do i remember the joy of that great yale player at this stage of the game. later, when poe made his kick and i saw that the ball was going over the bar, i remember that the thing i wished most was that i could have been up in the line where i might have had a chance to block the kick. "my recollections of making the yale team centered chiefly around three facts, none of which i was allowed to forget. first, that i was not any good, second that i couldn't tackle, and third that i ran like an ice-wagon. since then i have seen so many really good players upon my different squads that i must admit the truth of the above statement, although at the time i am frank to say i took exception to it. such is the optimism of youth." jack munn, a former princeton halfback, tells the following story: "my brother, edward munn, was the manager of the princeton team in 1893. in the spring of that year there was a conference with yale representatives to decide where the game was to be played the following fall. berkeley oval, brooklyn, manhattan field, and the respective fields of the two colleges all came under discussion, and i believe that some of the newspapers must have taken it up. one afternoon in the murray hill hotel, when representatives of yale and princeton were discussing the various possibilities, a bellboy knocked at the door and handed my brother an elaborately engraved card on which, among various decorations, the name of colonel cody was to be distinguished. buffalo bill was invited to come up, and it seems that, reading or hearing of the discussion about the field for the game, he came to make a formal offer of the use of his tent. after setting forth the desirability of staging the game under the auspices of his wild west show, he brought his offer to a close with his trump card. "'for, gentlemen,' said he, 'besides all the other advantages which i have mentioned, there is this further attraction--my tent is well and sufficiently lighted so that you can not only hold a matinee, but you can give an evening performance as well.' "and those were the days of the flying wedge and two forty-five minute halves with only ten minutes intermission!" walter c. booth walter c. booth, a former princeton center rush, was one of the select coterie of eastern football men that wended its way westward to carry the eastern system into institutions that had had no opportunity to build up the game, yet were hungry for real football. booth's trip was a successful one. "in the autumn of 1900, after graduating from college, i arrived at lincoln, nebraska, in the dual rã´le of law student and football coach of the state university," says booth. "this was my first trip west of pittsburgh and i viewed my new duties with some apprehension. all doubts and fears were soon put at rest by the hearty encouragement and support that i received and retained in my nebraska football relations. "most of the faculty were behind football, and h. benjamin andrews, at that time head of the university, was a staunch supporter of the game. doctor roscoe pound, later dean of harvard law school, was the father of nebraska football. he had as intimate an acquaintance with the rule book as any official i have ever known. his advice on knotty problems was always valuable. james i. wyer, afterward state librarian of new york, was our first financial director, and it was largely by reason of his unflagging zeal that football survived. "football spirit ran high in the missouri valley and there were many hard fought contests among the teams of iowa, missouri, kansas and nebraska. those who saw these games or played in them will never forget them. "many amusing things happened in that section as well as in the east. the haskell indians were a picturesque team. they represented the government school at lawrence, kansas--an institution similar to that of carlisle. in fact, many of the same players played on both teams at different times. we always found them a hard nut to crack, and redwater, archiquette, hauser and other indian stars made their names well known on our field. "john outland, the noted pennsylvania player, had charge of the indians when i knew them. he was a great player and a fine type of man, who succeeded in imparting some of his own personality to his pupils. he once showed me a dark faced indian in lawrence who must have been at least six feet four inches tall and of superb physique. he was a full blooded cheyenne and went by the name of bob tail billy. outland tried hard to break him in at guard, but as no one understood bob tail's dialect, and he understood no one else, he never learned the signals, and proved unavailable. "we traveled far to play in those days; west to boulder, colorado, handicapped by an altitude of 5000 feet, south to kansas city and north as far as st. paul and minneapolis. we were generally about 500 miles from our base. we were not able to take many deadheads." harry kersburg is one of the most enthusiastic harvard football players i have ever met. he played guard on harvard in 1904, '05 and '06 and is often asked back to cambridge to coach the center men. from his playing days let us read what he prizes in his recollections: "my college career began at lehigh, with the idea of eventually going to harvard. as a football enthusiast, i came under the observation of doctor newton, who was coaching lehigh at that time. doc taught me the first football i ever knew. in one of the games against union college doc asked me before the game whether if he put me in i would deliver the goods. i said i would try and do my best. he said, 'that won't do. i don't want any man on my team who says, "i'll try." a man has got to say "i'll do it." from that time on i never said, 'i'll try,' but always said 'i'll do it.' "i shall never forget the day i played against john dewitt. i did not know much about the finer points of football then. i weighed about 165 pounds with my football clothes on, was five feet nine inches tall and sixteen years old. i shall always remember seeing that great big hawk of a man opposite me. i did not have cold feet. i knew i had to go in and give the best account of myself i could. it was like going up against a stone wall. john dewitt certainly could use his hands, with the result that i resembled paper pulp when i came out of that game. dewitt did everything to me but kill me. after i got my growth, weight and strength, plus my experience, i always had a desire to play against dewitt to see if he could the same thing again. "in a harvard-yale game one year i remember an incident that took place between carr, shevlin and myself," says harry. "tom shevlin usually stood near the goal line when yale received the kick-off. as a matter of fact he caught the ball most of the time. the night before the yale game in 1905, bill carr and myself were discussing what might come up the following day. inasmuch as we always lined up side by side on the kick off, we made a wager that if harvard kicked off we would each be the first to tackle shevlin. "the next day harvard won the toss and chose to kick off, and as we had hoped, shevlin caught the ball. carr and i raced down the field, each intent on being the first to tackle him. i crashed into shevlin and spilled him, upsetting myself at the same time. when i picked myself up and looked around, carr had shevlin pinned securely to the ground. after the game we told shevlin of our wager and he said that under the circumstances all bets were off as both had won." former u. s. attorney-general william h. lewis, who is one of the leading representatives of the colored race, needs no introduction to the football world, says kersburg. 'bill,' or 'lew,' as he is familiarly known to all harvard men, laid the foundation for the present system of line play at cambridge. he was actively engaged in coaching until 1907 when he was obliged to give it up due to pressure of business. "in 1905 'hooks' burr and i played the guard positions. 'lew' seemed to center his attention on us as we always received more 'calls' after each game than the other linemen for doing this, that, or the other thing wrong. in the brown game of this year hooks played against a colored man who was exceptionally good and who, hooks admitted afterward, 'put it all over' him. the monday following this game we received our usual 'call.' after telling me what a rotten game i had played he turned on burr and remarked. 'what the devil was the matter with you on saturday, hooks? that guard on the brown team "smeared" you.' burr replied, 'i don't know what was the matter with me. i used my hands on that nigger's head and body all through the game but it didn't seem to do any good.' several of us who were listening felt a bit embarrassed that hooks had unwittingly made this remark. the tension was relieved, however, when lew drawled out, 'why the devil didn't you kick him in the shins?' a burst of laughter greeted this sally." donald grant herring, better known to football men in and out of princeton as heff, is one of the few american players of international experience. after a period of splendid play for the tigers he went to england with a rhodes scholarship. at merton college he continued his athletic career, and it was not long before he became a member of one of the most famous rugby fifteens ever turned out by oxford. heff has always said that he enjoyed the english game, but whether the brand he played was american or english, his opponent usually got little enjoyment out of a hard afternoon with this fine princeton athlete. "in the late summer of 1903, i was on a train coming east from montana," heff tells me, "after a summer spent in the rockies. a companion recognized among the passengers doc hillebrand, who was coming east from his ranch to coach the princeton team. this companion who was still a lawrenceville schoolboy, had the nerve to brace hillebrand and tell him in my presence that i was going to enter princeton that fall and that i was a star football player. you can imagine what doc thought, and how i felt. however, doc was kind enough to tell me to report for practice and to recognize me when i appeared on the field several weeks later. i soon drifted over to the freshman field and i want to admit here what caused me to do so. it was nothing more nor less than the size of jim cooney's legs. jim was a classmate of mine whom i first saw on the football field when he and another tackle candidate were engaged in that delicate pastime known to linemen as breaking through. i realized at once that, if jim and i were ever put up against one another, i would stand about as much chance of shoving him back as i would if i tried to push a steam roller. so i went over to the freshman field, where howard henry was coaching at the time. he was sending ends down the field and i remember being thrilled, after beating a certain bunch of them, at hearing him say: 'you in the brown jersey, come over here in the first squad.' "dewitt's team beat cornell 44-0. for years there hung on the walls of the osborn club at princeton a splendid action picture of dana kafer making one of the touchdowns in that game. it was a mass on tackle play, and jim cooney was getting his cornell opponent out of the way for kafer to go over the line. the picture gave jim dead away. he had a firm grip of the cornell man's jersey and arm. ten years or more afterward, a group, including cooney, was sitting in the osborn club. in a spirit of fun one man said, 'jim, we know now how you got your reputation as a tackle. we can see it right up there on the wall.' the next day the picture was gone. "after i was graduated from princeton in 1907 i went to merton college, oxford. there are twenty-two different colleges in oxford and eighteen in cambridge. each one has its own teams and crews and plays a regular schedule. from the best of these college teams the university teams are drawn. each college team has a captain and a secretary, who acts as manager. at the beginning of the college year (early october) the captain and secretary of each team go around among the freshmen of the college and try to get as many of them as possible to play their particular sport; mine rugby football. after a few days the captain posts on the college bulletin board, which is always placed at the porter's lodge, a notice that a squash will be held on the college field. a squash is what we would call practice. [illustration: "the next day the picture was gone" jim cooney making a hole for dana kafer.] "sometimes for a few days before the game an old blue may come down to oxford and give a little coaching to the team. here often the captain does all the coaching. the cambridge match is for blood, and, while friendly enough, is likely to be much more savage than any other. in the match i played in, which oxford won 35-3, the record score in the whole series, which started in 1872, we had three men severely injured. in the first three minutes of the game one of our star backs was carried off the field with a broken shoulder, while our captain was kicked in the head and did not come out of his daze until about seven o'clock that evening. he played throughout the game, however. our secretary was off the field with a knee cap out of place for more than half the game. a game of rugby, by the way, consists of two 45-minute halves, with a three minute intermission. there are no substitutes, and if a man is injured, his team plays one man short. we beat cambridge that year with thirteen men the greater part of the game, twelve for some time against their full team of fifteen. their only try (touchdown in plain american) was scored when we had twelve men on the field. we were champions of england that year, and did not lose a match through the fall season, though we tied one game with the great harlequins club of london, whom we afterward beat in the return game. of the fine fellows who made up that great oxford team, six are dead, five of them 'somewhere in france.'" carl flanders was a big factor in the yale rush line. foster sanford considers him one of the greatest offensive centers that ever played. he was six feet three and one-fourth inches tall and weighed 202 pounds. in 1906 flanders coached the indian team at carlisle. let us see some of the interesting things that characterize the indian players, through flanders' experience. the nicknames with which the indians labelled each other were mostly those of animals or a weapon of defense. mount pleasant and libby always called each other knife. bill gardner was crowned chicken legs, charles, one of the halfbacks, and a regular little tiger, was called bird legs. other names fastened to the different players were whale bone, shoe string, tommyhawk and wolf. the indians always played cleanly as long as their opponents played that way. dillon, an old sioux indian, and one of the fastest guards i ever saw, was a good example of this. if anybody started rough play, dillon would say: "stop that, boys!" and the chap who was guilty always stopped. but if an opponent continually played dirty football, dillon would say grimly: "i'll get you!" on the next play or two, you'd never know how, the rough player would be taken out. dillon had "got" his man. "wallace denny and bemus pierce got up a code of signals, using an indian word which designated a single play. among the indian words which designated these signals were water-bucket, watehnee, coocoohee. i never could find out what it all meant, and following the indian team by this code of signals was a task which was too much for me." bill horr, renowned in colgate and syracuse, writes: "colgate university and colgate academy are under the same administration, and the football teams were practicing when i entered school. i went out for the team and after the second practice i was put into the scrimmage. i was greatly impressed with the game and continued for the afternoon practice, and played at tackle in the first game of the season. in four years of winning football i became acquainted with such wonderful athletes as riley castleman and walter runge of the colgate varsity team. "in the fall of 1905 i entered syracuse university and played right tackle on the varsity team for four years and was captain of the victorious 1908 team. in the four years i never missed a scrimmage or a game. "i think that one of the hardest games i ever played in was the game against princeton in 1908, when they had such stars as siegling, macfadyen, eddie dillon and tibbott. the game ended in a scoreless tie with the ball see-sawing back and forth on the 40-yard line. i had been accustomed to carry the ball, and had been successful in executing a forward pass of fifty-five yards in the yale game the week before, placing the ball on the 1-yard line, only to lose it on a fumble. "i had the reputation of being a good-natured player, and indirectly heard it rumored many times by coaches and football players that they would like to see me fighting mad on the football field. the few syracuse rooters who journeyed to easton the day we played lafayette had that opportunity. dowd was the captain of the lafayette team. next to me was barry, a first-class football player, who stripped in the neighborhood of 200 pounds. just before the beginning of the second half i was in a crouching position ready to start, when some one dealt me a stinging blow on the ear. i was dazed for the time being. i turned to barry and asked him who did it. he pointed to dowd. from that instant i was determined to seek revenge. i was ignorant of the true culprit until about a year afterward, when anderson, who played center, and was a good friend of mine, told me about it. it seemed that just before we went on the field for the second half buck o'neil, who was coaching the syracuse team, told barry to hit me and make me mad." chapter x college traditions and spirit college life in america is rich in traditions. customs are handed down class by class and year by year until finally they acquire the force of law. each college and university has a community life and a character of its own. the spirit of each institution abides within its walls. it cannot be invaded by an outsider, or ever completely understood by one who has not grown up in it. the atmosphere of a college community is conservative. it is the outcome of generations of student custom and thought, which have resolved themselves into distinct grooves. it requires a thorough understanding of the customs of college men, their antics and pranks, to appreciate the fact that the performers are simply boys, carrying on the traditions of those gone before. gray-haired graduates who know by experience what is embodied in college spirit, join feelingly in the old customs of their college days, and in observing the new customs which have grown out of the old. these traditional customs, some of them humorous, and others deeply moving in their sentiment, are among the first things that impress the freshman. he does not comprehend the meaning of them at once, nor does he realize that they are the product of generations of students, but he soon learns that there is something more powerful in college life than the brick and mortar of beautiful buildings, or high passing marks in the classroom. when he comes to know the value and the underlying spirit of the traditions of his college, he treasures them among the enduring memories of his life. the business man who never enjoyed the advantage of going to college, is puzzled as he witnesses the demonstration of undergraduate life, and he fails to catch the meaning; he does not understand; it has played no part in his own experience; college customs seem absurd to him, and he fails to appreciate that in these traditions our american college spirit finds expression. as an outsider views the result of a football victory, he sees perhaps only the bitter look of defeat on the losers' faces, and is at a loss to understand the loyal spirit of thousands of graduates and undergraduates who stand and cheer their team after defeat. such a sight, undoubtedly, impresses him; but he turns his attention to the triumphant march of the victorious sympathizers around the field and watches the winners being borne aloft by hero worshipers; while hats by the thousands are being tossed over the cross bar of the goal post that carried the winning play. the snake dance of thousands of exulting students enlivens the scene--the spirit of glorious victory breaks loose. after the harvard victory in 1908, in the midst of the excitement, a harvard graduate got up from his seat, climbed over the fence, put his derby hat and bull-dog pipe on the grass, walked solemnly out a few paces, turned two complete handsprings, walked back, put on his hat, picked up his pipe, climbed solemnly over the fence again and took his place in the crowd. he was very businesslike about it and didn't say a word. he had to get it out of his system--that was all. nobody laughed at him. one sees gray-haired men stand and cheer, sing and enthuse over their alma mater's team. for the moment the rest of the world is forgotten. tears come with defeat to those on the grandstand, as well as to the players, and likewise happy smiles and joyous greetings come when victory crowns the day. in the midst of a crisis in the game, men and women, old and young, break over the bounds of conventionality, get acquainted with their seat mates and share the general excitement. the thrill of victory possesses them and the old grads embrace each other after a winning touchdown. there may be certain streets in a college town upon which a freshman is never seen. it may be that a freshman has to wear a certain kind of cap; his trousers must not be rolled up at the bottom. and if you should see a freshman standing on a balcony at night, singing some foolish song, with a crowd of sophomores standing below, you smile as you realize that you are witnessing the performance of some college custom. and if you see a young man dressed in an absurd fantastic costume, going about the streets of a city, or a quiet college town, it may mean an initiation into a certain society or club, and you will note that he does his part with a quiet, earnest look upon his face, realizing that he is carrying on a tradition which has endured for years. you hear the seniors singing on the campus, while the whole college listens. it is their hour. at games you see the cheer leaders take their places in front of the grandstand, and as they bend and double themselves into all sorts of shapes, they bring out the cheers which go to make college spirit strong. if you were at yale, on what is known as "tap day," you would view in wonderment the solemnity and seriousness of the occasion. an election to a senior society is yale's highest honor. as you sit on the old yale fence you realize what it means to yale men. in the secret life of the campus men yearn most for this honor and the traditional gathering of seniors under the oak tree for receiving elections is a college custom that has all the binding force of a most rigid law. alumni parades then come the alumni parades at commencement. the old timers head the procession; those who came first, are first in line, and so on down to the youngest and most recent graduate. there are many interesting things in the parade, which bring out specific class peculiarities. in one college you may see gray-haired men walking behind an immense sacred bird, as it is called. this bird--the creation of an ingenious mind--is the size of an ostrich and has all the semblance of life, with many lifelike tricks and habits. men dress in all sorts of costumes. this is a day in which each class has some peculiar part, and all are united in the one big thought that it is a cherished college custom. you may see some man with the letter of his college on his sweater, another may have his class numerals, another may wear a gold football. these are not ordinary things to be purchased at sporting goods stores; they are a reward of merit. the college custom has made it so, and if in some college town the traditions of the university are such that a man, as he passes the ma newell gateway at cambridge raises his hat in honor of this great harvard hero, it is a tradition backed up by a wonderful spirit of love towards one who has gone. and then on commencement day when the seniors plant their class ivy--that is a token to remain behind them and flourish long after they are out in the wide, wide world. college tradition makes it possible for a poor boy to get an education. the poor fellow may wait on the table, where sit many rich men's sons, but they may be all chums with him; they are on the same footing; the campus of one is the campus of the other, and all you can say is "it is just the way of things--just the way it must be." more power to the man who works his way through college. it may be, as fellow college man, you are now recalling some custom that is carried out on a college street, in a dormitory, in a fraternity house, perhaps, or a club; perhaps in some boarding house, where you had your first introduction to a college custom; maybe in the cheapest rooming house in town you got your first impression of a bold, bad sophomore. you probably could have given him a good trouncing had he been alone, and yet you were prepared to take smilingly the hazing imposed upon you. maybe some of you fondly recall a cannon stuck in the ground behind a historical building where once george washington had his headquarters. around about this traditional monument cluster rich memories as you review the many college ceremonies enacted there. some of you, owing allegiance to a new england alma mater, may recall with smiles and perhaps mischievous satisfaction, the chequered career of the sculptured sabrina in her various appearances and disappearances since the day, now long gone by, when in pedestaled repose she graced the college flower gardens. the sabrina tradition is one of the golden legacies of amherst life. in the formation of college spirit and traditions i am not unmindful of the tremendous moulding power of the college president or the popular college professors. this is strikingly illustrated in the expression of an old college man, who said in this connection: "i don't remember a thing professor ---said, but i remember him." when the graduate of a college has sons of his own, he realizes more fully than at any other time the great influence of personality upon youth. he understands better the problems that are faced by boys, and the great task and responsibility of the faculty. i know that there are many football men who at different times in their career have not always praised the work of the college professors, but now that the games are over they probably look back affectionately to the men who made them toe the mark, and by such earnestness helped them through their college career. it is undoubtedly true that the head masters and teachers in our preparatory schools and colleges generally appreciate the importance of developing the whole man, mental, moral and physical. schoolmaster and boy indeed it is a wonderful privilege to work shoulder to shoulder with the boys in our preparatory schools as well as in our colleges. at a recent dinner i heard doctor s. j. mcpherson, of the lawrenceville school, place before an alumni gathering a sentiment, which i believe is the sentiment of every worthy schoolmaster in our land. "schoolmasters have attractive work and they can find no end of fun in it. i admit that in a boarding school they should be willing to spend themselves, eight days in the week and twenty-five hours a day. but no man goes far that keeps watching the clock. there may be good reasons for long vacations, but i regard the summer vacation as usually a bore for at least half the length of it. "to be worth his salt, a schoolmaster must, of course, have scholarship--the more the better. but that alone will never make him a quickening teacher. he must be 'apt to teach,' and must lose himself in his task if he is to transfuse his blood into the veins of boys. above all, he must be a real man and not a manikin, and he must enjoy his boys--love them, without being quite conscious of the love, or at least without harping on it. "the ideal schoolmaster needs five special and spiritual senses: common sense, the sense of justice, the sense of honor, the sense of youth and the sense of humor. these five gifts are very useful in every worthy occupation. "gentlemen, none of us schoolmasters has reached the ideal; however, we reach after it. nevertheless, we neither need, nor desire your pity. we do not feel unimportant. personally, i would not exchange jobs with the richest or greatest among you. i like my own job. it really looks to me, bigger and finer. i should rather have the right mold and put the right stamp on a wholesome boy than to do any other thing. it counts more for the world and is more nearly immortal. it is worth any man's life." another factor in the formation and development of college traditions and college spirit is the influence of the men who shape the athletic policy. when one of the graduates returns to direct the athletic affairs of his alma mater, or those of another college he naturally becomes a potent influence in the life of the students. great is his opportunity for character making. the men all look up to him and the spirit of hero worship is present everywhere. such athletic directors are chosen largely because of their success on the athletic field. and when one can combine athletic directorship with scholastic knowledge, the combination is doubly effective. by association they know the real spirit and patriotic sentiment of the college men. they appreciate the fact that success in athletics, like success in life, depends not merely upon training the head, but upon training the will. huxley said that: "the true object of all education, was to develop ability to do the thing that ought to be done when it ought to be done, whether one felt like doing it or not." prompt obedience to rules and regulations develop character and the athletic director becomes, therefore, one of the most important of college instructors. a boy may be a welcher in his classroom work, but when he gets out on the athletic field and meets the eye of a man who is bound to get the most out of every player for the sake of his own reputation, as well as the reputation of the school or college, that boy finds himself in a new school. it is the school of discipline that resembles more nearly than anything else the competitive struggle in the business life of the outside world that he is soon to enter. another exceedingly valuable trait that athletic life develops in a student is the spirit of honorable victory. the player is taught to win, to be sure, but he is also taught that victory must never overshadow honor. who misses or who wins the prize, go lose, or conquer, as you can but if you fail, or if you rise, be each, pray god, a gentleman. this tradition and atmosphere cannot be retained in institutions merely by the efforts of the students. the co-operation of the alumni is necessary. on this account it is unfortunate that the point of view of too many college men regarding their alma mater is limited to the years of their own school and college days. our universities especially are beginning to learn that this has been a great mistake and that the continued interest and loyalty of the alumni are absolutely essential to insure progress and maintain the high standard of an institution. there is, in other words, a real sense in which the college belongs to the alumni. the faculty is engaged for a specific purpose and their great work is made much more profitable by the hearty co-operation of the old and young graduates who keep in close touch with the happenings and the spirit of their different alma maters. one of the best assets in any seat of learning is the constructive criticism of the alumni. broad minded faculties invite intelligent criticism from the graduate body, and they usually get it. but after all, the real power of enthusiasm behind college traditions abides in the student body itself. how is this college patriotism aroused? what are its manifestations? what is it that awakens the desire for victory with honor, which is the real background of the great football demonstration that tens of thousands of americans witness each year? as i think back in this connection upon my own college experiences, the athletic mass meeting stands out in my memory and records the moment when all that was best and strongest in my fighting spirit and manhood came out to meet the demand of the athletic leaders. it was at that time that the thrill and power of college spirit took mighty possession of me. it might have been the inspiring words of an old college leader addressing us, or perhaps it was the story of some incident that brought out the deep significance of the coming game. indeed i have often thought that the spirit of loyalty and sacrifice aroused in the breast of the young man in a college mass meeting springs from the same noble source as the highest patriotism. mass meeting enthusiasm how well do i recall the mass meeting held by the undergraduates in alexander hall thursday night before the yale game in 1898! the team and substitutes sat in the front row of seats. there was singing and cheering that aroused every man in the room to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. all eyes were focused on the cheer leader as he rehearsed the cheers and songs for the game, and as the speakers entered behind him on the platform, they received a royal welcome. there was johnny poe, alex moffat, some of the professors, including jack hibben, since president of princeton, in addition to the coaches. i can almost hear again their words, as they addressed the gathering. "fellows, we are here to-night to get ready to defeat yale on saturday. you men all know how hard the coaches have worked this year to get the team ready for the last big game. captain hillebrand and his men know that the college is with the team to a man. we are not here to-night to make college spirit, but we are here to demonstrate it. "those of you who saw last year's team go down to defeat at new haven, realize that the princeton team this year has got to square that defeat. garry cochran and the other men who graduated are not here to play. the burden rests on the shoulders of the men in front of me, this year's team, and we know what they're going to do. "it is going to take the hardest kind of work to beat yale on our own grounds. we must play them off their feet the first five minutes. i wonder if you men who are in princeton to-day truly realize the great tradition of this dear college. thousands and thousands of young men have walked across the same campus you travel. the princeton of years gone by, is your princeton to-day, so let us ever hold a high regard for those whose places we now occupy. "already from far off points, princeton men are starting back to see the yale game--back to their alma mater. they're coming back to see the old rooms they used to live in, and it is up to us to make their visit a memorable one. you can do that by beating yale." george k. edwards many of you men have perhaps heard of the great love for princeton shown in the story of the last days of horse edwards, princeton '89. he will never return to princeton again. he used to live in east college, long since torn down. some years after he left college, he was told that he had but a few short months to live. he decided to live them out at princeton. one friday afternoon in the summer of 1897, horse edwards arrived in princeton from colorado. he was very weak from his illness. he could barely raise his hand to wave to the host of old friends who greeted him as he drove from the station to east college, where his old room had been arranged as in his college days for his return. there he was visited by many friends of the old days, who had come back for commencement. old memories were revived. that night he attended his club dinner, and the following day was wheeled out to the field to see the baseball game, princeton beat yale 16 to 8, and his cup of happiness was overflowing. on the following monday horse edwards died. he told his close friends that as long as he had to go, he was happy that he had been granted his last wish--to die there at princeton. and his memory is a treasured college tradition. job e. hedges among the men who are always welcome at princeton mass meetings and dinners, is job e. hedges. i remember what he said at a mass meeting at princeton in 1896. he was then secretary to mayor strong, in new york, in which city the game with yale took place that year. the scene was in the old gymnasium. every inch of space was occupied. on the front seats sat the team and substitutes. around them and in the small gallery were the students in mass. before the team were prominent alumni, trustees and some members of the faculty. earnest appeal had been made by the various speakers tending to arouse the team to a high point of enthusiasm and courage, and the interest of their alma mater and of the alumni had been earnestly pictured. mr. hedges was called on as he frequently is at princeton gatherings and as the usual field had been fairly covered, his opportunities were limited, without repetition of what had been said. he addressed the team and substitutes in typical princeton fashion and concluded, so far as a record is made of it, somewhat as follows: "there is a feeling in the public mind that football games breed dissipation and are naturally followed by unseemly conduct. we all know that much of the excitement following football games in new york is due largely not to college men but others, who take the game as an excuse and the time as an opportunity to indulge in more or less boisterous conduct, with freedom from interference usually accorded at that time. i wish it thoroughly understood that in no way as a princeton man do i countenance dissipation, intemperance, boisterous or unseemly conduct. it may be a comfort for you men to know, however, that i am personally acquainted with every police magistrate in the city of new york. while i do not claim to have any influence with them, nor would i try to exercise it improperly, nevertheless if the team wins and any man should unintentionally and weakly yield to the strain consequent upon such a victory, i can be found that night at my residence. any delinquent will have my sympathetic and best efforts in his behalf. if, however, the team loses, and any one goes over the line of propriety, he will have from me neither sympathy nor assistance and i shall be absent from the city." it is related that on the night following the victory, several daring spirits decorated themselves with cards hung from their necks bearing this legend, "don't arrest me, i am a friend of job hedges." with these they marched up and down broadway and, though laboring under somewhat strange conditions, were not molested. a full account of this expeditionary force appeared in the daily papers the next morning and it is related that there was a brisk conversation between mr. hedges and the mayor, when the former arrived at the city hall, which took on, not an orange and black hue, but rather a lurid flame, of which mayor strong was supposed to be but was not the victim. the net result of the scene, however, was that the team won, there was a moderate celebration and no princeton man was arrested. [illustration: johnny poe, football player and soldier] chapter xi johnny poe's own story johnny poe was a member of the black watch, that famous scotch regiment whose battles had followed the english flag. on the graves of the black watch heroes the sun never sets. johnny poe's death came on september 25th, 1915, in the battle of loos. nelson poe has given me the following information regarding johnny's death. it comes direct from private w. faulkner, a comrade who was in the charge when johnny fell. in the morning during the attack we went out on a party carrying bombs. poe and myself were in this party. we had gone about half way across an open field when poe was hit in the stomach. he was then five yards in front of me and i saw him fall. as he fell he said, 'never mind me. go ahead with our boxes.' on our return for more bombs we found him lying dead. shortly after he was buried at a place between the british and german lines. i have seen his grave which is about a hundred yards to the left of 'lone tree' on the left of loos. 'lone tree' is the only landmark near. the grave is marked with his name and regiment. just what johnny poe's heroic finish on the battle field meant to us here at home is the common knowledge of all football men and indeed of all sportsmen. there is ample evidence, moreover, that it attracted the attention of the four corners of the earth. life in london or paris was not all roses to the americans compelled to remain there at the height of the war. paul mac whelan, a yale man and football writer, had occasion to be in london shortly after the news of poe's death in battle was received there. talking with whelan after his return he impressed upon me the place that poe had made for himself in the hearts of at least one of the fighting countries. "you know," said he, "that at about that time americans were not very popular. there seemed to be a feeling everywhere that we should have been on the firing line. this feeling developed the fashion of polite jeering to a point that made life abroad uncomfortable until johnny poe fell fighting in the ranks of the black watch on the plains of flanders. in the dull monotony of the casualty list his name at first slipped by with scant mention. it was the publication in the united states of the story of his fighting career which stimulated newspaper interest not merely in england, but throughout the british empire. to australia, canada, new zealand and south africa--into the farthest corners of the earth--went the tale of the death of a great american fighter. "i met one man, a lawyer, on his way to do some peace work, and he told me that he thought poe had no right to be in the ranks of a foreign army. probably most of the pacifists would have returned the same verdict regardless of poe's love for the cause of the allies. yet among the thousands of americans in europe in the month following poe's death, there was complete unity of opinion that the old princeton football star had done more for his country than all the pacifists put together. "'a toast to the memory of poe,' said one of the group of americans in the savoy, that famous gathering place of yankees in london. 'his death has made living a lot easier for his countrymen who have to be in france and england during the war.'" "there is not an army on the continent in which americans have not died, but no death in action, not even that of victor chapman the famous american aviator in france, gave such timely proof of american valor as that of poe. in london for a month after his death there was talk among americans and in the university clubs about raising funds for some permanent memorial in london to poe. there are many memorials to englishmen in america and it would seem that there is a place and a real reason for erecting a memorial in london to a fighting american who gave his life for a cause to england." i have always treasured, in my football collection, some anecdotes which johnny poe wrote several years ago while in nevada. in fact, from reading his stories, after his death, i got the inspiration that prompted me to write this book. "the following stories were picked up by me," says johnny, "through the course of college years, and after. some of the incidents i have actually witnessed, of others my brothers have told me, when we talked over princeton victories and defeats with the reasons for both, and still others i have heard from the lips of princeton men as they grew reminiscent sitting around the cozy fireplace in the trophy room at the varsity club house, with the old footballs, the scores of many a hard fought princeton victory emblazoned upon them, and the banners with the names of the members of the winning teams thereon inscribed looking down from their places on the walls and ceilings." how the undergraduates long to have their names enrolled on the victorious banner, knowing that they will be looked up to by future college generations of the sons of old nassau! these old banners have much the same effect upon princeton teams as did the name of horatius upon the young romans'! and still his name sounds strong unto the men of rome, as a trumpet blast which calls to them to charge the volsian home; and wives still pray to juno for boys with hearts as bold as his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old. well do they know that mother princeton is not chary of her praise, when she knows that they have planted her banner on the loftiest tower of her enemies' stronghold. the evenings spent in the trophy room, the grill room of the princeton inn and in the hallways around a cheerful fire of the numerous princeton clubs make me think of nights in the mess room of crack british regiments, so graphically described by kipling. the general public cannot understand the seriousness with which college athletes take the loss of an important game. there is a princeton football captain who was so broken up over a defeat by yale that, months after on the cattle range of new mexico, as he lay out at night on his cow-boy bed and thought himself unobserved, he fell to sobbing as if his heart would break. a football victory to many men is as dearly longed for as any goal of ambition in life. how else would they strive so fiercely, one side to take the ball over, the other to prevent them doing so! very few of the public hear the exhortation and cursing as the ball slowly but irresistibly is rushed to the goal of the opponent. "billy, if you do that again i'll cut your heart out!" "yale, if you ever held, hold now!" how the calls to victory come back! as hughes says in tom brown's school days, a scrimmage in front of the goal posts, or the consulship of plancus, is no child's play. my earliest princeton football hero was alex moffat '84. my brother johnson was in his class and played on the same team, and would often talk of him to my brothers and to me. he used to give us a sort of "listen my children and you shall hear of the midnight ride of paul revere, etc." though my brother is a small man, i thought all other princeton players must be 9 cubits and a half, or as a reporter once said of symmes '92, center rush in princeton team of '90 and '91, "an animated whale, broad as the moral law and heavy as the hand of fate." i consider alex moffat the greatest goal kicker college football has produced. one football in the princeton trophy room has on it, "princeton 26, harvard 7." in that game moffat kicked five goals from the field, three with his right and two with his left foot, besides the goals from the touchdowns. a harvard guard made the remark after the third goal, "we came here to play football, not to play against phenomenal kicking." princeton men cannot help feeling that moffat should have been allowed a goal against yale in his post-graduate year of '84, which was called before the full halves had been played and decided a draw, yale being ahead, 6 to 4. princeton claimed it but the referee said he didn't see it, which caused moffat to exclaim--something. an amusing story is told in connection with this decision. quite a number of years after jim robinson who was trainer of the princeton team in '84, went down to the dock to see his brother off for europe. looking up he beheld on the deck above, the man who had refereed the '84 game, and whom he had not seen since, "smith," he said, "i have a brother on this boat, but i hope she sinks." tilly lamar's name is highly honored at princeton, not only because he won the '85 game against yale by a run of about 90 yards, but because he died trying to save a girl from drowning. only a few months later, in the summer of '91, fred brokaw '92, was drowned at elberon while trying to save two girls from the ocean. both lamar and brokaw's pictures adorn the walls of the varsity club house. the first game i ever saw the princeton team play was with harvard in '88, which the former won 18 to 6. i was in my brother's ('91) room about three hours and a half before the game, and jere black and channing, the halfbacks, were there. as channing left he remarked, "something will have happened before i get back to this room again," referring to the game, which doubtless made him a bit nervous. i believe he was no more nervous ten years after, when in the rough riders he waited for word to advance up that bullet swept hill before santiago. '81 was the year so many divinity students played on the varsity: hector cowan the great tackle, dick hodge the strategist, sam hodge, bob speer, and i think irvine; men all, who as mccready sykes said, "feared god and no one else." hector cowan is considered one of the best tackles that ever wore the orange and black jersey. while rough, he was never a dirty player. in a game with wesleyan, his opponent cried out angrily, "keep your hands for pounding on your bible, don't be sticking them in my face." one day in a game against the scrub, cowan had passed everyone except the fullback and was bearing down on him like a tornado, when within a few feet of the fullback the latter jumped aside and said politely, "pass on, sir, pass on." cowan played on two winning teams, '85 and '89. in '89 the eligibility rules at the college were not as strict as now, so as princeton needed a tackle, walter cash who had played on pennsylvania the year before, was sent for and came all the way from wyoming. he came so hurriedly that his wardrobe consisted of two 6-shooters and a monte deck of cards, on account of which he was dubbed "monte" cash. cash was not fond of attending lectures, and once the faculty had him up before them and told him what a disgrace it would be if he were dropped out of college. "it may be in the east, but we don't think much of a little thing like that out west," was his reply. cash was in the rough riders and was wounded at san juan. sport donnelly was a great end that year. heffelfinger the great yale guard who is probably the best that ever played, said of donnelly, that he was the only player he had ever seen who could slug and keep his eye on the ball at the same time. the following story is often told of how donnelly got rhodes of yale ruled off in '89. rhodes had hit channing of princeton in the eye, so that donnelly was laying for him, and when rhodes came through the line, donnelly grabbed up two handsful of mud--it was a very muddy field--and rubbed them in his face and hollered, "mr. umpire," so that when rhodes, in a burst of righteous indignation, hit him, the umpire saw it and promptly ruled rhodes from the field. snake ames and house janeway played that year, and as the latter was big--210 pounds stripped--and good natured, ames thought that if he could only get janeway angry he would play even better than usual, so, with machiavellian craft, he said to him before the harvard game, "house, the man you are going to play against to-morrow insulted your girl. i heard him do it, so you want to murder him." "all right," said house, ominously, and as princeton won, 41 to 15, janeway must certainly have helped a heap. george played center for princeton four years, and for three years "pa" corbin and george played against each other, and, as cow-boys would say, "sure did chew each other's mane." i don't mean slugged. my brother edgar '91 was a great admirer of george. in '88 edgar was playing in the scrub, and george broke through and was about to make a tackle when the former knocked one of his arms down as it was outstretched to catch it. george missed the tackle but said nothing. a second time almost identically the same thing occurred. this time he remarked grimly, "good trick that, poe." but when the same thing happened a third time on the same afternoon, he exclaimed, "poe, if you weren't so small, i'd hit you." in '89 thomas '90, substitute guard, was highly indignant at the way some boston newspaper described him. "the princeton men were giants, one in particular was picturesque in his grotesqueness. he was 6 feet 5 and, when he ran, his arms and legs moved up and down like the piston rods of an engine." in '90 buck irvine '88 brought an unknown team to princeton, franklin and marshall, which he coached, and they scored 16 points against the tigers. and though the latter won, 33 to 16, still that was the largest score ever made against princeton up to that time. they did it, too, by rushing, which was all the more to their credit. victor harding, harvard, and yup cook, princeton '89, had played on andover and exeter, respectively, and had trouble then, so four years later when they met, one on princeton and the other on harvard, they had more trouble. both were ruled off for rough work. cook picked harding up off the ground and slammed him down and then walked off the field. in a few minutes harding, after trying to trip ames, also was ruled off. that was the net result of the old andover-exeter feud. in '91 princeton was playing rutgers. those were the days of the old "v" trick in starting a game. when the orange and black guards and centers tore up the rutgers' v it was found that the captain of the latter team had broken his leg in the crush. he showed great nerve, for while sitting on the ground waiting for a stretcher, he remarked in a nonchalant way, "give me a cigarette. i could die for old rutgers," his tone being "me first and then nathan hale." one version quite prevalent around princeton has it that a tiger player rushed up and exclaimed, "die then." this is not true as i played in that game and know whereof i speak. fifteen years after that had happened, i met phil brett who had captained the rutgers team that day, and he told me that his life had been a burden to him at times, and like job, he felt like cursing god and dying, because often upon coming into a cafã© or even a hotel dining-room some half drunken acquaintance would yell out, "hello, phil, old man, could you die for dear old rutgers?" several years ago while in the kentucky militia in connection with one of those feud cases, i was asked by a private if i were related to edgar allan poe, "de mug what used to write poetry," and when i replied, "yes, he was my grandmother's first cousin," he, evidently thinking i was too boastful, remarked, "well, man, you've got a swell chance." so, knowing that the football season is near i think i have a "swell chance" to tell some of the old football stories handed down at princeton from college generation to generation. if i have hurt any old princeton players' feelings, i do humbly ask pardon and assure them that it is unintentional; for as the indians would put it, my heart is warm toward them, and, when i die, place my hands upon my chest and put their hands between my hands. with apologies to kipling in his poem when he speaks of the parting of the colonial troops with the regulars: "there isn't much we haven't shared for to make the elis run. the same old hurts, the same old breaks, the same old rain and sun. the same old chance which knocked us out or winked and let us through. the same old joy, the same old sorrow, good-bye, good luck to you." chapter xii army and navy when the navy meets the army, when the friend becomes the foe, when the sailor and the soldier seek each other to o'erthrow; when old vet'rans, gray and grizzled, elbow, struggle, push, and shove, that they may cheer on to vict'ry each the service of his love; when the maiden, fair and dainty, lets her dignity depart, and, all breathless, does her utmost for the team that's next her heart; when you see these strange things happen, then we pray you to recall that the army and navy stand firm friends beneath it all. there is a distinctive flavor about an army-navy football game which, irrespective of the quality of the contending elevens and of their relative standing among the high-class teams in any given season, rates these contests annually as among the "big games" of the year. tactically and strategically football bears a close relation to war. that is a vital reason why it should be studied and applied in our two government schools. on the part of the public there is general appreciation of the spirit which these two academies have brought into the great autumn sport, a spirit which combines with football per se the color, the martial pomp, the _elan_ of the military. the merger is a happy one, because football in its essence is a stern, grim game, a game that calls for self-sacrifice, for mental alertness and for endurance; all these are elements, among others, which we commonly associate with the soldier's calling. if west point and annapolis players are not young men, who, after graduation, will go out into the world in various civil professions or other pursuits relating to commerce and industry, they are men, on the contrary, who are being trained to uphold the honor of our flag at home or abroad, as fate may decree--fighting men whose lives are to be devoted to the national weal. it would be strange, therefore, if games in which those thus set apart participate, were not marked by a quality peculiarly their own. to far-flung warships the scores are sent on the wings of the wireless and there is elation or depression in many a remote wardroom in accordance with the aspect of the news. in lonely army posts wherever the flag flies word of the annual struggle is flashed alike to colonel and the budding second lieutenant still with down on lip, by them passed to the top sergeant and so on to the bottom of the line. every football player who has had the good fortune to visit west point or annapolis, there to engage in a gridiron contest, has had an experience that he will always cherish. every team, as a rule, looks forward to out of town trips, but when an eleven is to play the army or the navy, not a little of the pleasure lies in anticipation. mayhap the visitor even now is recalling the officer who met him at the station, and his hospitable welcome; the thrill that resulted from a tour, under such pleasant auspices, of the buildings and the natural surroundings of the two great academies. there was the historic campus, where so many great army and navy men spent their preparatory days. an inspiration unique in the experience of the visitor was to be found in the drill of the battalion as they marched past, led by the famous academy bands. there arose in the heart of the stranger perhaps, the thought that he was not giving to his country as much as these young men. such is the contagion of the spirit of the two institutions. there is always the thrill of the military whether the cadets and midshipmen pass to the urge of martial music in their purely military duties, or in equally perfect order to the ordinary functions of life, such as the daily meals, which in the colleges are so informal and in the mess hall are so precise. joining their orderly ranks in this big dining-room one comes upon a scene never to be forgotten. in the process of developing college teams, an eleven gets a real test at either of these academies; you get what you go after; they are out to beat you; their spirit is an indomitable one; your cherished idea that you cannot be beaten never occurs to them until the final whistle is blown. your men will realize after the game that a bruised leg or a lame joint will recall hard tackling of a player like mustin of the navy, or arnold of west point, souvenirs of the dash they put into their play. maybe there comes to your mind a recollection of the navy's fast offense; their snappy play; the military precision with which their work is done. possibly you dream of the wriggling open field running of snake izard, or the bulwark defense of nichols; or in your west point experiences you are reminded of the tussle you had in suppressing the brilliant kromer, that clever little quarterback and field general, or the task of stopping the forging king, the army's old captain and fullback. not less vivid are the memories of the spontaneous if measured cheering behind these men--a whole-hearted support that was at once the background and the incentive to their work. the "siren cheer" of the navy and the "long corps yell" of the army still ringing in the ears of the college invader were proof of the drive behind the team. i have always counted it a privilege that i was invited to coach at annapolis through several football seasons. it was an unrivalled opportunity to catch the spirit that permeates the atmosphere of this great service school and to realize how eagerly the progress of football is watched by the heroes of the past who are serving wherever duty calls. it was there that i met superintendent wainwright. his interest in annapolis football was keen. another officer whose friendship i made at the academy was commander grant, who later was rear admiral, commander of the submarine flotilla. his spirit was truly remarkable. the way he could talk to a team was an inspiration. it was during the intermission of a navy-carlisle game when the score was 11 to 6 in carlisle's favor, that this exponent of fighting spirit came into the dressing-room and in a talk to the team spared nothing and nobody. what he said about the white man not being able to defeat the indian was typical. as a result of this unique dressing-room scene when he commanded the navy to win out over the indians, his charges came through to victory by the score of 17-11. there is no one man at annapolis who sticks closer to the ship and around whom more football traditions have grown than paul dashiell, a professor in the academy. he bore for many years the burden of responsibility of annapolis football. his earnest desire has been to see the navy succeed. he has worked arduously, and whenever navy men get together they speak enthusiastically of the devotion of this former lehigh hero, official and rule maker. players have come and gone; the call in recent years has been elsewhere, but paul dashiell has remained, and his interest in the game has been manifested by self-denial and hard work. defeat has come to him with great sadness, and there are many games of which he still feels the sting; these come to him as nightmares in his recollections of annapolis football history. great has been his joy in the navy's hour of victory. it was here at annapolis that i learned something of the old navy football heroes. most brilliant of all, perhaps, was worth bagley, a marvelous punter and great fighter. he lost his life later in the war with spain, standing to his duty under open fire on the deck of the _winslow_ at cardenas, with the utter fearlessness that was characteristic of him. i heard of the deeds on the football field of mike johnson, trench, pearson, mccormack, cavanaugh, reeves, mccauley, craven, kimball and bookwalter. i have played against the great navy guard halligan. i saw developed the navy players, long, chambers, reed, nichols and chip smith, who later was in charge of the navy athletics. he was one of the best quarterbacks the navy ever had. i saw dug howard grow up from boyhood in annapolis and develop into a navy star; saw him later coach their teams to victory; witnessed the great playing of dougherty, piersol, grady and bill carpenter, who is no longer on the navy list. all these players, together with norton, northcroft, dague, halsey, ingram, douglas, jerry land, babe brown and dalton stand out among those who have given their best in army and navy games. young nichols, who was quarterback in 1912, was a most brilliant ground gainer. he resigned from the service early in 1913, receiving a commission in the british army. he was wounded, but later returned to duty only to be killed shortly afterward. another splendid man. in speaking of navy football i cannot pass over the name of w. h. stayton, a man whose whole soul seemed to be permeated with navy atmosphere, and who is always to be depended upon in navy matters. the association that i formed later in life with mcdonough craven and other loyal navy football men gave me an opportunity to learn of annapolis football in their day. the list of men who have been invited to coach the navy from year to year is a long one. the ideal method of development of an undergraduate team is by a system of coaching conducted by graduates of that institution. such alumni can best preserve the traditions, correct blunders of other years, and carry through a continuous policy along lines most acceptable. graduate coaching exclusively is nearly impossible for navy teams, for the graduates, as officers, are stationed at far distant points, mostly on board ship. their duties do not permit of interruption for two months. they cannot be spared from turret and bridge; from the team work so highly developed at present on shipboard. furthermore, their absence from our country sometimes for years, keeps them out of touch with football generally, and it is impossible for them to keep up to date--hence the coaching from other institutions. [illustration: northcroft kicking the field goal anticipated by the navy and feared by the army] lieutenant frank b. berrien was one of the early coaches and an able one. immediately afterward dug howard for three years coached the team to victory. the navy's football future was then turned over to jonas ingram, with the idea of working out a purely graduate system, in the face of such serious obstacles as have already been pointed out. one of the nightmares of my coaching experiences was the day that the army beat the navy through the combined effort of the whole army team plus the individual running of charlie daly. this run occurred at the very start of the second half. doc hillebrand and i were talking on the side lines to evarts wrenn, the umpire. none of us heard the whistle blow for the starting of the second half. before we knew it the army sympathizers were on their feet cheering and we saw daly hitting it up the field, weaving through the navy defense. harmon graves, who was coaching west point that year, has since told me that the army coaches had drilled the team carefully in receiving the ball on a kick-off--with daly clear back under the goal posts. on the kick-off, the navy did just what west point had been trained to expect. belknap kicked a long high one direct to daly, and then and there began the carefully prepared advance of the army team. mowing down the oncoming navy players, the west point forwards made it possible for clever daly to get loose and score a touchdown after a run of nearly the entire length of the field. this game stands out in my recollection as one of the most sensational on record. the navy, like west point, had had many victories, but the purpose of this book is not to record year by year the achievements of these two institutions, but rather catch their spirit, as one from without looks in upon a small portion of the busy life that is typical of these service schools. scattered over the seven seas are those who heard the reveille of football at annapolis. from a few old-timers let us garner their experiences and the effects of football in the service. c. l. poor, one of the veterans of the annapolis squad, varsity and hustlers, has something to say concerning the effect of football upon the relationship between officers and men. "generally speaking," he says, "it is considered that the relationship is beneficial. the young officer assumes qualities of leadership and shows himself in a favorable light to the men, who appreciate his ability to show them something and do it well. the average young american, whether himself athletic or not, is a bit of a hero worshipper towards a prominent athlete, and so the young officer who has good football ability gets the respect and appreciation of the crew to start with." j. b. patton, who played three years at annapolis, says of the early days: "i entered the academy in 1895. in those days athletics were not encouraged. the average number of cadets was less than 200, and the entrance age was from 14 to 18--really a boys' school. so when an occasional college team appeared, they looked like old men to us. "match games were usually on saturday afternoon, and all the cadets spent the forenoon at sail drill on board the _wyoming_ in chesapeake bay. i can remember spending four hours racing up and down the top gallant yard with stone and hayward, loosing and furling sail, and then returning to a roast beef dinner, followed by two 45-minute halves of football. "one of our best games, as a rule, was with johns hopkins university. paul dashiell, then a hopkins man, usually managed to smuggle one or more poes to annapolis with his team. we knew it, but at that time we did not object because we usually beat the hopkins team. "another interesting match was with the deaf mutes from kendall college. it was a standing joke with us that they too frequently smuggled good football players who were not mutes. these kept silent during the game and talked with their hands, but frequently when i tackled one hard and fell on him, i could hear him cuss under his breath." m. m. taylor brings us down to navy football of the early nineties. "in my day the principal quality sought was beef. being embryo sailors we had to have nautical terms for our signals, and they made our opponents sit up and take notice. when i played halfback i remember my signals were my order relating to the foremast. for instance, 'fore-top-gallant clew lines and hands-by-the-halyards' meant that i was the victim. on the conclusion of the order, if the captain could not launch a play made at once, he had to lengthen his signal, and sometimes there would be a string of jargon, intelligible only to a sailor, which would take the light yard men aloft, furl the sail, and probably cast reflections on the stowage of the bunt. anything connected with the anchor was a kick. the mainmast was consecrated to the left half, and the mizzen to the fullback. "in one game our lack of proper uniform worked to our advantage. i was on the sick list and had turned my suit over to a substitute. i braved the doctor's disapproval and went into the game in a pair of long working trousers and a blue flannel shirt. the opposing team, pennsylvania, hailed me as 'little boy blue,' and paid no further attention to me, so that by good fortune i made a couple of scores. then they fell upon me, and at the close all i had left was the pants." j. w. powell, captain of the '97 team, tells of the interim between army-navy games. "our head coach was johnny poe," he says, "and he and paul dashiell took charge of the squad. some of our good men were rus white, bill tardy, halligan and fisher, holding over from the year before. a. t. graham and jerry landis in the line. a wild irishman in the plebe class, paddy shea, earned one end position in short order, while a. h. mccarthy went in at the other wing. jack asserson, bobby henderson, louis richardson and i made up the backfield. in '95, princeton had developed their famous ends back system which was adopted by johnny poe and the game we played that year was built around this system. johnny was a deadly tackler and nearly killed half the team with his system of live tackling practice. this was one of the years in which there was no army and navy game and our big game was the thanksgiving day contest with lafayette. barclay, bray and rinehart made lafayette's name a terror in the football world. the game resulted in an 18 to 6 victory for lafayette. "my most vivid recollections of that game are mccarthy's plucky playing with his hand in a plaster cast, due to a broken bone, stopping barclay and bray repeatedly in spite of this handicap, and my own touchdown, after a twelve yard run, with rinehart's 250 pounds hanging to me most of the way." i recall a trip that the princeton team of 1898 made to west point. it was truly an attack upon the historical old school in a fashion de luxe. alex van rensselaer, an old princeton football captain, invited doc hillebrand to have the tiger eleven meet him that saturday morning at the pennsylvania ferry slip in jersey city. en route to west point that morning this old princeton leader met us with his steam yacht, _the may_. boyhood enthusiasm ran high as we jumped aboard. good fellowship prevailed. we lunched on board, dressed on board. upon our arrival at west point we were met by the academy representative and were driven to the football field. the snappy work of the princeton team that day brought victory, and we attributed our success to the van rensselaer transport. returning that night on the boat, doc hillebrand and arthur poe bribed the captain of _the may_ to just miss connecting with the last train to princeton, and as a worried manager sat alongside of van rensselaer wondering whether it were not possible to hurry the boat along a little faster, van rensselaer himself knew what was in doc's mind and so helped make it possible for us to rest at the murray hill hotel over night, and not allow a railroad trip to princeton mar the luxury of the day. i have a lot of respect for the football brains of west point. my lot has been very happily cast with the navy. i have generally been on the opposite side of the field. i knew the strength of their team. i have learned much of the spirit of the academy from their cheering at army and navy games. playing against west point our princeton teams have always realized the hard, difficult task which confronted them, and victory was not always the reward. football plays a valued part in the athletic life of west point. from the very first game between the army and the navy on the plains when the middies were victorious, west point set out in a thoroughly businesslike way to see that the navy did not get the lion's share of victories. if one studies the businesslike methods of the army athletic association and reads carefully the bulletins which are printed after each game, one is impressed by the attention given to details. i have always appreciated what king, '96, meant to west point football. let me quote from the publication of the _howitzer_, in 1896, the estimated value of this player at that time: "king, of course, stands first. captain for two years he brought west point from second class directly into first. as fullback he outplayed every fullback opposed to him and stands in the judgment of all observers second only to brooke of pennsylvania. let us read what king has to say of a period of west point football not widely known. "i first played on the '92 team," he says. "we had two navy games before this, but they were not much as i look back upon them. at this time we had for practice that period of saturday afternoon after inspection. that gave us from about 3 p. m. on. we also had about fifteen minutes between dinner and the afternoon recitations, and such days as were too rainy to drill, and from 5:45 a. m., to 6:05 a. m. later in the year when it grew too cold to drill, we had the time after about 4:15 p. m., but it became dark so early that we didn't get much practice. we practiced signals even by moonlight. "visiting teams used to watch us at inspection, two o'clock. we were in tight full dress clothes, standing at attention for thirty to forty-five minutes just before the game. a fine preparation for a stiff contest. we had quite a character by the name of stacy, a maine boy. he was a thickset chap, husky and fast. he never knew what it was to be stopped. he would fight it out to the end for every inch. early in one of the yale games he broke a rib and started another, but the more it hurt, the harder he played. in a contest with an athletic club in the last non-collegiate game we ever played, the opposing right tackle was bothering us. in a scrimmage stacy twisted the gentleman's nose very severely and then backed away, as the man followed him, calling out to the umpire. stacy held his face up and took two of the nicest punches in the eyes that i ever saw. of course, the umpire saw it, and promptly ruled the puncher out, just as stacy had planned. "just before the spanish war stacy became ill. orders were issued that regiments should send officers to the different cities for the purpose of recruiting. he was at this time not fit for field service, so was assigned to this duty. he protested so strongly that in some way he was able to join his regiment in time to go to cuba with his men. he participated in all the work down there; and when it was over, even he had to give in. he was sent to montauk point in very bad shape. he rallied for a time and obtained sick leave. he went to his old home in maine, where he died. it was his old football grit that kept him going in cuba until the fighting was over. "no mention of west point's football would be complete without the name of dennis michie. he is usually referred to as the father of football at the academy. he was captain of the first two teams we ever had. he played throughout the navy game in '91 with ten boils on his back and neck. he was a backfield man and one of west point's main line backers. he was most popular as a cadet and officer and was killed in action at san juan, cuba. "one of the longest runs when both yards and time are considered ever pulled off on a football field, was made by duncan, '95, in our princeton game of '93. duncan got the ball on his 5-yard line on a fumble, and was well under way before he was discovered. lott, '96, later a captain of cavalry, followed duncan to interfere from behind. the only princeton man who sensed trouble was doggy trenchard. he set sail in pursuit. he soon caught up with lott and would have caught duncan, but for the latter's interference. duncan finally scored the touchdown, having made the 105 yards in what would have been fast time for a wefers. "we at west point often speak of balliet's being obliged to call on phil king to back him up that day, as ames, one of our greatest centres, was outplaying him, and of the rage of phil king, because on every point, nolan, '96, tackled him at once and prevented king from making those phenomenal runs which characterized his playing." harmon graves of yale is a coach who has contributed much to west point's football. "harmon graves is too well known now as coach to need our praise," says a west pointer, "but it is not only as a successful coach, but as a personal friend that he lives in the heart of every member of the team and indeed the entire corps. there will always be a sunny spot at west point for graves." in a recent talk with harmon graves he showed me a beautifully engraved watch presented to him by the cadet corps of west point, a treasure prized. of the privileged days spent at west point graves writes, as follows: "every civilian who has the privilege of working with the officers and cadets at west point to accomplish some worthy object comes away a far better man than when he went there. i was fortunate enough to be asked by them to help in the establishment of football at the academy and for many years i gave the best i had and still feel greatly their debtor. "at west point amateur sport flourishes in its perfection, and a very high standard of accomplishment has been attained in football. there are no cross-cuts to the kind of football success west point has worked for: it is all a question of merit based on competency, accuracy and fearless execution. those of us who have had the privilege of assisting in the development of west point football have learned much of real value from the officers and cadets about the game and what really counts in the make-up of a successful team. it is fair to say that west point has contributed a great deal to football generally and has, in spite of many necessary time restrictions, turned out some of the best teams and players in the last fifteen years. "the greatest credit is due to the army officers athletic association, which, through its football representatives, started right and then pursued a sound policy which has placed football at west point on a firm basis, becoming the standing and dignity of the institution. "there have been many interesting and amusing incidents in connection with football at west point which help to make up the tradition of the game there and are many times repeated at any gathering of officers and cadets. i well remember when daly, the former harvard captain, modestly took his place as a plebe candidate for the team and sat in the front row on the floor of the gymnasium when i explained to the squad, and illustrated by the use of a blackboard, what he and every one else there knew was the then yale defense. there was, perhaps, the suggestion of a smile all around when i began by saying that from then on we were gathered there for west point and to make its team a success that season and not for the benefit of harvard or yale. he told me afterwards that he had never understood the defense as i had explained it. he mastered it and believed in it, as he won and kept his place on the team and learned some things from west point football,--as we all did. "the rivalry with the navy is wholesome and intense, as it should be. my friend, paul dashiell, who fully shares that feeling, has much to do with the success of the navy team, and the development of football at the naval academy. after a west point victory at philadelphia, he came to the west point dressing room and offered his congratulations. as i took his hand, i noted that tears were in his eyes and that his voice shook. the next year the navy won and i returned the call. i was feeling rather grim, but when i found him surrounded by the happy navy team, he was crying again and hardly smiled when i offered my congratulation, and told him that it really made no difference which team won for he cried anyway. "the sportsmanship and friendly rivalry which the army and navy game brings out in both branches of the service is admirable and unique and reaches all officers on the day of the game wherever in the world they are. real preparedness is an old axiom at west point and it has been applied to football. there i learned to love my country and respect the manhood and efficiency of the army officers in a better way than i did before. i recall the seasons i have spent there with gratitude and affection, both for the friends i have made and for the army spirit." siding with the navy has enabled me to know west point's strength. any mention of west point's football would be incomplete without the names of some officers who have not only safeguarded the game at west point, but have been the able representatives of the army's football during their service there. such men are, richmond p. davis, palmer e. pierce, and w. r. richardson. the way they have in the army if there is any one man who has permanently influenced football at west point that man is h. j. koehler, for years master of the sword at the academy. under his active coaching some of the army's finest players were developed. in recent years he has not been a member of the coaching staff, but he none the less never loses touch with the team and his advice concerning men and methods is always eagerly sought. by virtue of long experience at the academy and because of an aptitude for analysis of the game itself he has been invaluable in harmonizing practice and play with peculiar local conditions. any time the stranger seeks to delve either into the history or the constructive coaching of the game at the academy, the younger men, as well as the older, will always answer your questions by saying "go ask koehler." always a hard worker and serious thinker, he is apt to give an almost nightly demonstration during the season of the foundation principles of the game. not only west pointers, but also yale and princeton men, who had to face the elevens under koehler's coaching will remember romeyn, who, had he been kicking in the days of felton, mahan and the other long distance artillerists, might well have held his own, in the opinion of army men. nesbitt, waldron and scales were among the other really brilliant players whom koehler developed. he was in charge of some of the teams that played the hardest schedules in the history of west point football. one year the cadets met harvard, yale, princeton, columbia, syracuse and penn state. surely this was a season's work calculated to develop remarkable men, or break them in the making. bettison, center, king boyers at guard, and bunker at tackle and half, were among the splendid players who survived this trial by fire. casad, clark and phillips made up a backfield that would have been a credit to any of the colleges. soon, however, the army strength was greatly to be augmented by the acquisition of charles dudley daly, fresh from four years of football at harvard. reputations made elsewhere do not count for much at west point. the coaches were glad to have plebe daly come out for the squad, but they knew and he knew quite as well as they, that there are no short cuts to the big "a." now began a remarkable demonstration of football genius. not only did the former harvard captain make the team, but his aid in coaching was also eagerly sought. an unusual move this, but a tribute to the new man. daly was modesty itself in those days as he has been ever since, even when equipped with the yellow jacket and peacock feather of the head coach. as player and as coach and often as the two combined, daly's connection with west point football covered eight years, in the course of which he never played on or coached a losing team. his record against the navy alone is seven victories and one tie, 146 points to 33. his final year's coaching was done in 1915. from west point he was sent to hawaii, whence he writes me, as follows: "there are certain episodes in the game that have always been of particular interest to me, such as ely's game playing with broken ribs in the harvard-yale game of 1898; charlie de saulles' great playing with a sprained ankle in the yale-princeton game of the same year; the tackling of bunker by long of the navy in the army-navy game of 1902--the hardest tackle i have ever seen; and the daring quarterback work of johnny cutler in the harvard-dartmouth 1908 game, when he snatched victory from defeat in the last few minutes of play." undoubtedly daly's deep study of strategy and tactics as used in warfare had a great deal to do with his continued ascendency as a coach. writing to herbert reed, one of the pencil and paper football men, with whom he had had many a long argument over the generalship of the game, he said in part: "football within the limitations of the rules and sportsmanship is a war game. either by force or by deception it advances through the opposition to the goal line, which might be considered the capital of the enemy." it was in daly's first year that a huge southerner, with a pleasant drawl, turned up in the plebe class. it was a foregone conclusion almost on sight that ernest, better known to football men throughout the country as pot graves, would make the eleven. he not only played the game almost flawlessly from the start, but he made so thorough a study of line play in general that his system, even down to the most intimate details of face to face coaching filed away for all time in that secret library of football methods at west point, has come to be known as graves' bible. daly, still with that ineradicable love for his own alma mater, lent a page or two from this tome to harvard, and even the author appeared in person on soldiers' field. the manner in which graves made personal demonstration of his teachings will not soon be forgotten by the harvard men who had to face pot graves. graves has always believed in the force mentioned in daly's few lines quoted above on the subject of military methods as applied to football. while always declaring that the gridiron was no place for a fist fight, he always maintained that stalwarts should be allowed to fight it out with as little interference by rule as possible. as a matter of fact, graves was badly injured in a game with yale, and for a long time afterwards hobbled around with a troublesome knee. he knew the man who did it, but would never tell his name, and he contents himself with saying "i have no ill will--he got me first. if he hadn't i would have got him." a story is told of graves' impatience with the members of a little luncheon party, who in the course of an argument on the new football, were getting away from the fundamentals. rising and stepping over to the window of the officers' club, he said, with a sleepy smile: "come here a minute, you fellows," and, pointing down to the roadway, added, "there's _my_ team." looking out of the window the other members of the party saw a huge steam roller snorting and puffing up the hill. among the men who played football with graves and were indeed of his type, were doe and bunker. like graves, bunker in spite of his great weight, was fast enough to play in the backfield in those years when army elevens were relying so much upon terrific power. those were the days when substitutes had very little opportunity. in the final navy game of 1902 the same eleven men played for the army from start to finish. in this period of army football other first-class men were developed, notably torney, a remarkable back, thompson, a guard, and tom hammond, who was later to make a reputation as an end coach. bunker was still with this aggregation, an eleven that marched fifty yards for a touchdown in fifteen plays against the midshipmen. the army was among the early eastern teams to test eastern football methods against those of the west, the cadets defeating a team from the university of chicago on the plains. the west pointers had only one criticism to make of their visitors, and it was laconically put by one of the backs, who said: "they're all-fired fast, but it's funny how they stop when you tackle them." in this lineup was a. c. tipton, at center, to whom belongs the honor of forcing the rules committee to change the code in one particular in order to stop a maneuver which he invented while in midcareer in a big game. no one will ever forget how, when chasing a loose ball and realizing that he had no chance to pick it up, he kicked it again and again until it crossed the final chalk mark where he fell on it for a touchdown. tipton was something of a wrestler too, as a certain japanese expert in the art of jiu-jitsu can testify and indeed did testify on the spot after the doctors had brought him too. there was no lowering of the standards in the succeeding years, which saw the development of players like hackett, prince, farnsworth and davis. those years too saw the rise of such wonderful forwards as w. w. (red) erwin and that huge man from alaska, d. d. pullen. coming now to more recent times, the coaching was turned over to h. m. nelly, assisted by joseph w. beacham, fresh from chasing the little brown brother in the philippines. beacham had made a great reputation at cornell, and there was evidence that he had kept up with the game at least in the matter of strategic possibilities, even while in the tangled jungle of luzon. he brought with him even more than that--an uncanny ability to see through the machinery of the team and pick out its human qualities, upon which he never neglected to play. there have been few coaches closer to his men than joe. whenever i talk football with joe beacham he never forgets to mention vaughn cooper, to whom he gives a large share of the credit for the good work of his elevens. cooper was of the quiet type, whose specialty was defense. these two made a great team. it was in this period that west point saw the development of one of its greatest field generals. there was nothing impressive in the physical appearance of little h. l. hyatt. a reasonably good man, ball in hand, his greatest value lay in his head work. as the west point trainer said one day: "i've got him all bandaged up like a leg in a puttee, but from the neck up he's a piece of ice." the charts of games in which hyatt ran the team are set before the squad each year as examples, not merely of perfect generalship, but of the proper time to violate that generalship and make it go, a distinction shared by prichard, who followed in his footsteps with added touches of his own. one cannot mention prichard's name without thinking at once of merillat, who, with prichard, formed one of the finest forward passing combinations the game has seen. both at franklin field and at the polo grounds this pair brought woe to the navy. these stars had able assistance in the persons of mcewan, one of the greatest centers the game has seen and who was chosen to lead the team in 1916, weyand, neyland and o'hare, among the forwards, and the brilliant and sturdy oliphant in the backfield, the man whose slashing play against the navy in 1915 will never be forgotten. oliphant was of a most unusual type. even when he was doing the heaviest damage to the navy corps the midshipmen could not but admire his wonderful work. what the hustlers are to annapolis the cullom hall team is to west point. it is made up of the leftovers from the first squad and substitutes. one would travel far afield in search of a team with more spirit and greater pep in action, whether playing in outside games, or as their coach would put it, "showing up" the first eleven. not infrequently a player of the highest caliber is developed in this squad and taken to the first eleven. the cullom hall squad, whose eleven generally manages to clean up some of the strongest school teams of the hudson valley, draws not a little of its spirit, i think, from the late lieutenant e. m. zell, better known at the academy as "jobey." it was a treat to see the cullom hall team marching down the field against the first eleven with the roly-poly figure of jobey in the thick of every scrimmage, coaching at the top of his lungs, even when bowled over by the interference of his own pupils. since his time the squad has been turned over to lieutenants sellack and crawford, who have kept alive the traditions and the playing spirit of this unique organization. their reward for the bruising, hard work, with hardly a shadow of the hope of getting their letter, comes in seeing the great game itself. like the college scrub teams the hardest rooters for the varsity are to be found in their ranks. now for the game itself. always hard fought, always well fought, there is perhaps no clash of all the year that so wakes the interest of the general public, that vast throng which, without college affiliations, is nevertheless hungry for the right of allegiance somewhere, somehow. while the service elevens are superbly supported by the men who have been through the exacting mill at west point and annapolis--their sweethearts and wives, not to mention sisters, cousins, uncles and aunts--they are urged on to battle by that great impartial public which believes that in a sense these two teams belong to it. it is not uncommon to find men who have had no connection with either academy in hot argument as to the relative merits of the teams. once in the stands some apparently trifling thing begets a partisanship that this class of spectator is wont to wonder at after it is all over. whether in philadelphia in the earlier history of these contests on neutral ground, or in new york, army and navy day has become by tacit consent the nearest thing to a real gridiron holiday. for the civilian who has been starved for thrilling action and the chance to cheer through the autumn days, the jam at the hotels used as headquarters by the followers of the two elevens satisfies a yearning that he has hitherto been unable to define. there too, is found a host of old-time college football men and coaches who hold reunion and sometimes even bury hatchets. making his way through the crowds and jogging elbows with the heroes of a sport that he understands only as organized combat he becomes obsessed with the spirit of the two fighting institutions. once in possession of the coveted ticket he hies himself to the field as early as possible, if he is wise, in order to enjoy the preliminaries which are unlike those at any other game. soon his heart beats faster, attuned to the sound of tramping feet without the gates. the measured cadence swells, draws nearer, and the thousands rise as one, when first the long gray column and then the solid ranks of blue swing out upon the field. the precision of the thing, the realization that order and system can go so far as to hold in check to the last moment the enthusiasms of these youngsters thrills him to the core. then suddenly gray ranks and blue alike break for the stands, there to cut loose such a volume of now orderly, now merely frenzied noise as never before smote his ears. it is inspiration and it is novelty. the time, the place and the men that wake the loyalty dormant in every man which, sad to say, so seldom has a chance of expression. around the field are ranged diplomat, dignitary of whatsoever rank, both native and foreign. in common with those who came to see, as well as to be seen--and who does not boast of having been to the army-navy game--they rise uncovered as the only official non-partisan of football history enters the gates--the president of the united states. throughout one half of the game he lends his support to one academy and in the intermission makes triumphal progress across the field, welcomed on his arrival by a din of shouting surpassing all previous effort, there to support their side. [illustration: cadets and middies entering the field] it is perhaps one of those blessed hours in the life of a man upon whom the white light so pitilessly beats, when he can indulge in the popular sport, to him so long denied, of being merely human. men, methods, moods pass on. the years roll by, taking toll of every one of us from highest to lowest. yet, whether we are absorbed in the game of games, or whether we look upon it as so many needs must merely as a spectacle, the army-navy game will remain a milestone never to be uprooted. i have spoken elsewhere and at length of football traditions. the army-navy game is not merely a football tradition but an american institution. it is for all the people every time. may this great game go on forever, serene in its power to bring out the best that is in us, and when the great bugler sounds the silver-sweet call of taps for all too many, there will still be those who in their turn will answer the call of reveille to carry on the traditions of the great day that was ours. chapter xiii hard luck in the game it is as true in football, as it is in life, that we have no use for a quitter. the man who shirks in time of need--indeed there is no part in this chapter or in this book for such a man. football was never made for him. he is soon discovered and relegated to the side line. he is hounded throughout his college career, and afterwards he is known as a man who was yellow. as garry cochran used to say: "if i find any man on my football squad showing a white feather, i'll have him hounded out of college." football is a game for the man who has nerve, and when put to the test, under severe handicap, proves his sterling worth. a man has to be game in spirit. a man has to give every inch there is in him. optimism should surround him. there is much to be gained by hearty co-operation of spirit. there is much in the thought that you believe your team is going to win; that the opposing team cannot beat you; that if your opponent wins, it is going to be over your dead body. this sort of spirit is contagious, and generally passes from one to the other, until you have a wonderful team spirit, and eleven men are found fighting like demons for victory. such a spirit generally means a victory, and so gets its reward. there must be no dissenting spirit. if there is such a spirit discernible, it should be weeded out immediately. some years ago the princeton players were going to the field house to dress for the harvard game. the captain and two of the players were walking ahead of the rest of the members of the team. the game was under discussion, when the captain overheard one of the players behind him remark: "i believe harvard will win to-day." shocked by this remark, the captain, who was one of those thoroughbreds who never saw anything but victory ahead, full of hope and confidence in his team, turned and discovered that the remark came from one of his regular players. addressing him, he said: "well! if you feel that way about it, you need not even put on your suit. i have a substitute, who is game to the core. he will take your place." it is true that teams have been ruined where the men lack the great quality of optimism in football. when a man gets in a tight place, when the odds are all against him, there comes to him an amazing superhuman strength, which enables him to work out wonders. at such a time men have been known to do what seemed almost impossible. i recall being out in the country in my younger days and seeing a man, who had become irrational, near the roadside, where some heavy logs were piled. this man, who ordinarily was only a man of medium strength, was picking up one end of a log and tossing it around--a log, which, ordinarily, would have taken three men to lift. in the bewildering and exciting problems of football, there are instances similar to this, where a small man on one team, lined up against a giant in the opposing rush line, and game though handicapped in weight there comes to him at such a time a certain added strength, by which he was able to handle successfully the duty which presented itself to him. i have found it to be the rule rather than the exception, that the big man in football did not give me the most trouble; it was the man much smaller than myself. other big linemen have found it to be true. many a small man has made a big man look ridiculous. bill caldwell, who used to weigh over 200 pounds when he played guard on the cornell team some years ago, has this to say: "i want to pay a tribute to a young man who gave me my worst seventy minutes on the football field. his name was payne. he played left guard for lehigh. he weighed about 145 pounds; was of slight build and seemed to have a sort of sickly pallor. i have never seen him since, but i take this occasion to say this was the greatest little guard i ever met. at least he was great that day. payne had been playing back of the line during part of the season, but was put in at guard against me. i had a hunch that he was going to bite me in the ankle, when he lined up the first time, for he bristled up and tore into me like a wild cat. i have met a goodish few guards in my day, and was accustomed to almost any form of warfare, but this payne went around me, like a cooper around a barrel, and broke through the line and downed the runners in their tracks. on plunges straight at him, he went to the mat and grabbed every leg in sight and hung on for dear life. he darted through between my legs; would vault over me; what he did to me was a shame. he was not rough, but was just the opposite. i never laid a hand on him all the afternoon. he would make a world beater in the game as it is played to-day." whenever brown university men get together and speak of their wonderful quarterbacks, the names of sprackling and crowther are always mentioned. both of these men were all-american quarterbacks. crowther filled the position after sprackling graduated. he weighed only 134 pounds, but he gave everything he had in him--game, though handicapped in weight. in the harvard game of that year, about the middle of the second half, haughton sent word over to robinson, the brown coach, that he ought to take the little fellow out; that he was too small to play football, and was in danger of being seriously injured. crowther, however, was like an india-rubber ball and not once during the season had he received any sort of injury. robby told crowther what haughton had suggested, and smiling, the latter said: "tell him not to worry about me; better look out for himself." on the next play crowther took the ball and went around harvard's end for forty yards, scoring a touchdown. after he had kicked the goal, the little fellow came over to the side line, and said to robby: "send word over to haughton and ask him how he likes that. ask him if he thinks i'm all in? perhaps he would like to have me quit now." in the yale game that year crowther was tackled by pendleton, one of the big yale guards. it so happened that pendleton was injured several times when he tackled crowther and time had to be taken out. finally the big fellow was obliged to quit, and as he was led off the field, crowther hurried over to him, reaching up, placed his hands on his shoulder and said: "sorry, old man! i didn't mean to hurt you." pendleton, who weighed well over 200 pounds, looked down upon the little fellow, but said never a word. it is most unpleasant to play in a game where a man is injured. yet still more distressing when you realize that you yourself injured another player, especially one of your own team mates. in the brown game of 1898, at providence, bosey reiter, princeton's star halfback, made a flying tackle of a brown runner. the latter was struggling hard, trying his best to get away from reiter. at this moment i was coming along and threw myself upon the brown man to prevent his advancing further. in the mixup my weight struck bosey and fractured his collar-bone. it was a severe loss to the team, and only one who has had a similar experience can appreciate my feelings, as well as the team's, on the journey back to princeton. we were to play yale the following saturday at princeton. i knew reiter's injury was so serious that he could not possibly play in that game. the following saturday, as that great football warrior lay in his bed at the infirmary, the whistle blew for the start of the yale game. we all realized reiter was not there: not even on the side lines, and arthur poe said, at the start of the game: "play for bosey reiter. he can't play for himself to-day." this spurred us on to better team work and to victory. the attendants at the hospital told us later that they never had had such a lively patient. he kept things stirring from start to finish of the gridiron battle. as the reports of the game were brought to him, he joined in the thrill of the play. "my injury proved a blessing," says reiter, "as it gave me an extra year, for in those days a year did not count in football, unless you played against yale, and when i made the touchdown against yale the following season, it was a happy moment for me." all is not clear sailing in football. the breaks must come some time. they may come singly or in a bunch, but whenever they do come, it takes courage to buck the hard luck in the game. just when things get nicely under way one of the star players is injured, which means the systematic team work is handicapped. it is not the team, as a whole that i am thinking of, but the pangs of sorrow which go down deep into a fellow's soul, when he finds that he is injured; that he is in the hands of the doctor. it is then he realizes that he is only a spoke in the big wheel; that the spirit of the game puts another man in his place. the game goes on. nature is left to do her best for him. let us for a while consider the player who does not realize, until after the game is over, that he is hurt. it is after the contest, when the excitement has ceased, when reaction sets in, that a doctor and trainer can take stock of the number and extent of casualties. when such injured men are discovered, at a time like that, we wonder how they ever played the game out. in fact the man never knew he was injured until the game was over. no more loyal supporter of football follows the big games than reggi wentworth, williams, '91. he is most loyal to bill hotchkiss, williams '91. "at williamstown, one year," wentworth says, "hotchkiss, who was a wonderful all round guard, probably as great a football player as ever lived (at least i think so) played with the williams team on a field covered with mud and snow three inches deep. the game was an unusually severe one, and hotchkiss did yeoman's work that day. "as we ran off the field, after the game, i happened to stop, turned, and discovered hotchkiss standing on the side of the field, with his feet planted well apart, like an old bull at bay. i went back where he was and said: "'come on, bill, what's the matter?' "'i don't know,' said he. 'there's something the matter with my ankles. i don't think i can walk.' "he took one step and collapsed. i got a boy's sled, which was on the field, laid hotchkiss on it and took him to his room, only to find that both ankles were sprained. he did not leave his room for two weeks and walked with crutches for two weeks more. it seemed almost unbelievable that a man handicapped as he was could play the game through. splints and ankle braces were unknown in those days. he went on the field with two perfectly good ankles. how did he do it?" charles h. huggins, of brown university, better known perhaps, simply as "huggins of brown," recalls a curious case in a game on andrews field: "stewart jarvis, one of the brown ends, made a flying tackle. as he did so, he felt something snap in one of his legs. we carried him off to the field house, making a hasty investigation. we found nothing more apparent than a bruise. i bundled him off to college in a cab; gave him a pair of crutches; told him not to go out until our doctor could examine the injury at six o'clock that evening. when the doctor arrived at his room, jarvis was not there. he had gone to the training table for dinner. the doctor hurried to the union dining-room, only to find that jarvis had discarded the crutches and with some of the boys had gone out to rhodes, then, as now, a popular resort for the students. later, we learned that he danced several times. the next morning an x-ray clearly showed a complete fracture of the tibia. "how it was possible for a man, with a broken leg, to walk around and dance, as he did, is more than i can fathom." what is there in a man's make-up that leads him to conceal from the trainer an injury that he receives in a game; that makes him stay in the field of play? why is it that he disregards himself, and goes on in the game, suffering physical as well as mental tortures, plucky though handicapped? the playing of such men is extended far beyond the point of their usefulness. yes, even into the danger zone. such men give everything they have in them while it lasts. it is not intelligent football, however, and what might be called bravery is foolishness after all. it is an unwritten law in football that a fresh substitute is far superior to a crippled star. the keen desire to remain in the game is so firmly fixed in his mind that he is willing to sacrifice himself, and at the same time by concealing his injury from the trainer and coaches he, unconsciously, is sacrificing his team; his power is gone. one of the greatest exhibitions of grit ever seen in a football game was given by harry watson of williams in a game at newton center between williams and dartmouth. he was knocked out about eight times but absolutely refused to leave the field. another was furnished by w. h. lewis, the amherst captain and center rush, against williams in his last game at amherst--the score was 0-0 on a wet field. williams was a big favorite but lewis played a wonderful game, and was all over the field on the defense. when the game was over he was carried off, but refused to leave the field until the final whistle. one of the most thrilling stories of a man who was game, though handicapped, is told by morris ely, quarterback for yale, 1898. "my most vivid recollection of the harvard-yale game of 1898 is that harvard won by the largest score yale had ever been beaten by up to that time, 17 to 0. next, that the game seemed unusually long. i believe i proved a good exponent of the theory of being in good condition. i started the game at 135 pounds, in the best physical condition i have ever enjoyed, and while i managed to accumulate two broken ribs, a broken collar-bone and a sprained shoulder, i was discharged by the doctor in less than three weeks as good as ever. "i received the broken ribs in the first half when percy jaffrey fell on me with a proper intention of having me drop a fumbled ball behind our goal line, which would have given harvard an additional touchdown instead of a touchback. i did not know just what had gone wrong but tried to help it out by putting a shin guard under my jersey over the ribs during the intermission. no one knew i was hurt. "in the second half i tried to stop one of ben dibblee's runs on a punt and got a broken collar-bone, but not dibblee. about the end of the game we managed to work a successful double pass and i carried the ball to harvard's ten-yard line when charlie daly, who was playing back on defense, stopped any chance we had of scoring by a hard tackle. there was no getting away from him that day, and as i had to carry the ball in the wrong arm with no free arm to use to ward him off, i presume, i got off pretty well with only a sprained shoulder. the next play ended the game, when stub chamberlin tried a quick place goal from the field and, on a poor pass and on my poor handling of the ball, hit the goal post and the ball bounded back. i admit that just about that time the whistle sounded pretty good as apparently the entire harvard team landed on us in their attempt to block a kick." val flood, once a trainer at princeton, recalls a game at new haven, when princeton was playing yale: "frank bergen was quarterback," he says. "i saw he was not going right, and surprised the coaches by asking them to make a change. they asked me to wait. in a few minutes i went to them again, with the same result. i came back a third time, and insisted that he be taken out. a substitute was put in. i will never forget bergen's face when he burst into tears and asked me who was responsible for his being taken out. i told him i was. it almost broke his heart, for he had always regarded me as a friend. i knew how much he wanted to play the game out. he lived in new haven. when the doctor examined him, it was found that he had three broken ribs. there was great danger of one of them piercing his lungs had he continued in the game. of course, there are lots of boys that are willing to do such things for their alma mater, but the gamest of all is the man who, with a broken neck to start with, went out and put in four years of college football. i refer to eddie hart, who was not only the gamest, but one of the strongest, quickest, cleanest men that ever played the game, and any one who knows eddie hart and those who have seen him play, know that he never saved himself but played the game for all it was worth. he was the life and spirit of every team he ever played on at exeter or princeton." ed wylie, an enthusiastic hill school alumnus, football player at hill and yale, tells the following anecdote: "the nerviest thing i ever saw in a football game was in the hill-hotchkiss 0 to 0 game in 1904. at the start of the second half, arthur cable, who was hill's quarterback, broke his collar-bone. he concealed the fact and until the end of the game, no one knew how badly he was hurt. he was in every play, and never had time called but once. he caught a couple of punts with his one good arm and every other punt he attempted to catch and muffed he saved the ball from the other side by falling on it. in the same game, a peculiar thing happened to me. i tackled ted coy about fifteen minutes before the end of the game, and until i awoke hours later, lying in a drawing-room car, pulling into the grand central station, my mind was a blank. yet i am told the last fifteen minutes of the game i played well, especially when our line was going to pieces. i made several gains on the offensive, never missed a signal and punted two or three times when close to our goal line." no less noteworthy is the spirit of a university of pennsylvania player, who was handicapped during his gridiron career with penn' by many severe injuries. this man had worked as hard as any one possibly could to make the varsity for three years. his last year was no different from previous seasons; injuries always worked against him. in his final year he had broken his leg early in the season. a short time before the cornell game he appeared upon the field in football togs, full of spirit and determined to get in the game if they needed him. this was his last chance to play on the penn' team. i was an official in that game. near its close i saw him warming up on the side line. his knee was done up in a plaster cast. he could do nothing better than hobble along the side lines, but in the closing moments when penn' had the game well in hand, a mighty shout went up from the side lines, as that gallant fellow, who had been handicapped all during his football career, rushed out upon the field to take his place as the defensive halfback. cornell had the ball, and they were making a tremendous effort to score. the cornell captain, not knowing of this man's physical condition, sent a play in his direction. the interference of the big red team crashed successfully around the penn' end and there was left only this plucky, though handicapped player, between the cornell runner and a touchdown. putting aside all personal thought, he rushed in and made a wonderful tackle. then this hero was carried off the field, and with him the tradition of one who was willing to sacrifice himself for the sport he loved. andy smith, a former university of pennsylvania player, was a man who was game through and through. he seemed to play better in a severe game, when the odds were against him. smith had formerly been at pennsylvania state college. in a game between penn' state and dartmouth, fred crolius, of dartmouth, says of smith: "andy smith was one of the gamest men i ever played against. this big, determined, husky offensive fullback and defensive end, when he wasn't butting his head into our impregnable line, was smashing an interference that nearly killed him in every other play. battered and bruised he kept coming on, and to every one's surprise he lasted the entire game. years afterward he showed me the scars on his head, where the wounds had healed, with the naã¯ve remark: 'some team you fellows had that year, fred.' some team was right. and we all remember andy and his own individual greatness." there is no finer, unselfish spirit brought out in football, than that evidenced in the following story, told by shep homans, an old time princeton fullback: "a young fellow named hodge, who was quarterback on the princeton scrub, was making a terrific effort to play the best he could on the last day of practice before the yale game. he had hoped even at the last hour that the opportunity might be afforded him to be a substitute quarter in the game. however, his leg was broken in a scrimmage. as he lay on the ground in great pain, realizing what had happened and forgetting himself, he looked up and said: "'i'm mighty glad it is not one of the regulars who is hurt, so that our chance against yale will not be affected.'" crolius, one of the hardest men to stop that dartmouth ever had, tells of arthur poe's gameness, when they played together on the homestead athletic club team, after they left college. "arthur poe was about as game a man as the football world ever saw. he was handicapped in his playing by a knee which would easily slip out of place. we men who played with him on the homestead team were often stopped after arthur had made a magnificent tackle and had broken up heavy interference, with this quiet request: "'pull my bum knee back into place.' "after this was done, he would jump up and no one would ever know that it had been out. this man, who perhaps was the smallest man playing at that time, was absolutely unprotected. his suit consisted of a pair of shoes, stockings, unpadded pants, jersey and one elastic knee bandage." mike donohue, a yale man who had been coach at auburn for many years, vouches for the following story: when mike went to auburn and for several years thereafter he had no one to assist him, except a few of the old players, who would drop in for a day or so during the latter part of the season. one afternoon mike happened to glance down at the lower end of the field where a squad of grass-cutters (the name given to the fourth and fifth teams) were booting the ball around, when he noticed a pretty good sized boy who was swinging his foot into the ball with a good stiff leg and was kicking high and getting fine distance. mike made a mental note of this fact and decided to investigate later, as a good punter was very hard to find. later in the afternoon he again looked towards the lower end of the field and saw that the grass-cutters were lining up for a scrimmage among themselves, using that part of the field, which was behind the goal post, so he dismissed the squad with which he had been working and went down to see what the boy he had noticed early in the afternoon really looked like. when he arrived he soon found the boy he was looking for. he was playing left end and mike immediately noticed that he had his right leg extended perfectly straight behind him. stopping the play, mike went over to the fellow and slapping him on the back said: "don't keep that right leg stiff behind you like that. pull it up under you. bend it at the knee so you can get a good start." with a sad expression on his face, and tears almost in his eyes, the boy turned to mike and said: "coach, that damn thing won't bend. it's wood." vonalbalde gammon, one of the few players who met his death in an intercollegiate game, lived at rome, georgia, and entered the university of georgia in 1896. he made the team his first year, playing quarterback on the eleven which was coached by pop warner and which won the southern championship. he received the injury which caused his death in the georgia-virginia game, played in atlanta, georgia, on october 30th, 1897. he was a fine fellow personally and one of the most popular men at the university. as a football player, he was an excellent punter, a good plunger, and a strong defensive man. on account of his kicking and plunging ability he was moved to fullback in his second year. in the virginia game he backed up the line on the defense. all that afternoon he worked like a trojan to hold in check the powerful masses virginia had been driving at the tackles. early in the second half von dove in and stopped a mass aimed at georgia's right tackle, but when the mass was untangled, he was unable to get up. an examination showed that he was badly hurt. in a minute or two, however, he revived and was set on his feet and was being taken from the field by coach mccarthy, when captain kent, thinking that he was not too badly hurt to continue in the game, said to him: "von, you are not going to give up, are you?" "no, bill," he replied, "i've got too much georgia grit for that." these were his last words, for upon reaching the side lines he lapsed into unconsciousness and died at two o'clock the next morning. gammon's death ended the football season that year at the university. it also came very near ending football in the state of georgia, as the legislature was in session, and immediately passed a bill prohibiting the playing of the game in the state. however, mrs. gammon--von's mother--made a strong, earnest and personal appeal to governor atkinson to veto the bill, which he did. had it not been for mrs. gammon, football would certainly have been abolished in the state of georgia by an act of the legislature of 1897. i knew a great guard whose whole heart was set on making the princeton team, and on playing against yale. this man made the team. in a princeton-columbia game he was trying his best to stop that wonderful columbia player, harold weekes, who with his great hurdling play was that season's sensation. in his hurdling he seemed to take his life in his hands, going over the line of the opposing team feet first. when the great guard of the princeton team to whom i refer tried to stop weekes, his head collided with weekes' feet and was badly cut. the trainer rushed upon the field, sponged and dressed the wound and the guard continued to play. but that night it was discovered that blood poisoning had set in. there was gloom on the team when this became known. but john dana, lying there injured in the hospital, and knowing how badly his services were needed in the coming game with yale, with his ambition unsatisfied, used his wits to appear better than he really was in order to get discharged from the hospital and back on the team. the physician who attended him has told me since that dana would keep his mouth open slyly when the nurse was taking his temperature so that it would not be too high and the chart would make it appear that he was all right. at any rate, he seemed to improve steadily, and finally reported to the trainer, jim robinson, two days before the yale game. he was full of hope and the coaches decided to have robinson give him a try-out, so that they could decide whether he was as fit as he was making it appear he was. i shall never forget watching that heroic effort, as robinson took him out behind the training house, to make the final test. with a head-gear, especially made for him, dana settled down in his regular position, ready for the charge, anticipating the oncoming yale halfback and throbbing with eagerness to tackle the man with the ball. then he plunged forward, both arms extended, but handicapped by his terrible injury, he toppled over upon his face, heart-broken. the spirit was there, but he was physically unfit for the task. the yale game started without dana, and as he sat there on the side lines and saw princeton go down to defeat, he was overcome with the thought of his helplessness. he was needed, but he didn't have a chance. chapter xiv bringing home the bacon happy is the thought of victory, and while we realize that there should always be eleven men in every play, each man doing his duty, there frequently comes a time in a game, when some one man earns the credit for winning the game, and brings home the bacon. maybe he has been the captain of the team, with a wonderful power of leadership which had held the eleven together all season and made his team a winning one. from the recollections of some of the victories, from the experiences of the men who participated in them and made victory possible, let us play some of those games over with some of the heroes of past years. billy bull one of the truly great bacon-getters of the past is yale's billy bull. football history is full of his exploits when he played on the yale team in '85, '86, '87 and '88. old-time players can sit up all night telling stories of the games in which he scored for yale. his kicking proved a winning card and in happy recollection the old-timers tell of bull, the hero of many a game, being carried off the field on the shoulders of an admiring crowd of yale men after a big victory. "in the course of my years at yale, six big games were played," says bull, "four with princeton and two with harvard. i was fortunate in being able to go through all of them, sustaining no injury whatsoever, except in the last game with princeton. in this game, channing came through to me in the fullback position and in tackling him i received a scalp wound which did not, however, necessitate my removal from the game. "of the six games played, only one was lost, and that was the lamar game in the fall of '85. in the five games won i was the regular kicker in the last three, and, in two of these, kicking proved to be the deciding factor. thus in '87--yale 17, harvard 8--two place kicks and one drop kick were scored in the three attempts, totaling nine points. considering the punting i did that day, and the fact that both place-kicks were scored from close to the side lines, i feel that that game represents my best work. "the third year of my play was undoubtedly my best year; in fact the only year in which i might lay claim to being anything of a kicker. thus in the rutgers game of '87 i kicked twelve straight goals from placement. counting the two goals from touchdowns against princeton i had a batting average of 1000 in three games. "through the last year i was handicapped with a lame kicking leg and was out of form, for in the final game with princeton that year, '88, i tried at least four times before scoring the first field goal of the game. in the second half i had but one chance and that was successful. this was the 10-0 game, in which all the points were scored by kicking, although the ground was wet and slippery. "it is of interest to note, in connection with drop-kicking in the old days, that the proposition was not the simple matter it is to-day. then, the ball had to go through the quarter's hands, and the kicker in consequence had so little time in which to get the ball away that he was really forced to kick in his tracks and immediately on receipt of the ball. fortunately i was able to do both, and i never had a try for a drop blocked, and only one punt, the latter due to the fact that the ball was down by the side line, and i could not run to the left (which would have taken me out of bounds) before kicking. "perhaps one of the greatest sources of satisfaction to me, speaking of punting in particular, was the fact that i was never blocked by princeton. and yet it was extremely fortunate for me that i was a left-footed kicker and thus could run away from cowan, who played a left tackle before kicking. if i had had to use my right foot i doubt if i could have got away with anything, for cowan was certainly a wonderful player and could get through the yale line as though it were paper. he always brought me down, but always after the ball had left my foot. i know that it has been thought at princeton that i stood twelve yards back from the line when kicking. this was not so. ten yards was the regular distance, always. but, i either kicked in my tracks or directly after running to the left." the day columbia beat yale columbia men enthusiastically recall the day columbia beat yale. a columbia man who is always on hand for the big games of the year is charles halstead mapes, the ever reliable, loyal rooter for the game. he has told the tale of this victory so wonderfully well that football enthusiasts cannot but enjoy this enthusiastic columbia version. "fifteen years ago yale was supreme in football," runs mapes' story. "occasionally, but only very occasionally, one of their great rivals, princeton or harvard, would win a game from them, but for any outsider, anybody except one of the 'eternal triangle,' to beat yale was out of the question--an utter impossibility. and, by the way, that triangle at times got almost as much on the nerves of the outside public as the frenchmen's celebrated three--wife, husband, lover--the foundation of their plays. "the psychological effect of yale's past prestige was all-powerful in every game. the blue-jerseyed figures with the white y would tumble through the gate and spread out on the field; the stands would rise to them with a roar of joyous welcome that would raise the very skies--y-a-l-e! y-a-l-e! y--a--l--e! [illustration: two aces--bill morley and harold weeks] "'small wonder that each man was right on his toes, felt as though he were made of steel springs. all other yale teams had won, 'we will win, of course.' "but the poor other side--they might just as well throw their canvas jackets and mole-skin trousers in the old suit-case at once and go home. 'beat yale! boys, we're crazy, but every man must try his damnedest to keep the score low,' and so the game was won and lost before the referee even blew his starting whistle. "this was the general rule, but every rule needs an exception to prove it, and on a certain november afternoon in 1899 we gave them their belly-full of exception. we had a very strong team that year, with some truly great players, harold weekes and bill morley (there never were two better men behind the line), and jack wright, old jack wright, playing equally well guard or center, as fine a linesman as i have ever seen. weekes, morley, and wright were on the all-american team of that year, and walter camp in selecting his all-american team for all time several years ago picked harold weekes as his first halfback. "i can see the game now; there was no scoring in the first half. to the outsider the teams seemed evenly matched, but we, who knew our men, thought we saw that the power was there; and if they could but realize their strength and that they had it in them to lay low at last that armor-plated old rhinoceros, the terror of the college jungle--yale,--with an even break of luck, the game must be ours. "in the second half our opportunity came. by one of the shifting chances of the game we got the ball on about their 25-yard line; one yard, three yards, two yards, four yards, we went through them; there was no stopping us, and at last--over, well over, for a touchdown. "through some technicality in the last rush the officials, instead of allowing the touchdown, took the ball away from us and gave it to yale. they were right, probably quite right, but how could we think so? yale at once kicked the ball to the middle of the field well out of danger. the teams lined up. "on the very next play, with every man of that splendidly trained eleven doing his allotted work, harold weekes swept around the end, aided by the magnificent interference of jack wright, which gave him his start. he ran half the length of the field, through the entire yale team, and planted the ball squarely behind the goal posts for the touchdown which won the game. if we had ever had any doubt that cruel wrong is righted, that truth and justice must prevail, it was swept away that moment in a great wave of thanksgiving. "i shall never forget it--columbia had beaten yale! tears running down my cheeks, shaken by emotion, i couldn't speak, let alone cheer. my best girl was with me. she gave one quick half-frightened glance and i believe almost realized all i felt. she was all gold. i feel now the timid little pressure on my arm as she tried to help me regain control of myself. god! why has life so few such moments!" behind the scenes let us go into the dressing room of a victorious team, which defeated yale at manhattan field a good many years ago and let us read with that great lover of football, the late richard harding davis, as he describes so wonderfully well some of the unique things that happened in the celebration of victory. "people who live far away from new york and who cannot understand from the faint echoes they receive how great is the enthusiasm that this contest arouses, may possibly get some idea of what it means to the contestants themselves through the story of a remarkable incident, that occurred after the game in the princeton dressing room. the team were being rubbed down for the last time and after their three months of self-denial and anxiety and the hardest and roughest sort of work that young men are called upon to do, and outside in the semi-darkness thousands of princeton followers were jumping up and down and hugging each other and shrieking themselves hoarse. one of the princeton coaches came into the room out of this mob, and holding up his arm for silence said, "'boys, i want you to sing the doxology.'" "standing as they were, naked and covered with mud, blood and perspiration, the eleven men that had won the championship sang the doxology from the beginning to the end as solemnly and as seriously, and i am sure, as sincerely, as they ever did in their lives, while outside the no less thankful fellow-students yelled and cheered and beat at the doors and windows and howled for them to come out and show themselves. this may strike some people as a very sacrilegious performance and as a most improper one, but the spirit in which it was done has a great deal to do with the question, and any one who has seen a defeated team lying on the benches of their dressing room, sobbing like hysterical school girls, can understand how great and how serious is the joy of victory to the men that conquer." introducing vic kennard, opportunist extraordinary. where is the harvard man, yale man, or indeed any football man who will not be stirred by the recollection of his remarkable goal from the field at new haven that provided the winning points for the eleven percy haughton turned out in the first year of his rã©gime. to kennard himself the memory is still vivid, and there are side lights on that performance and indeed on all his football days at cambridge, of which he alone can tell. i'll not make a conversation of this, but simply say as one does over the 'phone, "kennard talking":-[illustration: vic kennard's kick] "many of us are under the impression that the only real football fan is molded from the male sex and that the female of the species attends the game for decorative purposes only. i protest. listen. in 1908 i had the good fortune to be selected to enter the harvard-yale game at new haven, for the purpose of scoring on yale in a most undignified way, through the medium of a drop-kick, haughton realizing that while a touchdown was distinctly preferable, he was not afraid to fight it out in the next best way. "my prayers were answered, for the ball somehow or other made its way over the crossbar and between the uprights, making the score, harvard 4, yale 0. my mother, who had made her way to new haven by a forced march, was sitting in the middle of the stand on the yale (no, i'm wrong, it was, on second thought, on the harvard side) accompanied by my two brothers, one of whom forgot himself far enough to go to yale, and will not even to this day acknowledge his hideous mistake. "five or six minutes before the end of the game, one e. h. coy decided that the time was getting short and yale needed a touchdown. so he grabbed a harvard punt on the run and started. yes, he did more than start, he got well under way, circled the harvard end and after galloping fifteen yards, apparently concluded that i would look well as minced meat, and headed straight for me, stationed well back on the secondary defense. he had received no invitation whatsoever, but owing to the fact that i believe every harvard man should be at least cordial to every yale man, i decided to go 50-50 and meet him half way. "we met informally. that i know. i will never forget that. he weighed only 195 pounds, but i am sure he had another couple of hundred tucked away somewhere. when i had finished counting a great variety and number of stars, it occurred to me that i had been in a ghastly railroad wreck, and that the engine and cars following had picked out my right knee as a nice soft place to pile up on. there was a feeling of great relief when i looked around and saw that the engineer of that train, mr. e. h. coy, had stopped with the train, and i held the greatest hopes that neither the engine nor any one of the ten cars following would ever reach the terminal. "mother, who had seen the whole performance, was little concerned with other than the fact that e. h. had been delayed. his mission had been more than delayed--as it turned out, it had been postponed. in the meantime dr. nichols of the harvard staff of first aid was working with my knee, and from the stands it looked as though i might have broken my leg. "at this point some one who sat almost directly back of my mother called out loud, 'that's young kennard. it looks as though he'd broken his leg.' my brother, feeling that mother had not heard the remark, and not knowing what he might say, turned and informed him that mrs. kennard was sitting almost directly in front of him, requesting that he be careful what he said. mother, however, heard the whole thing, and turning in her seat said, 'that's all right, i don't care if his leg is broken, if we only win this game.' "my mother, who is a great football fan, after following the game for three or four years, learned all the slang expressions typical of football. she tried to work out new plays, criticised the generalship occasionally, and fairly 'ate and slept' football during the months of october and november. while the season was in progress i usually slept at home in boston where i could rest more comfortably. i occupied the adjoining room to my mother's, and when i was ready for bed always opened the door between the rooms. "one night i woke up suddenly and heard my mother talking. wondering whether something was the matter, i got out of bed and went into her room, appearing just in time to see my mothers arms outstretched. she was calling 'fair catch.' i spoke to her to see just what the trouble was, and she, in a sleepy way, mumbled, 'we won.' she had been dreaming of the harvard-dartmouth game. "early in the fall of 1908 haughton heard rumors that the indians were equipping their backfield in a very peculiar fashion. warner had had a piece of leather the color and shape of a football sewed on the jerseys of his backfield men, in such a position that when the arm was folded as if carrying the ball, it would appear as if each of the backfield players might have possession of the ball, and therefore disorganize somewhat the defense against the man who was actually carrying the ball. instead of one runner each time, there appeared to be four. "haughton studied the rules and found nothing to prevent warner's scheme. he wrote a friendly letter to warner, stating that he did not think it for the best interest of the game to permit his players to appear in the stadium equipped in this way, at the same time admitting that there was nothing in the rules against it. taking no chances, however, haughton worked out a scheme of his own. he discovered that there was no rule which prevented painting the ball red, so he had a ball painted the same color as the crimson jerseys. had the indians come on the field with the leather ruse sewed on their jerseys, haughton would have insisted that the game be played with the crimson ball. "what did i learn in my football course? i learned to control my temper, to exercise judgment, to think quickly and act decisively. i learned the meaning of discipline, to take orders and carry them out to the best of my ability without asking why. i had through the training regular habits knocked into me. i learned to meet, know and size up men. i learned to smile when i was the most discouraged fellow in this great wide world, the importance of being on time, a better control of my nerves, and to demand the respect of fellow players. i learned to work out problems for myself and to apply my energy more intelligently,--to stick by the ship. i secured a wide friendship which money can't buy." what eddie mahan was to harvard, charlie barrett, captain of the victorious 1915 eleven, was to cornell. the ithaca captain was one of those powerful runners whose remarkable physique did not interfere with his shiftiness. like his harvard contemporary, he was a fine leader, but unlike mahan, with whom he clashed in the game with the crimson in his final year, he was not able to play the play through what was to him probably the most important gridiron battle of his career. nevertheless, it was his touchdown in the first quarter that sounded the knell of the crimson hopes that day, and cornell men will always believe that his presence on the side line wrapped in a blanket, after his recovery from the shock that put him out of the game, had much to do with inspiring his eleven. barrett was one of the products of the cleveland university school, whence so many star players have been sent up to the leading universities. on the occasion of his first appearance at ithaca it became a practical certainty that he would not only make the varsity eleven, but would some day be its captain. in course of time it became a habit for the followers of the carnelian and white to look to barrett for rescue in games that seemed to be hopelessly in the fire. in his senior year the team was noted for its ability to come from behind, and this team spirit was generally understood as being the reflection of that of their leader. the cornell captain played the second and third periods of his final game against pennsylvania in a dazed condition, and it is a tribute to his mental and physical resources that in the last period of that game he played perhaps as fine football as he had ever shown. it was from no weakened pennsylvania eleven that barrett snatched the victory in this his crowded moment. the quakers had had a disastrous season up to thanksgiving day, but their pluck and rallying power, which has become a tradition on franklin field, was never more in evidence. the quakers played with fire, with power and aggressiveness that none save those who know the quaker spirit had been led to expect. there were heroes on the red and blue team that day, and without a barrett at his best against them, they would have won. [illustration: sam white's run] it was up to eddie hart with his supreme personality and indomitable spirit, which has always characterized him from the day he entered exeter until he forged his way to the leadership of one of princeton's finest elevens to bring home the long deferred championship. when the final whistle rang down the football curtain for the season of 1911 it found hart in the ascendancy having fulfilled the wonderful promise of his old exeter days. for he had made good indeed. yale and harvard had been beaten through a remarkable combination of team and individual effort in which sam white's alertness and dewitt's kicking stood out; a combination which was made possible only through hart's splendid leadership. at a banquet for this championship team given by the princeton club of philadelphia, lou reichner, the toastmaster, in introducing sam white, the hero of the evening, quoted from first samuel iii, chapter ii, 12th and 1st verses--"and the lord said unto samuel, behold i will do a thing in israel, at which both the ears of every one that heareth it shall tingle. in that day i will perform against eli, all things which i have spoken concerning his house; when i begin i will also make an end. and the child samuel ministered unto the lord eli." mr. reichner then presented to the child samuel the souvenir sleeve links and a silver box containing the genuine soil from yale field. after sam had been sufficiently honored, alfred t. baker, princeton '85, a former varsity football player, and his son hobey baker, who played on eddie hart's team, were called before the toastmaster. there was a triple cheer for hobey and his father. reichner said that he had nothing for papa baker, but a souvenir for hobey, and if the father was man enough to take it away from him he could have it. in speaking of the yale-princeton game at new haven, some of the things incidental to victory were told that evening by sam white, who said: "in the yale game of 1911, joe duff, the princeton guard, came over to hart, captain of the princeton team, and said: "'ed, i can't play any more. i can't stand on my left leg.' "'that's all right,' answered hart, 'go back and play on your right one.' "joe did and that year he made the all-american guard. "it was less than a week before the harvard-princeton game at princeton, 1911, a friend of mine wrote down and asked me to get him four good seats, and said if i'd mention my favorite cigar, he'd send me a box in appreciation. i got the seats for him, but it was more or less of a struggle, but in writing on did not mention cigars. he sent me a check to cover the cost of the tickets and in the letter enclosed a small scarf pin which he said was sure to bring me luck. he had done quite a little running in his time and said it had never failed him and urged me to be sure and put it in my tie the day of the harvard-princeton game. i am not superstitious, but i did stick it in my tie when i dressed that saturday morning and it surely had a charm. it was in the first half that i got away for my run, and as we came out of the field house at the start of the second half, whom should i see but my friend, yelling like a madman-"'did you wear it? did you wear it?' "i assured him i did, and it seemed to quiet and please him, for he merely grinned and replied: "'i told you! i told you!' "after the game i said nothing of the episode, but did secretly decide to keep the pin safely locked up until the day of the yale-princeton game. i again stuck it in my tie that morning and the charm still held, and i am still wondering to this day, if it doesn't pay to be a little bit superstitious." every harvard man remembers vividly the great crimson triumph of 1915 over yale. it will never be forgotten. during the game i sat on the harvard side lines with doctor billy brooks, a former harvard captain. he was not satisfied when harvard had yale beaten by the score of 41 to 0, but was enthusiastically urging harvard on to at least one or two more touchdowns, so that the defeat which yale meted out to harvard in 1884, a game in which he was a player, would be avenged by a larger score, but alas! he had to be satisfied with the tally as it stood. a story is told of the enthusiasm of evert jansen wendell, as he stood on the side lines of this same game and saw the big crimson roller crushing yale down to overwhelming defeat. this enthusiastic harvard graduate cried out: "'we must score again!' "another harvard sympathiser, standing nearby, said: "'mr. wendell, don't you think we have beaten them badly enough? what more do you want?' "'oh, i want to see them suffer,' retorted wendell." after this game was over and the crowd was surging out of the stadium that afternoon i heard an energetic newsboy, who was selling the _harvard lampoon_, crying out at the top of his voice: "'_harvard lampoon_ for sale here. all about the new haven wreck.'" eddie mahan there is no question that the american game of football will go on for years to come. if the future football generals develop a better all-around man than eddie mahan, captain of the great harvard team of 1915, whose playing brought not only victory to harvard but was accompanied by great admiration throughout the football world, they may well congratulate themselves. from this peerless leader, whose playing was an inspiration to the men on his team, let us put on record, so that future heroes may also draw like inspiration from them, some of mahan's own recollections of his playing days. "i think the greatest game i ever played in was the princeton game in 1915, because we never knew until the last minute that we had won the game," says the crimson star. "there was always a chance of princeton's beating us. the score was 10 to 6. i worked harder in that game than in any game i ever played. "frank glick's defensive work was nothing short of marvelous. he is the football player i respect. he hit me so hard. the way i ran, it was seldom that anybody got a crack at me. i would see a clear space and the first thing i knew glick would come from behind somewhere, or somebody, and would hit me when i least expected it, and he usually hit me good and hard. it seemed sometimes that he came right out of the ground. i tell you after he hit me a few times he was the only man i was looking for; i did not care much about the rest of the team. "one of the things that helped me most in my backfield play was pooch donovan's coaching. he practiced me in sprints, my whole freshman year. he took a great interest in me. he speeded me up. i owe a great debt of gratitude to pooch. i could always kick before i went to harvard, back in the old andover days. i learned to kick by punting the ball all the afternoon, instead of playing football all the time. i think that is the way men should learn to kick. the more i kicked, the better i seemed to get." among the many trophies eddie mahan has received, he prizes as much as any the watch presented to him by the townspeople of natick, his home town, his last year at andover, after the football season closed. he was attending a football game at natick between natick high and milton high. "it was all a surprise to me," says eddie. "they called me out on the field and presented me with this watch which is very handsomely inscribed. "well do i recall those wonderful days at andover and the games between andover and exeter. there is intense rivalry between these two schools. many are the traditions at andover, and some of the men who had preceded me, and some with whom i played were jack curtis, ralph bloomer, frank hinkey, doc hillebrand and jim rodgers. then there was trevor hogg, who was captain of the princeton 1916 team, shelton, red braun, bob jones. the older crowd of football men made the game what it is at andover. lately they have had a much younger crowd. when i was at andover, johnny kilpatrick, henry hobbs, ham andrews, bob foster and bob mckay had already left there and gone to college. "it has been a great privilege for me to have played on different teams that have had strong players. i cannot say too much about hardwick, bradlee, and trumbull. brickley was one of the hardest men for our opponents to bring down when he got the ball. he was a phenomenal kicker. i had also a lot of respect for mal logan, who played quarterback on my team in 1915. he weighed less than 150 pounds. he used to get into the interference in grand shape. he counted for something. he was a tough kid. he could stand all sorts of knocks and he used to get them too. when i was kicking he warded off the big tackles as they came through. he was always there and nobody could ever block a kick from his side. the harder they hit him, the stronger he came back every time." when i asked mahan about fun in football he said: "we didn't seem to do much kidding. there was a sort of serious spirit; haughton had such an influence over everybody, they were afraid to laugh before practice, while waiting for haughton, and after practice everybody was usually so tired there was not much fooling in the dressing room; but we got a lot of fun out of the game." of haughton's coaching methods and the harvard system eddie has a few things to tell us that will be news to many football men. "haughton coaches a great deal by the use of photographs which are taken of us in practice as well as regular games. he would get us all together and coach from the pictures--point out the poor work. seldom were the good points shown. nevertheless, he always gave credit to the man who got his opponent in the interference. haughton used to say: "'any one can carry a ball through a bunch of dead men.' "haughton is a good organizer. he has been the moving spirit at cambridge but by no means the whole harvard coaching staff. the individual coaches work with him and with each other. each one has control or supreme authority over his own department. the backfield coach has the picking of men for their positions. harvard follows charlie daly's backfield play; improved upon somewhat, of course, according to conditions. each coach is considered an expert in his own line. no coach is considered an expert in all fields. this is the method at harvard. "outside of haughton, bill withington, reggie brown, and leo leary have been the most recent prominent coaches. the harvard generalship has been the old charlie daly system. reggie brown has been a great strategist. harvard line play came from pot graves of west point." [illustration: king, of harvard, making a run; mahan putting black on his head] george chadwick what george chadwick, captain of yale's winning team of 1902, gave of himself to yale football has amply earned the thoroughly remarkable tributes constantly paid to this great yale player. he was a most deceptive man with the ball. in the princeton game john dewitt was the dangerous man on the princeton team, feared most on account of his great kicking ability. dewitt has always contended that chadwick's team was the best yale team he ever saw. he says: "it was a better team than gordon brown's for the reason that they had a kicker and gordon brown's team did not have a kicker. but this is only my opinion." yale and princeton men will not forget in a hurry the two wonderful runs for touchdowns, one from about the center of the field, that chadwick made in 1902. "i note," writes chadwick, "that there is a general impression that the opening in the line through which i went was large enough to accommodate an express train. as a matter of fact, the opening was hardly large enough for me to squeeze through. the play was not to make a large opening, and i certainly remember the sensation of being squeezed when going through the line. "there were some amusing incidents in connection with that particular game that come back to me now. i remember that when going down on the train from new york to princeton, i was very much amused at mike murphy's efforts to get tom shevlin worked up so he would play an extra good game. mike kept telling tom what a good man davis was and how the latter was going to put it all over him. tom clenched his fists, put on a silly grin and almost wept. it really did me a lot of good, as it helped to keep my mind off the game. when it did come to the game, his first big game, shevlin certainly played wonderful football. "i had been ill for about a week and a half before this game and really had not played in practice for two or three weeks. mike was rather afraid of my condition, so he told me to be the last man always to get up before the ball was put in play. i carefully followed his advice and as a result a lot of my friends in the stand kept thinking that i had been hurt. "toward the end of the game we were down about on princeton's 40-yard line. it was the third down and the probabilities were that we would not gain the distance, so i decided to have bowman try for a drop-kick. i happened to glance over at the side line and there was old mike murphy making strenuous motions with his foot. the umpire, dashiell, saw him too, and put him off the side lines for signalling. i remember being extremely angry at the time because i was not looking at the side lines for any signals and had decided on a drop kick anyhow. "in my day it was still the policy to work the men to death, to drill them to endure long hours of practice scrimmage. about two weeks before the princeton game in my senior year, we were in a slump. we had a long, miserable monday's practice. a lot of the old coaches insisted that football must be knocked into the men by hard work, but it seemed to me that the men knew a lot of football. they were fundamentally good and what they really needed was condition to enable them to show their football knowledge. it is needless to say that i was influenced greatly in this by mike murphy and his knowledge of men and conditioning them. joe swann, the field coach, and walter camp were in accord, so we turned down the advice of a lot of the older coaches and gave the varsity only about five minutes' scrimmage during the week and a half preceding the princeton game, with the exception of the bucknell game the saturday before. during the week before the princeton and harvard games we went up to ardsley and had no practice for three days. there was a five-minutes' scrimmage on thursday. this was an unusual proceeding, but it was so intensely hot the day of the princeton game, and we all lost so much weight something unusual had to be done. the team played well in the princeton game, but it was simply a coming team then. in the harvard game, which we won 23 to 0, it seemed to me that we were at the top of our form. "i think the whole incident was a lesson to us at new haven of the great value of condition to men who know a great deal of football. i know from my own experience during the three preceding years that it had been too little thought of. the great cry had too often been 'we must drum football into them, no matter what their physical condition.' "after the terribly exhausting game at princeton, which we won, 12 to 5, dewitt cochrane invited the team to go to his place at ardsley and recuperate. it really was our salvation, and i have always been most grateful to mr. and mrs. cochrane for so generously giving up their house completely to a mob of youngsters. we spent three delightful days, almost forgot football entirely, ate ravenously and slept like tops. "big eddie glass was a wonderful help in interference. i used to play left half and eddie left guard. on plays where i would take the ball around the end, or skirting tackle, eddie would either run in the interference or break through the line and meet me some yards beyond. we had a great pulling and hauling team that year, and the greatest puller and hauler was eddie glass. perry hale, who played fullback my sophomore year, was a great interferer. he was big, and strong and fast. on a straight buck through tackle, when he would be behind me, if there was not a hole in the proper place, he would whirl me all the way round and shoot me through a hole somewhere else. it would, of course, act as an impromptu delayed play. in one game i remember making a forty yard run to a touchdown on such a manoeuver." [illustration: mccord mills roper burke pell craig mattis lathrope lloyd bannard booth wheeler reiter poe edwards hillebrand hutchinson palmer mcclave princeton's 1899 team] arthur poe there never was as much real football ability concealed in a small package as there was in that great player, arthur poe. he was always using his head, following the ball, strong in emergency. he was endowed with a wonderful personality, and a man who always got a lot of fun out of the game and made fun for others, but yet was on the job every minute. he always inspired his team mates to play a little harder. rather than write anything more about this great player, let us read with him the part he so ably played in some of princeton's football games. "the story of my run in 1898 is very simple. yale tried a mass play on doc hillebrand, which, as usual, was very unsuccessful in that quarter. he broke through and tackled the man with the ball. while the yale men were trying to push him forward, i grabbed the ball from his arms and had a clear field and about ten yards start for the goal line. i don't believe i was ever happier in my life than on this day when i made the princeton team and scored this touchdown against yale. "in the second half mcbride tried a center drive on booth and edwards. the line held and i rushed in, and grabbed the ball, but before i got very far the referee blew his whistle, and after i had run across the goal line i realized that the touchdown was not going to be allowed. "lew palmer and i were tried at end simply to endeavor to provide a defense against the return runs of de saulles on punts. he, by the way, was the greatest open field runner i have ever seen. "my senior year started auspiciously and the prospects for a victorious eleven appeared especially bright, as only two of the regular players of the year before had graduated. the first hard game was against columbia, coached by foster sanford, who had a wealth of material drawn from the four corners of the earth. in the latter part of the game my opponent by way of showing his disapproval of my features attempted to change them, but was immediately assisted to the ground by my running mate and was undergoing an unpleasant few moments, when sanford, reinforced by several dozen substitutes, ran to his rescue and bestowed some unkind compliments on different parts of my pal's anatomy. with the arrival of burr mcintosh and several old grads, however, we were released from their clutches, and the game proceeded. "after the cornell game the yale game was close at hand. we were confident of our ability to win, though we expected a bitter hard struggle, in which we were not disappointed. through a well developed interference on an end run, reiter was sent around the end for several long gains, resulting in a touchdown, but yale retaliated by blocking a kick and falling on the ball for a touchdown. sharpe, a few minutes later, kicked a beautiful goal, so that the score was 10 to 6 in yale's favor. the wind was blowing a gale all through the first half and as yale had the wind at their backs we were forced to play a rushing game, but shortly after the second half began the wind died down considerably so that mcbride's long, low kicks were not effective to any great extent. "yale was on the defensive and we were unable to break through for the coveted touchdown, though we were able to gain ground consistently for long advances. in the shadow of their goal line yale held us mainly through the wonderful defensive playing of mcbride. i never saw a finer display of backing up the rush line than that of mcbride during the second half. so strenuous was the play that eight substitutions had been made on our team, but with less than five minutes to play we started a furious drive for the goal line from the middle of the field, and with mcclave, mattis and lathrope carrying the ball we went to yale's 25-yard line in quick time. "with only about a minute to play it was decided to try a goal from the field. i was selected as the one to make the attempt. i was standing on the 34-yard line, about ten yards to the left of centre when i kicked; the ball started straight for the far goal post, but apparently was deflected by air currents and curved in not more than a yard from the post. i turned to the referee, saw his arms raised and heard him say 'goal' and then everything broke loose. "i saw members of the team turning somersaults, and all i remember after that was being seized by a crowd of alumni who rushed out upon the field, and hearing my brother ned shout, 'you damned lucky kid, you have licked them again.' i kicked the ball with my instep, having learned this from charlie young of cornell, who was then at princeton seminary and was playing on the scrub team. the reason i did this was because lew palmer and myself wore light running shoes with light toes, not kicking shoes at all. "after the crowd had been cleared off the field there were only 29 seconds left to play, and after yale had kicked off we held the ball without risking a play until the whistle blew, when i started full speed for the gate, followed by bert wheeler. i recall knocking down several men as we were bursting through and making our way to the bus. it was the first, last and only goal from the field i ever attempted, and the most plausible explanation for its success was probably predestination." [illustration: "nothing got by john dewitt"] arthur poe was a big factor in football, even when he wasn't running or kicking yale down to defeat. "bill church's roughness, in my freshman year, had the scrub bluffed," continues arthur. "when lew palmer volunteered to play halfback and take care of bill on punts, bill was surprised on the first kick he attempted to block to feel lew's fist on his jaw and immediately shouted: "'i like you for that, you damn freshman.' "that was the first accident that attracted attention to lew. palmer was one of the gamest men and he won a varsity place by the hardest kind of work. "well do i recall the indignation meeting of the scrub to talk over plans of curbing johnny baird and fred smith in their endeavor to kill the scrub." john dewitt big john dewitt was the man who brought home the yale bacon for the tigers in 1903. to be exact he not only carried, but also kicked it home. two surprise parties by a single player in so hard a game are rare indeed. whenever i think of dewitt i think of his great power of leadership. he was an ideal captain. he thought things out for himself. he was the spirit of his team. this great princeton captain was one of the most versatile football men known to fame. playing so remarkably in the guard position, he also did the kicking for his team and was a great power in running with the ball. dewitt thought things out almost instantly and took advantage of every possible point. the picture on the opposite page illustrates wonderfully well how he exerted and extended himself. this man put his whole soul into his work and was never found wanting. his achievements will hold a conspicuous place in football history. nothing got by john dewitt. dewitt's team in 1903 was the first to bring victory over yale to princeton since 1899. on that day john dewitt scored a touchdown and kicked a placement goal, which will long be remembered. let us go back and play a part of that game over with john himself. "whenever i think of football my recollections go back to the yale game of 1903," says dewitt. "my most vivid recollections are of my loyal team mates whose wonderful spirit and good fellowship meant so much to the success of that eleven. without their combined effort princeton could not have won that day. "we had a fine optimistic spirit before the game and the fact that jim hogan scored a touchdown for yale in the first part of the game seemed to put us on our mettle and we came back with the spirit that i have always been proud of. hogan was almost irresistible. you could hardly stop him when he had the ball. he scored between harold short and myself and jammed through for about 12 yards to a touchdown. if you tackled jim hogan head on he would pull you right over backwards. he was the strongest tackle i ever saw. he seemed to have overpowering strength in his legs. he was a regular player. he never gave up until the whistle blew, but after the princeton team got its scoring machine at work, the princeton line outplayed the yale line. "i think yale had as good a team as we had, if not better, that day. the personnel of the team was far superior to ours, but we had our spirit in the game. we were going through yale to beat the band the last part of the game." dewitt, describing the run that made him famous, says: "towards the end of the first half, with the score 6 to 0 against princeton, yale was rushing us down the field. roraback, the yale center, was not able to pass the ball the full distance back for the punter. rockwell took the ball from quarterback position and passed it to mitchell, the fullback. on this particular play our whole line went through on the yale kick formation. no written account that i have ever seen has accurately described just what happened. ralph davis was the first man through, and he blocked mitchell's kick. ridge hart, who was coming along behind him, kicked the loose ball forward and the oval was about fifteen to twenty yards from where it started. i was coming through all the time. "as the bouncing ball went behind mitchell it bobbed up right in front of me. i probably broke all rules of football by picking it up, but the chances looked good and i took advantage of them. i really was wondering then whether to pick it up or fall on it, but figured that it was harder to fall on it than to pick it up, so i put on all the steam i had and started for the goal. howard henry was right behind me until i got near the goal post. after i had kicked the goal the score was 6 to 6. never can i forget the fierce playing on the part of both teams that now took place. "shortly after this in the second half i punted down into yale's territory. mitchell fumbled and ralph davis fell on the ball on the 30-yard line. we tried to gain, but could not. bowman fell on the ball after the ensuing kick, which was blocked. it had rolled to the 5-yard line. yale tried to gain once; then bowman went back to kick. i can never pay enough tribute to vetterlein, to the rare judgment that he displayed at this point in the game. when he caught that punt and heeled it, he used fine judgment; but for his good head work we never would have won that game. i kicked my goal from the field from the 43-yard line. [illustration: john dewitt about to pick up the ball] "as ralph davis was holding the ball before i kicked it, the yale players, who were standing ten yards away were not trying to make it any the easier for us. i remember in particular tom shevlin was kidding ralph davis, who replied: 'well, tom, you might as well give it to us now--the score is going to be 11-6,' and just then what davis had said came through. "if any one thinks that my entire football experience was a bed of roses, i want to assure him that it was not. i experienced the sadness of injury and of not making the team. the first day i lined up i broke three bones in one hand. three weeks later, after they had healed i broke the bones in my other hand and so patiently waited until the following year to make the team. "the next year i went through the bitter experience of defeat, and we were beaten good and plenty by yale. defeat came again in 1902. it was in that year that i met, as my opponent, the hardest man i ever played against, eddie glass. the yale team came at me pretty hard the first fifteen minutes. glass especially crashed into me. he was warned three times by dashiell in the opening part of the game for strenuous work. glass was a rough, hard player, but he was not an unfair player at that. i always liked good, rough football. he played the game for all it was worth and was a gibraltar to the yale team. "now that my playing days are over, i think there is one thing that young fellows never realize until they are through playing; that they might have helped more; that they might have given a few extra minutes to perfect a play. the thing that has always appealed to me most in football is to think of what might have been done by a little extra effort. it is very seldom you see a man come off the field absolutely used up. i have never seen but one or two cases where a man had to be helped to the dressing room. i have always thought such a man did not give as much as he should,--we're all guilty of this offense. a little extra punch might have made a touchdown." tichenor, of the university of georgia, tells the following: "in a tech-georgia game a peculiar thing happened. one of the goal lines was about seven yards from the fence which was twelve feet high and perfectly smooth. tech had worked the ball down to within about three yards of georgia's goal near the fence. here the defense of the red and black stiffened and, taking the ball on downs, ted sullivan immediately dropped back for a kick. the pass was none too good and he swung his foot into the ball, which struck the cross bar, bounded high up in the air, over the fence, behind the goal post. "then began the mighty wall-scaling struggle to get over the fence and secure the coveted ball. as fast as one team would try to boost each other over, their opponents would pull them down. this contest continued for fully five minutes while the crowd roared with delight. in the meantime george butler, the referee, took advantage of the situation and, with the assistance of several spectators, was boosted over the fence where he waited for some player to come and fall on the ball, which was fairly hidden in a ditch covered over with branches. butler tells to this day of the amusing sight as he beheld first one pair of hands grasping the top of the fence; one hand would loosen, then the other; then another set of hands would appear. heads were bobbing up and down and disappearing one after the other. the crowd now became interested and showed their partiality, and with the assistance of some of the spectators a tech player made his way over the fence and began his search for the ball, closely followed by a georgia player. they rushed around frantically looking for the ball. then red wilson joined in the search and quickly located it in the ditch; soon had it safely in his arms and tech scored a touchdown. "this was probably the only touchdown play in the history of the game which none of the spectators saw and which only the referee and two other players saw at the time the player touched the ball down." that charlie brickley was in the way of bringing home the bacon to harvard is well known to all. there have been very few players who were as reliable as this star. it was in his senior year that he was captain of the team and when the announcement came at the start of the football season that brickley had been operated upon for appendicitis the football world extended to him its deepest sympathy. during his illness he yearned to get out in time to play against yale. this all came true. the applause which greeted him when haughton sent this great player into the game--with the doctor's approval--must have impressed him that one and all were glad to see him get into the game. let us hear what brickley has to say about playing the game. "i have often been asked how i felt when attempting a drop kick in a close game before a large crowd. during my first year i was a little nervous, but after that it didn't bother me any more than as if i were eating lunch. constant practice for years gave me the feeling that i could kick the ball over every time i tried. if i was successful, those who have seen me play are the best judges. confidence is a necessity in drop kicking. the three hardest games i ever played in were the dartmouth 3 to 0 game in 1912, and princeton 3 to 0 in 1913, and the yale 15 to 5 game of the same year. the hardest field goal i ever had to kick was against princeton in the mud in 1913. [illustration: the ever reliable brickley] [illustration: a football thoroughbred--tack hardwick] "the most finished player in all around play i ever came across is tack hardwick. he could go through a game, or afternoon's practice and perform every fundamental function of the game in perfect fashion. the most interesting and remarkable player i ever came across was eddie mahan. he could do anything on the football field. he was so versatile, that no real defense could be built against him. he had a wonderful intuitive sense and always did just the right thing at the right time." chapter xv "the bloody angle" football in its very nature is a rough game. it calls for the contact of bodies under high momentum and this means strains and bruises! thanks to the superb physical condition of players, it usually means nothing more serious. the play, be it ever so hard, is not likely to be dangerous provided it is clean, and the worst indictment that can be framed against a player of to-day, and that by his fellows, is that he is given to dirty tactics. this attitude has now been established by public opinion, and is reflected in turn by the strictness of officials, the sentiment of coaches and football authorities generally. so scientific is the game to-day that only the player who can keep his head, and clear his mind of angry emotions, is really a valuable man in a crisis. again, the keynote of success in football to-day is team work, perfect interlocking of all parts. in the old days play was individual, man against man, and this gave rise in many cases to personal animosity which frequently reduced great football contests to little more than pitched battles. those who to-day are prone to decry football as a rough and brutal sport--which it no longer is--might at least reverse their opinions of the present game, could they have spent a certain lurid afternoon in the fall of '87 at jarvis field where the elevens of harvard and princeton fought a battle so sanguinary as to come down to us through the years legended as a real _crimson_ affair. one of the saddest accidents that ever occurred on a university football field happened in this contest and suggested the caption of "the bloody angle," the historic shambles of the great gettysburg battle. luther price, who played halfback on the princeton teams of '86 and '87 and who was acting captain the larger part of the latter season, tells the following story of the game: "princeton's contest with harvard in the autumn of '87 was the bloodiest game that i ever experienced or saw. at that period the football relations between the two colleges were fast approaching a crisis and the long break between the institutions followed a couple of seasons later. it is perhaps true that the '87 game was largely responsible for the rupture because it left secret bitterness. "in fact, the game was pretty near butchery and the defects of the rules contributed to this end. both sides realized that the contest was going to be a hummer but neither imagined the extent of the casualties. had the present rules applied there would have been a long string of substitutes in the game and the caption of 'the bloody angle' could not have been applied. "in those days an injured player was not allowed to leave the field of play without the consent of the opponents' captain. one can easily grasp the fact that your adversaries' captain was not apt to permit a player, battered almost to worthlessness, to go to the bench and to allow you to substitute a strong and fresh player. therein lies the tale of this game. "princeton was confident of winning but not overconfident. we went out to jarvis field on a tallyho from boston, and i recall how eagerly we dashed upon the field, anxious for the scrap to begin. it was a clear, cold day with a firm turf--a condition that helped us, as we were lighter than harvard, especially behind the line. none of our backs weighed more than 155 pounds. "holden, the crimson captain, was probably the most dangerous of our opponents. he was a deceptive running back owing to the difficulty of gauging his pace. he was one of the speediest sprinters in the eastern colleges and if he managed to circle either end it was almost good-bye to his opponents. "we were all lying in wait for holden, not to cripple him or take any unfair advantage, but to see that he did not cross our goal line. it was not long before we had no cause to be concerned on that score. but before holden was disposed of we suffered a most grievous loss in the disqualification of hector cowan, our left guard and our main source of strength. princeton worked a majority of the tricks through cowan and when he was gone we lost the larger part of our offensive power. "cowan's disqualification was unjustified by his record or by any tendency toward unfair play, though this statement should not be regarded as a reflection on the fairness of wyllys terry, the old yale player, who was the umpire. walter camp, by the way, was the referee. "there never was a fairer player than cowan, and such a misfortune as losing him by disqualification for any act on the field was never dreamt of by the princeton men. the trouble was that terry mistook an accident for a deliberate act. holden was skirting princeton's left end when cowan made a lunge to reach him. holden's deceptive pace was nearly too much for even such a star as cowan, whose hands slipped from the harvard captain's waist down to below his knees until the ankles were touched. cowan could have kept his hands on holden's ankles, but as tackling below the knees was foul, he quickly let go. but holden tumbled and several princeton men were on him in a jiffy. "harvard immediately claimed that it was a foul tackle. it was a desperate claim but it proved successful. to our astonishment and chagrin, terry ruled cowan off the field. cowan was thunderstruck at the decision and protested that he never meant to tackle unfairly. we argued with terry but he was unrelenting. to him it seemed that cowan meant to make a foul tackle. the situation was disheartening but we still felt that we had a good chance of pulling through even without cowan. "what was particularly galling to us was that we had allowed two touchdowns to slip from our grasp. twice we had carried the ball to within a few yards of the harvard line and had dropped the ball when about to cross it. both errors were hardly excusable and were traceable to over-anxiety to score. with cowan on the field we had found that he could open up the harvard line for the backs to make long runs but now that he was gone we could be sure of nothing except grilling work. "soon after occurred the most dramatic and lamentable incident which put holden out of the game. we had been warned long before the contest that holden was a fierce tackler and that if we, who were back of the princeton line, wished to stay in the game it would be necessary to watch out for his catapultic lunges. "holden made his tackles low, a kind of a running dive with his head thrust into his quarry's stomach. the best policy seemed, in case holden had you cornered, to go at him with a stiff arm and a suddenly raised knee to check his onslaught and, if possible, shake him off in the shuffle, but that was a mighty difficult matter for light backs to do. "first the line was opened up so that i went through. harding, the harvard quarter, who was running up and down the crimson line like a panther, didn't get me. my hand went against his face and somehow i got rid of him. finally i reached holden, who played the fullback position while on the defensive, and had him to pass in order to get a touchdown. there was a savage onslaught and holden had me on the ground. "a few moments later ames, who played back with channing and me, went through the harvard line and again holden was the only obstacle to a touchdown for princeton. there was another savage impact and both players rolled upon the ground, but this time holden did not get up. he got his man but he was unconscious or at least seemingly so. his chest bone had been broken. it was a tense moment. we all felt a pang of sympathy, for holden was a square, if rough, player. harvard's cheers subsided into murmurs of sorrow and holden was carried tenderly off the field. "the accident made harvard desperate, and as we were without cowan we were in the same mental condition. it was hammer and tongs from that time on. i don't know that there was any intention to put players out of business, but there was not much mercy shown. "it appeared to me that some doubt existed on the harvard side as to who caused holden's chest bone to be broken, but that the suspicion was mainly directed at me. several years later an article written at harvard and published in the _public ledger_ in philadelphia gave a long account of how i broke holden's chest bone. this seemed to confirm my notion that there was a mixup of identity. however that may be, it soon became evident in the game that i was marked for slaughter. "vic harding made a profound and lasting impression on me both with his hands and feet. in fact, harding played in few games of importance in which he was not disqualified. he was not a bad fellow at all in social relations, but on a football field he was the limit of 'frightfulness.' i don't know of any player that i took so much pleasure in punching as harding. ames and harding also took delight in trying to make each other's faces change radically in appearance. "i think that harding began to paint my face from the start of the game and that as it proceeded he warmed up to the task, seeing that he was making a pretty good job of it. he had several mighty able assistants. the work was done with several hundred wellesley college girls, who were seated on benches close to the sideline, looking on with the deepest interest and, as it soon appeared, with much sympathy. i will not forget how concerned they looked. "by the middle of the second half i guess they did see a spectacle in me for they began to call to me and hold out handkerchiefs. at first i didn't realize what they meant for i was so much engaged with the duties that lay in front of me that it was difficult to notice them, but their entreaties soon enlightened me. they were asking me as a special favor to clean my face with their handkerchiefs, but i replied--perhaps rather abruptly--that i really didn't have time to attend to my facial toilet. "my nose had been broken, both eyes well closed and my canvas jacket and doeskin knickerbockers were scarlet or crimson--whichever you prefer--in hue. strength was quickly leaving me and the field swam. i finally propped myself up against a goal post. the next thing i knew was that i was being helped off the field. my brother, billy, who was highly indignant over the developments, took my place. this was about ten or fifteen minutes before the end of the game, which then consisted of two 45 minute periods. "ames emerged from the game with nothing more than the usual number of cuts and bruises. at that time we did not have any nose-guards, head-guards and other paraphernalia such as are used nowadays, except that we could get ankle braces, and ames wore one. that ankle stood the test during the fight. "a majority of the other players were pretty well cut up. after cowan was disqualified bob (j. robb) church, subsequently major in the united states army medical corps and formerly the surgeon of roosevelt's rough riders in the spanish war, was shifted from tackle to cowan's position at guard. chapin, a brilliant student, who had changed from amherst to princeton, went in at tackle. he was a rather erratic player, and harvard kept pounding in his direction with the result that bob church had a sea of trouble and i was forced to move up close to the line for defensive work. it was this that really put me out of business. my left shoulder had been hurt early in the season and it was bound in rubber, but fortunately it was not much worse off than at the beginning of the game. "bob church risked his life more than once in the spanish war and for his valor he received a medal of honor from congress, but it is safe to say that he never got such a gruelling as in this harvard game. he was battered to the extent of finding it difficult to rise after tackling and finally he was lining up on his knees. it was a magnificent exhibition of pluck. as i recall, bob lasted to the end of the game. "it was not until near the close that any scoring took place and then harvard made two touchdowns in quick succession. we lacked substitutes to put in and, even if we had had them, it is doubtful whether we could have got them in as long as a player was able to stand up. the only satisfaction we had was that we had done the best we could to win and our confidence that with cowan we could have won even if holden had not been hurt. we had beaten harvard the year before with essentially the same team that we played in this game." chapter xvi the family in football it is almost possible, i think, to divide football men into two distinct classes--those who are made into players (and often very good ones) by the coaches and those who are born with the football instinct. just how to define football instinct is a puzzle, but it is very easy to discern it in a candidate, even if he never saw a football till he set foot on the campus. by and large, it will be read first in a natural aptitude for following the ball. after that, in the general way he has of handling himself, from falling on the ball to dodging and straight arm. watch the head coach grin when some green six-foot freshman dives for a rolling ball and instinctively clutches it into the soft part of his body as he falls on it. nobody told him to do it just that way, or to keep his long arms and legs under control so as to avoid accident, but he does it nevertheless and thus shows his football instinct. there is still another kind of football instinct, and that is the kind that is passed down from father to son and from brother to brother. they say that the lacemakers of nottingham don't have to be taught how to make lace because, as children, they somehow absorb most of the necessary knowledge in the bosom of their family, and i think the same thing is true of sons and brothers of football players. generally, they pick up the essentials of the game from "pop" long before they get to school or college or else are properly educated by an argus-eyed brother. [illustration: johnson edgar allen arthur nelson gresham johnny the poe family] but the matter of getting football knowledge--of developing the instinct--isn't always left to the boy. unless i'm grievously mistaken it's more often the fond father who takes the first step. in fact, some fathers i've known have, with a commendable eye to future victories, even dated the preparation of their offspring from the hour when he was first shown them by the nurse: "let me take a squint at the little rascal," says the beaming father and expertly examines the young hopeful's legs. "ah, hah, bully! we'll make a real football player out of _him_!" and so, some day when dick or ken is six or seven, father produces a strange looking, leather-cased bladder out of a trunk where mother hasn't discovered it and blows it up out on the front porch under the youngster's inquisitive eye and tucks in the neck and laces it up. "what is it, pop? what you going to do with it?" "that's what men call a football, son. and right now i'm going to _kick_ it." and kick it he does--all around the lot--until after a particularly good lift he chuckles to himself, the old war horse, and with the smell of ancient battles in his nostrils sits down to give the boy his first lesson in the manliest and best game on earth. and this first lesson is tackling. perhaps the picture on the opposite page will remind you of the time you taught _your_ boys the good old game. this particular kind of football instinct has produced many of the finest players the colleges have ever seen. in a real football family there isn't much bluffing as to what you can do nor are there many excuses for a fumble or a missed tackle. with your big brothers' ears open and their tongues ready with a caustic remark, it doesn't need "pop's" keen eye to keep you within the realms of truth as to the length of your run or why you missed that catch. quite often, as it happens, "pop" is thinking of a certain big game he once played in and remembering a play--ah! if only he could forget that play!--in which he fumbled and missed the chance of a life-time. like some inexorable motion picture film that refuses to throw anything but one fatal scene on the screen, his recollections make the actors take their well-remembered positions and the play begins. for the thousandth time he gnashes his teeth as he sees the ball slip from his grasp. "dog-gone it," he mutters, "if my boy doesn't do better in the big game than _i_ did, i'll whale the hide off him!" strangely enough not all brothers of a football family follow one another to the same college, and there have been several cases where brother played against brother. but for the only son of a great player to go anywhere else than to his father's college would be rank heresy. i daresay even the other college wouldn't like it. [illustration: just boys] of famous fathers whose football instinct descended without dilution into their sons perhaps the easiest remembered have been walter camp, who captained the elis in '78 and '79 and whose son, walter, jr., played fullback in 1911--alfred t. baker, one of the princeton backs in '83, and '84, whose son hobey captained his team in 1914--snake ames, who played in four championship games for princeton against both yale and harvard, and whose son, knowlton ames, jr., played on the princeton teams of '12, '13 and '14--and that sterling yale tackle of '91 and '92, "wallie" winter, whose son, wallace, jr., played on his freshman team in 1915. when we come to enumerating the brothers who have played, it is the poe family which comes first to mind. laying aside friendship or natural bias, i feel that my readers will agree with me in the belief that it would be hard to find six football players ranking higher than the six poe brothers. altogether, princeton has seen some twenty-two years of poes, during at least thirteen of which there was a poe on the varsity team. johnson poe, '84, came first, to be followed by edgar allen, twice captain, then by johnny, now in his last resting place "somewhere in france," then by nelson, then arthur, twice the fly in yale's ointment, and lastly by gresham poe. i haven't a doubt but that after due lapse of time this wonderful family will produce other poes, sons and cousins, to carry on the precious tradition. next in point of numbers probably comes the riggs family of five brothers, of whom three, lawrence, jesse and dudley, played on princeton teams, while harry and frank were substitutes. the hodge family were four who played at princeton--jack, hugh, dick and sam. after the riggs family comes the young family of cornell--ed., charles, george and will--all of whom played tremendously for the carnelian and white in the nineties. charles young later studied at the theological seminary at princeton and played wonderful football on the scrub in my time from sheer love of sport, since as he is, at this writing, physical director at cornell. amherst boasts of the wonderful pratt brothers, who did much for amherst football. of threes there are quite a number. prominent among them have been the wilsons of both yale and princeton, tom being a guard on the princeton teams of 1911 and 1912, while alex captained yale in 1915 and saw another brother in orange and black waiting on the side lines across the field. situations like this are always productive of thrills. let the brother who has been waiting longingly throw off his blanket and rush across the field into his position and instantly the news flashes through the stands. "brother against brother!" goes the thrilling whisper--and every heart gives an extra throb as it hungers in an unholy but perfectly human way for a clash between the two. there were three harlan brothers who played at princeton in '81, '83, '84. at harvard lothrope, paul and ted withington; percy, jack and sam wendell. in cornell a redoubtable trio were the taussigs. of these j. hawley taussig played end for four years ending with the '96 team. charles followed in the same position in '99, '00 and '01 and joseph k., later lieutenant commander of the torpedoboat destroyer _wadsworth_ played quarter on the naval academy team in '97 and '98. a third trio of brothers were the greenways of yale. of these, john and gil greenway played both football and baseball while jim greenway rowed on the crew. another princeton family, well known, has been the moffats. the first of these to play football was henry, who played on the '73 team which was the first to beat yale. he was followed by the redoubtable alex, who kicked goals from all over the field in '82, '83, and '84, by will moffat who was a varsity first baseman and by ned moffat who played with me at lawrenceville. equally well known have been the hallowells of harvard--f. w. hallowell, '93, r. h. hallowell, '96, and j. w. hallowell, '01. another hallowell--penrose--was on the track team, while colonel hallowell, the father, was always a power in harvard athletics. when we come to cite the pairs of brothers who have played, the list seems endless. the first to come to mind are laurie bliss of the yale teams of '90, '91 and '92 and "pop" bliss of the '92 team, principally, i think, because of laurie's wonderful end running behind interference and because "pop" bliss, at a crucial moment in a harvard-yale game deliberately disobeyed the signal to plunge through centre on harvard's 2-yard line and ingeniously ran around the end for a touchdown. tommy baker and alfred baker were brothers. continuing the yale list, there have been the hinkeys, frank and louis, who need no praise as wonderful players--charlie and johnny de saulles--sherman and "ted" coy--w. o. hickok, the famous guard of '92, '93 and '94 and his brother ross--herbert and malcolm mcbride, both of whom played fullback--tad jones and his brother howard--the philbins, steve and holliday--charlie chadwick and his younger brother, george, who captained his team in 1902. their father before them was an athlete. in harvard there have been the traffords, perry and bernie--arthur brewer and charley the fleet of foot, who ran ninety yards in the harvard-princeton game of 1895 and caught suter from behind--the two shaws,--evarts wrenn, '92 and his famous cousin bob who played tennis quite as well as he played football. [illustration: hobey baker walter camp, jr. snake ames, jr.] princeton, too, has seen many pairs of brothers--"beef" wheeler, the famous guard of '92, '93 and '94 and bert wheeler, the splendid fullback of '98 and '99 whose cool-headed playing helped us win from yale both in princeton and at new haven--the rosengartens, albert and his cousin fritz and albert's brother who played for pennsylvania--the tibbotts, dave and fred--j. r. church, '88, and bill church, the roaring, stamping tackle of '95 and '96--ross and steve mcclave--harry and george lathrope--jarvis geer and marshall geer who played with me on teams at both school and college--billy bannard and horace bannard--fred kafer and dana kafer, the first named being also the very best amateur catcher i have ever seen. fred kafer, by the way, furnished an interesting anachronism in that while he was one of the ablest mathematicians of his time in college he found it wellnigh impossible to remember his football signals! let us not forget, too, bal ballin, who was a princeton captain, and his brother cyril. in other colleges, the instances of football skill developed by brotherly emulation have been nearly as well marked. dartmouth, for instance, produced the bankhart brothers--cornell, the starbucks--one of them, raymond, captaining his team--the cools, frank and gib--the latter being picked by good judges as the all-america center in 1915--and the warners, bill and glenn. the greatest three players from any one family that ever played the backfield would probably be the three draper brothers--louis, phil and fred. all went to williams and all were stars; heavy, fast backs, who were good both on defense and offense, capable of doing an immense amount of work and never getting hurt. at pennsylvania, there have been the folwells, nate and r. c. folwell and the woodruffs, george and wiley, although george woodruff, originator of the celebrated "guards back," was a yale man long before he coached at pennsylvania. it is impossible for any one who saw jack minds play to forget this great back of '94, '95, '96 and '97, whose brother also wore the red and blue a few years later. doubtless there have been many more fathers, brothers and sons who have been equally famous and i ask indulgence for my sins of omission, for the list is long. principally, i have recalled their names for the reason that i knew or now know many of these great players intimately and so have learned the curious longing--perhaps "passion"--for the game which is passed from one to the other of a football family. in a way this might be compared with the military spirit which allows a family to state proudly that "_we_ have always been army (or navy) people." and who shall say that the clash and conflict of this game, invented and played only by thoroughly virile men, are not productive of precisely those qualities of which the race may, some day, well stand in need. if by the passing down from father to son and from brother to brother of a spirit of cheerful self-denial throughout the hard fall months--of grim doggedness under imminent defeat and of fair play at all times, whether victor or vanquished--a finer, truer sense of what a man may be and do is forged out of the raw material, then football may feel that it has served a purpose even nobler than that of being simply america's greatest college game. chapter xvii our good old trainers there are not many football enthusiasts who analyze the factors that bring victory. many of us do not appreciate the importance attached to the trainer, or realize the great part that he plays, until we are out of college. we know that the men who bore the brunt of the battle have received their full share of glory--the players and coaches. but there arises in the midst of our athletic world men who trained, men who safeguarded the players. trainers have been associated with football since the early eighties, and a careful trainer's eye should ever be on the lookout wherever football is played. players, coaches and trainers go hand in hand in football. every one of these men that i have known has had a strong personality. each one, however, differed somewhat from the others. there is a great affection on the part of the players for the man who cares for their athletic welfare. these men are often more than mere trainers. their personalities have carried them farther than the dressing room. their interest in the boys has continued after they left college. their influence has been a lasting one, morally, as well as physically. on account of their association, the trainers keep pace with the men about them; not limiting their interest to athletics. they are always found entertaining at the athletic banquets, and their personalities count for much on the campus. they are all but boys grown up, with well known athletic records behind them. in the hospital, or in the quietness of a college room, or on trips, the trainer is a friend and adviser. go and talk to the trainer of the football team if you want to get an unbiased opinion of the team's work or of the value of the individual coaches. some of our trainers know much about the game of football--the technical side--and their advice is valuable. every trainer longs to handle good material, but more power to the trainer who goes ahead with what he's got and makes the best out of it without a murmur. in our recollections we know of teams that were reported to be going stale--"over-trained"--"a team of cripples"--who slumped--could not stand the test--were easily winded--could not endure. they were nightmares to the trainer. soon you read in the daily press indications that a change of trainer is about to take place in such a college. then we turn to another page of our recollections where we read: "the team is fit to play the game of their lives." "only eleven men were used in to-day's game." "great tribute to the trainer." "men could have played all day"--"no time taken out"--"not a man injured"--"pink of condition." usually all this spells victory. jack mcmasters was the first trainer that i met. "scottie," as every one affectionately called him, never asked a man to work for him any harder than he would work himself. in a former chapter you have read how jack and i put in some hard work together. i recall a trip to boston, where princeton was to play harvard. most of the princeton team had retired for the night. about ten o'clock arthur poe came down into the corridor of the vendome hotel and told "scottie" that bill church and johnny baird were upstairs taking a cold shower. jack was furious, and without stopping for the elevator hustled upstairs two steps at a time only to find both of these players sound asleep in bed. needless to say that arthur poe kept out of sight until jack retired for the night. a trainer's life is not all pleasure. once after the train had started from princeton this same devilish arthur poe, as jack would call him, rushed up forward to where jack was sitting in the train and said: "jack, i don't see bummie booth anywhere on the train. i guess he must have been left behind." with much haste and worry jack made a hurried search of the entire train to find booth sitting in the last seat in the rear car with a broad grin on his face. jack's training experience was a very broad one. he trained many victorious teams at harvard after he left princeton and was finally trainer at annapolis. a pronounced decoration that adorns "scottie" is a much admired bunch of gold footballs and baseballs, which he wears suspended from his watch chain--in fact, so many, that he has had to have his chain reinforced. if you could but sit down with jack and admire this prized collection and listen to some of his prized achievements--humorous stories of the men he has trained and some of the victories which these trophies designate you would agree with me that no two covers could hold them. but we must leave jack for the present at home with his family in sandy hook cottage, drummore by stranraer, scotland, in the best of health, happy in his recollection of a service well rendered and appreciated by every one who knew him. jim robinson there was something about jim robinson that made the men who knew him in his training days refer to him as "dear old jim," and although he no longer cries out from the side lines "trot up, men," a favorite expression of his when he wanted to keep the men stirring about, there still lives within all of us who knew him a keen appreciation of his service and loyalty to the different colleges where he trained. he began training at princeton in 1883 and he finished his work there. how fine was the tribute that was paid him on the day of his funeral! dolly dillon, captain of the 1906 team, and his loyal team mates, all of whom had been carefully attended by jim robinson on the football field that fall, acted as pallbearers. there was also a host of old athletes and friends from all over the country who came to pay their last tribute to this great sportsman and trainer. mike murphy and jim robinson were always contesting trainers. at princeton that day with the team gathered around, murphy related some interesting and touching experiences of jim's career. jim's family still lives at princeton, and on one of my recent visits there, i called upon mrs. robinson. we talked of jim, and i saw again the loving cups and trophies that jim had shown me years before. jim robinson trained many of the heroes of the old days, hector cowan being one of them. in later years he idolized the playing of that great football hero, john dewitt, who appreciated all that jim did to make his team the winner. the spirit of jim robinson was comforting as well as humorous. no mention of jim would be complete without his dialect. [illustration: the elect] he was an englishman and abused his h's in a way that was a delight to the team. ross mcclave tells of fun at the training table one day when he asked jim how to spell "saloon." jim, smiling broadly and knowing he was to amuse these fellows as he had the men in days gone by, said: "hess--hay--hell--two hoes--and--a hen." few men got more work out of a team than did jim robinson. there was always a time for play and a time for work with jim. mike murphy mike murphy was the dean of trainers. bob torrey, one of the most remarkable center-rushes that pennsylvania ever had, is perhaps one of the greatest admirers of mike murphy during his latter years. torrey can tell it better than i can. "murphy's sense of system was wonderful; he was a keen observer and had a remarkable memory; he seemed to do very little in the way of bookkeeping, but his mind was carefully pigeon-holed and was a perfect card index. "he could have thirty men on the field at once and carry on conversations with visitors and graduates; issue orders to workmen and never lose sight of a single one of his men. he was popular wherever he went. his fame was not only known here, but abroad. his charm of manner and his cheerful courage will be remembered by all who knew him, but only those who knew him well realize what an influence he had on the boys with whom he worked, and how high were his ideals of manhood. the amount of good done by mike murphy in steering boys into the right track can never be estimated." prep' school boys athletically inclined followed murphy. many a man went to college in order to get murphy's training. he was an athletic magnet. "the old mike" the town of natick, mass., boasts of mike murphy's early days. wonderful athletic traditions centered there. his early days were eventful for his athletic success, as he won all kinds of professional prizes for short distance running. boyhood friends of mike murphy tell of the comradeship among mike murphy, keene fitzpatrick, pooch and piper donovan--all natick boys. they give glowing accounts of the "truck team" consisting of this clever quartet, each of whom were "ten-second" men in the sprinting game. if that great event which was run off at the marlboro fair and cattle show could be witnessed to-day, thousands of admirers would love to see in action those trainers, see them as the natick hose truck defeated the westboro team that day, and sent the westboro contingent home with shattered hopes and empty pocketbooks. "in connection with army-navy games," writes crolius of dartmouth, "i'll never forget mike murphy's wonderful ability to read men's condition by their 'mental attitude.' he was nearly infallible in his diagnosis." once we questioned mike. he said, "go get last year's money back, you're going to lick them!" and true to his uncanny understanding he was right. was it any wonder that men gave murphy the credit due him? mike murphy had a strong influence over the players. he was their ever-present friend. he could talk to a man, and his personality could reach farther than any of the coaches. the teams that murphy talked to between the halves, both at yale and pennsylvania, were always inspired. mike murphy always gave a man something of himself. it is interesting to read what a fellow trainer, keene fitzpatrick, has to say of mike: "mike first started to train at yale. then he went to the detroit athletic club in detroit; then he came back to yale; then he went to the university of pennsylvania; then back to yale again, and finally back to the university of penn', where he died. "we were always great friends and got together every summer; we used to go up to a little country town, westboro, on a farm; had a little room in a farmhouse outside of the town of natick, and there we used to get together every year (mike and fitz') and share our opinions, and compare and give each other the benefit of our discoveries of the season's work. "murphy was one of the greatest sprinters this world ever had. they called him 'stucky' because he had so much grit and determination. the year after mike died the intercollegiate was held at cambridge. all the trainers got together and a lot of flowers were sent out to mike's grave in hopkinton, massachusetts." a chat with pooch donovan pooch donovan's success at harvard goes hand in hand with that of haughton. in the great success of harvard's varsity, year after year, the fine hand of the trainer has been noticeable. harvard's teams have stood the test wonderfully well, and all the honors that go with victory have been heaped upon pooch donovan's head. every man on the harvard squad knows that donovan can get as much work out of his players as it is possible for any human being to get out of them. pooch donovan served at yale in 1888, 1889 and 1890, when mike murphy was trainer there. he and donovan used to have long talks together and they were ever comparing notes on the training of varsity teams. pooch donovan owes much to mike murphy, and the latter was pooch's loyal supporter. "what made mike murphy a sturdy man, was that he was such a hard loser--he could not stand to lose," says donovan. "you know the thing that keeps me young is working shoulder to shoulder with these young fellows." this to me, in the dressing-room, where we have no time for anything but cold truths. "it was the same thing that kept mike murphy going ten years after the doctors said he would soon be all in. that was when he returned to yale, after he had been at pennsylvania. there is something about this sort of work that invigorates us and keeps us young. i'm no longer a young man in years, but it is the spirit and inspiration of youth with which this work identifies me that keeps me really young." when i asked pooch about eddie mahan's great all-around ability, his face lighted up, and i saw immediately that what i had heard was true--that donovan simply idolized eddie mahan. mahan lives in natick, massachusetts, where donovan also has his home. he has seen ned mahan grow to manhood. mahan had his first football training as a player on the natick high school team. "ned mahan," said pooch, "was the best all-around football man i have ever handled. he was easy to handle, eager to do as he was told, and he never caused the trainer any worry. up to the very last moment he played, he was eager to learn everything he could that would improve his game. he had lots of football ability. "you know mahan was a great star at andover. he kicked wonderfully there and was good in all departments of the game, and he improved a hundred per cent. after he came to harvard." pooch donovan told me about the first day that eddie mahan came out upon the harvard field. at cambridge, little is known by the head coach about a freshman's ability. one day haughton said to pooch donovan: "where is that natick friend of yours? bring him over to the stadium and let's see him kick." donovan got mahan and haughton said to mahan: "let's see you kick." mahan boosted the ball seventy yards, and haughton said: "what kind of a kick is that?" mahan thought it was a great kick. "how do you think any ends can cover that?" said haughton. mahan thereupon kicked a couple more, low ones, but they went about as far. "who told you _you_ could kick?" quoth haughton. "you must kick high enough for your ends to cover the distance." "take it easy and don't get excited," donovan was whispering to mahan on the side. "take your time, ned." but mahan continued kicking from bad to worse. haughton was getting disgusted, and finally remarked: "your ends never can cover those punts." mahan then kicked one straight up over his head, and the first word ever uttered by him on the harvard field, was his reply to haughton: "i guess almost any end can cover _that_ punt," he said. donovan tells me that he used to carry in his pocket a few blank cartridges for starting sprinters. sitting on a bench with some friends, on soldiers' field, one day he reached into his hip pocket for some loose tobacco. unconsciously he stuffed into the heel of his pipe a blank cartridge that had become mixed with the tobacco. the gun club was practicing within hearing distance of the field. as donovan lighted his pipe the cartridge went off. he thought he was shot. leaping to his feet he ran down the field, his friends after him. "i was surprised at my own physical condition--at my being able to stand so well the shock of being shot," says donovan in telling the story. "my friends thought also that i was shot. but when i slowed up, still bewildered, and they caught up with me, they were puzzled to see my face covered with powder marks and a broken pipe stem sticking out of my mouth. "not until then did any of us realize what had really happened. the cartridge had grazed my nose slightly, but outside of that i was all right. since then i am very careful what i put in my tobacco." eddie is known as "pooch donovan's pet." probably the bluest time that donovan ever had--in fact, he says it was the bluest--was when eddie mahan had an off-day in the stadium. that was the day when cornell beat harvard. mahan himself says it was the worst day he ever had in his life, and he blames himself. "it was just as things will come sometimes," pooch said to me. "nobody knows why they will come, but come they will once in a while." "burr, the great harvard captain," said pooch, "was a natural born leader of men. he knew a lot of football and haughton thought the world of him. burr went along finely until the last week of the season. then, in falling on the ball, he bruised his shoulder, and would not allow himself to go into the yale game. it was really this display of good judgment on his part that enabled harvard to win. "too often a team has been handicapped by the playing of a crippled veteran. as a matter of fact, the worst kind of a substitute is often better than a crippled player. the fact that the great captain, burr, stood on the side lines while his team was playing, urged his team mates on to greater efforts. "in this same game the opposite side of this question was demonstrated. bobbie burch, the yale captain, who had been injured the week before the game, was put in the game. his injury handicapped the yale team considerably." pooch donovan has been eight years at harvard. he has five gold footballs, which he prizes and wears on his watch chain. during the eight years there have been five victories over yale, two ties and one defeat. pooch has been a football player himself and the experience has made him a better trainer. in 1895 he played on temple's team of the duquesne athletic club. he was trainer and halfback, and was very fond of the game. later on he played in cleveland against the chicago athletic club, on whose team played heffelfinger, sport donnelly, and other famous knights of the gridiron. "in the morning we did everything we could to make the stay of the visiting team pleasant," says donovan, regarding those days, "but in the afternoon it was different, and in the midst of the game a fellow couldn't help wondering how men could be so nice to each other in the morning and so rough in the afternoon." pooch donovan cannot say enough in favor of doctor e. h. nichols, the doctor for the harvard team. pooch's judgment is endorsed by many a harvard man that i have talked to. keene fitzpatrick when biffy lea was coaching at the university of michigan in 1901, it was my opportunity and privilege to see something of western football. i was at ann arbor assisting lea the last week before michigan played chicago. michigan was defeated. that night at a banquet given to the michigan team, there arose a man to respond to a toast. his words were cheering to the men and roused them out of the gloom of despair and defeat to a strong hope for the coming year. that man was keene fitzpatrick. i had heard much about him, but now that i really had come to meet him i realized what a magnetic man he was. he knew men and how to get the best out of them. fitzpatrick went from michigan to yale, from yale back to michigan, and then to princeton, where princeton men hope he will always stay. michigan admirers were loath to lose fitzpatrick and their tribute to him on leaving was as follows: "the university of michigan combination was broken yesterday when keene fitzpatrick announced that he had accepted princeton's offer, to take effect in the fall of 1910. he was trainer for michigan for 15 years. for five years fitz' has been sought by every large university in the east. "what was michigan's loss, was princeton's gain. he made men better, not alone physically, but morally. his work has been uplifting along all lines of university activities. in character and example he is as great and untiring as in his teaching and precept. the final and definite knowledge of his determination to leave michigan is a severe blow to the students all of whom know and appreciate his work. next to president angell, no man of the university of michigan, in the last ten years, has exerted a more wholesome influence upon the students than has keene fitzpatrick. his work brought him in close touch with the students and his influence over them for good has been wonderful. he is a man of ideals and clean life." "to 'fitz,' as the boys called him, as much as to the great coach yost is due michigan's fine record in football. his place will be hard to fill. fitz has aided morally in placing athletics on a high plane and in cultivating a fine spirit of sportsmanship. he was elected an honorary member of the class of 1913 at princeton. the secretary of the class wrote him a letter in which he said: 'the senior class deeply appreciates your successful efforts, and in behalf of the university takes this opportunity of expressing its indebtedness to you for the valuable results which you have accomplished.'" yost had a high opinion of fitzpatrick. "fitz and i worked together for nine years," writes yost. "we were like brothers during that association at michigan. there is no one person who contributed so much to the university of michigan as this great trainer. his wonderful personality, his expert assistance and that great optimism of his stood out as his leading qualifications. my association with him is one of the pleasantest recollections of my life. he put the men in shape, trained them and developed them. they were 'usable' all the time. he is a trainer who has his men in the finest mental condition possible. i don't think there was ever a trainer who kept men more fit, physically and mentally, than keene fitzpatrick." there were in michigan two players, brothers, who were far apart in skill. keene says one was of varsity calibre, but wanted his brother, too, to make the eleven. "once," says keene, "when we were going on a trip, john, who was a better player, said, 'i will not go if joe cannot go,' so in order to get john, we had to take joe." fitzpatrick tells of an odd experience in football. "in 1901 michigan went out to southern california and played leland stanford university at pasadena, january 1. when the michigan team left ann arbor for california in december, it was 12â° below zero and when they played on new year's it was 80â° at 3 p. m." stanford was supposed to have a big advantage due to the climate. michigan won by a score of 49 to 0. michigan used but eleven men in the game, and it was their first scrimmage since thanksgiving day. a funny thing happened en route to pasadena. "every time the train stopped," said keene, "we hustled the men out to give them practice running through signals and passing the ball. everything went well until we arrived in ogden, utah. we hustled the men out as usual for a work-out, and in less than two minutes the men were all in, lying down on the ground, gasping for breath. we could not understand what was wrong, until some one came along and reminded us that we were in a very high altitude and that it affected people who were not accustomed to it. we all felt better when we received that information." michael j. sweeney there are few trainers in our prep. schools who can match the record of mike sweeney. he has been an important part of the hill school's athletics for years. many of the traditions of this school are grouped, in fact, about his personality. hill school boys are loud in their praises of sweeney's achievements. he always had a strong hold on the students there. he has given many a boy words of encouragement that have helped him on in the school, and this same boy has come back to him in after life to get words of advice. many colleges tried to sever his connection with hill school. i know that at one time princeton was very anxious to get sweeney's services. he was happy at hill school, however, and decided to stay. it was there at hill school that sweeney turned out some star athletes. perhaps one of the most prominent was tom shevlin. sweeney saw great possibilities in shevlin. he taught him the fundamentals that made shevlin one of the greatest ends that ever played at yale. he typified sweeney's ideal football player. shevlin never lost an opportunity to express appreciation of what sweeney had done for him. tom gave all credit for his athletic ability to mike sweeney of hill and mike murphy of yale. his last desire for yale athletics was to bring sweeney to yale and have him installed, not as a direct coach or trainer of any team, but more as a general athletic director, connected with the faculty, to advise and help in all branches of college sport. tom shevlin idolized sweeney. those who were at the banquet of the 1905 team at cambridge will recall the tribute that shevlin then paid to him. he declared that he regarded sweeney as "the world's greatest brain on all forms of athletics." whenever mike sweeney puts his heart into his work he is one of the most completely absorbed men i know. sweeney possesses an uncanny insight into the workings of the games and individuals. oftentimes as he sits on the side lines he can foretell an accident coming to a player. mike was sitting on the yale side lines one day, and remarked to ed wylie, a former hill school player--a yale substitute at that time: "they ought to take smith out of the game; he shows signs of weakening. you'd better go tell the trainer to do it." but before wylie could get to the trainer, several plays had been run off and the man who had played too long received an injury, and was done for. sweeney's predictions generally ring true. it is rather remarkable, and especially fortunate that a prep. school should have such an efficient athletic director. for thirteen years sweeney acted in that capacity and coached all the teams. he taught other men to teach football. jack moakley had any one gone to ithaca in the hope of obtaining the services of jack moakley, the cornell trainer, he would have found this popular trainer's friends rising up and showing him the way to the station, because there never has been a human being who could sever the relations between jack moakley and cornell. the record he has made with his track teams alone entitles him to a high place, if not the highest place, on the trainer's roll of honor. to tell of his achievements would fill an entire chapter, but as we are confining ourselves to football, his work in this department of cornell sports stands on a par with any football trainer. jack moakley takes his work very seriously and no man works any harder on the cornell squad than does their trainer. costello, a cornell captain of years ago, relates the following incident: "jack moakley had a man on his squad who had a great habit of digging up unusual fads, generally in the matter of diet. at this particular time he had decided to live solely on grape nuts. as he was one of the best men on the team, jack did not burden himself with trouble over this fad, although at several times moakley told him that he might improve if he would eat some real food. however, when this man started a grape nut campaign among the younger members of the squad he aroused jack's ire and upon his arrival at the field house he wiped the black board clean of all instructions and in letters a foot high wrote: "they who eat beef are beefy." "they who eat nuts are nutty." the resultant kidding finally made the old beefsteak popular with our friend. johnny mack it would not seem natural if one failed to see johnny mack on the side lines where yale is playing. in eleven years at new haven yale teams were never criticised on account of their condition. the physical condition of the yale team has always been left entirely in johnny mack's hands, and the hard contests that they went through in the season of 1915 were enough to worry any trainer. johnny mack was always optimistic. there is much humor in johnny mack. it is amusing to hear johnny tell of the experience that he and pooch donovan had in a paris restaurant, and i'm sure you can all imagine the rest. johnny said they got along pretty well with their french until they ordered potatoes and the waiters brought in a peck of peas. it is a difficult task for a trainer to tell whether a player is fully conscious of all that is going on in a game. sometimes a hard tackle or a blow on the head will upset a man. johnny mack tells a story that illustrates this fact: "there was a quarterback working in the game one day. i thought he was going wrong. i said to the coach: 'i think something has happened to our quarterback.' he told me to go out and look him over. i went out and called the captain to one side after i had permission from the referee. i asked him if he thought the quarterback was going right. he replied that he thought he was, but called out some signals to him to see if he knew them. the quarter answered the captain's questions after a fashion and the captain was satisfied, but, just the same, he didn't look good to me. i asked the captain to let me give him a signal; one we never used, and one the captain did not even know. "said i, 'what's this one--48-16-32-12?' "'that's me through the right end,' he said. "'not on your life, old man,' said i, 'that's you and me to the side lines!' "i remember one fall," says johnny, "when we were very shy on big material at yale. the coaches told me to take a walk about the campus and hunt up some big fellows who might possibly come out for football. while going along the commons at noon, the first fellow i met was a big, fine looking man, a 210 pounder at least, with big, broad shoulders. i stopped him and asked if he had ever played football. "'yes,' he said, 'i played a little at school. i'll come out next week.' i told him not to bother about next week, but to come out that afternoon--that i'd meet him at the gym' at one o'clock and have some clothes for him. he came at one o'clock and i told one of the rubbers to have some clothes ready. when i came back at 1:30 and looked around i couldn't recognize him. 'where in the world is my big fellow?' i said to jim the rubber. "'your big fellow? why, he just passed you,' said jim. "'no,' said i, 'that can't be the man; that must be some consumptive.' "'just the same, that's your big fellow in his football suit,' said jim. 'the biggest part of him is hanging up in there on a nail.' "_some_ tailors, these fellows have nowadays." johnny mack further tells of an amusing incident in foster sanford's coaching. "at early practice in new haven sanford was working the linemen," says johnny. "he picked a green, husky looking boy out of the line of candidates and was soon playing against him. he didn't know who sandy was, and believe me, sandy was handling him pretty rough to see what he was made of. the first thing you know the fellow was talking to himself and, when sandy was careless, suddenly shot over a stiff one on sandy's face and yelled: "'i'm going to have you know that no man's going to push _me_ around this field.' "sandy was happy as could be. he patted the chap on the back and roared, 'good stuff; you're all right. you're the kind of a man i want. we can use men like you!' "but foster sanford was not the only old-timer who could take the young ones' hard knocks," says johnny. "i've seen heffelfinger come back to yale field after being out of college twenty years and play with the scrubs for fifty-five minutes without a layoff! i never saw a man with such endurance. "ted coy was a big, good-natured fellow. he was never known to take time out in a game in the four years he played football. in his senior year he didn't play until the west point game. while west point was putting it all over us, coy was on the side lines, frantically running up and down. but we had strict instructions from the doctor not to play him, no matter what happened. "suddenly coy said: 'johnny, let me in. i'm not going to have my team licked by this crowd.' and in he jumped. "i saw him call philbin up alongside of him and the first thing i knew i saw philbin and coy running up the field like a couple of deer. in just three plays they took the ball from our own 5-yard line to a touchdown. after that there was a different spirit in the team. coy was an inspiration to his players." "one more story," says johnny. "there were two boys at new haven. their first names were jack, and both were substitutes on the scrub. about the middle of the second half in the harvard game, the coach told me to go and warm up jack. one of the jacks jumped up, while the other jack sank back on the bench with surprise and sorrow on his face. seeing that a mistake had been made, i said, 'not you, but _you_, jack,' and pointed to the other. as the right jack jumped up, the cloudy face turned to sunshine, as only a football player can imagine, and the sunny smile of the first jack turned to deepest gloom, an affecting sight i shall never forget." "huggins of brown" i know of no college trainer who seems to get more pleasure out of his work than huggins of brown. there are numerous incidents that are recorded in this book that have been the experiences of this good-natured trainer. a trainer's life is not always a merry one. many things occur that tend to worry him, but he gets a lot of fun out of it just the same. huggins says: "some few years ago brown had a big lineman on its team who had never been to new york, where we went that year to meet carlisle. the players put in quite a bit of time jollying him and having all sorts of fun at his expense. we stopped at one of the big hotels, and the rooms were on the seventh and eighth floors. in the rooms were the rope fire escapes, common in those days, knotted every foot or so. the big lineman asked what it was for, and the other fellows told him, but added that this room was the only one so equipped and that he must look sharp that none of the others helped themselves to it for their protection against fire. "that night, as usual, i was making my rounds after the fellows had gone to bed. coming into this player's room i saw that he was asleep, but that there appeared to be some strange, unusual lump in the bed. i immediately woke him to find out what it was. much to my amusement, i discovered that he had wound about fifteen feet of the rope around his body and i had an awful job trying to assure him that the boys had been fooling him. nothing that i could say, however, would convince him, and i left him to resume his slumbers with the rope still wrapped tightly about his body." huggins not only believes that brown university is a good place to train, but he thinks it is a good place to send his boy. he has a son who is a freshman at brown as i write. huggins went to brown in the fall of 1896, as trainer. here is another good huggins story: "sprackling, our all-american quarterback of a few years ago, always had his nerve with him and, however tight the place, generally managed to get out with a whole skin. but i recall one occasion when the wind was taken out of his sails; he was at a loss what to say or how to act. we were talking over prospects on the steps in front of the brown union one morning just before college opened, the fall that he was captain, when a young chap came up and said: "'are you sprackling, captain of the team?' "'that's me,' replied sprack. "'well, i'm coming out for quarterback,' the young man declared, 'and i expect to make it. i can run the 100 in ten-one and the 220 in evens and i'm a good quarterback. i'm going to beat you out of your job.' "sprack, for once in his life, was flustered to death. when several of the boys who were nearby and had heard the conversation, began to laugh, he grew red in the face and quickly got up and walked away without a word. but before i could recover myself, the promising candidate had disappeared." harry tuthill, specialist in knees and ankles, was the first trainer west point ever had. when he turned up at the academy he was none too sure that a football was made of leather and blown up. he got his job at the point through the bandaging of ty cobb's ankle. an army coach saw him do it and said: "harry, if you can do that, the way you do it, come to west point and do it for us." tuthill was none too welcome to the authorities other than the football men. in the eyes of the superintendent every cadet was fit to do anything that might be required of him. "you've got to make good with the supe," said the coaches. so harry went out and watched the dress parade and the ensuing double time review. after the battalion was dismissed, tuthill was introduced to the superintendent. "well, mr. tuthill," said the superintendent, "i'm glad to meet you, but i really do not see what we need of a trainer." harry shifted his feet and gathering courage blurted out: "run those boys around again and then ask them to whistle." * * * * * there are many other trainers who deserve mention in this chapter, men who are earnestly and loyally giving up their lives to the training of the young men in our different colleges, but space will not permit to take up any more of these interesting characters. their tribute must be a silent one, not only from myself but from the undergraduates and graduates of the colleges to which they belong and upon whose shoulders are heaped year after year honors which are due them. first doctor in charge of any team doctor w. m. conant, harvard '79, says: "i believe i was the first doctor associated with the harvard team, and so far as i know, the first doctor who was in charge of any team at any college. at harvard this custom has been kept up. i was requested by arthur cumnock, who had been beaten the previous year by yale, to come out and help him win a game. this i consented to do provided i had absolute control of the medical end of the team, which consisted not only of taking care of the men who were injured, but also of their diet. this has since been taken up by the trainer. "the late george stewart and the late george adams were the coaches in charge that year, and my recollections of some of the difficulties that arose because of new methods are very enjoyable--even at this late day. so far as i know this was the first season men were played in the same position opposite one another. in other words, there was an attempt to form a second eleven--which is now a well recognized condition. "i had a house built under the grandstand where every man from our team was stripped, rubbed dry and put into a new suit of clothes, also given a certain amount of hot drink as seemed necessary. this was a thing which had never been done before, and in my opinion had a large influence in deciding the game in harvard's favor; as the men went out upon the field in the second half almost as fresh as when they started the first half. "i remember that i had not seen a victory over yale since i was graduated from college in 1879. some of the suggestions that i made about the time men should be played were laughed at. the standpoint i took was that a man should not be allowed by the coach to play until he was deemed fit. the physician in charge was also a matter of serious discussion. many of these points are now so well established that to the present generation it is hardly possible to make them realize that from 1890 to 1895 it was necessary to make a fight to establish certain well-known methods. "what would the present football man think of being played for one and one-half hours whether he was in shape or not? the present football man does not appreciate what some of the older college graduates went through in order to bring about the present reasonable methods adopted in handling the game." [illustration: how it hurts to lose] chapter xviii nightmares there are few players who never experienced defeat in football. at such a time sadness reigns. men who are big in mind and body have broken down and cried bitterly. how often in our experience have we seen men taken out of the game leaving it as though their hearts would break, only to go to the side lines, and there through dimmed eyes view the inevitable defeat, realizing that they were no longer a factor in the struggle. such an experience came to frank morse in that savage penn-princeton game of years ago at trenton. he had given of his best; he played a wonderful game, but through an injury he had to be removed to the side lines. let this great hero of the past tell us something about the pangs of defeat as he summons them to mind in his san francisco office after an interval of twenty-two years. "the average american university football player takes his defeats too seriously--in the light of my retrospect--much too seriously," writes morse. "as my memory harks back to the blubbering bunch of stalwart young manhood that rent the close air of the dressing-room with its dismal howls after each of the five defeats in which i participated, i am convinced that this is not what the world expects of strong men in the hour of adversity. "a stiff upper lip is what the world admires, and it will extend the hand of sympathy and help to the man who can wear it. this should be taught by football coaches to their men as a part of the lessons of life that football generally is credited with teaching. "alex moffat, than whom no more loyal and enthusiastic princetonian ever lived, to my mind, had the right idea. during one of those periods of abysmal depths of despondency into which a losing team is plunged, he rushed into the room, waving his arms over his head in his characteristic manner, and in his high-pitched voice yelled: "'here, boys, get down to work; cut out this crying and get to cussing.' "doubtless much of this was due to the strain and the high tension to which the men were subjected, but much of it was mere lack of effort at restraint. "johnny poe, as stout-hearted a man as ever has, or ever will stand on a football field, once said to me: "'this sob stuff gives me a pain in the neck but, like sea-sickness, when the rest of the crowd start business, it's hard to keep out of it. besides, i don't suppose there's any use getting the reputation of being exclusive and too stuck up to do what the rest of the gang do.' "of the defeats in which i participated, probably none was more disheartening than the one suffered at the hands of the university of pennsylvania in 1892 at the manheim cricket grounds near philadelphia. i shall always believe that the better princeton team would have won with comparative ease had it not been for the wind. in no game in which i ever played was the wind so largely the deciding factor in the result. the flags on the poles along the stands stood out stiffly as they snapped in the half gale. "pennsylvania won the toss and elected to have the wind at their backs. for forty-five minutes every effort made against the red and blue was more than nullified by the blustering god ã�olus. when pennsylvania kicked, it was the rule and not the exception for the ball to go sailing for from one-half to three quarters the length of the field. on the other hand, i can see in my mind's eye to-day, as clearly as i did during the game, a punt by sheppard homans, the princeton fullback, which started over the battling lines into pennsylvania territory, slowed up, hung for an instant in the air and then was swept back to a point approximating the line from where it started. "it was the most helpless and exasperating feeling that i ever experienced. the football player who can conceive of a game in which under no circumstances was it permissible to kick, but instead provided a penalty, can perhaps appreciate the circumstances. "in the second half, when we changed goals, the flags hung limply against their staffs, but we had spent ourselves in the unequal contest during the first half." nightmares, even those of football, do not always beget sympathy. upon occasion a deal of fun is poked at the victim, and this holds true even in the family circle. tom shevlin was noted as the father of a great many good stories, but it was proverbial that he refrained from telling one upon himself. however, in at least one instance he deviated from habit to the extent of relating an incident concerning his father and the father of charlie rafferty, captain of the yale 1903 eleven. tom at the time was a sophomore, and shevlin, senior, who idolized his son, made it a practice of attending all important contests in which he participated, came on from minneapolis in his private car to witness the spectacle of tom's single-handed defeat of "the princetons." as it chanced the shevlin car was put upon a siding adjoining that on which the car of gill rafferty lay. rafferty, as a matter of fact, was making his laborious way down the steps as mr. shevlin emerged from his car. mr. rafferty looked up, blinked in the november sunlight and then nodded cheerfully. "well, shevlin," he said, "i suppose by to-night we'll be known simply as the fathers of two great yale favorites." shevlin nodded and said "he fancied such would be the case." a few hours later, in the gloom of the twilight, after yale had been defeated, the elder shevlin was finding his somber way to the steps of his car and met rafferty face to face. shevlin nodded and was about to pass on without speaking, when rafferty placed his hand upon his shoulder. "well, shevlin," he said solemnly, "i see we are still old man shevlin and old man rafferty." w. c. rhodes one has only to hear jim rodgers tell the story of billy rhodes to realize how deeply the iron of football disaster sinks into the soul. "rhodes was captain of the losing team in the fall of '90, when yale's eleven was beaten by harvard's," rodgers tells us. "arthur cumnock was the harvard captain, and the score was 12 to 6. two remarkable runs for touchdowns made by dudley dean and jim lee decided the contest. "for twenty years afterwards, back to springfield, new haven or cambridge, wherever the yale-harvard games were played, came with the regularity of their occurrence, billy rhodes. "he was to be seen the night before, and the morning of the game. he always had his tickets for the side line and wore the badge as an ex-yale captain. but the game itself billy rhodes never saw. "if at springfield, he was to be found in the massasoit house, walking the floor until the result of the game was known. if at new haven, he was not at the yale field. he walked around the field and out into the woods. if the game was at cambridge, he was not at holmes field, or later, at soldiers' field. "when the game was over he would join in the celebration of victory, or sink into the misery of defeat, as the case might be. but he never could witness a game. the sting of defeat had left its permanent wound." a yale nightmare those who saw the army defeat yale at west point in 1904 must realize what a blow it was to the blue. the first score came as a result of a blocked kick by west point, which was recovered by erwin, who picked up the ball and dashed across the line for a touchdown. the army scored the second time when torney cut loose and ran 105 yards for a touchdown. sam morse, captain of the yale 1906 team, who played right halfback in this game, tells how the nightmare of defeat may come upon us at any time, even in the early season, and incidentally how it may have its compensations. "an instance of the psychology of football is to be found in the fall of 1904, when jim hogan was captain of the yale team," says morse. "i had the pleasure of playing back of him on the defensive in almost every game of that year, and i got to depend so much on those bull-like charges of his that i fear that if i had been obliged to play back of some one else my playing would have been of inferior quality. "yale had a fine team that year, defeating both harvard and princeton with something to spare. the only eleven that scored on us was west point, and they beat us. it is a strange thing that the cadets always seem to give yale a close game, as in that year even though beaten by both harvard and princeton by safe scores, and even though yale beat harvard and princeton handily, the army played us to a standstill. "after the game, as is so often the case when men have played themselves out, there was a good deal of sobbing and a good many real tears were shed. every man who has played football will appreciate that there are times when it is a very common matter for even a big husky man to weep. we were all in the west point dressing-room when jim hogan arose. he felt what we all took to be a disgrace more keenly than any of us. there was no shake in his voice, however, or any tears in his eyes when he bellowed at us to stop blubbering. "'don't feel sorry for yourselves. i hope this thing will hurt us all enough so that we will profit by it. it isn't a matter to cry over--it's a matter to analyze closely and to take into yourself and to digest, and finally to prevent its happening again.' "he drove it home as only jim hogan could. at the close ralph bloomer jumped to his feet and cried: "'jim, old man, we are with you, and you are right about it, and we will wipe this thing out in a way which will satisfy you and all the rest of the college.' "the whole team followed him. right then and there that aggregation became a yale football team in the proper sense, and one of the greatest yale football teams that ever played. it was the game followed by jim's speech that made the eleven men a unit for victory. "if jim had been allowed to live a few more years the quality of leadership that he possessed would have made of him a very prominent and powerful man. his memory is one of the dearest things to all of us who were team mates or friends of his, but i hardly ever think of him without picturing him that particular day in the dressing-room at west point, when in five minutes he made of eleven men a really great football team." even eddie mahan is not immune to the haunting memory of defeat, and perhaps because of the very fact that disaster came into his brilliant gridiron career only once, and then in his senior year, it hit him hard. the manner of its telling by this great player is sufficient proof of that. here is eddie's story: [illustration: hunkin tilley bailey snyder jewett gillies miller lalley shiverick anderson menler barrett cool shelton collins eckley schock schlicter zander cornell's great team--1915] "i enjoyed my football days at harvard so well that i would like to go back each fall and play football for the rest of my life. i wish to goodness i could go back and play just one game over--that is the cornell game of 1915. my freshman team won all its games, and during the three years that i played for the harvard varsity i never figured in a losing game except that one. cornell beat harvard 10 to 0. the score of that game will haunt me all my life long. this game has been a nightmare to me ever since. every time i think of football that game is one of the first things that comes to mind. i fumbled a lot. i don't know why, but i couldn't seem to hold onto the ball. "we blocked four kicks, but cornell recovered every one. we sort of felt that there was more than the cornell team playing against us--a goal from the field and a touchdown. shiverick, of cornell, stands out in my recollection of that game. he was a good kicker. once he had to kick out from behind the goal post down in his own territory. watson and i were both laying for a line buck; playing up close. shiverick kicked one over my head, out of bounds at his own 45-yard line. "i felt like a burglar after this game, because i felt that i had lost it. i was feeling pretty blue until the monday after the game, when the coaches picked eleven men as the varsity team, and just as soon as they sent these eleven men to a section of the field to get acquainted with each other--that was the beginning of team work. from the way those fellows went at it that day, and from the spirit they showed, we felt that no team could ever lick us again, neither princeton nor yale. the cornell game acted like a tonic on the whole crowd. instead of disheartening the team it instilled in us determination. we said: "'we know what it is to be licked, and we'll be damned if we'll be licked again.'" jack de saulles' football ambitions were realized when he made the yale team at quarterback, the position which his brother charlie, before him, had occupied. his spectacular runs, his able generalship, his ability to handle punts, coupled with that characteristic de saulles' grit, made him a famous player. let this game little quarterback tell his own story: "billy bull and i have often discussed the fact that when an attempt for a goal from the field failed, one of the players of the opposing side always touched the ball back of the goal line (thereby making it dead), and brought it out to the 25-yard line to kick. of course, the ball is never dead until it is touched down. it was in the fall of 1902 when we were playing west point. in the latter part of the second half of that game, with the score 6 to 6, charlie daly attempted a field goal, which was unsuccessful. what billy bull and i had discussed many times came into my mind like a flash. i picked the ball up and walked out with it as if it had been touched back of the goal. when i passed the 25-yard line, walking along casually, bucky vail, who was the referee, yelled to me to stop. i walked over to him unconcerned and said: 'bucky, old boy! this ball is not dead, because i did not touch it down. and i am going down the field with it.' by that time the west point men had taken their positions in order to receive the kick from the 25-yard line. while i was still walking down the field, in order to pass all the west point men, before making my dash for a certain touchdown, it struck bucky vail that i was right, and he yelled out at the top of his voice. 'the ball is not dead. it is free.' whereupon the west point men started after me. an army man tackled me on their 25-yard line, after i had taken the ball down the field for nearly a touchdown. i have often turned over in my bed at night since that time, cursing the action of referee vail. if he had not interfered with my play i would have walked down the field for a touchdown and victory for yale. the final score remained 6 to 6. "i have often thought of the painful hours i would have suffered had i missed the two open field chances in the disastrous game at cambridge in the fall of 1902, when yale was beaten 23 to 0. on two different occasions in that game a harvard runner with interference had passed the whole yale team. i was the only yale man between the harvard man and a touchdown. the supreme satisfaction i had in nailing both of those runners is one of the most pleasant recollections of my football career. "when i was a little shaver, back in 1889, i lived at south bethlehem, pa. paul dashiell and mathew mcclung, who were then playing football at lehigh university, took an interest in me. paul dashiell took me to the first football game i ever saw. dibby mcclung gave me one of the old practice balls of the lehigh team. this was the first football i ever had in my hands. for weeks afterwards that football was my nightly companion in bed. these two lehigh stars have always been my football heroes, and it was a happy day for me when i played quarterback on the yale team and these two men acted as officials that day." [illustration: one scene never photographed in football] chapter xix men who coached the picture on the opposite page will recall to mind many a serious moment in the career of men who coached; when something had gone wrong; when some player had not come up to expectation; when a combination of poor judgment and ill luck was threatening to throw away the results of a season's work. such scenes are never photographed, but they are preserved no less indelibly in the minds of all who have played this rã´le. where is the old football player, who, gazing at this picture, will not be carried back to those days that will never come again; hours when you listened perhaps guiltily to the stinging words of the coach; moments when spurred on by the thunder and lightning of his wrath you could hardly wait to get out upon the field to grapple with your opponents. at such times, all that was worth while seemed to surge up within you, fiercely demanding a chance, while if you were a coach you yearned to get into the game, only to realize as the team trotted out on the field that yours was no longer a playing part. all you could expect henceforth would be to walk nervously up and down the side line with chills and thrills alternating along your spine. there were no coaches in the old days. football history relates that in the beginning fellows who wanted fun and exercise would chip in and buy a leather cover for a beef bladder. it was necessary to have a supply of these bladders on hand, for stout kicks frequently burst them. in those days the ball was tossed up in the air and all hands rushed for it. there was no organization then, very few rules, and the football players developed themselves. to-day the old-time player stands on the side lines and hears the coach yelling: "play hard! fall on the ball! tackle low! start quick! charge hard and fast!" as far as the fundamentals go, the game seems to him much the same, but when he begins to recollect he sees how far it has really progressed. he recalls how the football coach became a reality and how a teacher of football appeared upon the gridiron. better coaching systems were installed as football progressed. rules were expanded, trainers crept in, intercollegiate games were scheduled and competition and keen rivalry developed everywhere. in fact, the desire to win has become so firmly established in the minds of college men that we now have a finished product in our great american game of football--wonderfully attractive, but very expensive. competition has grown to such an extent that our coaching systems of to-day resemble, in a way, the plans for national preparedness--costly, but apparently necessary. all this means that the american football man, like the american captain of industry, or the american pioneer in any field of activity, is never content to stand still. his motto is, "ever onward." it is not always the star player that makes the greatest coach. the mediocre man is quite likely to have absorbed as much football teaching ability as the star; and when his opportunity comes to coach, he sometimes gets more out of the men than the man with the big reputation. personality counts in coaching. in addition to a coach's keen sense of football, there must be a strong personality around which the players may rally. all this inspires confidence. it is a joy for a coach to work with good material--the real foundation of success. the rules of to-day, however, give what, under old standards, was the weaker team a much broader opportunity for victory over physically larger and stronger opponents. but there are days nevertheless when every coach gets discouraged; times when there is no response from the men he is coaching--when their slowness of mind and body seem to justify the despair of charlie daly who said to his team: "you fellows are made of crockery from the neck down and ivory from the neck up." football is fickle. to-day you may be a hero. after the last game you may be carried off on the shoulders of enthusiastic admirers and dined and wined by hosts of friends; but across the field there is a grim faced coach who may already be scheming out a play for next year which will snatch you back from the "hall of fame" and make your friends describe you sadly as a "back-number." haughton arrived at harvard at the psychological moment. harvard had passed through many distressing years playing for the football supremacy. he found something to build upon, because, although the game at cambridge was in the doldrums, there had been keen and capable coaching in the past. prominent among those who have worked hard for harvard and whose work has been more than welcome, are arthur cumnock, that brilliant end rush, george stewart, doctor william a. brooks, a former harvard captain, lewis, upton, john cranston, deland, hallowell, thatcher, forbes, waters, newell, dibblee, bill reid, mike farley, josh crane, charlie daly, pot graves, leo leary, and others well versed in the game of football. haughton had had some experience not only in coaching at cambridge but coaching at cornell, and the harvard football authorities realized that of all the harvard graduates haughton would probably be the best man to turn the tide in harvard football. percy, who played tackle on a winning crimson eleven, and sam felton will be well remembered as the fastest punters of their day. the first harvard team coached by haughton defeated yale. it was in 1908 when haughton used a spectacular method, when he rushed vic kennard into the crimson backfield after ver wiebe had brought the ball up the field where haughton's craft sent vic kennard in to make the winning three points and kennard himself will tell the story of that game. the next year percy haughton's team could not defeat the great ted coy, who kicked two goals from the field. the performance of the harvard 1908 team was the more remarkable because burr, who was the captain and the great punter at that time, had been injured and the team was without his services. how well i remember him on the side lines keenly following the play, but brilliant in his self-denial. there have been times when victories did not come to harvard with the regularity that they have under the haughton rã©gime, but the scales go up and down year by year, game by game, and from defeats we learn much. let us read what this premier coach says upon reflection: "surely the game of football brings out the best there is in one. aside from the mental and physical exercise, the game develops that inestimable quality of doing one's best under pressure. what better training for the game of life than the acid test of a championship game. such a test comes not alone to the player but to the coach as well. "what truer and finer friends can one have than those whom we have met through the medium of football! and finally as the years tend to narrow this precious list, through death, what greater privilege than to associate with the fellow whose muscles are lithe and whose mind is clean. such a man was francis h. burr, captain of the harvard team in 1908. words fail me to express my sincere regard for that gallant leader. his spirit still lives at cambridge; his type we miss. "i am proud of the men who worked shoulder to shoulder in bringing about harvard victories. the list is a long one. i shall always cherish the hearty co-operation of these men who gave their best for harvard." it was al sharpe, that great cornell coach, who, in the fall of 1915 found it possible to break through the harvard line of victories, and hanging on the walls in the trophy room at cornell university is a much prized souvenir of cornell's visit to cambridge. that was the only defeat on the harvard schedule. but sometimes defeats have to come to insure victory, and perhaps in that defeat by cornell lay the reason for the overwhelming score against yale. [illustration: whitney dadmun harte l. curtis dougherty harris haughton taylor mckintock weatherhead r. curtis cowen blanchard king parson gilman mahan watson wallace soucy boles robinson coolidge horneen rollins harvard, 1915] slowly, but surely, al sharpe has won his way into the front ranks of football coaches. working steadfastly year after year he has built up and established a system that has set cornell's football machinery upon a firm foundation. glenn warner glenn warner has contributed a great deal to football, both as a player and coach. warner was one of the greatest linemen that ever played on the cornell team. after leaving college he began his coaching career in 1895 at the university of georgia. his success there was remarkable. it attracted so much attention that he was called back to cornell in 1897 and 1898. in 1899 warner moved again and began his historic work at the carlisle indian school, turning out a team year after year that gave the big colleges a close battle and sometimes beat them. there never was a team that attracted so much attention as the carlisle indians. they were popular everywhere and drew large crowds, not only on account of their being redmen, but on account of their adaptability to the game. warner, as their coach, wrought wonders with them, and really all the colleges at one time or another had their scalps taken by the indians. they were the champion travelers of the game. their games were generally all away from home, and yet the long trips did not seem to hamper them in their play. they got enjoyment out of traveling. going from princeton to new york one friday night some years ago, i was told by the conductor that the carlisle football team was in the last car. i went back and talked with warner. the indian team were amusing themselves in one end of the car, and thus passing the time away by entering into a game they were accustomed to play on trips. one of the carlisle players would stand in the center of the aisle and some fifteen or so men would group about him, in and about and on top of the seats. this central figure would bend over and close his eyes. then some one from the crowd would reach over and spank the crouching indian a terrific blow, hastily drawing back his hand. then the indian who had received the blow would straighten up and try, by the expression of guilt on the face of the one who had delivered the blow, to find his man. their faces were a study, yet nearly every time the right man was detected. who is there in football who will ever forget the indian team, their red blankets and all that was typical of them; the yells that the crowds gave as the indians appeared. they seemed always to be fit. they were full of spirit and anxious to clash with their opponents. [illustration: the greatest indian of them all] i recall an incident in a princeton-carlisle game, when the game was being fiercely waged. miller, the great indian halfback, had scored a touchdown, after a long run. it was not long after this that a princeton player was injured. maybe the play was being slowed up a little. anyway, time was taken out. one of the indians seemed to sense the situation. the princeton players were lying on the ground while the carlisle men were prancing about eager to resume the fray, when one of the indians remarked: "white man play for wind. indian play football." in 1915 warner went to the university of pittsburgh. here he has already begun to duplicate former successes. cruikshank, peck, and wagner are three of pittsburgh's many stars. probably the greatest football player that warner ever developed at the carlisle indian school was jim thorpe, whose picture appears on the opposite page. unhappy the end, and not infrequently the back, who had to face this versatile player. thorpe was a raider. billy bull billy bull of yale is one of the old heroes who has kept in very close touch with the game. he has been a valuable coach at yale and the elis' kicking game is left entirely in his hands. he is an enthusiastic believer in the game. immediately after leaving new haven in 1889 he started to coach and since that time he has not missed a year. years ago he inaugurated a routine system of coaching for the various styles of kicks. "my object," he said recently, "has been to turn out consistent rather than wonderful kickers. as a player i was early impressed with the value of kicking, not only in a general way but also in a particular way, such as the punt in an offensive way. for more than twenty-five years i have talked it up. for a long time i talked it to deaf ears, especially at yale. i talked it when i coached at west point for ten years and was generally set down as a harmless crank on the subject, but i have lived to see the time when every one agrees on the great value of this offensive kick. "when i entered yale i was an absolute greenhorn, but the greenhorn had a chance then, for he was able to play in actual scrimmage every day; now the squads are so big that opportunities for playing the game for long daily periods are entirely wanting. "to-day it is a case of a heap big talk, a coach for every position, more talk, lots of system, blackboard exercises and mighty little actual play. "i have often wondered if things were not being overdone as far as coaching goes in the preparatory schools at the present time. the superabundance of coaches and the demand for victory combine to force the boy. "if there is any forcing to do, the college is the place for it, when the boy is older and better able to stand the strain. in recent years i have seen not a few brokendown boys enter college. boys are coming to college now who needs must be told everything, and if there is not a large body of coaches about to tell them, they mutiny. they seem to forget, or not to know, that most is up to the man himself. "when a boy comes to college with the idea that all that is necessary is for him to be told, constantly told how to do this and that, and he will deliver in the last ditch, i cannot help thinking that something is wrong. "i have in mind right now a player in the line, who came to college after four years of school football. ever since his entry he has complained that no one has told him anything. now this particular player spends ten months of each year loafing, and expects in his two months of football to do a man's job in a big game. "no amount of blackboard and other talk is going to make a player do a man's job and whip his opponent. no man can play a tackle job properly if he does not realize the kind of a proposition he is up against twelve months in the year and act accordingly. he has got to do his own thinking, and see to it himself that he has the necessary strength and toughness, to play the game, as one must to win." sanford the unique george foster sanford is unique in football. he made splendid teams when he coached at columbia, while his subsequent record with the rutgers eleven attracted wide attention. in the _columbia alumni news_ of october, 1915, albert w. putnam, a former player, reviews seven years of morningside football, and pays the following tribute to foster sanford: "sanford coached the teams of 1899, 1900 and 1901. he coached them ably, conscientiously and thoroughly, and in my opinion was the best football coach in the country." "during my three years' experience as coach at columbia," says sanford, "we beat all the big teams except harvard. i was fortunate enough to develop such men as weekes, morley, wright, and berrien, players whose records will always stand high in the hall of football fame at columbia. i was particularly well satisfied with the work i got out of slocovitch, a former yale player, whom the yale coaches had never seemed to handle properly. i did not allow him to play over one day a week. this was because i had discovered that he was very heavily muscled; that if he played continuously he would become muscle bound. my treatment proved to fit the case exactly and slocovitch became a star end for columbia. we defeated yale the first year; the next year at new haven the contest was a strenuous one, and the game attracted unusual attention. it was in my own home town, and i had to stand for a lot of good natured kidding, but those who were there will remember how scared the yale coaches got during the last part of the game, when columbia made terrific advances. how columbia's team fought gordon brown's eleven almost to a standstill that day is something that the yale coaches of that time will long remember." an old yale player, bob loree, whose father is a trustee of rutgers, induced sanford to lend the college his assistance. apparently this connection was an unmixed blessing. "mr. l. f. loree, bob's father," says sandy, "has frankly admitted that in his opinion sanford's gift to the college (for he works without remuneration) has brought a spirit and a betterment of conditions which is worth fully as much as donations of thousands of dollars. "from the first day i went there," continues sandy, "i started to build up football for rutgers and to rely on rutgers men for my assistants. it was there that i met the best football man i ever coached, john t. toohey. this remarkable tackle weighed 220 pounds. the life he led and the example he set will always have a lasting influence upon rutgers men. for sad to relate, toohey was killed in the railroad yards at oneonta, where he was yard master. toohey was a great leader, possessing a wonderful personality, and winning the immediate respect of every one who knew him." twenty-five years have passed since i saw sanford that morning in the fifth avenue hotel. since then i have followed his football career with enthusiasm. boyhood heroes live long in mind. he is what might be called a major surgeon in football, for it is a matter of record that he has been called back to yale, not when the patient was merely sick, but in a serious condition. usually the operation has been performed with such skill that the patient has rallied with disconcerting suddenness. talking to the yale teams between the halves, giving instructions, which have turned dubious prospects into flaming victories, is a service which sanford has rendered yale more than once. victory, as it happens, is the principal characteristic of sanford's work. long is the list of players whom sanford has developed. "in my coaching experience," sandy tells us, "i doubt if i ever coached a man where my hard work counted for more at yale than the case of charlie chadwick in 1897. for many years there has been a saying that a one man defense is as good as an eleven men defense, providing you can get one man who can do it. "of course this never worked out literally, but the case of charlie chadwick is probably the best explanation of its value. besides being overdeveloped, he was temperamental. at times he would show great form and at other times his playing was hopeless. this year i was asked to come to new haven and began coaching the linemen. chadwick looked good to me, in spite of much criticism that was made by the coaches. in their opinion they thought he was not to be relied upon, so i decided to stake my reputation, and began in my own way, feeling sure that i could get results, in preparing him for the harvard and princeton games. [illustration: learning the charge] "i started out purposely annoying chadwick in every possible way, going with him wherever he went. i went with him to his room evenings and did not leave until he had become so bored that he fell asleep, or that he got mad and told me to get out. i planned it that chadwick approach the coaches whenever he saw them together and say: 'i wish you would let me play on this team. if you will i will play the game of my life. i will play like hell.' after he had made this speech two or three times, they were very positive that he was more than temperamental. i kept steadily at my plan, however, and felt sure it would work out. "the line was finally turned over to me and i had opportunity to slip chadwick in for two or three plays at left guard. he played like a demon; he was literally a one man defense, but he received no credit. i immediately removed him from the game and criticised him severely and told him to follow up the play and in case i needed him he would be handy. i realized what a great player he was proving to be, and my great problem then was how i was to convince the coaches that chadwick should start the game. i tried it out a few times, but saw it was useless trying to convince them, so i decided to concentrate on jim rodgers, the captain. jim consented. my plan was to tell no one except marshall, the man whose place chadwick was to take. the lineup was called out in the dressing room before the game. chadwick's name was not included. i had arranged with julian curtis, who was in close touch with the cheer leaders, that when i gave the signal, the yale crowd would be instructed to stand and yell nothing but 'chadwick, chadwick, chadwick.' the yale team ran out upon the field. i stayed behind with chadwick and came in through the gate holding him by the arm. before going on the side lines i stopped him and said: 'look here, chadwick. it doesn't look as though you're going to play, but if i put you in that lineup how will you play?' like a shot from a cannon he roared: 'i'll play like hell.' "you could have heard him a mile. 'well then, give me your sweater and warm up,' i said, and as i gave the signal to julian curtis, he passed the word on to the cheer leaders and the sight of chadwick running up and down those side lines will never be forgotten. it is estimated that he leaped five yards at a stride, and with the students cheering, 'chadwick, chadwick, chadwick,' he was sent out into the lineup--and the rest, well, you'd better ask the men who played on the harvard team that day. it was a stream of men going on and off the field and they were headed for right guard position on the harvard side. harvard could not beat chadwick, so the game ended in a tie." jim rodgers, captain of that team, also has something to say of chadwick. "in the harvard-yale game," rodgers writes, "charlie chadwick played the game of his life. he used up about six men who played against him that day, but he never could put out bill edwards the day we played princeton. i played against chadwick on the scrub, and the first charge he made against me i went clean back to fullback. it was just as though an automobile had hit me. i played against heffelfinger and a lot of them. i could hold those fellows. gee! but i was sore. i said to myself, you won't do that again, and the next time i was set back just as far. "one feature of this yale-princeton game impressed me tremendously, that of bill edwards' stand, against what i considered a superman, charles chadwick. before the game i had confidently expected big bill to resign after about five minutes' play, knowing, as i did, how chadwick was going. in this, however, edwards was a great disappointment, as he stuck the game out and was stronger at the end, than at the start or half way through. had he weakened at all, ad kelly's great offensive work would have been doomed to failure. edwards finished up the game against chadwick with a face that resembled a raw beefsteak. to my mind he was the worst punished man i have ever seen. he stood by his guns to the finish, and ever since then my hat has been off to him." one of the most interesting characters in southern football is w. r. tichenor, a thorough enthusiast in the game and known wherever there is a football in the south. his father was president of the alabama polytechnic. he was a fine player and weighed about 120 pounds. he is the emergency football man of the south. whenever there is a football dispute tichenor settles it. whenever a coach is taken sick, tichenor is called upon to take his place. whenever an emergency official is needed, tich comes to the rescue. he tells the following story: "every boy who has been to auburn in the last twenty years knows bob frazier. many of them, however, may not recognize that name, as he has been called bob 'sponsor' for so long that few of them know his real name. bob is as black as the inside of a coal mine and has rubbed and worked for the various teams at auburn 'since the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.' [illustration: billy bull advising with captain talbot] "just after the christmas holidays one year in the middle nineties, bob, with the view of making a touch, called at bill williams' room one night. "after asking bill if he had had a good christmas, 'sponsor' remarked: 'you know, mr. williams, us auburn niggers went down and played dem tuskegee niggers a game of football during christmas.' "'who did you have on the team, bob?' inquired bill. "'oh--we had a lot of dese niggers roun' town yere. they was me, an' crooksie, an' homer, an' bear, an' cockeye, an' a lot of dese yer town niggers.' "'how did you come out?' asked bill. "'oh, dem tuskegee niggers give us a good lickin'.' "'what position did you play?' "'me?' said bob, 'i was de cap'en. i played all roun'. i played center. den i played quarterback. den i played halfback.' "'what system of signals did you use and who called them?' was bill's next inquiry. "'ain't i tole you, mr. williams, i was de cap'en. i called the signals. dem niggers of mine couldn't learn no signals, so we jus' played lack we had some. i'd give some numbers to fool the tuskegee niggers. but dem numbers didn't mean nothin'. i'd say, "two, four, six, eight, ten--tek dat ball, homer, an' go roun' the end." dat's de only sort of signals dem niggers could learn and sometimes dey missed dem. dat's de reason we got beat and dem tuskegee niggers got all my money. mr. williams, i'm jus' as nickless as a ha'nt. can't you lem' me two bits til' sadday night, please suh? honest to god, i'll pay you back den, shore.'" listening to yost "hurry up" yost is one of the most interesting and enthusiastic football coaches in the country. the title of "hurry up" has been given him on account of the "pep" he puts into his men and the speed at which they work. whether in a restaurant or a crowded street, hotel lobby or on a railroad train, yost will proceed to demonstrate this or that play and carefully explain many of the things well worth while in football. he is always in deadly earnest. out of the football season, during business hours, he is ever ready to talk the game. yost's football experience as a player began at the university of west virginia, where he played tackle. lafayette beat them that year 6 to 0. shortly after this yost entered lafayette. his early experience in football there was under the famous football expert and writer, parke davis. yost and rinehart wear a broad smile as they tell of the way parke davis used to entertain teams off the field. he always kept them in the finest of humor. parke davis, they say, is a born entertainer, and many an evening in the club house did he keep their minds off football by a wonderful demonstration of sleight-of-hand with the cards. "if parke davis had taken his coat off and stuck to coaching he would have been one of the greatest leaders in that line in the country to-day," says yost. "he was more or a less a bug on football. you know that to be good in anything one must be crazy about it. davis was certainly a bug on football and so am i. everybody knows that. "i shall never forget davis after lafayette had beaten cornell 6 to 0, in 1895, at ithaca. that night in the course of the celebration parke uncovered everything he had in the way of entertainment and gave an exhibition of his famous dance, so aptly named the 'dance du venture,' by that enthusiastic lafayette alumnus, john clarke. "i have been at michigan fifteen seasons. my 1901 team is perhaps the most remarkable in the history of football in many ways. it scored 550 points to opponents' nothing, and journeyed 3500 miles. we played stanford on new year's day, using no substitutes. on this great team were neil snow, and the remarkable quarterback boss weeks. willie heston, who was playing his first year at michigan, was another star on this team. a picture of michigan's great team appears on the opposite page. "boss weeks' two teams scored more than 1200 points. if that team had been in front of the chinese wall and got the signal to go, not a man would have hesitated. every man that played under boss weeks idolized him, and when word was brought to the university that he had died, every michigan man felt that its university had lost one of its greatest men. "i am perhaps more of a boy's man to-day than i ever was. there is a great satisfaction in feeling that you have an influence in the lives of the men under you. coaching is a sacred job. there's no question about it. "there is a wonderful athletic spirit at michigan, and when we have mass meetings in the hill auditorium 6000 men turn out. at such a time one feels the great power behind an athletic team. some of the great michigan football players within my recollection were jimmy baird, jack mclain, neil snow, boss weeks, tom hammond, willie heston, herrnstein, grand old germany schultz, benbrook, stan wells, dan mcgugin, dave allerdice, hugh white and others i might mention on down to john maulbetsch." reggie brown is probably one of the most famous of the harvard coaches. his work in harvard football is to find out what the other teams are doing. he is on hand at yale field every saturday when the yale team plays. he is unique in his scouting work, in that he carries his findings in his head. his memory is his mental note book. [illustration: craft mcgugin gregory yost graver baird fitzpatrick wilson snow white shorts heston sweeley weeks redden redner herrnstein michigan's famous 1901 team] in talking with harvard men i have found that the general impression is that the work of this coach is one of harvard's biggest assets. jimmy knox of harvard is one of haughton's most valued scouts. every fall princeton is his haven of scouting. he does it most successfully and in a truly sportsmanlike way. one day en route to princeton i met knox on the train and sat with him as far as princeton junction. when we arrived at princeton, a friend of mine called me aside and said: "who is that loyal princeton man who seems never to miss a game?" "he is not a princeton man," i replied. "he is knox the harvard scout. he will be with haughton to-morrow at cambridge with his dope book." "from questions asked me i am quite sure that there is an utter misconception of the work of the scouts for the big league teams," says jimmy. "i have frequently been asked how i get in to see the practice of our opponents, how i manage to get their signals, how i anticipate what they are going to do, what is the value of scouting anyway. from five years' experience, i can say that i have never seen our opponents except in public games. i have never unconsciously noted a signal even for a kick, much less made a deliberate attempt to learn the opponents' signals or code. what little i know of their ultimate plans is merely by applying common sense to their problem, based on the material and methods which they command. as to the value of scouting, volumes might be written, but suffice it to say that it is the principal means of standardizing the game. if the big teams of the country played throughout the season in seclusion, the final games would be a hodge-podge of varying systems which would curtail the interest of the spectator and all but block the development of the game. "the reports of the scouts give the various coaching corps a fixed objective so that the various teams come to their final game with what might be considered a uniform examination to pass. the result is a steady, logical development of the game from the inside and the maximum interest for the spectator. it is unfortunate that the public has misconstrued scouting to mean spying, for there is nothing underhanded in the scouting department of football as any big team coach will testify." knox tells of an interesting experience of his freshman year. "i never hear the question debated as to whether character is born in a man or developed as time goes on," says he, "without recalling my first meeting with marshall newell, probably the best loved man that ever graduated from harvard. in the middle '90's it was considered beneath the dignity of a former varsity player to coach any but varsity candidates. marshall newell was an exception. without solicitation he came over to the freshman field many times and gave us youngsters the benefit of his advice. on his first trip he went into the lineup and gave us an example of how the game could be played by a master. when the practice was over, ma newell came up to me and said: 'i guess i was a little rough, my boy, but i just wanted to test your grit. you had better come over to the varsity field to-morrow with two or three of the other fellows that i am going to speak to. i'll watch you and help you after you get there.' and he did. he was loved because he was big enough to disregard convention, to sympathize with the less proficient and to make an inferior feel as if he were on a plane of equality. the highest type of manhood was born with marshall newell and developed through every hour of a too short life. "only those who played football in the old days and have carefully followed it since appreciate the difference in the two types of game. i frequently wonder if the old type of game did not develop more in a man than the modern. as a freshman i was playing halfback on the second varsity one afternoon when a sudden blow knocked me unconscious while the play was at one end of the field. when i regained consciousness the play was at the other end of the field, not a soul was near me or thinking of me. i had hardly got within ear-shot of the scrimmage when i heard lewis, one of the varsity coaches, call out, 'come on, get in here, they can't kill fellows like you.' i went into the scrimmage and played the rest of the afternoon. it was a simple incident, but i learned two lessons of life from it: first, you can expect mighty little sympathy when you are down; second, you are not out if you will only go back and stick to it." dartmouth holds a unique position in college football. there are many men who were responsible for dartmouth's success, men who have stood by year after year and worked out the football policy there. it is my experience that dartmouth men universally call ed hall the father of dartmouth football. he has served faithfully on the rules committee as well as an official in the game. myron e. witham, that great player and captain of the dartmouth team which was victorious over harvard the day that harvard opened the stadium, says: "if one goes back to hanover and visits the trophy room he will see hanging there the winning football which dartmouth men glory over as they recall that wonderful victory over harvard. ed hall is the man who is often called upon to speak to the men between the halves. his talks have a telling effect. hall's name is traditional at our college." there are many football enthusiasts who recall that wonderful backfield that dartmouth had, mccornack, eckstrom, mcandrews and crolius. these men got away wonderfully fast and hit the line like one man. they played every game without a substitute for two years. fred crolius, who takes great delight in recalling the old days, has the following to say about one who coached: "one man, whose influence more than any other one thing, succeeded in laying a foundation for dartmouth's wonderful results, but whose name is seldom mentioned in that connection is doctor wurtenberg, who was brought up in the early yale football school. he had the keenest sense of fundamental football and the greatest intensity of spirit in transmitting his hard earned knowledge. four critical years he worked with us filling every one with his enthusiasm and those four years dartmouth football gained such headway that nothing could stop its growth." enough space cannot be given to pay proper tribute to walter mccornack, dartmouth '97. myron witham relates a humorous incident that happened in practice when mccornack was coach at dartmouth. "mac's serious and exacting demeanor on the practice field occasionally relaxed to enjoy a humorous situation. he chose to give a personal demonstration of my position and duty as quarterback in a particular formation around the end. he took my place and giving the proper signal, the team or rather ten-elevenths of the team went through with the play, leaving mac behind standing in his tracks. mac naturally was at a loss to locate the quarter, during the execution of the play and madly yelled, 'where in the devil is that quarterback?' but immediately joined with the squad in the joke upon himself." mccornack coached dartmouth in the falls of 1901 and 1902. he brought the team up from nothing to a two years' defeat of brown and two years' scoring on harvard. the game with harvard in the fall of 1902 resulted in a score of 16 to 6, dartmouth out-rushing harvard at least 3 to 1. mccornack then resigned, but left a wealth of material and a scientific game at dartmouth, which was as good as any in the country. this was the beginning of dartmouth's success in modern football, and for it mccornack has been named the father of modern football at dartmouth. the greatest compliment ever paid mccornack, in so far as athletics were concerned, was by president william jewett tucker of dartmouth, who told an alumnus of the institution: "the discipline that mccornack maintained on the football field at dartmouth was to the advantage of the general discipline of the institution." for ten years after mccornack had stopped coaching at dartmouth, the captain of the dartmouth team would wear his sweater in a harvard game as an emblem to go by. the sweater is now worn out, and no one knows where it is. if eddie holt's record at princeton told of nothing else than the making of a great guard, this would be enough to establish holt's ability as a guard coach. eddie and sam craig played alongside of each other in the yale defeat of '97. holt says: "the story of the making of sam craig is the old story of the stone the builders rejected, which is now the head stone of the corner. sam never forgot the '97 defeat and i never have myself. after this game sam gave up football, although he was eligible to play. two years later, after princeton had been defeated by cornell, something had to be done to strengthen the princeton line. sam craig was at the seminary. i remembered him," said holt, "and went over to his room and told him that he was needed. i shall never forget how his face lit up as he felt there was an opportunity to serve princeton and a chance to play on a winning team; a chance to come back. he responded to my hurry call, eager to make good. coaching him was the finest thing i ever did in football. good old sam, i can see him now, standing on the side lines telling me that he guessed he was no good. you can never imagine how happy i was to see him improve day by day after i had taken a hold of him. the great game he played against yale in '99 will always be one of my happiest recollections in football. my joy was supreme; the joy that comes to a coach as he sees his man make good--sam sure did." it is very doubtful whether the inside story of harvard's victory over yale in 1908 has ever been told. those who remember this game know that the way for victory was paved by ver wiebe and vic kennard. harry kersburg, a harvard coach, writes of that incident: "the summer of 1907 and 1908, kennard worked for several hours each day perfecting his kicking. this fact was known to only one of the coaches. in 1906 and 1907, kennard played as a substitute but was most unfortunate in being smashed up in nearly every game in which he played. on account of this record, he was given little or no attention at the beginning of the 1908 season, even though the one coach who had great confidence in kennard's ability as a kicker rooted hard for him at every coaches' meeting. about the middle of the season, dave campbell came on from the west and with the one lone coach became interested in kennard. on the day of the springfield training school game, most of the harvard coaches went down to new haven, leaving the team in charge of campbell and kennard's other rooter. the psychological moment had arrived. just as soon as the harvard team had rolled up a tidy little score, kennard was sent into the game and instructions were given to the quarterback that he was to signal for a drop kick every time the harvard team was within forty yards of the opponent's goal--no matter what the angle might be. the game ended with kennard having kicked four goals from the field out of six tries. nearly all of them were kicked from an average distance of thirty yards and at very difficult angles. at the next coaches' meeting serious consideration was given to what kennard had done and from that time on he came into his own. "now for rex ver wiebe. for two years he had plugged away at a line position on the second team. in his senior year he was advanced to the varsity squad. with all his hard work it seemed impossible for him to develop into anything but a mediocre lineman. the line coaches, with much regret, had about given up all hope. one afternoon, two weeks before the yale game, one of the line coaches was standing on the side lines talking with pooch donovan about ver wiebe. pooch said little, but kept a close watch on ver wiebe for the next two or three days. at the end of that time he came out with the statement that if ver wiebe could be taught how to start, he would rapidly develop into one of the best halfbacks on the squad. pooch's advice was followed and in the yale game, ver wiebe's rushes outside tackle were one of the features of the game and were directly responsible for the ball being brought down the field to such a position that it was possible to substitute kennard, who kicked a goal from the field and won the first victory for harvard against yale in many years. "it is a strange coincidence that the first of harvard's string of victories against yale was won by two men who a few weeks before the game were in the so-called football discard." no greater honor can be accorded a football man than the invitation to come back to his alma mater and take charge of the football situation. such a man has been selected after he has served efficiently at other institutions, for it takes long experience to become a great coach and there are very few men who have given up all their time to consecutive coaching. successful coaches, as a rule, are men who have a genius for it, and whose strong personalities bring out the natural ability of the men under them. successful football is the result of a good system, plus good material. of the men who coach to-day, the experience of john h. rush, popularly known as speedy rush, stands out as unique. rush never played football, for he preferred track athletics, but he understood the theory of the game. at the university school in cleveland where rush taught for many years, he took charge of the football team, and although coaching mere boys, his results were marvelous, and in 1915, when the princeton coaching system was in a slough of despond, it was decided to give rush an opportunity to show what he could do at princeton. [illustration: metcalf peterson mumford monroe elmer stover donnell norton dwyer weed bullwinkle mccabe franklin schulte thorpe moffat simmonds degraff buermeyer cochran fairfield todd thompson calder aimee noble gallagher wadleton columbia back in the game, 1915] rush makes no boasts. he is a silent worker, and football people at large were unanimous in their praise of his work at princeton in the fall of 1915. whatever the future holds in store for this coach, princeton men at least are sure that an efficient policy has been established which will be followed out year after year, and that the loyal support of the alumni is behind rush. there was never a time in yale's history when so much general discussion and care entered into the selection of its football coach as in 1915. from the long list of yale football graduates the honor was bestowed upon tad jones, a man whose remarkable playing record at yale is well known. football records tell of his wonderful runs. his personality enables him to get close to the men, and he was wonderfully successful at exeter, coaching his old school. tad jones represents one of the highest types of college athletes. in 1915 when the college authorities decided columbia might re-enter the football arena, after a lapse of ten years, it was a wonderful victory for the loyal columbia football supporters. a most thorough and exhaustive search was then made for the proper man to teach columbia the new football. the man who won the committee's unanimous vote was thomas n. metcalf, who played football at oberlin, ohio. metcalf earned recognition in his first year. he realized that columbia's re-entrance into football must be gradual, and his schedule was arranged accordingly. he developed miller, a quarterback who stood on a par with the best quarterbacks in 1915. columbia had great confidence in metcalf, and the pick of the old men, notably tom thorp, one of the gamest players any team ever had, volunteered their aid. one of the most prominent football coaches which pennsylvania boasts of to-day, is bob folwell. always a brilliant player, full of spirit and endowed with a great power of leadership, he was a huge success as a coach at lafayette. his team beat princeton. at washington and jefferson, he beat yale twice. his ability as a coach was watched carefully not only by the graduates of penn, but by the football world as a whole. in 1916 this hard-working, energetic up-to-date coach assumed control of the football situation on franklin field. chapter xx umpire and referee there is a group of individuals connected with football to whom the football public pays little attention, until at a most inopportune time in the game, a whistle is blown, or a horn is tooted and you see a presumptuous individual stepping off a damaging five yard penalty against your favorite team. at such a time you arise in your wrath and demand: "who is that guy anyway? where did he come from? why did he give that penalty?" other muffled tributes are paid him. in calmer moments you realize that the officials are the caretakers of football. they see to it that the game is preserved to us year after year. an official is generally a man who has served his time as a player. those days over, he enters the arena as umpire, referee or linesman. one who has a keen desire to succeed in this line of work ought to train himself properly for the season's work. in anticipation of the afternoon's work, he must get his proper sleep; no night cafã©s or late hours should be his before a big contest. the workings of football minds towards an official are most narrow and critical at times. the really wise official will remain away from both teams until just before the game, lest some one accuse him of being too familiar with the other side. he can offer no opinion upon the game before the contest. each college has its preferred list of officials. much time is given to the selection of officials for the different games. before a man can be chosen for any game it must be shown that he has had no ancestors at either of the colleges in whose game he will act and that he is always unprejudiced. at the same time the fact that a man has been approved as a football official by three of four big colleges is about as fine a football diploma as any one would wish. for the larger games an official receives one hundred dollars and expenses. this seems a lot of money for an afternoon's work just for sport's sake, but there are many officials on the discarded list to-day who would gladly return all the money they ever received, if they could but regain their former popularity and prestige in the game. certainly an official is not an over-paid man. the wise official arrives at the field only a scant half hour before the game. generally the head coach sends for you, and as he takes you to a secluded spot he describes in his most serious way an important play he will use in the game. he tells you that it is within the rules, but for some curious reason, anxiously asks your opinion. he informs you that the _opposing_ team has a certain play which is clearly illegal and wants you to watch for it constantly. he furthermore warns you solemnly that the other team is going to try to put one of his best players out of the game and beseeches you to anticipate this cowardly action, and you smile inwardly. football seriousness is oftentimes amusing. some of our best umpires always have a little talk with the team before the game. i often remember the old days when paul dashiell, the famous umpire, used to come into our dressing room. standing in the center of the room, he would make an appeal to us in his earnest, inimitable way, not to play off-side. he would explain just how he interpreted holding and the use of arms in the game. he would urge us to be thoroughbreds and to play the game fair; to make it a clean game, so that it might be unnecessary to inflict penalties. "football," he would say, "is a game for the players, not for the officials." then he would depart, leaving behind him a very clear conviction with us that he meant business. if we broke the rules our team would unquestionably suffer. some of my most pleasant football recollections are those gained as an official in the game. i count it a rare privilege to have worked in many games year after year where i came in close contact with the players on different college teams; there to catch their spirit and to see the working out of victories and defeats at close range. here it is that one comes in close touch with the great power of leadership, that "do or die" spirit, which makes a player ready to go in a little harder with each play. knocked over, he comes up with a grin and sets his jaw a little stiffer for next time. as an official you are often thrilled as you see a man making a great play; you long to pat him on the back and say, "well done!" if you see an undiscovered fumbled ball you yearn to yell out--"here it is!" but all this you realize cannot be done unless one momentarily forgets himself like john bell. "my recollection is that i acted as an official in but one game," says he. "i was too intense a partisan. nevertheless, i was pressed into service in a lehigh-penn game in the late '80's. i recall that duncan spaeth, now professor of english at princeton and coach of the princeton crew, was playing on pennsylvania's team. he made a long run with the ball; was thrown about the 20-yard line; rose, pushed on and was thrown again between the 5and 10-yard line. refusing to be downed, he continued to roll over a number of times, with several lehigh players hanging on to him, until finally he was stopped, within about a foot of the goal line. forgetting his official duties, in the excitement of the moment, it is alleged that the referee (myself) jumped up and down excitedly, calling out: 'roll over, spaethy, just _once_ more!' and spaethy did. a touchdown resulted. but the referee's fate after the game was like that of st. stephen--he was stoned." [illustration: close to a thriller erwin of pennsylvania scoring against cornell.] in the old days one official used to handle the entire game. a man would even officiate in a game where his own college was a contestant. this was true in the case of walter camp, tracy harris, and other heroes of the past. later the number of officials was increased. such a list records wyllys terry, alex moffat, pa corbin, ray tompkins, s. v. coffin, appleton and other men who protected the game in the early stages. within my recollection, for many years the two most prominent, as well as most efficient officials, whose names were always coupled, were mcclung, referee, and dashiell, umpire. no two better officials ever worked together and there is as much necessity for team work in officiating as there is in playing. both graduated from lehigh, and the prominent position that they took in football was a source of great satisfaction to their university. officials come and go. these men have had their day, but no two ever contributed better work. the game of football was safe in their hands. paul dashiell and walter camp are the only two survivors of the original rules committee. dashiell's reminiscences "as an official, the first big game i umpired was in 1894 between yale and princeton, following this with nine consecutive years of umpiring the match," writes dashiell. "after harvard and yale resumed relations, i umpired their games for six years running. i officiated in practically all the harvard-penn' games and penn'-cornell games during those years, as well as many of the minor games, having had practically every saturday taken each fall during those twelve years, so i saw about all the football there was. when i look back on those years and what they taught me i feel that i'd not be without them for the world. they showed so much human nature, so many hundreds of plucky things, mingled with a lot of mean ones; such a show of manhood under pressure. i learned to know so many wonderful chaps and some of my most valued friendships were formed at those times. i liked the responsibility, too; although i knew that from one game to another i was walking on ice so thin that one bad mistake, however unintended, would break it. "the rules were so incomplete that common sense was needed and, frequently, interpretation was simply by mutual consent. bitterness of feeling between the big colleges made my duties all the harder. but it was an untold satisfaction when i could feel that i had done well, and as i said, the responsibility had its fascination and, in the main, was a great satisfaction. "and then came the inevitable, a foul seen only by me, which called for an immediate penalty. this led to scathing criticism and accusations of unfairness by many that did not understand the incident, altogether leaving a sting that will go down with me to my grave in spite of my happy recollections of the game. i had always taken a great pride in the job, and in what the confidence of the big universities from one year to another meant. i knew a little better than anybody else how conscientiously i had tried to be fair and to use sense and judgment, and the end of it all hurt a lot. "one friendship was made in these years that has been worth more than words can tell. i refer to that of matthew mcclung. to be known as a co-official with mcclung was a privilege that only those who knew him can appreciate. i had known him before at lehigh in his undergraduate days, and had played on the same teams with him. in after years we were officials together in a great many of the big games where feeling ran high and manliness and fairness, as well as judgment, were often put to a pretty severe test at short notice. never was there a squarer sportsman, or a fairer, more conscientious and efficient official; nor a truer, more gallant type of real man than he. his early death took out of the game a man of the kind we can ill afford to lose and no tribute that i could pay him would be high enough. "one night after a yale-harvard game at cambridge, i was boarding the midnight train for new york. the porter had my bag, and as we entered the car, he confided in me, in an almost awestruck tone, that: 'dad dere gentlemin in de smokin' compartment am john l. sullivan.' "i crept into my berth, but next morning, in the washroom, i recognized john l. as the only man left. he emerged from his basin and asked: "'were you at that football game yesterday?' and then 'who won?' "i told him, and by way of making conversation, asked him if he was interested in all those outdoor games. but his voice dropped to the sepulchral and confidential, as he said: "'there's murder in that game!' "i answered: 'well! how about the fighting game?' "he came back with: 'sparring! it doesn't compare in roughness, or danger, with football. in sparring you know what you are doing. you know what your opponent is trying to do, and he's right there in front of you, and, there's only one! but in football! say, there's twenty-two people trying to do you!' "there being only twenty-one other than the player concerned, i could not but infer that he meant to indicate the umpire as the twenty-second." my personal experiences in my experience as an official i recall the fact that i began officiating as a referee, and had been engaged and notified in the regular way to referee the penn'-harvard game on franklin field in 1905. when i arrived at the field, mcclung was the other official. he had never umpired but had always acted as a referee. in my opinion a man should be either referee or umpire. each position requires a different kind of experience and i do not believe officials can successfully interchange these positions. those who have officiated can appreciate the predicament i was in, especially just at that time when there was so much talk of football reform, by means of changing the rules, changing the style of the game, stopping mass plays. however, i consented; for appreciating that mcclung was sincere in his statement that he would do nothing but referee, i was forced to accept the umpire's task. it was a game full of intense rivalry. the desire to win was carrying the men beyond the bounds of an ordinarily spirited contest, and the umpire's job proved a most severe task. it was in this game that either four or five men were disqualified. i continued several years after this in the capacity of umpire. one unfortunate experience as umpire came as a result of a penalty inflicted upon wauseka, an indian player who had tackled too vigorously a penn' player who was out of bounds. much wrangling ensued and a policeman was called upon the field. it was the quickest way to keep the game from getting out of hand. washington and jefferson played the indians at pittsburgh some years ago. i acted as umpire. the game was played in a driving rain storm and a muddier field i never saw. the players, as well as the officials, were covered with mud. in fact my sweater was saturated, the players having used it as a sort of towel to dry their hands. a kicked ball had been fumbled on the goal line and there was a battle royal on the part of the players to get the coveted ball. i dived into the scramble of wriggling, mud-covered players to detect the man who might have the ball. the stockings and jerseys of the players were so covered with mud that you could not tell them apart. as i was forcing my way down into the mass of players i heard a man shouting for dear life: "i'm an indian! i'm an indian! it's my ball!" when i finally got hold of the fellow with the ball i could not for the life of me tell whether he was an indian or not. however, i held up the decision until some one got a bucket and sponge and the player's face was mopped off, whereupon i saw that he was an indian all right. he had scored a touchdown for his team. an official in the game is subject to all sorts of criticisms and abuse. sometimes they are humorous and others have a sting which is not readily forgotten. i admit, on account of my size, there were times in a game when i would get in a player's way; sometimes in the spectators' way. during a yale-harvard game, in which i was acting as an official, the play came close to the side line, and i had taken my position directly between the players and the spectators, when some kind friend from the bleachers yelled out: "get off the field, how do you expect us to see the game?" i shall never forget one poor little fellow who had recovered a fumbled ball, while on top of him was a wriggling mass of players trying to get the ball. as i slowly, but surely, forced my way down through the pile of players i finally landed on top of him. i shall never forget how he grunted and yelled, "six or seven of you fellows get off of me." it was in the same game that some man from the bleachers called out as i was running up the field: "here comes the beef trust." there was a coach of a southern college who tried to put over a new one on me, when i caught him coaching from the side lines in a game with pennsylvania on franklin field. i first warned him, and when he persisted in the offense, i put him behind the ropes, on a bench, besides imposing the regular penalty. it was not long after this, that i discovered he had left the bench. i found him again on the side line, wearing a heavy ulster and change of hat to disguise himself, but this quick change artist promptly got the gate. i knew a player who had an opportunity to get back at an official, but there was no rule to meet the situation. a penalty had been imposed, because the player had used improper language. a heated argument followed, and i am afraid the umpire was guilty of a like offense, when the player exclaimed: "well! well! why don't you penalize yourself?" he surely was right. i should have been penalized. one sometimes unconsciously fails to deal out a kindness for a courtesy done. that was my experience in a harvard-yale game at cambridge one year. on the morning before the game, while i was at the hotel touraine, i was making an earnest effort to get, what seemed almost impossible, a seat for a friend of mine. i had finally purchased one for ten dollars, and so made known the fact to two or three of my friends in the corridor. about this time a tall, athletic, chap, who had heard that i wanted an extra ticket, volunteered to get me one at the regular price, which he succeeded in doing. i had no difficulty in returning my speculator's ticket. i thanked the fellow cordially for getting me the ticket. i did not see him again until late that afternoon when the game was nearly over. some rough work in one of the scrimmages compelled me to withdraw one of the harvard players from the game. as i walked with him to the side lines, i glanced at his face, only to recognize my friend--the ticket producer. the umpire's task then became harder than ever, as i gave him a seat on the side line. that player was vic kennard. evarts wrenn, one of our foremost officials a few years ago, has had some interesting experiences of his own. "while umpiring a game between michigan and ohio state, at columbus," he says, "heston, michigan's fullback, carrying the ball, broke through the line, was tackled and thrown; recovered his feet, started again, was tackled and thrown again, threw off his tacklers only to be thrown again. again he broke away. all this time i was backing up in front of the play. as heston broke away from the last tacklers, i backed suddenly into the outstretched arms of the ohio state fullback, who, it appears, had been backing up step by step with me. heston ran thirty yards for a touchdown. you can imagine how unpopular i was with the home team, and how ridiculous my plight appeared. "another instance occurred in a chicago-cornell game at marshall field," wrenn goes on to say. "you know it always seems good to an official to get through a game without having to make any disagreeable decisions. i was congratulating myself on having got through this game so fortunately. as i was hurrying off the field, i was stopped by the little cornell trainer, who had been very much in evidence on the side lines during the game. he called to me. "'mr. wrenn' (and i straightened, chucking out my chest and getting my hand ready for congratulations). 'that was the ------piece of umpiring i ever saw in my life.' i cannot describe my feelings. i was standing there with my mouth open when he had got yards away." dan hurley, who was captain of the 1904 harvard team, writes me, as follows: "football rules are changed from year to year. the causes of these changes are usually new points which have arisen the year previous during football games. a good many rules are interpreted according to the judgment of each individual official. i remember two points that arose in the harvard-penn' game in 1904, at soldiers' field. in this year there was great rivalry between the players representing harvard and pennsylvania. the contest was sharp and bitterly fought all the way through. both teams had complained frequently to edwards, the umpire. finally he caught two men red-handed, so to speak. there was no argument. both men admitted it. it so happened that both men were very valuable to their respective teams. the loss of either man would be greatly felt. both captains cornered edwards and both agreed that he was perfectly right in his contention that both men should have to leave the field, but--and it was this that caused the new rule to be enforced the next year. both captains suggested that they were perfectly willing for both men to remain in the game despite the penalty, and with eager faces both captains watched edwards' face as he pondered whether he should or should not permit them to remain in the game. he did, however, allow both to play. of course, this ruling was establishing a dangerous precedent; therefore, the next year the rules committee incorporated a new rule to the effect that two captains of opposing teams could not by mutual agreement permit a player who ought to be removed for committing a foul to remain in the game." bill crowell of swarthmore, later a coach at lafayette, is another official who has had curious experiences. "in a lehigh-indian game a few years ago at south bethlehem, in which i was acting as referee," he says, "in the early part of the game lehigh held carlisle for four downs inside of the three-yard line, and when on the last try, powell, the indian back, failed to take it over, contrary to the opinion of warner, their coach. i called out, 'lehigh's ball,' and moved behind the lehigh team which was forming to take the ball out of danger. just before the ball was snapped, and everything was quiet in the stands, warner called across the field: "'hey! crowell! you're the best defensive man lehigh's got.'" phil draper, famous in williams football, and without doubt one of the greatest halfbacks that ever played, also served his time as an official. he says: "from my experience as an official, i believe that most of their troubles come from the coaches. if things are not going as well with their team as they ought to go, they have a tendency to blame it on the officials in order to protect themselves." "there was, in my playing days, as now, the usual controversy in reference to the officials of the game," says wyllys terry, "and the same controversies arose in those days in regard to the decisions which were given. my sympathies have always been with the officials in the game in all decisions that they have rendered. it is impossible for them to see everything, but when they come to make a decision they are the only ones that are on the spot and simply have to decide on what they see at the moment. "it is a difficult position. thousands say you are right, thousands say you are wrong--but my belief has always been that nine times out of ten the official's decision is correct. it was my misfortune to officiate in but one large game; that between harvard and princeton in the fall of '87. this was the year that there was a great outcry regarding the rules, particularly in reference to tackling. it was decided that a tackle below the waist was a foul and the penalty was disqualification. i was appointed umpire in the harvard-princeton game of that year. before the game i called the teams together and told them what the representatives of the three colleges had agreed upon. they had authorized me to carry the rules out in strict accordance with their instructions and i proposed to do so. in the early part of the game there was a scrimmage on one side of the field and after the mass had been cleared away, i heard somebody call for me. on looking around i found that the call came from holden, captain of the harvard team. he called my attention to the fact that he was still being tackled and that the man had both his arms around his knee, with his head resting on it. he demanded, under the agreed interpretation of the rules, that the tackle be decided a foul, and that the man be disqualified and sent from the field. the question of intent was not allowed me, for i had to decide on the facts as they presented themselves. the result was that cowan, one of the most powerful, and one of the best linemen that ever stood on a football field, was disqualified. the captain of the princeton team remarked at the time, 'i would rather have any three men disqualified than cowan.' as the game up to that time had been very close, and the princeton sympathizers were sure of victory, i believe i was the most cordially hated ex-football player that ever existed. shortly after this the harvard men had the princeton team near their goal line and in possession of the ball. two linemen used their hands, which on the offense is illegal, and made a hole through which the harvard halfback passed and crossed the line for a touchdown amid tremendous cheers from the harvard contingent. this touchdown was not allowed by the umpire. again i was the most hated football man that lived, so far as harvard was concerned. the result was i had no friends on either side of the field. "after the game, in talking it over with walter camp, he assured me that the decisions had been correct, but that he was very glad he had not had to make them. in spite of these decisions, i was asked to umpire in a number of big games the next year: but that one experience had been enough for me. i never appeared again in that or any other official capacity. i have been trying for the last thirty-two years to get back the friends which, before that game, i had in both princeton and harvard circles, with only a fair amount of success." i have always considered it a great privilege to have been associated as an official in the game with pa corbin. i know of no man that ever worked as earnestly and intelligently to carry out his official duties, and year after year he has kept up his interest in the game, not only as a coach, but as a thoroughly competent official. as a favorite with all colleges his services were eagerly sought. he recollects the following:-"the experience that made as much of an impression upon me as any, was the game with penn-lafayette which came just after the experience of the year before which developed so much rough play. the man agreed upon for umpire, did not appear, and after waiting a while the two captains came to me and asked if i would umpire in addition to acting as referee. i accused them of conspiracy to put me entirely out of business, but they insisted and i reluctantly acquiesced. i told both teams that i would be so busy that i would have no time for arguments or even investigation and any move that seemed to me like roughness would be penalized to the full extent of the rules regardless of whom he was or of how many. the result was that it was one of the most decent games and in fact almost gentlemanly that i have ever experienced." joe pendleton has been an official for twenty years. he is an alert, conscientious officer in the game. i have worked many times with joe and he is a very interesting partner in the official end of the game. in the fall of 1915 joe had a very severe illness and his absence from the football field was deeply regretted. joe always wore his old bowdoin sweater and when out upon the field, the big b on the chest of joe's white sweater almost covered him up. "a few years ago i had occasion to remove a player from a game for a foul play," says joe, "and in a second the quarterback was telling me of my mistake. 'why, you can't put that man out,' he said, and when i questioned him as to where he got such a mistaken idea, his reply was: "'why, he is our captain!' "in another game after the umpire had disqualified a player for kicking an opponent, the offending player appealed to me, basing his claim on the ground that he had not kicked the man until after the whistle had been blown and the play was over. another man on the same team claimed exemption from a penalty on the ground that he had slugged his opponent while out of bounds. he actually believed that we could not penalize for fouls off the playing field. "the funniest appeal i ever had made to me was made by a player years ago who asked that time be taken out in order that he might change a perfectly good jersey for one of a different color. it seems he had lost his jersey and had borrowed one from a player on the home team. when i asked him why he wanted to change his jersey he replied: "'because my own team are kicking the stuffing out of me and i must get a different colored jersey. at times my team mates take me for an opponent.' "in a game where it was necessary to caution the players against talking too much to their opponents one particularly curious incident occurred. "one team, in order to give one of the larger college elevens a stiff practice game, had put in the field two or three ringers. the big college team men were rather suspicious that their opponents were not entirely made up of bona fide students. a big tackle on the larger team made the following remark to a supposed ringer: "'i'll bet you five to one you cannot name the president of your college.' the answer came back, 'well, old boy, perhaps i can't, but perhaps i can show you how to play tackle and that's all i'm here for.'" the princeton-yale game of 1915 was one of the most bitterly contested in the history of football. princeton was a strong favorite, but yale forced the fighting and had their opponents on the defensive almost from the beginning. princeton's chances were materially hurt by a number of severe penalties which cost her considerably in excess of one hundred yards. each of the officials had a hand in the infliction of the penalties, but the referee, who happened to be nate tufts of brown, had, of course, to enforce them all by marking off the distance given to yale and putting the ball in the proper place. in the evening after the game, a number of football officials and others were dining in new york; in the party was a princeton graduate, who was introduced to mr. tufts, the referee of the game of the afternoon. at the introduction the princeton man remarked that when he was a boy he had read of jesse james, the mccoy brothers, and other noted bandits and train robbers, but that he took off his hat to mr. tufts as the king of them all. okeson, a star player of lehigh and prominent official, recalls this game: "in 1908 i umpired in a memorable game which took place at new haven between yale and princeton, which resulted in a victory for yale, 12-10. this was before any rule was inserted calling for the referee to notify the teams to appear on the field at the beginning of the second half. at that time a ten-minute intermission was allowed between the halves. the first half closed with the score 10-0 in favor of princeton. at the end of about seven minutes mike thompson, who was referee, following the custom that had grown up, although no rule required it, left the field to notify the teams to return. when he came back i asked him if he had found them, for on the old yale field it was something of a job to locate the teams once they had passed through the gates. mike said that they were in the field house on the other side of the baseball field and that he had called in to them. the princeton players appeared in a minute or two, but no sign of yale. finally, getting suspicious, mike asked bill roper, who was head coach at princeton that year, if the yale team had been in the field house. the answer was 'no,' and we suddenly woke up to the fact that although time for the intermission had ended three or four minutes before, the yale team was not notified, and furthermore, no one knew where they were except that they were somewhere under the stands. there were many gates and to leave by one to search meant running a chance that the yale team might appear almost immediately through another and then the game be further delayed by the absence of the referee. this being the case, mike had no choice but to do as he did, namely, send messengers through all gates. one of these messengers met the yale team coming along under the stands. the coaches had decided that time must be up, although none of them had kept a record of it, and had started back finally without any notice. eight minutes over the legal ten had been taken before they appeared on the field and bill roper was raging. as yale won in the second half it was only natural that we officials were greatly censored by princeton, and yale did not escape criticism. yet the whole thing came from the fact that a custom had grown up of depending on the referee to find and bring the teams back to the field instead of each team either staying on the field, or failing that, taking the responsibility on themselves of getting back in time. yale simply followed the usual custom and 'mike' was misled due to being told that both teams had gone to the field house by one of those ready volunteers who furnish information whether they know anything about the subject in hand or not." [illustration: crash of conflict when charge meets charge.] chapter xxi crash of conflict the start of a football game is most exciting; not alone for the players, but for the spectators as well. every one is keyed up in anticipation of the contest. the referee's whistle blows; the ball is kicked off--the game has begun. opponents now meet face to face on the field of battle. what happens on the gridiron is plainly seen by the spectators, but it is not possible for them to hear the conversations which take place. there is much good natured joshing between the players, which brings out the humorous as well as the serious side of the contest. in a game, and during the hard days of practice, many remarks are made which, if overheard, would give the spectators an insight into the personal, human side of the sport. it behooves every team to make the most of the first five minutes of play. every coach in the country will tell his team to get the charge on their opponents from the start. a good start usually means a good ending. from the side lines we see the men put their shoulders to their work, charging and pushing their opponents aside to make a hole in the line, through which the man with the ball may gain his distance; or we may see a man on the defensive, full of grim determination to meet the oncoming charges of his opponent. as we glance at the accompanying picture of a yale-west point game, we will observe the earnest effort that is being made in the great game of football--the crash of conflict. one particularly amusing story is told about a former lehigh player in a princeton game several years ago. "after the match had been in progress twenty minutes or more," says a princeton man who played, "we began to show a large number of bruises on our faces. this was especially the case with house janeway, whose opponent, at tackle, was a big husky lehigh player. janeway finally became suspicious of the big husky, whose arms often struck him during the scrimmage. "'what have you got on your arm?' shouted janeway at his adversary. "'never you mind. i'm playing my game,' was the big tackle's retort. "janeway insisted that the game be stopped temporarily for an inspection. the lehigh tackle demurred. hector cowan, whose face had suffered, backed up janeway's demand. "'have you anything on your arm?' demanded the referee of the lehigh player. "'my sleeve,' was the curt reply. "'well, turn up your sleeve then.' "the big tackle was forced to comply with the official's request, and disclosed a silver bracelet. "'either take that off or go out of the game,' was the referee's orders. "'but i promised a girl friend that i would wear it through the match,' protested lehigh's tackle. 'i can't take it off. don't you understand--it was _wished_ on!' "'well! i "wish" it off,' the referee replied. 'this is no society affair.' "the big tackle objected to this, declaring he would sooner quit the game than be disloyal to the girl. "'then you will quit,' was the command of the umpire, and the big tackle left the field, a substitute taking his place." lueder, a cornell tackle, one of the best in his day, mentions a personal affair that occurred in the penn game in 1900, between blondy wallace and himself. blondy's friends when they read this will think he had an off day in his general football courtesy. lueder states: "when i was trying to take advantage of my opponent, i was outwitted and was told to play on the square. i took wallace's advice and never played a nicer game of football in my life. just this little reprimand, from an older player, taught me a lot of football." in the yale-brown game, back in 1898, richardson, that wonderful brown quarterback, received the ball on a double pass from dave fultz and ran 65-yards before he was downed by charlie de saulles, the yale quarterback, on yale's 5-yard line. when richardson got up, he turned to de saulles and said: "you fool, why did you tackle me? i lost a chance to be a hero." yale, by the way, won that game by a score of 18 to 14. yost relates a humorous experience he had at michigan in 1901, which was his most successful season at that university. "buffalo university came to michigan with a much-heralded team. they were coached by a dartmouth man and had not been scored upon. buffalo papers referred to michigan as the woolly westerners, and the buffalo enthusiasts placed bets that michigan would not score. the time regulation of the game, two halves, was thirty-five minutes, without intermission. at the end of the first half the score was 65 to 0. during this time many substitutions had been made, some nineteen or twenty men, so that every player buffalo brought with them had at one time or another participated in the game. "the buffalo coach came to me and said: "'yost, we will have to cut this next half short.' "'why?' i asked. of course, i did not realize that every available man he had with him was used up, but i felt rather liberal at that stage of the game and said: "'let them rest fifteen or twenty minutes for the intermission, and then use them over again; use them as often as you like. i don't care.' "about fifteen minutes after the second half had started, i discovered on michigan's side of the field, covered up in a blanket, a big fellow named simpson, one of the buffalo players. i was naturally curious, and said: "'simpson, what are you doing over here? you are on the wrong side.' "'don't say anything,' came the quick response, 'i know where i am at. the coach has put me in three times already and i'm not going in there again. enough is enough for any one. _i've had mine._' "the score was then 120 to 0, in favor of michigan, and the buffalo team quit fifteen minutes before the game should have ended. "it may be interesting to note that from this experience of buffalo with michigan the expression, 'i've got you buffaloed,' is said to have originated, and to-day michigan players use it as a fighting word." yost smiled triumphantly as he related the following: "the day we played the michigan agricultural college we, of course, were at our best. the m. a. c. was taken on as a preliminary game, which was to be two twenty-minute halves. "at the beginning of the second half the score was 118 to 0, in favor of michigan. "at this time, a big husky tackle, after a very severe scrimmage had taken place, stood up, took off his head gear, threw it across the field and started for the side line, passing near where i was standing, when i yelled at him: "'the game is not over yet. go back.' "'oh,' he said, 'we came down here to get some experience. i've had all i want. let the other fellows stay, if they want to; me for the dressing room.' "and when this fellow quit, all the other m. a. c. players stopped, and the game ended right there. there were but four minutes left to play." somebody circulated a rumor that yost had made the statement that michigan would beat iowa one year 80 to 0. of course, this rumor came out in the papers on the day of the game, but yost says: "i never really said any such thing. however, we did beat them 107 to 0, whereupon some fellow from iowa sent me a telegram, after the game, which read: 'ain't it awful. box their remains and send them home.'" in tom shevlin's year at yale, 1902, mike sweeney, his old trainer and coach at hill school, was in new haven watching practice for about four days before the first game. practice that day was a sort of survival of the fittest, for they were weeding out the backs, who were doing the catching. about five backs were knocked out. a couple had been carried off, with twisted knees, and still the coaches were trying for more speed and diving tackles. tom had just obliterated a 150-pound halfback, who had lost the ball, the use of his legs and his varsity aspirations altogether. stopped by sweeney, on his way back up the field, tom remarked: "mike, this isn't football. it's war." a brown man tells the following interesting story: "in a game that we were playing with some small college back in 1906 out on andrews field, brown had been continually hammering one tackle for big gains. the ball was in the middle of the field and time had been taken out for some reason or other. huggins and robby were standing on the side lines, and just as play was about to be resumed, robby noticed that the end on the opposing team was playing out about fifteen feet from his tackle, and was standing near us, when robby said to him: "'what's the idea? why don't you get in there where you belong?' "the end's reply was: "'i'm wise. do you think i'm a fool? i don't want to be killed.'" during a scrub game, the year that brown had the team that trimmed yale 21 to 0, huggins says: "goldberg, a big guard who, at that time, was playing on the second eleven, kept holding brent smith's foot. brent was a tackle; one of the best, by the way, that we ever had here at brown. smith complained to the coaches, who told him not to bother, but to get back into the game and play football. this he did, but before he settled down to business, he said to goldberg: "'if you hold my foot again, i'll kick you in the face.' "about two plays had been run off, when smith once more shouted: "'he's holding me.' robby went in back of him and said: "'why didn't you kick him?' "'kick him!' replied brent. 'he held _both_ my feet!'" hardwick recalls another incident that has its share of humor, which occurred in the yale bowl on the day of its christening. "yale was far behind--some thirty points--playing rather raggedly. they had possession of the ball on harvard's 1-yard line and were attempting a strong rushing attack in anticipation of a touchdown. they were meeting with little or no success in penetrating pennock and trumbull, backed by bradlee. and on the third down they were one yard farther away from the goal than at the start. they attempted another plunge on tackle, and were using that uncertain form of offense, the direct pass. the center was a trifle mixed and passed to the wrong man, with the result that yale recovered the ball on harvard's 25-yard line. wilson, then a quarter for yale, turned to his center and asked him sharply: "'why don't you keep track of the signals?' "in a flash, the center rush turned and replied: "'how do you expect me to keep track of signals, when i can hardly keep track of the touchdowns.'" brown university was playing the carlisle indians some ten years ago at the polo grounds at new york city. bemus pierce, the indian captain, called time just as a play was about to be run off, and the brown team continued in line, while hawley pierce, his brother, a tackle on the indian team, complained, in an audible voice, that some one on the brown team had been slugging him. bemus walked over to the brown line with his brother, saying to him: "pick out the man who did it." hawley pierce looked the brunonians over, but could not decide which player had been guilty of the rough work. by this time, the two minutes were up, and the officials ordered play resumed. bemus shouted to hawley: "now keep your eyes open and find out who it was. show him to me, and after the game i'll take care of him properly." it is interesting to note that bemus only weighed 230 pounds and his little brother tipped the scale at 210 pounds. in 1900 brown played the university of chicago, at chicago. during the second half, bates, the brown captain, was injured and was taken from the game, and sheehan, a big tackle, was made temporary captain. at that time the score was 6 to 6. sheehan called the team together and addressed them in this manner: "look here, boys, we've got thirteen minutes to play. get in and play like hell. every one of you make a touchdown. we can beat 'em with ease." for many years the last statement was one of brown's battle-cries. brown, by the way, won that game by a score of 12 to 6. a former brown man says that in a harvard game some few years ago, brown had been steadily plowing through the crimson's left guard. goldberg, of the brown team, had been opening up big holes and jake high, brown's fullback, had been going through for eight and ten yards at a time. goldberg, who was a big, stout fellow, not only was taking care of the harvard guard, but was going through and making an endeavor to clean up the secondary defense. high, occasionally, when he had the ball, instead of looking where he was going, would run blindly into goldberg and the play would stop dead. finally, after one of these experiences, jake cried out: [illustration: ainsworth, yale's terror in an uphill game] "goldberg, if you would only keep out of my way, i would make the all-american." in the same game, high, on a line plunge, got through, dodged the secondary defense and was finally brought down by harvard's backfield man, o'flaherty. jake always ran with his mouth wide open, and o'flaherty, who made a high tackle, was unfortunate enough to stick his finger in high's mouth. he let out a yell as jake came down on it: "what are you biting my finger for?" high as quickly responded: "what are you sticking it in my mouth for?" huggins of brown says: "the year that we beat pennsylvania so badly out on andrews field, brown had the ball on penn's 2-yard line. time was called for some reason, and we noticed that the backfield men were clustered about crowther, our quarterback. we afterwards learned that all four of the backfield wanted to carry the ball over. crowther reached down and plucked three blades of grass and the halfbacks and the fullback each drew one with the understanding that the one drawing the shortest blade could carry the ball. much to their astonishment, they found that all the pieces of grass were of the same length. crowther, who made the all-american that year, shouted: "you all lose. i'll take it myself," and over the line he went with the ball tucked away under his arm. "johnny poe was behind the door when fear went by," says garry cochran. "every one knows of his wonderful courage. i remember that in the harvard '96 game, at cambridge, near the end of the first half, two of our best men (ad kelly and sport armstrong) were seriously hurt, which disorganized the team. the men were desperate and near the breaking point. johnny, with his true princeton spirit, sent this message to each man on the team: "'if you won't be beat, you can't be beat.'" "this message brought about a miracle. it put iron in each man's soul, and never from that moment did harvard gain a yard, and for four succeeding years--'if you won't be beat, you can't be beat,' was princeton's battle-cry. "the good that johnny did for princeton teams was never heralded abroad. his work was noiseless, but always to the point. "i remember the indian game in '96. the score in the first half was 6 to 0, in favor of the indians. i believe they had beaten harvard and penn, and tied yale. there wasn't a word said in the club house when the team came off the field, but each man was digging in his locker for a special pair of shoes, which we had prepared for yale. naturally i was very bitter and refused to speak to any one. then i heard the quiet, confident voice talking to johnny baird, who had his locker next to mine. i can't remember all he said, but this is the gist of his conversation: "'johnny, you're backing up the center. why can't you make that line into a fighting unit? tell 'em their grandfathers licked a hundred better indians than these fellows are, and it's up to them to show they haven't back-bred.' "johnny baird carried out these orders, and the score, 22 to 6, favoring princeton, showed the result. "once more johnny poe's brains lifted princeton out of a hole. i could mention many cases where johnny has helped princetonians, but they are personal and could not be published. "i can only say, that when i lost johnny poe, i lost one who can never be replaced, and i feel like a traitor because i was not beside him when he fell." * * * * * rinehart tells how he tried to get even with sam boyle. "i went into professional football, after leaving lafayette," says rinehart. "i joined the greensburg athletic club team at greensburg, pennsylvania, solely for the purpose of getting back at sam boyle, formerly of the university of penn. he was playing on the pittsburgh athletic club." when i asked rinehart why he wanted to get square with sam boyle, he said: "for the reason that sam, during the penn-lafayette contest in '97, had acted in a very unsportsmanlike manner and kept telling his associates to kill the lafayette men and not to forget what lafayette did to them last year, and a lot more, but possibly it was fortunate for sam that he did not play in our greensburg-pittsburgh athletic club game. i was ready to square myself for lafayette." a lot of good football stories have been going the rounds, some old, some new, but none of them better than the one barkie donald, afterward a member of the harvard advisory football committee, tells on himself, in a game that harvard played against the carlisle indians in 1896. it was the first time harvard and carlisle had met--harvard winning--4 to 0--and donald played tackle against bemus pierce. donald, none too gentle a player, for he had to fight every day against bert waters, then a coach, knew how to use his arms against the indian, and also when charging, how to do a little execution with his elbows and the open hand, just as the play was coming off. he was playing legitimately under the old game. he roughed it with the big indian and caught him hard several times, but finally bemus pierce had something to say. "mr. donald," he said, quietly, "you have been hitting me and if you do it again, i shall hit you." but donald did not heed the warning, and in the next play he bowled at bemus harder than ever for extra measure. still the big indian did not retaliate. "but i thought i was hit by a sledge hammer in the next scrimmage," said donald after the game. "i remember charging, but that was all. i was down and out, but when i came to i somehow wabbled to my feet and went back against the indian. i was so dazed i could just see the big fellow moving about and as we sparred off for the next play he said in a matter of fact tone: "'mr. donald, you hit me, one, two, three times, i hit you only one--we're square.' "and you bet we were square," donald always adds as he tells the story. tacks hardwick, in common with most football players, thinks the world of eddie mahan. "i have played football and baseball with eddie," he says, "and am naturally an ardent admirer of his ability, his keen wit and his thorough sportsmanship. one of eddie's greatest assets is his temperament. he seldom gets nervous. i have seen him with the bases full, and with three balls on the batter, turn about in the box with a smile on his face, wave the outfield back, and then groove the ball waist high. nothing worried him. his ability to avoid tacklers in the broken field had always puzzled me. i had studied the usual methods quite carefully. change of pace, reversing the field, spinning when tackled, etc.,--most of the tricks i had given thought to, but apparently eddie relied little on these. he used them all instinctively, but favored none. "charlie brickley had a favorite trick of allowing his arm to be tackled flat against his leg, then, at the very moment his opponent thought he had him, charlie would wrench up his arm and break the grip. "percy wendell used to bowl over the tackler by running very low. i relied almost exclusively on a straight arm, and 'riding a man.' this means that when a tackler comes with such force that a straight arm is not sufficient to hold him off, and you know he will break through, you put your hand on the top of his head, throw your hips sharply away, and vault as you would over a fence rail, using his head as a support. if he is coming hard, his head has sufficient power to give you quite a boost, and you can 'ride him' a considerable distance--often four or five yards. when his momentum dies, drop off and leave him. well, eddie didn't use any of these. finally i asked him how he figured on getting by the tackler, and what the trick was he used so effectively. "'it's a cinch,' eddie replied. 'all i do is poke my foot out at him, give it to him; he goes to grab it, and i take it away!' [illustration: two to one he gets away brickley being tackled by wilson and avery.] "leo leary had been giving the ends a talk on being 'cagey.' 'cagey' play is foxy--such as never getting in the same position on every play, moving about, doing the unexpected. if you wish to put your tackle out, play outside him, and draw him out, and then at the last moment hop in close to your own tackle, and then charge your opponent. the reverse is true as well. the unexpected and unusual make up 'cagey' play. much emphasis had been laid on this, and we were all thoroughly impressed, especially weatherhead, that year a substitute. "weatherhead's appearance and actions on the field were well adapted to cagey play. opponents could learn nothing by analyzing his expression. it seldom varied. his walk had a sort of tip-toe roll to it, much similar to the conventional stage villain, inspecting a room before robbing a safe. in the course of the afternoon game, weatherhead put his coaching in practice. "we had a habit--practically every team has--of shouting 'signal' whenever a player did not understand the orders of the quarterback. mal logan had just snapped out his signals, when al weatherhead left his position. casting furtive glances at the opponents, and tip-toeing along like an indian scout at his best, the very personification of 'caginess,' weatherhead approached logan. logan, thinking al had discovered some important weak spot in the defense, leaned forward attentively. weatherhead rolled up, and carefully shielding his mouth with his hand, asked in a stage whisper 'signal.' "a piece of thoughtfulness that expressed the spirit of the man who did it, and also the whole team, took place at the algonquin hotel at new london, on the eve of the harvard-yale game in 1914. the algonquin is fundamentally a summer hotel, although it is open all the year. the harvard team had their headquarters there, and naturally the place was packed with the squad and the numerous followers. eddie mahan and i roomed together, and in the room adjoining were watson and swigert, two substitute quarterbacks. folding doors separated the rooms, and these had been flung open. in the night, it turned cold, and the summer bedding was insufficient. swigert couldn't sleep, he was so chilled, so he got up, and went in search of blankets. he examined all the closets on that floor, without success; then he explored the floors above and below, and finally went down to the night clerk, and demanded some blankets of him. after considerable delay, he obtained two thin blankets, and thoroughly chilled from his walk in his bare feet, returned to the room. passing our door, he spied eddie curled up and shivering, about half asleep. i was asleep, but a cold, uncomfortable sleep that is no real rest. he walked in, and placing one blanket over eddie and one over me, went back to his own bed colder than ever. "i am a firm believer in rough, rugged, aggressive, bruising football," says hardwick. "the rougher, the better, if, and only if, it is legitimate and clean football. i am glad to say that clean football has been prevalent in my experience. only on the rarest occasions have i felt any unclean actions have been intentional and premeditated. we have made it a point to play fierce, hard and clean football, and have nearly always received the same treatment. "in my freshman year, however, i felt that i had been wronged, and foolishly i took it to heart. since that time i have changed my mind as i have had an opportunity to know the player personally and my own observation and the general high reputation he has for sportsmanship have thoroughly convinced me of my mistake. the particular play in question was in the yale 1915 game. we started a wide end run, and i was attempting to take out the end. i dived at his knees but aimed too far in front, falling at his feet. he leaped in the air to avoid me, and came down on the small of my back, gouging me quite severely with his heel cleats. i felt that it was unnecessary and foolishly resented it." one of the most famous games in football was the harvard-yale encounter at springfield in '94. bob emmons was captain of the harvard team and frank hinkey captain of yale. this game was so severely fought that it was decided best to discontinue football relations between these two universities and no game took place until three years later. jim rodgers, who was a substitute at yale that year, relates some interesting incidents of that game: "in those old strenuous days, they put so much fear of god in you, it scared you so you couldn't play. when we went up to springfield, we were all over-trained. instead of putting us up at a regular hotel, they put us up at the christian workers, that stagg was interested in. the bedrooms looked like cells, with a little iron bed and one lamp in each room," says jim. "you know after one is defeated he recalls these facts as terrible experiences. none of us slept at all well that night, and my knees were so stiff i could hardly walk. yale relied much on fred murphy. harvard had coached hallowell to get murphy excited. murphy was quick tempered. if you got his goat, he was pretty liable to use his hands, and harvard was anxious to have him put out of the game. hallowell went to his task with earnestness. he got murphy to the point of rage, but murphy had been up against bill odlin, who used to coach at andover, and bill used to give you hell if you slugged when the umpire was looking. but when his back was turned you could do anything. "murphy stood about all he could and when he saw the officials were in a conference he gave hallowell a back-hander, and dropped him like a brick. his nose was flattened right over his cheek-bone. fortunately that happened on the yale side of the field. if it had happened on the harvard side, there would have been a riot. there was some noise when that blow was delivered; the whole crowd in the stand stood aghast and held its breath. so harvard laid for murphy and in about two plays they got him. how they got him we never knew, but suddenly it was apparent that murphy was gone. the trainer finally helped murphy up and the captain of the team told him in which direction his goal was. he would break through just as fine and fast as before, but the moment his head got down to a certain angle, he would go down in a heap. he was game to the core, however, and he kept on going. "it was in this game that wrightington, the halfback, was injured, though this never came out in the newspapers. wrightington caught a punt and started back up the field. in those days you could wriggle and squirm all you wanted to and you could pile on a thousand strong, if you liked. frank hinkey was at the other end of the field playing wide, and ready if wrightington should take a dodge. murphy caught wrightington and he started to wriggle. it was at this time that louis hinkey came charging down the field on a dead run. in trying to prevent wrightington from advancing any further with the ball, louis hinkey's knee hit wrightington and came down with a crash on his collar-bone and neck. wrightington gave one moan, rolled over and fainted dead away. frank hinkey was not within fifteen yards of the play, and louis did it with no evil intention. frank thought that wrightington had been killed and he came over and took louis hinkey by the hand, appreciating the severe criticism which was bound to be heaped upon his brother louis. there was a furor. it was on everybody's tongue that frank hinkey had purposely broken wrightington's collar-bone. frank knew who did it, but the 'silent hinkey' never revealed the real truth. he protected his brother. "yale took issue on the point, and as a result the athletic relationship was suspended. "it was in this game that bronc armstrong established the world's brief record for staying in the game. he was on the field for twenty seconds--then was ruled out. i think frank hinkey is the greatest end that was ever on a field. to my mind he never did a dirty thing, but he tackled hard. when frank hinkey tackled a man, he left him there. in later years when i was coaching, an old harvard player who was visiting me, came out to yale field. he had never seen hinkey play football, but he had read much about him. i pointed out several of the men to him, such as heffelfinger, and others of about his type, all of whom measured up to his ideas, and finally said: [illustration: snapping the ball with lewis] [illustration: "two inseparables" frank hinkey and the ball.] "'where is that fellow hinkey?' and when i pointed hinkey out to him, he said: "'great guns, harvard complaining about that little shrimp, i'm ashamed of harvard.' "hinkey was a wonderful leader. every man that ever played under him worshipped him. he had his team so buffaloed that they obeyed every order, down to the most minute detail. "when hinkey entered yale, there were two corking end rushes in college, crosby and josh hartwell. after about two weeks of practice, there was no longer a question as to whether hinkey was going to make the team. it was a question of which one of the old players was going to lose his job. they called him 'consumptive hinkey.'" every football player, great though he himself was in his prime, has his gridiron idol. the man, usually some years his elder, whose exploits as a boy he has followed. joe beacham's paragon was and is frank hinkey and the depth of esteem in which the former cornell star held hinkey is well exemplified in the following incident, which occurred on the black diamond express, eastbound, as it was passing through tonawanda, new york. beacham had been dozing, but awoke in time to catch a glimpse of the signboard as the train flashed by. leaning slightly forward he tapped a drummer upon the shoulder. the salesman turned around. "take off your hat," came the command. "why?" the salesman began. "take off your hat," repeated beacham. the man did so. "thank you; now put it on," came the command. the drummer summing up courage, faced beacham and said, "now will you kindly tell me why you asked me to do this?" joe smiled with the satisfied feeling of an act well performed and said: "i told you to lift your hat because we are passing through the town where frank hinkey was born." later, in the smoking room, joe heard the drummer discussing the incident with a crowd of fellow salesmen, and he said, concluding, "what i'd like to know is who in hell is frank hinkey?" and late that evening when the train arrived in new york joe beacham and the traveling man had become the best of friends. in parting, joe said: "if there's anything i haven't told you, i'll write you about it." sandy hunt, a famous cornell guard and captain, says: "here is one on bill hollenback, the last year he played for pennsylvania against cornell. bill went into the game, thoroughly fit, but mike murphy, then training the team, was worried lest he be injured. in an early scrimmage bill's ear was nearly ripped off. blood flowed and mike left the side lines to aid. mike was waved away by bill. 'it's nothing but a scratch, mike, let me get back in the game.' play was resumed. following a scrimmage, mike saw bill rolling on the ground in agony. 'his ankle is gone,' quoth mike, as he ran out to the field. leaning over bill, mike said: 'is it your ankle, or knee, bill?' bill, writhing in agony, gasped: "'no; somebody stepped on my corn.'" hardwick has this to tell of the days when he coached annapolis: "one afternoon at annapolis, the varsity were playing a practice game and were not playing to form, or better, possibly, they were not playing as the coaches had reason to hope. there was an indifference in their play and a lack of snap and drive in their work that roused head coach ingram's fighting blood. incidentally, ingram is a fighter from his feet up, every inch, as broad-minded as he is broad-shouldered, and a keen student of football. the constant letting up of play, and the lack of fight, annoyed him more and more. at last, a varsity player sat down and called for water. immediately, the cry was taken up by his team mates. this was more than ingram could stand. out he dashed from the side lines, right into the group of players, shaking his fist and shrieking: "'water! water! what you need is fire, not water!'" fred crolius tells a good story about foster sanford when he was coaching at west point. one of the most interesting institutions to coach is west point. even in football field practice the same military spirit is in control, most of the coaches being officers. only when a unique character like sandy appears is the monotony shattered. sandy is often humorous in his most serious moments. one afternoon not many weeks before the navy game sandy, as crolius tells it, was paying particular attention to moss, a guard whom sanford tried to teach to play low. moss was very tall and had never appreciated the necessity of bending his knees and straightening his back. sanford disgusted with moss as he saw him standing nearly erect in a scrimmage, and sandy's voice would ring out, "stop the play, lieutenant smith. give mr. moss a side line badge. moss, if you want to watch this game, put on a badge, then everybody will know you've got a right to watch it." in the silence of the parade ground those few words sounded like a trumpet for a cavalry charge, but sandy accomplished his purpose and made a guard of moss. the day princeton played yale at new haven in 1899, i had a brother on each side of the field; one was princeton class, 1895, and the other was an undergraduate at yale, class of 1901. my brother, dick, told me that his friends at yale would joke him as to whether he would root for yale or princeton on november 25th of that year. i did not worry, for i had an idea. a friend of his told me the following story a week after the game: "you had been injured in a mass play and were left alone, for the moment, laid out upon the ground. no one seemed to see you as the play continued. but dick was watching your every move, and when he saw you were injured he voluntarily arose from his seat and rushed down the aisle to a place opposite to where you were and was about to go out on the field, when the princeton trainer rushed out upon the field and stood you on your feet, and as dick came back, he took his seat in the yale grandstand. yale men knew then where his interest in the game lay." after arthur poe had kicked his goal from the field, princeton men lost themselves completely and rushed out upon the field. in the midst of the excitement, i remember my brother, george, coming out and enthusiastically congratulating me. chapter xxii lest we forget marshall newell there is no hero of the past whose name has been handed down in harvard's football traditions as that of marshall newell. he left many lasting impressions upon the men who came in contact with him. the men that played under his coaching idolized him, and this extended even beyond the confines of harvard university. this is borne out in the following tribute which is paid newell by herbert reed, that was on the cornell scrub when newell was their coach. "it is poignantly difficult, even to-day, years after what was to so many of us a very real tragedy," says reed, "to accept the fact that marshall newell is dead. the ache is still as keen as on that christmas morning when the brief news dispatches told us that he had been killed in a snowstorm on a railroad track at springfield. it requires no great summoning of the imagination to picture this fine figure of a man, in heart and body so like his beloved berkshire oaks, bending forward, head down, and driving into the storm in the path of the everyday duty that led to his death. it was, as the world goes, a short life, but a fruitful one--a life given over simply and without questioning to whatever work or whatever play was at hand. [illustration: marshall newell] "to the vast crowds of lovers of football who journeyed to springfield to see this superman of sport in action in defense of his alma mater he will always remain as the personification of sportsmanship combined with the hard, clean, honest effort that marks your true football player. to a great many others who enjoyed the privilege of adventuring afield with him, the memory will be that of a man strong enough to be gentle, of magnetic personality, and yet withal, with a certain reserve that is found only in men whose character is growing steadily under the urge of quiet introspection. yet, for a man so self-contained, he had much to give to those about him, whether these were men already enjoying place and power or merely boys just on the horizon of a real man's life. it was not so much the mere joy and exuberance of living, as the wonder and appreciation of living that were the springs of marshall newell's being. "it was this that made him the richest poor man it was ever my fortune to know. "the world about him was to newell rich in expression of things beautiful, things mysterious, things that struck in great measure awe and reverence into his soul. a man with so much light within could not fail to shine upon others. he had no heart for the city or the life of the city, and for him, too, the quest of money had no attraction. even before he went to school at phillips exeter, the character of this sturdy boy had begun to develop in the surroundings he loved throughout his life. is it any wonder, then, that from the moment he arrived at school he became a favorite with his associates, indeed, at a very early stage, something of an idol to the other boys? he expressed an ideal in his very presence--an ideal that was instantly recognizable as true and just--an ideal unspoken, but an ideal lived. just what that ideal was may perhaps be best understood if i quote a word or two from that little diary of his, never intended for other eyes but privileged now, a quotation that has its own little, delicate touch of humor in conjunction with the finer phrases: "'there is a fine selection from carmen to whistle on a load of logs when driving over frozen ground; every jolt gives a delightful emphasis to the notes, and the musician is carried along by the dictatorial leader as it were. what a strength there is in the air! it may be rough at times, but it is true and does not lie. what would the world be if all were open and frank as the day or the sunshine?' "i want to record certain impressions made upon a certain freshman at cornell, whither newell went to coach the football team after his graduation from harvard. those impressions are as fresh to-day as they were in that scarlet and gold autumn years ago. "here was a man built like the bole of a tree, alight with fire, determination, love of sport, and hunger for the task in hand. he was no easy taskmaster, but always a just one. many a young man of that period will remember, as i do, the grinding day's work when everything seemed to go wrong, when mere discouragement was gradually giving way to actual despair, when, somewhat clogged with mud and dust and blood, he felt a sudden slap on the back, and heard a cheery voice saying, 'good work to-day. keep it up.' playing hard football himself, newell demanded hard football of his pupils. i wish, indeed, that some of the players of to-day who groan over a few minutes' session with the soft tackling dummy of these times could see that hard, sole leather tackling dummy swung from a joist that went clear through it and armed with a shield that hit one over the head when he did not get properly down to his work, that newell used. "it was grinding work this, but through it one learned. "that ancient and battered dummy is stowed away, a forgotten relic of the old days, in the gymnasium at cornell. there are not a few of us who, when returning to ithaca, hunt it up to do it reverence. "let him for a moment transfer his allegiance to the scrub eleven, and in that moment the varsity team knew that it was in a real football game. they were hard days indeed on percy field, but good days. i have seen newell play single-handed against one side of the varsity line, tear up the interference like a whirlwind, and bring down his man. many of us have played in our small way on the scrub when for purposes of illustration newell occupied some point in the varsity line. we knew then what would be on top of us the instant the ball was snapped. yet when the heap was at its thickest newell would still be in the middle of it or at the bottom, as the case might be, still working, and still coaching. both in his coaching at harvard and at cornell he developed men whose names will not be forgotten while the game endures, and some of these developments were in the nature of eleventh-hour triumphs for skill and forceful, yet none the less sympathetic, personality. "after all, despite his remarkable work as a gridiron player and tutor, i like best to think of him as newell, the man; i like best to recall those long sunday afternoons when he walked through the woodland paths in the two big gorges, or over the fields at ithaca in company much of the time with--not the captain of the team, not the star halfback, not the great forward, but some young fellow fresh from school who was still down in the ruck of the squad. more than once he called at now one, now another fraternity house and hailed us: 'where is that young freshman that is out for my team? i would like to have him take a little walk with me.' and these walks, incidentally, had little or nothing to do with football. they were great opportunities for the little freshman who wanted to get closer to the character of the man himself. no flower, no bit of moss, no striking patch of foliage escaped his notice, for he loved them all, and loved to talk about them. one felt, returning from one of these impromptu rambles, that he had been spending valuable time in that most wonderful church of all, the great outdoors, and spending it with no casual interpreter. memories of those days in the sharp practice on the field grow dim, but these others i know will always endure. "this i know because no month passes, indeed it is almost safe to say, hardly a week, year in and year out, in which they are not insistently resurgent. "marshall newell was born in clifton, n. j., on april 2, 1871. his early life was spent largely on his father's farm in great barrington, mass., that farm and countryside which seemed to mean so much to him in later years. he entered phillips exeter academy in the fall of 1887, and was graduated in 1890. almost at once he achieved, utterly without effort, a popularity rare in its quality. because of his relation with his schoolmates and his unostentatious way of looking after the welfare of others, he soon came to be known as ma newell, and this affectionate sobriquet not only clung to him through all the years at exeter and harvard, but followed him after graduation whithersoever he went. while at school he took up athletics ardently as he always took up everything. thus he came up to harvard with an athletic reputation ready made. "it was not long before the class of '94 began to feel that subtler influence of character that distinguished all his days. he was a member of the victorious football eleven of 1890, and of the winning crew of 1891, both in his freshman year. he also played on the freshman football team and on the university team of '91, '92, '93, and rowed on the varsity crews of '92 and '93. in the meantime he was gaining not only the respect and friendship of his classmates, but those of the instructors as well. socially, and despite the fact that he was little endowed with this world's goods, he enjoyed a remarkable popularity. he was a member of the institute of 1770, dickey, hasty pudding, and signet. in addition, he was the unanimous choice of his class for second marshal on class day. many other honors he might have had if he had cared to seek them. he accepted only those that were literally forced upon him. "in the course of his college career he returned each summer to his home in great barrington and quietly resumed his work on the farm. "after graduation he was a remarkably successful football coach at cornell university, and was also a vast help in preparing harvard elevens. his annual appearance in the fall at cambridge was always the means of putting fresh heart and confidence in the crimson players. "he turned to railroading in the fall of 1896, acting as assistant superintendent of the springfield division of the boston and albany railroad. here, as at college, he made a profound personal impression on his associates. the end came on the evening of december 24th, in 1897. "in a memorial from his classmates and friends, the following significant paragraph appears: 'marshall newell belonged to the whole university. he cannot be claimed by any clique or class. let us, his classmates, simply express our gratitude that we have had the privilege of knowing him and of observing his simple, grand life. we rejoice in memories of his comradeship; we deeply mourn our loss. to those whose affliction has been even greater than our own, we extend our sympathy.' this memorial was signed by bertram gordon waters, lincoln davis, and george c. lee, jr., for the class, men who knew him well. "harvard men, i feel sure, will forgive me if i like to believe that newell belonged not merely to the whole harvard university, but to every group of men that came under his influence, whether the football squad at cornell or the humble track walkers of the boston and albany. "remains, i think, little more for me to say, and this can best be said in newell's own words, selections from that diary of which i have already spoken, and which set the stamp on the character of the man for all time. this, for instance: "'it is amusing to notice the expression in the faces of the horses on the street as you walk along; how much they resemble people, not in feature, but in spirit. some are cross and snap at the men who pass; others asleep; and some will almost thank you for speaking to them or patting their noses.' and this, in more serious vein: 'happened to think how there was a resemblance in water and our spirits, or rather in their sources. some people are like springs, always bubbling over with freshness and life; others are wells and have to be pumped; while some are only reservoirs whose spirits are pumped in and there stagnate unless drawn off immediately. most people are like the wells, but the pump handle is not always visible or may be broken off. many of the springs are known only to their shady nooks and velvet marshes, but, once found, the path is soon worn to them, which constantly widens and deepens. it may be used only by animals, but it is a blessing and comfort if only to the flowers and grasses that grow on its edge.' "serious as the man was, there are glints and gleams of quiet humor throughout this remarkable human document. one night in may he wrote, 'stars and moon are bright this evening; frogs are singing in the meadow, and the fire-flies are twinkling over the grass by the spring. tree toads have been singing to-day. set two hens to-night, nailed them in. if you want to see determination, look in a setting hen's eye. robins have been carrying food to their nests in the pine trees, and the barn swallows fighting for feathers in the air; the big barn is filled with their conversation.' "in the city he missed, as he wrote, 'the light upon the hills.' again, 'the stars are the eyes of the sky. the sun sets like a god bowing his head. pine needles catch the light that has streamed through them for a hundred years. the wind drives the clouds one day as if they were waves of crested brown.' where indeed in the crowded city streets was he to listen 'to the language of the leaves,' and how indeed, 'feel the colors of the west.' "is it not possible that something more even than the example and influence of his character was lost to the world in his death? what possibilities were there not in store for a man who could feel and write like this: 'grand thunderstorm this evening. vibrations shook the house and the flashes of lightning were continuous for a short time. it is authority and majesty personified, and one instinctively bows in its presence, not with a feeling of dread, but of admiration and respect.' "it was in the thunder and shock and blaze of just such a storm that i stood not long ago among his own berkshire hills, hoping thus to prepare myself by pilgrimage for this halting but earnest tribute to a great-hearted gentleman, who, in his quiet way, meant so much to so many of his fellow humans." walter b. street w. l. sawtelle of williams, who knew this great player in his playing days, writes as follows: "no williams contemporary of walter bullard street can forget two outstanding facts of his college career: his immaculate personal character and his undisputed title to first rank among the football men whom williams has developed. he was idolized because of his athletic prowess; he was loved because he was every inch a man. his personality lifted his game from the level of an intercollegiate contest to the plane of a man's expression of loyalty to his college, and his supremacy on the football field gave a new dignity to the undergraduate's ideals of true manhood. "his name is indelibly written in the athletic annals of williams, and his influence, apparently cut off by his early death, is still a vital force among those who cheered his memorable gains on the gridiron and who admired him for his virile character." w. d. osgood gone from among us is that great old-time hero, win osgood. in this chapter of thoroughbreds, let us read the tribute george woodruff pays him: "when my thoughts turn to the scores of fine, manly football players i have known intimately, win osgood claims, if not first place, at least a unique place, among my memories. as a player he has never been surpassed in his specialty of making long and brilliant runs, not only around, but through the ranks of his opponents. after one of his seventyor eighty-yard runs his path was always marked by a zig-zag line of opposing tacklers just collecting their wits and slowly starting to get up from the ground. none of them was ever hurt, but they seemed temporarily stunned as though, when they struck osgood's mighty legs, they received an electric shock. "while at cornell in 1892, osgood made, by his own prowess, two to three touchdowns against each of the strong yale, harvard and princeton elevens, and in the harvard-pennsylvania game at philadelphia in 1894, he thrilled the spectators with his runs more than i have ever seen any man do in any other one game. "but i would belittle my own sense of osgood's real worth if i confined myself to expatiating on his brilliant physical achievements. his moral worth and gentle bravery were to me the chief points in him that arouse true admiration. when i, as coach of penn's football team, discovered that osgood had quietly matriculated at pennsylvania, without letting anybody know of his intention, i naturally cultivated his friendship, in order to get from him his value as a player; but i found he was of even more value as a moral force among the players and students. in this way he helped me as much as by his play, because, to my mind, a football team is good or bad according to whether the bad elements or the good, both of which are in every set of men, predominate. "in the winter of 1896, osgood nearly persuaded me to go with him on his expedition to help the cubans, and i have often regretted not having been with him through that experience. he went as a major of artillery to be sure, but not for the title, nor the adventure only, but i am sure from love of freedom and overwhelming sympathy for the oppressed. he said to me: "'the cubans may not be very lovely, but they are human, and their cause is lovely.' "when osgood, with almost foolhardy bravery, sat his horse directing his dilapidated artillery fire in cuba, and thus conspicuous, made himself even more marked by wearing a white sombrero, he was not playing the part of a fool; he was following his natural impulse to exert a moral force on his comrades who could understand little but liberty and bravery. "when the angel of death gave him the accolade of nobility by touching his brow in the form of a mauser bullet, win osgood simply welcomed his friend by gently breathing 'well,' a word typical of the man, and even in death, it is reported, continued to sit erect upon his horse." gordon brown there are many young men who lost a true friend when gordon brown died. he was their ideal. after his college days were over, he became very much interested in settlement work on the east side in new york. he devoted much of his time after business to this great work which still stands as a monument to him. he was as loyal to it as he was to football when he played at yale. gordon brown's career at yale was a remarkable one. he was captain of the greatest football team yale ever had. whenever the 1900 team is mentioned it is spoken of as gordon brown's team. the spirit of this great thoroughbred still lives at yale, still lives at groton school where he spent six years. he was captain there and leader in all the activities in the school. he was one of the highest type college men i have ever known. he typified all the best there was in yale. he was strong mentally, as well as physically. it was my pleasure to have played against him in two yale-princeton games, '98 and '99. i have never known a finer sportsman than he. he played the game hard, and he played it fair. he had nothing to say to his opponents in the game. he was there for business. always urging his fellow players on to better work. every one who knew this gallant leader had absolute confidence in him. all admired and loved him. there was no one at yale who was more universally liked and acknowledged as a leader in all the relations of the university than was gordon brown. the influence of such a man cannot but live as a guide and inspiration for all that is best at yale university. gordon brown's name will live in song and story. there were with him yale men not less efficient in the football sense, as witnesses the following: a yale song verse from the _yale daily news_, november 16th, 1900: jimmy wear and gordon brown, fincke and stillman gaining ground; olcott in the center stands with perry hale as a battering ram- no hope for princeton; james j. hogan the boys who were at exeter when that big raw-boned fellow, jim hogan, entered there will tell of the noble fight he made to get an education. he worked with his hands early and late to make enough money to pay his way. his effort was a splendid one. he was never idle, and was an honor man for the greater part of his stay at school. he found time to go out for football, however, and turned out to be one of the greatest players that ever went to exeter. jim hogan was one of the highest type of exeter men, held up as an example of what an exeter boy should be. his spirit still lives in the school. in speaking of hogan recently, professor ford of exeter, said: "whenever hogan played football his hands were always moving in the football line. it was almost like that in the classroom, always on the edge of his seat fighting for every bit of information that he could get and determined to master any particularly difficult subject. it was interesting and almost amusing at times to watch him. one could not help respecting such earnestness. he possessed great powers of leadership and there was never any question as to his sincerity and perfect earnestness. he was not selfish, but always trying to help his fellow students accomplish something. his influence among the boys was thoroughly good, and he held positions of honor and trust from the time of his admission." jim was hungry for an education--eager to forge ahead. his whole college career was an earnest endeavor. he never knew what it was to lose heart. "letting go" had no part in his life. jim was a physical marvel. his 206 pounds of bone and muscle counted for much in the yale rush line. members of the faculty considered him the highest type of yale man, and it is said that president hadley of yale once referred to 1905 as "hogan's class." as a football player, jim had few equals. he was captain of the yale team in his senior year and was picked by the experts as an "all-american tackle." jim hogan at his place in the yale rush line was a sight worth seeing. with his jersey sleeves rolled up above his elbows and a smile on his face, he would break into the opposing line, smash up the interference and throw the backs for a loss. i can see him rushing the ball, scoring touchdowns, making holes in the line, doing everything that a great player could do, and urging on his team mates: "harder, yale; hard, harder, yale." he was a hard, strong, cheerful player; that is, he was cheerful as long as the other men fought fair. great was jim hogan. to work with him shoulder to shoulder was my privilege. to know him, was to love, honor and respect him. jim spent his last hours in new haven, and later in a humble home on the hillside in torrington, conn., surrounded by loving friends, and the individual pictures of that strong gordon brown team hanging on the wall above him, a loving coterie of friends said good-bye. many a boy now out of college realizes that he owes a great deal to the brotherly spirit of jim hogan. [illustration: mcclung, referee shevlin hogan] thomas j. shevlin there is a college tradition which embodies the thought that a man can never do as much for the university as the university has done for him. but in that great athletic victory of 1915, when yale defeated princeton at new haven, i believe tom shevlin came nearer upsetting that tradition than any one i know of. he contributed as much as any human being possibly could to the university that brought him forth. tom shevlin's undergraduate life at new haven was not all strewn with roses, but he was glad always to go back when requested and put his shoulder to the wheel. the request came usually at a time when yale's football was in the slough of despond. he was known as yale's emergency coach. tom shevlin had nerve. he must have been full of it to tackle the great job which was put before him in the fall of 1915. willingly did he respond and great was the reward. when i saw him in new york, on his way to new haven, i told him what a great honor i thought it was for yale to single him out from all her coaches at this critical time to come back and try to put the yale team in shape. it did not seem either to enthuse or worry him very much. he said: "i just got a telegram from mike sweeney to wait and see him in new york before going to new haven. i suppose he wants to advise me not to go and tackle the job, but i'm going just the same. yale can't be much worse off for my going than she is to-day." the result of shevlin's coaching is well known to all, and i shall always remember him after the game with that contented happy look upon his face as i congratulated him while he stood on a bench in front of the yale stand, watching the yale undergraduates carry their victorious team off the field. walter camp stood in the distance and shevlin yelled to him: "well, how about it, walter?" this victory will go down in yale's football history as an almost miraculous event. here was a team beaten many times by small colleges, humiliated and frowned upon not only by yale, but by the entire college world. they presented themselves in the yale bowl ready to make their last stand. as for princeton it seemed only a question as to how large her score would be. men had gone to cheer for princeton who for many years had looked forward to a decisive victory over yale. the game was already bottled up before it started; but when yale's future football history is written, when captain and coaches talk to the team before the game next year, when mass meetings are called to arouse college spirit, at banquets where victorious teams are the heroes of the occasion, some one will stand forth and tell the story of the great fighting spirit that captain wilson and his gallant team exhibited in the yale bowl that november day. although tom shevlin, the man that made it possible, is now dead, his memory at yale is sacred and will live long. many will recall his wonderful playing, his power of leadership, his yale captaincy, his devotion to yale at a time when he was most needed. if, in the last game against harvard, the team that fought so wonderfully well against princeton could not do the impossible and defeat the great haughton machine, it was not shevlin's fault. it simply could not be done. it lessens in not the slightest degree the tribute that we pay to tom shevlin. francis h. burr ham fish was a great harvard player in his day. when his playing days were over walter camp paid him the high tribute of placing him on the all time, all-american team at tackle. fish played at harvard in 1907 and 1908, and was captain of the team in 1909. i know of no harvard man who is in a better position to pay a tribute to francis burr, whose spirit still lives at cambridge, than ham fish. they were team mates, and when in 1908 burr remained on the side lines on account of injuries, ham fish was the acting harvard captain. fish tells us the following regarding burr: "francis burr was of gigantic frame, standing six feet three and agile as a young mountain lion. he weighed 200 pounds. the incoming class of 1905 was signalized by having this man who came from andover. he stood out above his fellows, not only in athletic prowess but in all around manly qualities, both mental and moral. burr had no trouble in making a place on the varsity team at guard. he was a punter of exceeding worth. in the year of 1908 he was captain of the harvard team and wrought the most inestimable service to harvard athletics by securing percy haughton as head coach. hooks burr was primarily responsible for haughton and the abundance of subsequent victories. just when burr's abilities as player and captain were most needed he dislocated his collar bone in practice. i shall never forget the night before the yale game how burr, who had partially recovered, and was very anxious to play, reluctantly and unselfishly yielded to the coaches who insisted that he should not incur the risk of a more serious break. harvard won that day, the first time in seven years and a large share of the credit should go to the injured leader. we were all happy over the result but none of us were as happy as he. "stricken with pneumonia while attending the harvard law school in 1910 he died, leaving a legacy full of encouragement and inspiration to all harvard men. he exemplified in his life the golden rule,--'do unto others as you would have them do unto you.' of him it can be truly said, his life was gentle as a whole, and the elements so mixed in him that 'nature might stand up and say to all the world,--"he was a man."'" neil snow the university of michigan never graduated a man who was more universally loved than neil snow. what he did and the way he did it has become a tradition at michigan. he was idolized by every one who knew him. as a player and captain he set a wonderful example for his men to pattern after. he was a powerful player; possessing such determination and fortitude that he would go through a stone wall if he had to. he was their great all-around athlete; good in football, baseball and track. he had the unique record of winning his michigan m twelve times during his college course at ann arbor. he played his last game of football at pasadena, california. neil was very fond of exercise. he believed in exercise, and when word was sent out that neil snow had gone, it was found that he had just finished playing in a game of racquets in detroit, and before the flush and zest were entirely gone, the last struggle and participation in athletic contests for neil snow were over. it was my experience to have been at ann arbor in 1900, when biffy lee coached the michigan team. it was at this time that i met neil snow, who was captain of the team, and when i grew to know him, i soon realized how his great, quiet, modest, though wonderful personality, made everybody idolize him. modesty was his most noticeable characteristic. he was always the last to talk of his own athletic achievements. he believed in action, more than in words. after his playing days were over he made a great name for himself as an official in the big games. the larger colleges in the east had come to realize with what great efficiency neil snow acted as an official and his services were eagerly sought. neil snow loved athletics. he often referred to his college experiences. his example was one held up as ideal among the men who knew him. when billy bannard died johnny poe wrote to mrs. bannard a letter, a portion of which follows: i greatly enjoy thinking of those glorious days in the fall of '95, '96 and '97, when i was coaching at princeton and saw so much of billy, and if i live to a ripe old age i do not think i shall forget how he and ad kelly came on in the yale game of '95, and with the score of 16-0 against us started in by steadily rushing the ball up to and over the yale goal, and after the kick-off, once more started on the march for another touchdown. it was a superb exhibition of nerve in the face of almost certain defeat and showed a spirit that would not be downed, and i have often thought of this game in different far-off parts of the world. while yale finally won 20-10 still billy showed the same spirit that farragut showed when told that the river was filled with torpedoes and that it would be suicidal to proceed. he replied, "damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!" i love to think of billy's famous fifty yard run for a touchdown through the harvard team in '96 at cambridge, when the score had been a tie, and how he with ad kelly and johnny baird went through the yale team in that '96 game and ran the score up to 24, representing five touchdowns. never before had a yale team been driven like chaff before the wind, as that blue team was driven. billy bannard and ad kelly's names were always coupled in their playing days at princeton. these two halfbacks were great team mates. when bill bannard died ad kelly lost one of his best friends. in ad kelly's recollections, we read: "whenever i think of my playing days i always recall the harvard-princeton game of 1896, and with it comes a tribute to one of us who has passed to the great beyond; one with whom i played side by side for three years, bill bannard. i always thought that in this particular game he never received the credit due him. in my opinion his run on that memorable day was the best i have ever seen. his running and dodging and his excellent judgment had no superior in the football annals of our day. "in speaking of great individual plays that have won close games, his name should go down with charlie daly, clint wyckoff, arthur poe, snake ames and dudley dean, for with reiter's splendid interference in putting out the harvard left end, billy bannard's touchdown gave princeton the confidence to carry her to victory that day and to the ultimate championship two weeks later." harry hooper when henry hooper, one of dartmouth's greatest players, was taken away, every man who knew hooper felt it a great personal loss. those who had seen him play at exeter and there formed his acquaintance and later at dartmouth saw him develop into the mighty center rush of the 1903 dartmouth team, idolized him. c. e. bolser of dartmouth, who knew him well, says: "harry hooper was a great center on a great team. the success of this eleven was due to its good fellowship and team work. the central figure was the idol of his fellow players. such was hooper. shortly after the football season that year he was operated upon for appendicitis and it soon became evident that he could not recover. he was told of his plight. "he bravely faced the inevitable and expressed the wish that if he really had to go he might have with him at the last his comrades of the football field. these team mates rallied at his request. they surrounded him; they talked the old days over, and supported by those with whom he had fought for the glory of his college this real hero passed into the great beyond, and deep down in the traditions of dartmouth and exeter the name of harry hooper is indelibly written." the game of football is growing old. the ranks of its heroes are being slowly but surely thinned. the players are retiring from the game of life; some old and some young. the list might go on indefinitely. there are many names that deserve mention. but this cannot be. the list of thoroughbreds is a long one. yours must be a silent tribute. doctor andrew j. mccosh, ned peace, gus holly, dudley riggs, harry brown, symmes, bill black, pringle jones, jerry mccauley, jim rhodes, bill swartz, frank peters, george stillman, h. schoellkopf, wilson of the navy and byrne of the army, eddie ward, albert rosengarten, mcclung, dudley and matthews. richard harding davis and matthew mcclung were two lehigh men whose position in the football world was most prominent. the esteem in which they are held by their alma mater is enduring. i had talked with dick davis when this book was in its infancy. he was very much interested and asked that i write him a letter outlining what i would like to have him send me. just before he died i received this letter from him. i regret he did not live to tell the story he had in mind. [illustration: (handwritten letter) richard harding davis mount kisco new york april 2nd my dear edwards, yes, indeed. as soon as i finish something i am at work on, i'll "think back", and write you some memoirs. with all good wishes richard harding davis] his interest in football had been a keen one. he was one of the leaders at lehigh, who first organized that university's football team. he was a truly remarkable player. what he did in football is well known to men of his day. he loved the game; he wrote about the game; he did much to help the game. chapter xxiii aloha "hail and farewell," crowded by the hawaiians into one pregnant word! would that this message might mean as much in as little compass. i can promise only brevity and all that brevity means in so vast a matter as football to a man who would love nothing better than to talk on forever. we know that football has really progressed and improved, and that the boys of to-day are putting football on a higher plane than it has ever been on before. we are a progressive, sporting public. gone are the old fifth avenue horse buses, that used to carry the men to the field of battle; gone, too, are the fifth avenue hotel and the hoffman house, with their recollections of great victories fittingly celebrated. the old water bucket and sponge, with which trainer jim robinson used to rush upon the field to freshen up a tired player, are now things of the past. to-day we have the spectacle of pooch donovan giving the harvard players water from individual sanitary drinking cups! the old block game is no more. heavy mass play has been opened up. to-day there is something for the public to _see_; something interesting to watch at every point; something significant in every move. as a result, greatly increased multitudes witness the game. no longer do football enthusiasts stand behind ropes on the side lines. the popularity of the game has made it necessary to build huge _stadia_ for the sport, to take the place of the old wooden stands. college games, for the most part, nowadays are played on college grounds. accordingly the sport has been withdrawn from the miscellaneous multitude and confined to the field where it really belongs and the spirit of the game is now just what it should be--exclusively collegiate. best of all, the modern style of play has made the game more than ever a heroic see-saw, with one side uppermost for a time only to jar the very ground with the shock of its fall. yet, victorious or defeated, the spirit through it all is one of splendid and overflowing college enthusiasm. while there is abounding joy in an unforeseen or hard won victory there is also much that is inspirational in the sturdy, courageous, devoted support of college-mates in the hour of defeat. isaac h. bromley, yale '53, once summed up eloquently the spirit of college life and sport in the following words: "these contests and these triumphs are not all there is of college life, but they are a not unimportant part of it. the best education, the most useful training, come not from the classroom and from books, but from the attrition of mind on mind, from the wholesome emulation engendered by a common aim and purpose, from the whetting of wits by good-natured rivalry, the inspiration of youthful enthusiasms, the blending together of all of us in undying love for our common mother. "as to the future: we may not expect this unbroken round of victories to go on forever; we shall need sometimes, more than the inspiration of victory, the discipline of defeat. and it will come some day. our champions will not last forever. some time stagg must make his last home run, and camp his final touchdown. some day bob cook will 'hear the dip of the golden oars' and 'pass from sight with the boatman pale.' "it would be too much to think that all their successors will equally succeed. it might be monotonous. but of one thing we may be assured--that whatever happens, we shall never fail to extend the meed of praise to the victors. we shall be hereafter, as in the past we have always been, as stout in adversity as we have been merry in sunshine." * * * * * "then strip, lads, and to it though sharp be the weather; and if, by mischance you should happen to fall there are worse things in life than a tumble on heather and life is itself, but a game, of football." [transcriber's note: many words in this text were inconsistently hyphenated or spelled, so i have normalized them. the majority are football terms that originally appeared inconsistently as "full-back," "fullback," and "full back," for example.]